The Rose and The Warrior (23 page)

“By the time you wake them and drag them down here, this foul rodent will have bitten us all,” argued Roarke, not relishing the idea of having to overcome more MacKillons than necessary. “All we have to do is capture it in a blanket, and then you can dispose of it as you see fit.”

There was another long pause. “You'll help me to catch it?”

“Of course.”

The lock turned.

“Where is it?” Gelfrid demanded, peering cautiously around the door.

Roarke pointed into the shadows. “In that corner.”

Gelfrid stepped into the chamber with his sword drawn, but remained steadfastly by the door. “I don't see it.”

“Of course you can't see it from over there,” said Roarke, “you've got to move in closer.” He put his hand on Gelfrid's shoulder and guided him across the room. “There, now—do you see it?”

Gelfrid hunched a little lower as he squinted into the darkness. “I think so—what in the name of St.—”

Whichever saint Gelfrid chose to call upon was lost in the rag Donald used to bind his mouth, while Eric and Myles made short work of immobilizing his wrists and ankles. Once he was adequately trussed and stripped of both his sword and dirk, he was laid upon one of the trestle beds and a blanket was draped over him.

“Forgive us, Gelfrid, but we find ourselves unable to enjoy your clan's hospitality any longer,” apologized Roarke. “Tell Laird MacKillon we have enjoyed our stay, and will do what we can to keep any other MacTiers from visiting.” He went to the door to check the corridor, followed by Myles and Donald.

Eric lingered a moment. “I would ask a favor, Gelfrid,” he began hesitantly. He paused, desperately searching for the right words. “When you see Gillian, tell her I said…thank you.” It wasn't right, that wasn't at all what he wanted to say, but he couldn't think of anything else except good-bye, and somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave that as his final message to her. “Will you tell her?” he demanded.

His eyes wide with fear, Gelfrid nodded.

Eric went to leave, wondering why Gelfrid seemed so anxious. Surely he must realize they had no intention of harming him? He was all but through the door when he suddenly understood the source of his alarm.

“There is no rat, Gelfrid.”

The light was dim, but Eric could see relief pour over Gelfrid's face. Satisfied that he wasn't going to die of fright, Eric closed the door.

They moved silently through the castle, pausing only to relieve the sleeping forms of Mungo and Finlay of their weapons before making their way to the door leading off the kitchen. The moon was buried beneath a thick mantle of charcoal cloud, effectively dousing any light that might have revealed their forms to those posted to watch on the wall head.

“Here,” said Roarke, passing his sword to Eric. “You and Myles open the gate while Donald and I fetch our horses.”

Eric nodded and moved toward the iron portcullis with Myles.

The stables were dark and quiet but for the shifting of hooves and the gentle snorting of the horses. During his inspection of the castle Roarke had made a point of finding out exactly where his and his men's mounts were kept. He moved through the blackness with his dirk gripped firmly in his palm, while Donald followed with his sword drawn. Neither had any intention of actually using their weapons on any MacKillon they might encounter, but both knew it was vital to appear prepared to employ deadly force if necessary.

Roarke's horse sensed his presence long before he could see his master's shadow. The beast whickered loudly and tossed his head.

“Hello, my friend,” whispered Roarke, running his hand gently over the animal's neck. “Feel like going for a ride?”

His horse pressed his nose roughly into Roarke's side, then snorted impatiently. Roarke turned to fetch the bridle hanging on a nail on the wall.

And froze.

Melantha's face was a pale oval against the shadowy darkness, her skin so luminous he could make out every bitter line in her taut expression.

“Drop your dirk,” she ordered in a hard voice.

Roarke stood utterly still, his dirk firmly encased in his hand. He had not wanted it to be like this, he reflected desperately.

