The Rose and The Warrior (32 page)

She had to stop MacTier from reaching the window.

It was this simple, desperate purpose, rather than the painful web of her hatred and fury, that caused her to stand and wrench her dirk from its sheath. There was no time to consider the morality of her actions, no time to torment herself with vagaries of right and wrong. There was only the absolute need to prevent the man before her from murdering those she loved.

She hurled her dirk across the chamber.

The blade flew in a straight, true line, slicing a clean path toward her target. But Laird MacTier, perhaps distracted by the action of her rising from her chair, turned at the last instant, altering her mark. He did not make a sound as the dirk burrowed into his shoulder, but merely stared at it incredulously, as if he could not quite believe how it had come to be there.

And then his eyes met hers, and his incredulity turned to rage.

“Guards!” he roared, taking a step away from her as if he feared she might have some other weapon concealed upon her.
“Guards!”

The chamber door crashed open and four warriors of awesome proportions tore into the room, their swords poised for massacre. When they saw only Melantha standing there looking small and pale, they turned to their laird in confusion.

“Arrest her!” ordered Laird MacTier. “Take her to the dungeon and—”

“Escape! The prisoners have escaped!”

This new development had the effect of stripping Melantha of everyone's attention as both MacTier and his warriors raced to the window to see what was happening below.

“Stop them!” shouted a warrior who was staggering drunkenly toward the gate. After giving this directive he stopped, belched, then turned around and started to whistle, evidently satisfied that his contribution toward catching the prisoners was complete.

Another warrior gamely took a few faltering steps before collapsing to his knees. “Somebody close the gate,” he murmured thickly. With that he fell facedown onto the ground and began to snore.

“Och, Ewan, ye're not lookin' very good, my friend,” remarked a warrior who stumbled out of the stables carrying a jug. “Do ye want a drop more o' this fine drink?” When his friend didn't answer he drained the jug himself, then turned to relieve himself against the stable wall, singing at the top of his lungs, “Oh, there once was a lass with a bonny round ass….”

“Close the gate!” roared Laird MacTier, watching in frustration as Colin, Lewis, Finlay, Magnus, and the boys suddenly burst from the stables on horseback and thundered toward the open portcullis.
“Somebody close the goddamn gate!!”

“…so I gave her my shaft and she near left me daft, with a hey, ho, come lie with me….”

“What the hell is the matter with them?” demanded Laird MacTier, watching in outrage as his prisoners escaped and the courtyard was littered with the staggering, falling, singing bodies of his finest warriors.

“They look drunk,” observed one warrior.

“Maybe they've been put under some kind of spell,” offered another.

Laird MacTier's face turned crimson. “I'll kill him! I'll catch that bloody Falcon and I'll see him torn to pieces—do you hear!!” He waved his arms in frustration, then inhaled sharply at the pain in his right shoulder. “You!” he snarled, his eyes narrowing at Melantha. “You're part of all this—and you know who he is, don't you?”

Melantha said nothing.

“Bring her to the great hall,” Laird MacTier ordered brusquely. “And one of you find someone to take this goddamn dirk out of my shoulder!”

Misery was carved upon the face of every warrior who dragged himself into the great hall to face Laird MacTier's wrath.

Their laird's fury was awesome, but Melantha did not believe it could compare to the current effects of Edwina's powerful brew. Edwina had assured Melantha it would send those who drank it into a blissful slumber. What Edwina had failed to mention, however, was that once the pleasant euphoria began to wane, it would be replaced by a crushing headache and roiling nausea that might well make the sufferer pray for death.

It looked to Melantha as if an inordinate number of warriors were praying at that very moment.

“Fools!” barked Laird MacTier, his mood even nastier now that the dirk had been plucked from his throbbing shoulder. “Idiots! I should chain each and every one of you up by your wrists and leave you to rot in the dungeons!”

No one said anything. Either they were overwhelmed by their physical suffering or each had wisely decided it was better to remain silent in the face of their laird's rage.

“And you,” he said, suddenly switching his attention to Melantha. “Just who the hell are you, and how are you associated with the Falcon?”

“It doesn't matter,” Melantha replied coolly, enjoying his obvious frustration. “You'll never capture him.”

Laird MacTier had tried to find some warriors who were not falling-down drunk to go after her men and her brothers. By the time he finally settled upon a handful who were still capable of mounting a horse, her men had the advantage of a lengthy start. She had no doubt they would be able to lose themselves in the shadows of the woods they knew so well.

“Your profound loyalty to this outlaw is as brainless as it is pathetic.” Laird MacTier slowly circled her. “Don't you think it cowardly that he sent a mere lass to keep his enemy distracted while he had a force of warriors to protect himself? What kind of a man would expose a maiden to such danger and then callously leave you behind?”

“What kind of man would take two innocent lads and put them in a dungeon, using their precious lives to lure his enemy?” challenged Melantha scornfully. “It could only be the same kind of man who makes a sport of attacking clans that are weaker than his, stealing every scrap of cloth and morsel of food from them so he can drape himself in ridiculous robes and seat himself at tables ready to collapse beneath the weight of the food prepared solely for his gluttony!”

A horrified gasp rose from the stunned MacTiers.

Laird MacTier's face betrayed not a flicker of emotion as he clamped his hands on Melantha's shoulders. Slowly he began to squeeze, first bruising the tender flesh, then crushing against the bones until she thought they would shatter beneath his cruel grip.

“Beware the sharpness of your tongue, my little asp,” he drawled, his breath hot and foul upon her cheek. “ 'Twould be a shame to be forced to break such a pretty little neck.” He released her shoulders to trail his fingers down her throat, his touch gentle yet menacing.

