Struggling for discretion, which he severely lacked at present, he sucked in a lungful of chilled air and shifted his feet to widen his stance. Over the rattle of weaponry and the drone of displeasure, he addressed the men.
“I ask more than many of you wish to give, but I beseech you to temper yourselves.” His gaze stretched over the disgruntled crowd. “I do not know why the English have paid us a visit, nor do I truly care. What matters to me the most is the safe return of my wife and sister and, for that, I need your help. Save your sword arms, brothers, and let me handle the English. Afterward, we ride.”
Despite a few angry murmurs or glared daggers, his clansmen grudgingly yielded to his request, lowering their weapons. In truth, he understood their discord and understood it well. ’Twas a man’s place to fight his battles and protect his own but this particular fight was not his.
Steeling his nerve, Calum spun on his heel and strode to the front gate. He scanned the mass of unwelcomed visitors, while his mind spun with a reason for their untimely arrival. To be honest, the reason scarcely mattered. The faster he rid himself of their presence, the sooner he would see his family returned.
Within moments, his commanders, Liam, Fraser, Patrick and even Dougal joined him at the gate. Their strong, unspoken show of unity pleased Calum, infusing him with a store of confidence he desperately needed before facing his foes.
Sword gripped at his side, he rolled his shoulders to loosen the tense set of his back. He tipped his head toward the English. “Let’s get this over with.”
Fraser grunted. “I’ll walk out with you.”
Forcing his hands to rest lax, Calum looked on at the ranks of mounted knights and foot soldiers as he and Fraser stepped outside the front gates. Despite their considerable number, the English stood at ease, uncaring of his and Fraser’s advance.
Amid the two opposing groups, the distinct cry of a hawk overhead shattered the yawning silence. Trickles of movement surfaced from within the English ranks as three mounted riders emerged from a sea of men. The middle rider swayed in his saddle, and the two soldiers with him shifted closer to his flanks. The trio halted scores of feet away and raised a hand to signal no further advance.
Wary, Calum slid a glance at Fraser who nodded once. The old laird puffed out his barrel chest and strode ahead with Calum. Their dogged strides closed the remaining distance in no time, pausing mere paces away from the three mounted soldiers. Uneased hung thick in the chilled air, but he held his stance firm, not blinking when the middle rider managed a clumsy dismount. His two companions hurriedly descended their horses to move to the rider’s sides to balance his wavering frame. Calum passed a dubious eye over the plate-covered knight as the tall man shuffled closer.
The unsteady rider lifted his arms, his armor groaning from the motion. With a slight shift in footing, Calum adjusted his stance and tightened his grip on the cool hilt of his sword. From the corner of his eye, he caught Fraser’s subtle shift of position as well.
Slowly, the rider removed his helm and lowered his arms.
Stiffness drained from Calum’s body and his hand slid away from his weapon. He gaped at the pale, gaunt face of a man he thought dead.
“Iain?” he mumbled in disbelief.
The pallor alarming, Iain’s face bore signs of weariness and pain. The bulk of his mass had all but vanished, accounting for the odd fit of his armor and his wavering form. ’Twas God’s truth, the man looked as though death hung around his neck.
Fraser’s elbow to the ribs shook Calum from his stupor. The two of them rushed forward, fitting their shoulders beneath Iain’s frame before he fell flat on his face.
“You gave this old man a start, boy.” Fraser’s voice faltered. “Your sister…” The words died in his throat.
Iain’s sharpened gaze snapped to his uncle’s. “Where is she?”
“Later.” Fraser barked out.
From the laird’s drawn features, ’twas evident he did not wish to burden his ailing nephew with bad tidings. Neither did Calum for that matter. Christ, ’twas a wonder Iain survived the journey from England in his condition.
Ignoring the question, Fraser nodded at Calum and they shouldered Iain’s weight, but he asked them to wait. With an awkward glance behind him, he ordered his two companions to set camp for the eve. Calum shared a look with Fraser over that bit of information. All but carrying Iain through the courtyard, they hefted him inside the keep and through the great hall. They deposited him at a trestle table in a clank of rattling armor, and Iain groaned in relief.
