The Rose and The Warrior (28 page)

“We must leave now,” he said.

“Well, then, I wish ye a fine journey,” said Magnus. His blue eyes were twinkling with merriment as he warned, “Keep a sharp eye for outlaws—I hear the forest is filled with them!”

The rest of the clan quickly followed his example, waving at Roarke and his men as they hurriedly escaped the torrent now lashing against them.

“I cannot tell you what to do, Melantha,” said Roarke quietly. “But remember this—if you continue to wage war against the MacTiers, you will only be punished in return.”

“What would you have me do?” she demanded. “Do you believe I should stand by and watch my people starve?”

“All I ask is that you give me a little time, Melantha. Whatever happens, I swear to you, I will not let you or your people suffer anymore.”

He regarded her with piercing intensity, as if he were trying to reach into her soul, to delve beneath the protective layers she had so carefully forged around herself and etch his vow on her heart. In that moment she almost believed he could protect her from suffering, so strong and sure did he seem as he stood before her in the rain. Crystal drops were falling off his black hair, and his shirt and plaid were clinging to his muscular frame, emphasizing his powerful masculine beauty. She remembered lying within his embrace, wrapped within his heat and his strength, feeling almost safe. But she was not safe, she reminded herself fiercely. Her holding was still vulnerable, there was insufficient food and clothing to sustain her people through the coming winter, and even if Roarke refused to hunt down the Falcon himself, it was unlikely that Laird MacTier would abandon his pursuit of her. As for his offer to send aid, she did not believe MacTier could be persuaded to help his enemies, and she would never accept anything from Roarke's conquered holding.

“I do not believe your laird will help us,” she told him. “And I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that my people have enough for the coming winter. It is no less than what you would do, Roarke, if it were your people who were threatened with starvation and cold because of the savagery and greed of another.”

Her expression was resigned, as if she took no pleasure from her pronouncement. She looked at him a final long moment, her pale face glistening with rain, her hands gripping the soaking wet plaid that could no longer offer her even the slightest protection.

Then she turned and disappeared into the castle.

“…and so I managed to convince Laird MacKillon to release us the next day, rather than keeping us for the three days he had originally proposed,” Roarke finished.

Laird MacTier stared out the window, considering in pensive silence the explanation Roarke had offered him. He was not a man accustomed to defeat. Over the course of his thirty-two years as chief of the MacTiers he had learned a few basic rules of war, and he adhered to these with near religious fervor. He never attacked an enemy unless he was absolutely sure he had dispatched the power and the resources to vanquish it completely. Therefore he was having difficulty understanding why an army of over two hundred of his best warriors, equipped with the very latest design of siege machine, had been bested by the ragged remains of a clan he had all but annihilated some months earlier.

What was even more mystifying was the inconceivable assertion by his most favored and accomplished warrior that he should not bother to retaliate.

“Am I to understand that you do not seek vengeance for your own abduction?” demanded Laird MacTier, turning from the window.

“None of us were harmed,” Roarke explained. “In fact, we were treated well.”

“Until they put dirks to your throats and threatened to cut your heads off rather than release you,” countered Laird MacTier dryly.

“Laird MacKillon was trying to stop your forces from using their siege machine.”

Laird MacTier arched a querying brow. “My forces?”

“Our forces,” Roarke quickly corrected.

“You cannot suggest that I should ignore the fact that four of my warriors were taken hostage by this ridiculous little clan. They chose to attempt to extract a ransom from me. They must be taught that I do not take such matters lightly.”

“But ultimately no ransom was paid, therefore you did not lose anything,” argued Roarke. “My men and I are well, and all of the prisoners taken on the eve of the attack have been returned to you. It seems to me the matter has been resolved—what more is there to be gained by attacking the MacKillons once again?”

Laird MacTier frowned, unable to believe that Roarke could not see what was patently obvious. “I cannot tolerate having members of my clan taken hostage. To do so only invites further abductions.”

“You refused to meet their demands. That made it clear that the MacTiers will not yield to those who attempt to extort from them. And you sent your army, demonstrating that you are willing to use force if necessary.”

“I am willing to use force,” Laird MacTier agreed. “And that is why I intend to crush those damn MacKillons. 'Tis bad enough I have the Falcon's band stealing from me and sending my men home stark naked. No doubt that is what made the MacKillons think you were easy prey. I must make an example of them, to dissuade others from attempting further attacks.”

“The MacKillons never would have ransomed us if they hadn't been in desperate need of the items they requested.”

“I cannot think of any clan that isn't in desperate need of gold,” retorted Laird MacTier.

“The gold was of far less import to them than their requests for food and clothing,” Roarke objected. “After our assault upon them, they were left nearly destitute. Their stores for winter were stolen, and every one of their animals was either dragged off or slain and left to rot.”

“They had an entire forest of food waiting for them,” said Laird MacTier dismissively. “All they had to do was go out and hunt for it.”

“That might have been true if they had been attacked in the spring,” conceded Roarke. “But they were raided in the autumn and then they suffered one of the worst winters in their clan's history. Most of the animals either starved to death or left the woods in search of food themselves. There was not nearly enough meat to sustain the clan, and scarcely any grains or vegetables left to make up the difference.”