Every night for the past four days he had tormented himself by lying awake thinking about her. He had recreated every glorious detail of her in his mind: her sunwashed scent, her silky softness, the hot, lush feel of her lying beneath him as he buried himself deep inside her and lost himself to her exquisite sensuality. And he had indulged in the most ridiculous of fantasies by trying to imagine how it would be when they saw each other again; how she would look at him with shy tenderness, what impossibly clever and charming things he would say to her to make her laugh and put her at ease. Of course he had known that in reality it would be awkward, possibly even painful. But never in his most haunted reflections had he ever imagined her looking so utterly betrayed. Her body was rigid as she stood facing him, her sword raised and ready to drive through him on the least provocation, but it was her eyes that commanded his complete attention. They were shimmering with a terrible anger and an agonizing sorrow, and the combination was so appalling he very nearly dropped his dirk and begged her to forgive him for hurting her so.

Then he remembered that if she or her beloved clan had any hope of surviving, he must leave immediately and stop the MacTiers from attacking.

“I am leaving, Melantha,” he informed her, his voice betraying none of the emotions churning within him.

“What did you do to Gelfrid?” she demanded.

He nearly smiled. Even in a moment like this, her first thought was not for herself or her own safety but only for the welfare of another of her clan.

“Gelfrid is unharmed,” he assured her. “He is merely resting in the storage room.”

If she experienced any relief from this knowledge, she refused to show it. “Where are the others?”

“Listen to me, Melantha,” he said, his voice achingly gentle. “We cannot stay any longer, because our very presence here is putting you and your people at risk. Do you understand? MacTier has not answered your people's ransom missive, and that is because an army is on its way here to collect us. But they won't be coming just to free us. They will be under orders to make you pay for attempting to ransom us, and to ensure that you never try anything so foolish again.”

“Then we will fight them,” Melantha informed him coolly, raising her sword.

“Your people tried to fight the MacTiers once before, and you were hopelessly defeated.”

“We have been working on the castle's defenses, and our men are now better trained,” she pointed out.

“You are more prepared than you were before,” he acknowledged. “Even so, you cannot possibly hold off an army of MacTiers.”

Her gaze was contemptuous. “You're just saying that so I'll let you go free.”

“No, Melantha. I'm saying it because I don't want to see either you or any of your people hurt.”

Melantha kept her sword pointed at Roarke's chest, contemplating what he was telling her. She wanted to believe that he was wrong, that if an army of the clan she most despised were coming, she and her people had the power to fight it. After all, she, Magnus, Colin, Finlay, and Lewis had been waging their own private war on small groups of MacTiers for months, and they had always emerged victorious. But that was in the protected arbor of the woods, where they were the aggressors, not the defenders. They always had the element of surprise in their favor, their extensive knowledge of the forest, and their ability to lure their prey into carefully laid traps. Fending off an assault on their home was not the same. An attacking army could lay siege to their holding for days or even months, slowly eroding their resistance until finally they were too weak to continue to defend themselves. Of course Melantha had always known this—that was why she had proposed ransoming Roarke and his men in the first place. She had wanted to strike back at the MacTiers by bleeding their coffers, but she had also hoped to restore her holding and buy the alliance of the MacKenzies so that her people could better defend themselves in the future.

She had not anticipated that Laird MacTier would care so little about his own warriors that he would rather risk their lives than pay their ransom.

“There's a problem,” said Eric, appearing suddenly at the entrance to the stables with Myles.

“What is it?” Roarke demanded.

“A force of about two hundred MacTiers has positioned itself outside the castle wall. They are preparing to attack.”

“Sweet Jesus,” swore Roarke. “Is the gate open?”

“No.”

“Who is leading them?”

“I don't know—'tis too dark to see clearly.”

Donald emerged through the black. “What are we going to do?”

Roarke hesitated. Even if he and his men rode out of here unharmed, it was going to be bloody difficult to convince an army of MacTiers poised to attack that they should simply turn around and go home—especially if they had been given orders by their laird to crush the MacKillons.

“We'll go up to the wall head and show them we haven't been harmed, then make it seem like we're being released in exchange for them holding off their assault,” he decided quickly.

“You're not going anywhere except back to your cell,” Melantha informed him. “My clan will handle this matter.”

“Rouse everyone in the castle and see that they are armed and put into their positions,” Roarke instructed his men, ignoring her. “We must be ready in case whoever is leading this force is not prepared to listen to reason. See that the women and children are taken to the lower level of the castle, and assign four men to guard them. Once you are certain all areas are manned, join me on the wall head.”