At once, Calum signaled a servant to bring water. However, before Iain swallowed a drop, Fraser asked the question burning in Calum’s mind.
“We believed you dead. How is it you live?”
“By the skin of my teeth.” Iain weakly snorted. “Longford was not as practiced with his blade as he believed. Now, where is Arabella? I was told she sought refuge with you.”
With the same mossy green eyes as his sister, Iain pinned his uncle with a hard stare, but Fraser showed no outward sign of relenting. For a man who scarcely kept his blasted gob shut, the old man remained silent as a mouse. He dropped down on a bench across the table from his nephew.
Calum lifted his chin at Iain. “Tell us how you are here, and with the king’s men no less.”
“Damnation, just tell me where she is.” Iain bared his teeth.
Concern bled through the anger on his pale features, and Calum sympathized with his old friend. With a heavy sigh borne of frustration, he plopped down in a chair beside Iain and met his unwavering gaze.
“I believe Longford has Arabella and Mairi.”
Rage twisted Iain’s features. “What the devil does that mean? You believe?”
“The MacRaes grabbed them and headed north after the wedding. I’m certain Longford is involved.”
Iain bit out a harsh curse. “The servants said the bastard fled north with half his men.” More curses rent the air. “Who the devil are the MacRaes and what wedding?”
Calum raised a brow. “Arabella’s.”
Iain speared him with a fierce glare. “The hell you say. Who would dare wed my sister?”
“I would.” He growled in challenge.
“You?” Surprise widened Iain’s gaze. “In truth?”
“Aye,” he affirmed with a narrowing of his eyes.
Iain bellowed another harsh curse and struggled against the weight of his armor to rise to his feet. “Then why the devil are you sitting here? Christ’s blood, you should be out there getting them back. Longford will kill them.”
Annoyed, Calum placed a staying hand on his plated shoulder. “I damned well know that. My men and I were prepared to leave when you showed up with a cursed army of men. Hell, do you think I’d rather sit here, imagining what might’ve befallen my sister or my wife instead?”
Any remaining color drained from Iain’s face. “I should’ve sent a messenger ahead to bring word of my approach. Forgive me for not thinking, Calum.”
Fraser rapped his knuckles on the wooden table across from them. “Listen, boy, tell us how you’re alive and here, with the king’s men at that. Be quick about it, won’t you?”
Iain did not hesitate. “Longford left me for dead along the main thoroughfare from London. By God’s grace, a passing peddler heard my moans of pain and carted me to a nearby convent, or I would’ve died on that road. ’Twas the nuns’ goodwill that spared my life. Fever and infection ravaged my body for a fortnight, but when I was strong enough to gain my legs, I took a cart to London to speak to the king, revealing Longford’s lies and deceit. He offered me a number of men to retake Penswyck, but Arabella was gone. Along with Dougal and his wife. I was told they escaped north, so I came as fast as I could. Christ, ’tis my fault for not protecting them. If anything happens to Arabella…”
“Enough.” Fraser ground out. “No more of that nonsense. Naught will happen to either of our girls.”
Calum met Iain’s troubled gaze. “I will bring them h
ome, Iain.”
“You know,”—Fraser scratched his beard—“’Tis good you’ve arrived. Might as well put some of your men to good use.”
“Of course,” Iain agreed. “Anything you need. Give me a few moments to rest and I’ll be ready to ride.”
Calum squinted. “You can scarcely keep yourself upright, man. How are you to swing a sword, much less stay astride your mount?”
“I can hold my own.” Iain glared at him. “I’ll not be left behind.”
Calum rolled his eyes heavenward. “By the Saints, I know you can, and I understand your need to accompany us. Truly, I do, but we do not have time to ride at a slower pace. You’re in no condition to ride north. Hell, ’tis a blessing you made it this far from England. Stay here and heal. Trust me to take care of matters, Iain.”
His friend sighed in defeat and leaned his elbows on the edge of the table for support. Resigned, he dropped his head in his hands. “Take what you require of the men. Hell, take them all. I do not care. Just bring Arabella and Mairi back safe and sound.”