Laird MacTier looked at Roarke in astonishment. “What the devil is the matter with you, Roarke? You've raided scores of clans just like the MacKillons, and not once have you ever expressed any concern about their welfare.”

He was right, Roarke realized, taking no pride in the observation.

“I never spent any time with any of the clans I raided. With the MacKillons I was forced to witness the consequences of our assault.”

“That is the nature of war,” said Laird MacTier impatiently, unmoved by Roarke's apparent enlightenment. “There is a victor, and there are the vanquished. We must constantly work to increase our strength and resources, and that comes at a cost to others. Ultimately, all that matters is that we have fortified the power of our own clan. We are not responsible for the vulnerability of those who cannot defend themselves against us.”

“We may not be responsible for their inability to defeat us,” conceded Roarke, “but we are certainly responsible if we reduce them to a state in which they are left to starve.”

Laird MacTier regarded him with irritation. “You cannot make me believe that every last one of them would starve. Somehow, a few strong members of the clan would find a way to survive. These ones might even try to help the others.”

“You're right,” agreed Roarke. “And if surviving meant ransoming a few MacTier warriors in exchange for food and clothing, how can you fault them for that?”

“Your capacity for absolution in this matter is most unlike you, Roarke,” Laird MacTier observed.

“I would like to believe that I am not so hardened a warrior that I cannot learn to empathize with the plight of others. All I'm asking is that you consider the circumstances which forced the MacKillons to ransom us—circumstances which we inflicted upon them. All the MacTier prisoners were treated well and released unharmed. I cannot see the merit in punishing the MacKillons further.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Laird MacTier allowed. “What of your hunt for the Falcon?” he asked, changing the subject. “Did you find anything that might prove valuable in leading us to him?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Laird MacTier's disappointment was obvious. “I suppose you were abducted early in your search. I have every faith that you will deliver this miserable outlaw to me shortly.”

Roarke did not respond.

“You do intend to complete your mission?” It was a statement, not a question.

“I will resume my hunt for the Falcon if you wish it. However, I am not certain that I am the best warrior to find this elusive thief.”

Laird MacTier regarded him in surprise. “Why not?”

“It is difficult for any warrior to recognize, much less admit, that he is reaching the end of his days as a fighter,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “But when he lies upon the ground and dreams only of a soft bed beneath him and a solid roof over his head, he begins to realize that he is not the young man he used to be.”

Laird MacTier raised his hand, stopping him. “You need explain no further, my friend. When you first returned from your long years away I told you that you would soon be rewarded for your outstanding loyalty. I am well aware that you have devoted your entire life to expanding the wealth and influence of this clan. Your countless successes over the years have been unmatched by any of my other warriors—yet your remarkable talents and devotion have denied you the comfort of a wife and a home.”

“I had Muriel and Clementina,” Roarke reminded him, unwilling to let their memory be so casually discarded.

“Of course,” Laird MacTier hastily agreed. “And I know it was most painful for you to lose them while you were away fighting for your clan. At the time there was nothing I could do except send you off to fight again, in the hopes that the demands of battle and the glory of conquest would somehow ease the burden of their loss.”

Roarke stiffened at his analysis. Laird MacTier made it sound as though inflicting misery and death on others had been a balm for his own suffering.

“There is a handsome estate about two days' ride from here that I recently acquired,” Laird MacTier continued, seating himself at his ornately carved desk. “The lands are not extensive, but they are comely and fertile, and the people there should prove easily manageable under the right master. I am sure you will find it most agreeable. You may leave tomorrow.”

A streak of trepidation shot through Roarke. He had assumed he would be given an established holding that had long been under MacTier influence. A newly won estate would still be recovering from its invasion, and its inhabitants would be both fearful and contemptuous of any MacTier who came to rule them.

“You don't seem very pleased,” observed Laird MacTier, frowning.

“Forgive me,” said Roarke, realizing he had already worn his relationship with his laird dangerously thin. “It is a fine bequest, MacTier. Thank you.”

“You may take Eric, Donald, and Myles with you if you wish,” Laird MacTier offered. “And whatever supplies you deem necessary. If after your arrival you find that you need more men, just get word to me and I will send them to you. I shall see you before you depart tomorrow.” He lowered his gaze to his papers, indicating that their meeting was at an end.

“Thank you.” Roarke gave his laird a small bow and quit the chamber.

He had just been given everything he had wanted.

But any pleasure he might have felt was obliterated by the gnawing realization that his laird had not unequivocally agreed to spare the MacKillons any further harassment.

“Enter.”

The heavy door swung open and a powerfully built, keen-eyed warrior stepped into the laird's solar. His manner bore the easy arrogance of youth, for at five-and-twenty years he was entering the zenith of his physical abilities, and he had not yet suffered sufficient defeats to temper his conviction of his own invincibility. He wisely affected an appropriate contriteness as he met his laird's hard gaze. MacTier's mood was dark, and his own latest failure was the most likely cause.