The Rose and The Warrior (33 page)

Laird MacTier crossed to her within three strides. “Where is it?” he demanded fiercely.

Melantha regarded him in confusion. “Where is what?”

He slapped her with such force she was knocked to the floor.

“Don't give me a reason to finish off your gallant friend over there,” he warned, his eyes narrowed into dark slits of fury. “If you truly are the Falcon, then you know exactly of what I am speaking.” He leaned down and whispered harshly, “Where is the amulet?”

Melantha fought to clear her head from the dizziness his blow had caused. What was he talking about?

“Don't pretend you don't have it,” he snarled. “That fool of a priest told me how you and your men threatened to disembowel him if he didn't turn it over to you. You knew he carried a sacred relic of great power—that was why you attacked the coach in the first place—wasn't it?” He kept his voice low, guarding his purpose from the rest of his clan.

He was speaking of the silver-and-emerald pendant, Melantha realized. The pendant Magnus had insisted she take for herself, instead of selling it or trading it in exchange for something useful like food or weapons. She had worn it constantly around her neck from that day forward. But the gown she had donned for her journey here had left the pendant exposed, and she had feared that either Laird MacTier or someone else within the clan might recognize it.

And so she had given it to Gillian to wear for safekeeping.

“It is hidden in a safe place some three days' journey from here,” she said evasively, realizing that producing it was the only way of appeasing Laird MacTier's anger and securing Colin and Daniel's freedom. “Release these two, and they will retrieve it and bring it to you in exchange for our lives.”

Laird MacTier studied her a moment, debating whether or not to believe her. “If you try to trick me, I swear to you, you will suffer beyond your worst imaginings,” he warned softly. He plunged his hand into her hair, painfully jerking her head up by its roots. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Melantha, wincing beneath his cruel grip.

He released his hold, leaving her crumpled at his feet as he rose to face his clan.

“The Falcon and I have come to an agreement,” he announced pleasantly. “I have decided to release you tonight,” he said, speaking to Colin, “so that you may go and retrieve a few items of mine that your leader was foolish enough to take. She will tell you exactly what it is I seek, and where you may find them. Bring them to me within six days, and then you and this angry young lad will be released unharmed.”

He paused for a moment, studying Daniel as if he were looking upon him for the first time. Then he turned to Melantha, his expression oddly triumphant.

“He is your brother, isn't he?”

“No.”

Even as she said it, she knew her denial was futile. No one in that moment could mistake the striking resemblance between the two of them, especially given the cold hatred that glittered so fiercely in Daniel's green-and-amber eyes.

“A pity.” Laird MacTier sighed. “A lad who burns with such loathing must be taught the consequences of defying those in power. It is only by teaching these lessons to the young that we can avoid having to punish them even more harshly in the future.”

“If you dare so much as touch him,” Melantha warned, her voice ice cold, “you will never see it again.”

Laird MacTier arched his brows with mock surprise. “Do you really believe me to be such a monster, that you think I would harm a mere lad? Your brother cannot be held responsible for your actions. Therefore once your bleeding friend here returns with the items I seek, both he and the lad will be free to go—”

Relief poured through Melantha. Her own life did not matter so long as Colin and Daniel would be spared.

“—right after they have witnessed your execution.”

The hall froze in shocked silence. It was clear even the MacTiers were appalled by the cruelty of their laird's gesture.

“Bastard!” screamed Daniel, flailing wildly within the strong grip of his captors. “I'll kill you, do you hear!
I'll kill you!
”

“Lock him up,” commanded Laird MacTier.

Melantha felt her heart break as the warriors dragged her screaming, weeping brother away.

“Sometimes a leader must make difficult decisions,” reflected Laird MacTier philosophically. “Your brother must be shown what fate awaits him should he ever decide to follow in your path, my pretty Falcon. It will be a hard lesson, but one that he will not forget easily. And neither will anyone else who dares to contemplate the idea of stealing from me.” He frowned. “Why are you smiling?”