Studying the sickly man seated before him, he wondered if Iain would ever return to the days of his former self—the sturdy, capable warrior Calum had once known. He cuffed his friend’s shoulder. “You have my thanks.”
Across the table, Fraser slapped his palms flat on the wooden planks. “So, before we charge onto MacRae lands, what’s our plan?”
Despite the heavy weight in his heart, Calum almost smiled. “Come, let’s ready the men to ride, and I’ll tell you.”
Fraser narrowed his eyes but held his tongue, for once.
After they bid farewell to Iain and strode to the hall entrance, Elena rushed in between the two of them.
Fraser snagged her around the middle. “Take care of him, will you, love?”
Nodding, she patted his chest. “Aye, Hammish.” She worriedly glanced from him to Calum. “The pair of you be safe and bring our lasses home.”
The old laird leaned down and planted a kiss on her lips. “As you wish, my lady.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
With a force nearly two hundred strong, Calum, his clansmen, and Iain’s soldiers had ridden hard throughout the day, arriving on MacRae lands at nightfall. Bordered by the sea to the north and west, the keep held a strong, defensive position atop a steep cliff. Below, a beach ran along the rock wall, permitting Calum and his men shelter, out of the line of sight, to prepare their next move.
’Twas in the shadows of darkness when he, Symon, and a handful of his kinsmen scouted ahead, searching for any points of weakness they might exploit to gain entry inside. From the poor state of the MacRae keep and its crumbling, surrounding walls, it had not taken Calum long to root out a collapsed area in the eastern wall.
Mindful of the night watch, he and his men snuck through the opening, hiding themselves away in the courtyard to observe the movement of foot patrols. Soon, he devised a plan to get into the keep without raising alarms. To his surprise, the English soldiers in his company would work to their advantage.
Before dawn, he assembled half his men, breaking them into small groups of five. One set after another, they advanced on the rocky cliff, using numerous outcroppings of jagged stone as cover. Gathered along the eastern wall, they began to pick off Longford’s men. With a switch of helms and surcoats, Iain’s soldiers assumed their enemies’ roles, one watch at a time, patrolling the grounds as if naught were amiss. In no time, they effectively controlled the bailey without sounding an alarm and fewer men were slain.
Kneeling just outside of the break in the courtyard wall, Calum locked his sights on the keep’s side entrance near the kitchens. Bursts of frigid coastal air stung his face and dried the sweat on his scalp. A constant drone of waves filled his ears, but the shrill cries of gulls pierced the roar of the sea. The incessant noise bore in his brain, amplifying his agitation.
Thought after thought sifted through his mind, trying his sorely waning patience. Despite his eagerness to get inside the keep, he urged himself to withstand just a wee bit longer. One foolish misstep could endanger Arabella and Mairi—a risk he was unwilling to take. He glanced to his left where two score or more of Longford’s soldiers sat, bound and gagged. Despite a swollen eye, one prisoner speared him with a one-eyed glower.
“Well, that’s hardly gracious of you, is it?” Liam said over Calum’s shoulder. He strolled ahead and squatted in front of the trussed up guard, patting the soldier’s cheek with a hard slap. “We allowed you to live. For now. The least you could do is show a bit of gratitude.”
Heedless of their captive’s harsh glare, Liam rolled his eyes at Calum. “Thankless arse.”
In spite of the thrumming pulse in his neck, Calum grinned at his cousin. Leave it to Liam to find humor in a humorless situation. Shaking his head, he returned his gaze to the side entrance, eagerly awaiting a signal from one of Iain’s men who’d slipped into the keep sometime earlier. When the first light of day began to inch over the horizon, his nervousness increased threefold.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder as Fraser knelt alongside him.
“What’s taking so blasted long?” the laird grunted with displeasure.
His dour gaze narrowed on the entrance. No doubt he worried for his niece’s welfare, but ’twas naught compared to the painful knot of unease lodged in Calum’s chest. Too many troubling thoughts tumbled round in his head, adding to the weight in the pit of his stomach.
What if he was too late to save his family?