“ 'Tis you who needs to be afraid, MacTier, for a man with nothing but enemies can never know an easy moment.” She lowered her voice to the barest of whispers as she fervently vowed: “If the Falcon doesn't kill you, one of your own men will. That is the price of power wrought by tyranny and fear.”

His hand froze against her.

She smiled, taking grim satisfaction in the spark of apprehension she saw kindled in his eyes.

“We've got him!” shouted excited voices from outside. “Make way—
we've got the Falcon
!”

It was Laird MacTier's turn to smile. “Now, this is a fascinating turn of events, don't you think?”

Abruptly he released her.

Alarm streaked up Melantha's spine. Affecting only a modicum of interest, she watched as several MacTier warriors stormed into the hall, roughly hauling not one but two captives.

When she saw that they were Colin and Daniel, her alarm turned to terror.

Laird MacTier walked slowly over to Colin, who was being restrained by two men. One of them she recognized as the fair-haired warrior who had led the recent attack on her holding. The other was Neill, who had been so chivalrous in his attentions when she first arrived.

“I have been waiting a long time for this moment, my outlaw friend,” Laird MacTier murmured.

He drew back his fist and rammed it hard into Colin's face.

Somehow Melantha stifled the cry in her throat. Anything she did to reveal her feelings for either Colin or Daniel could only put them at further risk. And so she forced herself to watch with rigid calm as Colin spat a scarlet stream upon the floor, spattering red droplets upon the finely stitched leather of Laird MacTier's shoes. Then Colin raised his head to regard Laird MacTier once again.

“Is that how you welcome all your guests?” he enquired mildly. “I must say, it isn't very gracious.”

“Oh, but you are not just any guest,” Laird MacTier said, enjoying his position of power over him. “You are the man who has managed to vex me constantly by making a sport of stealing that which is mine. And now that you have been caught, I'm afraid you must be made to pay.”

He struck him hard in the face again, causing blood to spurt from Colin's nose.

“Stop it!” cried Daniel, fighting to escape the grip of the warriors who were holding him. “Leave him alone!”

Colin shook his head, which had the effect of spreading the blood leaking from him across his cheeks, making his face look as if it had been beaten to a pulp.

Melantha clenched her fists, feeling her deliberately constructed calm begin to crumble.

“It seems your young friend does not relish the sight of you in pain,” remarked Laird MacTier archly as he unsheathed Derek's sword. “That is a pity—I'm sure he is not going to enjoy what I am about to do to you now.”

“Kill me if it pleases you,” snarled Colin tautly, “but at least have the decency to let the lad and the lass leave.”

“I'm not going to kill you,” Laird MacTier informed him, testing the weight and balance of the heavy claymore in his hands. “Not when we still have so much to talk about. You, my Falcon friend, have taken a great many things from me over the past few months, and I mean to find out exactly what you have done with them. All I'm doing at this moment is making it eminently clear to everyone in this hall that I do not take the crime of stealing lightly. After all,” he continued, moving behind Colin, “stealing is a sin.”

He swung the heavy blade down with all his might, striking Colin on the back with the flat of it. It was a blow that would have felled any man, but with the severed muscles of Colin's back still in the painful stages of healing, the effect was devastating. He groaned in agony and fell to his knees, his head bent so that neither Daniel nor Melantha could see the depths of his suffering.

“Stop it!” cried Daniel, tears streaming down his face. “Stop it—
you bloody bastard
!”

Outraged by his insolence, Laird MacTier moved to strike him.

“Leave him alone,” commanded Melantha, her voice like the lash of a whip. “Or I swear to you, you'll never see any of your precious possessions again.”

Laird MacTier hesitated, disconcerted by the steely confidence with which she spoke. “What are you talking about?”

“The man you have there is not the Falcon.”

“Is that so?” He skeptically cocked one eyebrow. “Then I suppose this sniveling lad is the one who has been plaguing me all these months?”

“No,” returned Melantha. Her expression was deadly serious. “I am.”

Stunned surprise rippled through the great hall.

“Don't listen to her!” yelled Colin, staggering to his feet. “I'm the Falcon!”

“No, he isn't,” Melantha countered, her gaze intent upon Laird MacTier. “You may trust me, MacTier. I am the outlaw you seek.”

“She's mad!” protested Colin furiously. “How could that thin slip of a lass be the Falcon? For God's sake, just look at her! She could scarcely lift a bairn, never mind wield a sword! She's just saying this to try to save me—you mustn't listen to her!”

“No one has ever been able to describe the Falcon because he always wears a helmet,” continued Melantha calmly, ignoring Colin's outburst. “That was because I had to keep the fact that I was a woman a secret.”

“I wear a bloody helmet because I want to keep my skull intact,” interjected Colin, growing even more adamant. “Don't listen to her childish fantasies!”

“As you have already noticed, my hands bear the marks of years of swordplay,” she continued, lifting her callused palms for Laird MacTier's perusal. “I have been trained in the use of a sword from the time I was six.”

“Every country wife has work-worn hands,” scoffed Colin, desperately trying to discredit her confession. “It doesn't make them a dangerous outlaw, for God's sake!”

“But not every country wife bears the marks of an enemy's sword.” She jerked down the sleeve of her gown, revealing the jagged pink scar that snaked from her shoulder to her elbow. “Surely one of your men returned to boast of managing to wound the elusive Falcon, MacTier?” she asked scornfully. “ 'Twas in the late spring and we had attacked a coach bearing a king's supply of silver goods and one overly fed priest. The guards assured us that the entire lot was on its way to you—”