“Wait!” cried Melantha as Donald, Eric, and Myles hastily departed.

“What is it?” Roarke demanded.

“You and your men cannot participate in this battle.”

“What would you have me do, Melantha? Do you think I should just stand by and watch while your people are destroyed?”

Shouts could be heard coming from the wall head, and people were rushing to and fro outside. She swallowed thickly, fighting the fear rising in her chest as she desperately tried to comprehend Roarke's motives.

“It is your clan waiting outside our walls and they have come to rescue you. How can I believe you will not undermine our efforts to fight them?”

Her eyes were shimmering against the paleness of her face. He could see she was frightened, and well she should be, given the brutality his clan had inflicted upon her people once before. Her father had been killed in that battle, along with many other friends and loved ones, and her people had been left virtually destitute. It agonized him to think how much she had suffered, and how much she was suffering in this moment. Had there been time, he would have taken her into the comfort of his arms and soothed her with soft words, making gentle assurances to ease her fear. But there was no time. Every second he wasted here was keeping him from getting on the wall head and ending this battle before it began.

“Listen to me, Melantha. Regardless of who or what I am, I swear to you that I would never do anything to hurt either you or your people. You can trust me in this, or take that sword and run me through. The choice is yours.”

Melantha stared up at him, completely and utterly torn. “I can never trust you.” Her voice was ragged with despair.

“You can tonight,” he insisted. “That is all I ask.”

She hesitated a long moment, the silver blade of her sword flashing in the dark abyss between them.

And then she lowered her eyes and let the weapon fall, knowing that when she looked up again he would be gone.

C
HAPTER
8

“And so we thank you for coming here to put past wrongs to right by reimbursing us for our losses, in return for which we are delighted to return your great and valiant warriors,” finished Laird MacKillon, squinting as he struggled to read his speech by the flickering torchlight.

The MacTier warriors stared up at the wall head, apparently speechless.

“They certainly are a polite lot,” commented Hagar. “Not so much as a peep out of any of them.”

“Much better behaved than the last group,” Magnus agreed. “Perhaps there's hope for these MacTiers after all.”

“And now,” continued Laird MacKillon, “we shall mark this momentous occasion in our history with a wee tune upon the pipes.” He gestured toward Thor, who was struggling to hoist his unwieldy instrument into his arms.

“I came up here to slay MacTiers, not to play music to them,” Thor grumbled irritably.

“I really don't see how we can slay them when they are being so agreeable,” remarked Laird MacKillon. “It wouldn't be courteous.”

“After listening to Thor play they'll wish we had slain them,” Magnus predicted.

Thor glowered at him, then inhaled a deep, rasping breath and proceeded to play with murderous conviction.

The deafening drone that choked the air caused some MacKillons to press their hands to their ears, while the MacTier warriors looked on in complete bafflement. By the time Thor finished his first piece he appeared to have forgotten who his audience was, and he enthusiastically embarked upon another equally torturous strain.

At that point the MacTiers had heard enough and sent a volley of arrows flying over the battlements.

“God's teeth!” swore Thor, looking down at the arrow protruding from the bag of his deflated instrument. “Those scoundrels have ruined my pipes!”

“Here, now, lads,” Laird MacKillon chided, wagging his finger at the warriors below, “that's no way to behave on such a momentous occasion as—”

His words were cut short as he ducked to avoid the second volley of arrows.

“ 'Tis war, then, by God!” roared Thor, casting aside his murdered pipes and reaching for his beloved sword.

Roarke arrived just in time to see the wall head erupt in complete chaos.

“Take that, ye foul wretches!” Magnus bellowed, releasing an arrow into the darkness below. “There'll be shafts buried in every one of ye before I'm through!”

“You can't be here, Finlay,” objected Ninian as he blocked Finlay's access to one of the hoardings. “I told Gelfrid I would only work with him.”

“Gelfrid isn't here,” Finlay protested.

“Well, I'm sure he'll be along in just a moment,” countered Ninian, “and when he gets here I don't want to listen to him whine about how I let you take his place. You know how he goes on about things—”

“Ninian!” shouted Roarke, “stand aside and let Finlay start hurling those rocks over
now
!!”