He thrust the unsettling notion away and cast a quick glance at Fraser, who stroked his beard in an absent motion. Taking pity on his ally, he nudged the man’s arm. “Any moment now, old man.”
Any damned moment.
By the Saints, if he had to wait much longer, he’d go mad. Eye twitching, he ground his teeth in irritation. Growling in frustration, he shifted from knee to knee, anxious to rise from his crouch. Then he saw it—a glimmer of flame from the keep’s side entrance. Twice more the flicker gleamed like a beacon across the darkened bailey for an instant before disappearing altogether.
Heart leaping in his chest, Calum straightened and rolled his neck from shoulder to shoulder. Gripping the hilt of his sword, he met Fraser’s keen stare. “’Tis time.”
And not a moment too soon.
*
The marked click and drag of a lock slipping free rang out in the stifling silence. Arabella bolted upright from the small bed and stared at the chamber door. Her heart pounded a swift beat as she waited for Longford to stride through the entrance. When the door remained closed, she frowned in confusion. Had she mistaken the sound?
Stone scraped over stone, jarring her into action. Despite the painful ache in her head and wrist, she sprung to her feet and spun to face the sound from the wall behind her. She gaped as a section of wall beneath a molding tapestry slid open, kicking up dust in the chamber. A flush of cool, brackish air pushed into the musty room and brushed over her warm face.
Quiet footfalls shuffled from the other side of the wall, and every sore muscle in her body stiffened. She held her breath, fearful of who, or what, might enter. She barely contained her surprise when a tall, gangly youth pushed aside the tapestry and ducked to enter through the low-hung opening in the wall.
Arabella cleared her parched throat. “W-who are you?”
His dark, solemn gaze met hers and he held a finger to his lips. “Connor MacRae, my lady.” He pointed the chamber door. “We must speak softly.”
Shaggy, brown hair fell over his eyes, which he brushed aside with a sweep of his dirty hand. Cuts and bruises littered his pale face and neck. Blood stained the collar of his threadbare tunic.
After Longford locked her in the chamber, she promptly discovered any thought of escape was futile. With no window opening and the chamber door barred, she was stuck in the chamber until Longford came for her.
Thoroughly at a loss, she stared at the disheveled youth, unsure who he was or where he’d come from. She mumbled, “How did
you…?”
“’Tis my home, my lady. I’m privy to its secrets.” Glancing away, he hesitated a moment before adding, “’Twas my brother who took you and your companion.”
His mumbled words sifted through her weary mind and a surge of anger replaced her confusion. Her mouth dropped open to curse his fiend of a brother.
“Wait. Please.” Moving closer, Connor lifted his hand as if to touch her, but paused and dropped his arm to his side. “Allow me to explain, please. I beg you.”
Arabella blinked at the note of desperation in his voice. His soulful eyes reflected a wealth of intelligence, understanding, and pain at odds with his young age. The longer she considered Connor’s request, the more compassion tugged at her heart. ’Twas far too simple to see her husband in the young man—thrust into circumstances not of his own doing.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “All right. Explain.”
His shouldered slumped in relief. “An Englishman came to our hall, offering a heavy purse for my clan’s aid.” His gaze moved over the chamber rather than meet hers. “I’m sure you can guess for what.”
Arabella gritted her teeth. Aye, she could.
“My brother, Aaron, did not wish to help, but my father is…was a greedy man.” Connor balled his hands into fists at his sides. “’Twas his greed that allowed Longford to murder him and seize control of our keep. Longford forced Aaron to do his bidding by holding my life over his head. My brother had no wish to harm you or your companion. In truth, Aaron has no plans to leave you here with Longford. He merely brought you here to free me from Longford’s grasp.”
The air pushed from Arabella’s lungs. By the Saints, was their no limit to Longford’s evil and deceit? What a wretched cur.
“Aaron has horses waiting for us. You and I are to meet him along the north side of the beach.”
She frowned. “But what of Longford?”
Connor forced a tight-lipped smile. “Do not fear. My brother will see to him.”
The resigned acceptance in his solemn gaze broke Arabella’s heart in two. She opened her mouth to speak, but he waved at the opening in the wall.
Reckless Scotland Page 93