“I was just thinking, MacTier, about the day when someone will teach you the consequences of stealing from others.”

“If that day ever comes, you will not be alive to see it.”

“Whether I see it or not is of no consequence,” she told him calmly. “All that matters is that it is inevitable.”

“Go and tell your friend where to find what I seek,” he snapped. “And do not try to trick me, or I shall be forced to execute your precious brother along with you.”

Melantha went over and whispered in Colin's ear. When she was finished, she studied him a moment, the corners of her mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile. It was little more than a brief, quick gesture of reassurance that revealed nothing of the incredible devotion she felt toward this fine man who had been a lifelong friend. There was much she wanted to say, but she dared not, for fear Laird MacTier would use her feelings toward Colin against her. And so she simply held his gaze, feeling a profound tenderness fill her soul.

“Enough!” snapped Laird MacTier impatiently. “I give you six days,” he said to Colin. “If you do not return within that time with what I have asked for, I will execute her.”

“You will have it,” Colin replied tersely.

“Take him outside and give him his horse,” ordered Laird MacTier. “And take her to the dungeon where her brother is. I see no reason why they should be denied the pleasure of each other's company.”

Melantha held her head high as she was surrounded by a ring of warriors, each no doubt anxious to prove to their laird that they were of some use this evening after all. The MacTiers regarded her with a mixture of awe and pity as she walked past them. She kept her gaze frozen steadfastly in front of her, refusing to even glance at the faces of those who had brought her and her clan so much suffering and misery.

Whatever happened, Colin would not fail her. He would retrieve the pendant and return here within six days.

Beyond that, she could not bear to contemplate.

C
HAPTER
12

“This place is a tomb,” complained Donald, moodily filling his cup once more. “I swear I've been in battles that have been more amusing.”

Myles gazed in bewilderment at the empty tables surrounding them. “Why does everyone leave the hall the minute they're finished eating? Don't they like to stay and talk?”

“They only dine with us because Roarke ordered them to,” replied Eric irritably. “Once they have obeyed his command, they hurry away to be amongst themselves.”

“Well, I wish you would command them to stop cowering every time one of us walks by,” Donald grumbled to Roarke. “When I try to talk to someone they spend the entire conversation memorizing the details of the floor. Then they look like the devil himself has just delivered them from death when I finally give up and tell them they can go.”

Roarke traced his thumb along the intricately worked stem of his silver goblet. How many MacKillon children would this feed? he wondered, feeling guilty for having such a costly object in his possession. “They're afraid of you.”

Donald looked at him in astonishment. “Why should they be afraid of me? I can understand that they might be afraid of Eric—just look at him. He looks miserable enough to frighten a goblin.”

“What do you mean by that?” growled Eric.

“I don't mean to insult you, my friend, but ever since you bid farewell to fair Gillian your mood has been insufferably black. You prowl around this place looking like you're just waiting for someone to give you an excuse to vent your rage.”

“That's a
bloody lie
!” Eric roared, banging down his cup with such force the entire table shook.

“You see?” said Donald, looking at Roarke in exasperation. “I think he's got them all terrified of us.”

“Eric has always been like that,” remarked Myles. “The MacKillons didn't seem to be bothered by it.”

“That's right,” Eric said, pleased to have Myles come to his defense. “The MacKillons weren't bothered by it—even the very quiet ones.” His chest tightened as he thought of Gillian. “ 'Tis just this groveling lot that scurries away like frightened mice every time they see one of us coming.”

“But that doesn't make any sense,” argued Donald. “After all, we haven't done anything to them.”

“No, we haven't,” Roarke agreed quietly. “But the MacTiers who came before us and forced these people to give up their freedom did.”

“But now we'll make them stronger,” pointed out Myles. “They have the whole MacTier army to come to their defense if they need it.”

“Or to crush them if they dare to defy me.” Roarke drained his cup and filled it once again, feeling weary and incomprehensibly melancholy.