“But I promised Gelfrid—”

“Now, Ninian!”

“There's no need to shout,” Ninian grumbled, reluctantly moving aside.

“Here, now, Roarke, what the devil is the matter with these clansmen of yours?” demanded Laird MacKillon, his white brows furrowed in agitation. “One minute we're all getting along and enjoying a pleasant bit of pipes, and the next they're shooting arrows at us and trying to scale the wall.”

“Perhaps they didn't like Thor's playing,” Magnus joked, releasing another arrow. “Did I kill anybody?” he asked Lewis, who was standing beside him.

“No, but with every shot you're getting closer,” Lewis assured him encouragingly.

“Takes me a few minutes to get going,” Magnus said, undaunted. “Watch me, lad, and see how I become one with the arrow.” He sent another shaft sailing into the air, which landed a good three yards from the nearest MacTier. “That's got them worried!” cackled Magnus cheerfully.

“They're preparing to scale the wall!” Laird MacKillon fretted as a tightly formed line of MacTiers moved forward bearing ladders.

“I'll take care of them!” announced Mungo. He heaved two enormous stones off the hoarding on which he was perched. The rocks dropped heavily to the ground, cleanly missing any MacTiers.

“Hold back!” Roarke shouted.

Laird MacKillon looked at him in bewilderment. “Your pardon, Roarke, but we're at war here. 'Tis hardly the time for exercising restraint.”

Colin raised his sword to Roarke's chest. “Do you really believe we are such fools that we will listen to you?”

“You are wasting precious arrows and rocks by releasing them too early,” explained Roarke quickly. “Let the MacTiers advance into the pits, which will reduce their numbers and create confusion. Then shower them with everything you have.”

“That's a sensible suggestion,” remarked Hagar.

Colin regarded Roarke suspiciously. “Why would you act against the interests of your own clan?” he demanded, his sword still trained upon him.

“I don't want to see any MacKillons harmed.”

Colin gave a scornful laugh. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I don't give a damn what you believe, Colin,” Roarke snapped. “But if you let your people exhaust their weaponry before the MacTiers are close enough to be damaged by it, how will you fight them?”

Colin considered this barely an instant before shouting, “Hold back!”

“Look how nice and neat they keep their line as they approach,” marveled Hagar, scratching his shiny head with the tip of an arrow. “It looks almost like a dance.”

“Each man has been given a position and must maintain it until the ladders are up and the warriors are climbing,” Roarke explained, watching as the MacTiers performed their familiar maneuver. “They are trained to approach even in the most heated of battles, because it is vital to get the walls scaled.”

“Hello, there, lads,” called Magnus, waving amiably to them. “Just a few more steps and we'll begin again.”

The ladder-bearing MacTiers looked up in confusion as they marched, unaccustomed to approaching a castle without being fired upon.

And then the line disintegrated as over two dozen of them suddenly dropped into the pits.

“Now, that was simply splendid!” burst out Laird MacKillon, watching as the remaining MacTiers froze in their tracks, wondering what other surprises were in store for them. “Why, we must have captured at least thirty men in those pits—maybe more!”

“Shoot at the rest of them!” Roarke commanded. “Now!”

The MacKillons obligingly pelted the remaining MacTiers with stones and arrows.

“Take that, ye great, ugly brute!” shouted Finlay, dropping an enormous stone off his platform.

He peered over the edge and watched as it landed squarely in the arms of a powerfully built MacTier who had managed to ascend much of a ladder. Laughing triumphantly, the mighty warrior hoisted the rock over his head and showed it to Finlay.

“Aye, you're a strong one,” Finlay agreed, nodding. “But shouldn't you be holding on to the ladder?”

The warrior's expression dissolved. He waggled back and forth for one desperate moment, then fell backward, taking the rock and the two warriors on the rungs below with him.

“Three MacTiers downed with just one stone!” marveled Magnus, impressed. “Let's see if anyone can top that!”