Laird MacTier's gift to him had been generous. The lands were green and fertile, and were ringed by a dense growth of woods and several clear, fast-flowing streams. There was a deep, cold loch that was almost silver with fish. The people here were traditionally industrious, as was evident by the neatly planted fields of grains and vegetables. And he could not find any particular fault with the castle itself, although he would make some improvements to better fortify it. Inside it had been tastefully furnished with exquisitely stitched tapestries and painstakingly carved furniture. Because Laird MacTier had decided to add this holding to his collection, he had chosen not to strip it or cause it any undue damage, the way he had the MacKillon castle. And so Roarke finally had the pleasure of sleeping in a handsome, comfortable bed, and eating his meals at a solid, polished table, and stretching out before the fire in a wide, elegantly carved chair. It was a fine holding of beauty and abundance, and the people who inhabited it were unfailingly dutiful and obeisant. Neither he nor any of his men were permitted to want for anything.

Why then, was he so bloody miserable?

It had been different at the MacKillon holding, he reflected. That decrepit, barren pile of pink rocks had always bustled with cheerful activity. The chambers were invariably drafty, yet he had never felt cold; the meals were simple and spare, yet he had never gone hungry. He and his men had been prisoners, but none of them had felt as isolated as they did here. The MacKillons had laughed with them and drunk ale with them, had even dared to make them the object of raucous jokes. How many times had Magnus goaded him about that arrow in his arse? he wondered, the corners of his mouth twitching at the memory. The MacKillons had not treated them like prisoners. And they had not treated them like enemies, except for their absurd propensity for locking them up at night. They had simply treated them as equals.

Until coming here, Roarke had not realized what an honor that had been.

Melantha had tried to warn him, he realized bleakly. She had told him the people here would have been terrorized into submission, and so they had. Whatever happened here had either shattered their spirit or beaten it into a badly broken resignation, which they only dared free on occasion, when they were certain no MacTier could witness it. That was why they all hurried away the instant they felt he would tolerate their absence. That was why they spoke to him with their eyes downcast, their shoulders hunched with the heavy burden of their fear and oppression. Nothing he could say or do would ever eradicate how he had come to rule them. Although he did not think anyone here would ever dare defy him, neither would they ever come to like him.

He drank deeply from his silver cup, wondering why the prospect was so completely dispiriting.

Then, of course, there was Melantha. He spent most of his time desperately trying not to think of her. This was a considerable challenge, when there was so damn little here to keep him otherwise occupied. The fields were planted and the larders were full. The castle was in excellent shape, and any improvements could be initiated tomorrow or next month or even next year—with the strength of the entire MacTier army at his disposal, it scarcely mattered. As for beginning a training program, Laird MacTier had been most adamant that Roarke not attempt to turn these people into a fighting force. They had only recently been conquered, and MacTier wisely did not want to run the risk of training and arming a force of angry young men, only to have them wield their weapons against their new masters. And so the holding hummed along on its own, with everyone mindful of their place and what they had to do to keep themselves fed and clothed and otherwise occupied.

Which left Roarke with ample time to reflect on Melantha, and the ragged, gaping hole her absence was tearing in his heart.

“These jugs are all empty,” complained Eric, surveying the half dozen pitchers strewn across their table. “I'm going to fetch some more.”

“I'll go with you,” offered Donald, pleased to have a mission of some sort. He rose from the table, then paused and scratched his head. “Where do you suppose they keep the ale?”

“I'll find it,” said Myles, pushing his chair out from the table.

“The two of you are incapable of finding anything,” Eric noted scornfully. “I'll find it.”

“More ale, milords?” asked a drab little figure of a man who suddenly appeared out of the shadows bearing two sloshing pitchers.

“I wish he wouldn't do that,” grumbled Eric. “It's as if he's always listening.”

“Thank you, Gowrie,” said Roarke.

“Not at all, milord,” said Gowrie, keeping his eyes respectfully low as he filled Roarke's cup.

“Is everything quiet?” Roarke asked him conversationally.

Gowrie kept his gaze fixed upon the goblets as he moved around the table to fill them. “Aye.”

“Has everyone gone to bed?” Roarke pressed.

“Aye.”

“Including the guards on the wall head?” joked Donald.

“No,” said Gowrie, his expression utterly serious. “Not the guards.”

“Do you wish to retire for the evening, Gowrie?” Roarke asked.

“Only if you wish me to, milord.”

“Are you tired?”

Wariness flashed across his face, as if he feared that the question might be some sort of trick. “No, milord. I'm happy to stay and serve you.”

Roarke gave up trying to engage the man in conversation. “You may retire, Gowrie.”

“Thank you, milord.” He was careful to avoid Roarke's gaze as he bowed and quit the hall.

Eric snorted in disgust. “I don't trust him.”

“I don't trust any of them,” added Myles.

“You don't trust them because 'tis clear that they do not trust us,” Roarke said wearily. “Somehow we must overcome their fear of us.”

“ 'Tis strange,” mused Donald, studying his brimming cup. “After so many years of battle, I had thought I'd enjoy a life of leisure. But now that I've tasted it, I find 'tis not as sweet as I'd imagined.”

No,
thought Roarke in gloomy silence.
It's not sweet at all.

“You can't go in there!” Gowrie shouted suddenly from just beyond the doorway. “Come back here—stop, I say!”

Despite their ale-sodden state, all four warriors were up and had their swords drawn just as the intruders burst into the hall.

“God's ballocks, would ye tell these squawking geese that we're friends, not foes!” complained Magnus in exasperation. “I'm thinkin' 'tis easier to gain an audience with King Alexander!”

“I'm so sorry, milord,” apologized Gowrie, wringing his hands as he bowed low before Roarke. “I don't know how they got in—I tried to stop them—”

“It's all right, Gowrie,” Roarke interrupted, sheathing his sword. “These men are friends. Now leave us.”

The servant obediently dropped his gaze and escaped the hall without another word.

“Milord, is it?” said Magnus, raising a brow as he quickly appraised the rich adornments of the hall. “Ye've done well for yerself, lad.”

“What has happened?” demanded Roarke. Magnus's hair was a wild tangle of white, and both he and Lewis bore the smudges and scratches of a fast, desperate ride.

Magnus eyed him speculatively. “Ye told us that ye'd speak to your laird and tell him to leave us MacKillons alone. I thought ye to be a man of yer word.”

“You know that I am, Magnus,” Roarke told him impatiently, “otherwise you wouldn't be here. Now, what has happened?”

“They took Matthew and Daniel,” burst out Lewis. “And then they attacked the holding and burned the cottages and fields. They wanted us to reveal the identity of the Falcon.”

Cold fury surged through Roarke. Bastards. He had known his clan was ruthless, but he had never imagined them to be so vile that they would resort to using children as hostages. “Was anyone hurt?” he demanded tautly.

“No.”

“Then let's get them back.” He signaled to his men to follow as he strode across the hall.

“I'm afraid we already tried to free them, lad,” said Magnus, any mistrust he may have felt toward Roarke shattered in the wake of his apparent concern. “But we weren't entirely successful.”

Roarke stopped, struggling to appear calm as fear began to twist in his gut. “What happened?”

“Things didn't go quite as well as we'd hoped when we were leaving,” began Magnus. “We got the lads, and Melantha was supposed to join us at the gate but—”

“Sweet Jesus,” he swore. “You left her there?”

“We had no choice,” said Magnus, his aged face lined with regret. “We thought we'd escape, then form a plan to retrieve her later. But when Daniel realized she wasn't coming, the hotheaded lad decided to turn around and go back for her.”

“Colin rode after him to try to stop him,” continued Lewis. “And they were both captured. But then Colin was released.”

“Why?”

“Laird MacTier is looking for a pendant that we stole some months ago,” explained Lewis. “Colin was set free so that he could retrieve it and bring it to Laird MacTier. He found us on his journey home, and told us what had happened. Once Colin has returned the pendant, Laird MacTier has promised to let Daniel go.”