“Let a few of them get up here so I can chop them into wee bits with my sword,” ordered Thor, struggling to raise his weapon. “I want to make those villains pay for ruining my pipes!”

“Keep them down for as long as possible!” Roarke countered firmly. “The whole idea is to stop them from climbing the wall!” He looked down to see a group of MacTiers preparing to ram the gate with a heavy timber. “Get ready to pour boiling oil on those men at the gate!”

The men standing by the enormous black cauldron positioned over the gate obligingly began to ease it onto its side.

“Wait for my order!” commanded Roarke, pausing until the rammers were in the optimum position to be hit by the scalding oil.
“Now!!”

A torrent of liquid cascaded over the wall, drenching the startled MacTiers below, who instantly dropped their timber and began to beat wildly at their sodden clothes.

After a moment they stopped their frenzied palpitations and looked at each other in confusion.

“Bloody hell, I'm soaked to the bone!” complained one.

“Lewis, what the hell was in that cauldron?” demanded Roarke, watching as the dripping wet MacTiers gamely picked up their battering ram once more.

“We didn't have that much oil to spare, so we had to use plain water,” Lewis explained apologetically.

“And just exactly how hot was it?” demanded Roarke.

“Actually, it was cold,” Lewis admitted. “We didn't want to waste too much wood keeping it hot, so the fires were only lit a short while ago.”

Roarke struggled for patience as the MacTiers began to pound the gate. “Myles, Eric, start dropping stones on the rammers!” he shouted, seeing his men appear on the wall head. “Donald, make sure the archers are actually aiming for MacTiers and not just shooting arrows into the darkness!”

“Who is leading them?” asked Eric, scanning the attacking warriors below as he hoisted up an enormous rock.

“No one we know, otherwise I would have tried to talk to him,” Roarke answered. “That big blond warrior off to the right is giving the orders.”

Donald regarded him seriously. “What are we going to do?”

“For the moment we have little choice but to try to hold them off,” said Roarke. “If I try to talk to them, I'm more likely to get shot than command their polite attention.”

“But how long can the MacKillons withstand an attack like this?” wondered Myles, watching with satisfaction as his stone struck one of the rammers below.

“Long enough to let the MacTiers know this is not the same pathetically unprepared holding they attacked last year,” Roarke replied. “Their numbers have already been reduced by the pits, and we'll hope that if any make their way into the castle they will be caught in the nets. Once they realize this holding is not going to be easy to capture, they will stop and listen to reason.”

Eric hoisted another rock over the battlements. “And then what?”

“And then the MacKillons can tell them that we will be released in exchange for their withdrawal,” Roarke answered. “That will give the MacTiers the sense that they have won a victory without having to completely destroy—
Colin, get down
!!”

Colin dropped to the ground just as the MacTier warrior who had scaled the wall behind him delivered a deadly blow with his sword.

Roarke hurled his dirk at the MacTier, burying the blade deep into the assailant's shoulder. The man's weapon clattered to the ground as he was grabbed by Myles and Finlay.

“Bloody hell, that was a wee bit close!” swore Magnus.

“Are you all right?” Roarke asked Colin.

Colin nodded, but Roarke could see the muscles of his jaw contract as he rose to his feet.

“Now, that's as fine a cut as any man could hope to have and live to tell about it,” said Magnus, admiring Colin's back. “It goes clean from one side of yer ribs to the other. I'd be happy to stitch it for ye later, lad, if ye think ye can wait until I'm finished dealin' with these MacTier rascals.”

Hagar's face blanched at the crimson stain quickly spreading on his son's shirt. “Perhaps you should go in and have your mother look at your wound, lad,” he suggested, refraining from actually inspecting the injury himself. “She'll know what to do.”

“It's nothing,” said Colin.

“Of course it's nothing,” scoffed Thor, barely glancing at it. “Why, I have scars all over my body that go twice as deep as that, and you don't see me running in to my mother.”

“A good thing, since yer poor mother's been buried for well over fifty years,” observed Magnus. “And the only scars I've ever seen on ye are the ones ye got the day those bees chased ye into a bramble bush, and ye were cryin' for yer ma so loud I was tempted to stuff a rag in yer mouth—”