Highlander Besieged

by Vonda Sinclair

After shoving the whoreson against the wall, Cyrus tightened his fist, twisting the man's collar and neck cloth, near choking him. "Tell me where she is! Or I'll kill you now."

  "I know not." Henry coughed and gasped for breath. "She ran... when the fire started."

  "Which way?" Cyrus demanded, his throat burning from the smoke. Up the stairs? Dear God, nay. Please don't let her be upstairs.

  "I wasn't... watching her. I was trying to... save my house."

  Someone grabbed Cyrus's shoulder from behind. He turned to find Dirk, his wild blue eyes reflecting the flames. "We must quit the building! The ceiling is on fire!"

  "Nay! I must get her out!" Shoving Henry aside, Cyrus bypassed MacTarril lying on the floor and headed toward the stairs. Flames licked at the side of them. She could be in her bedchamber.

  Someone grabbed both Cyrus's upper arms. Trying to jerk free from the strong grip, he looked around to find Dirk, Rebbie and two guards latched onto him and dragging him toward the exit.

  "Release me! I must get her out of here!" Fear for her life near choked Cyrus, along with the black smoke.

  As soon as the men hauled him over the threshold, a flaming beam crashed down from the ceiling, falling on MacTarril.

  "Elspeth!" Cyrus roared, devastation searing him. He had not realized until that moment how much she meant to him.

  Damn Rebbie and Dirk for dragging him down the steps. They held him in vice-like grips. Then Norval joined in to help them. Cyrus coughed the smoke from his lungs and yelled her name again. Pain, loss, and regret ripped at his soul, for he could not live without her.

  THICK BLACK SMOKE FILLED the air of the kitchen garden, sending Elspeth into a coughing fit amid her panic. Saints! The men had not been able to put out the fire! She'd thought Henry would make sure it was extinguished to save the house she'd just signed over to him.

  But, nay, her beloved home was going up in flames. Even if she could never live here again, she didn't wish to see it destroyed.

  At least Cyrus was far away from the house. She prayed he had been able to defeat the two Comyns who had gone after him and that he would get back to Rebbinglen safely.

  She peered out from behind a small apple tree. Seeing that the three Comyn guards were gone, she dashed toward the postern gate.

  With shaking hands, she yanked out her keys, found the right one and unlocked the gate.

  "Elspeth!" In the distance, a man yelled her name in a hoarse voice.

  Cyrus! He had returned?

  She darted around the front corner of the house, a part not yet burning. Through the smoke, she saw three men—Norval, Rebbie, and Dirk—holding Cyrus back as he struggled to charge into the blazing house. The reinforcements had finally arrived.

  Coughing, she raced forward. "Cyrus!" she yelled to be heard over the roaring flames and the men calling out to one another.

  Obviously not hearing her, Cyrus shouted her name at the front door, his voice torn and anguished.

  Before she could reach him, someone leapt from the shadows of the stables, grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder.

  "This way." 'Twas Henry's voice. "Talbot and one of the guards are awaiting us with the horses."

  Elspeth screamed. "Cyrus!"

  "I heard her!" Cyrus yelled. "Where is she?"

  Releasing another piercing scream, Elspeth slammed her elbow against her captor's back as he passed through the open postern gate.

  "Cyrus!" she called out, fearful he would not hear her where they were now, on the outside of the wall.

  "Keep them from following us, Comyn!" Henry commanded.

  The beefy guard carrying her sprinted along the road, jarring her painfully against his shoulder.

  The sounds of running footsteps followed, then men's shouts and swords clanging in the distance behind them. Glancing back briefly, she was shocked at the large melee of plaid-covered soldiers. Which one was Cyrus?

  "Hurry, Campbell! Mount up," Henry ordered. "We ride to Greymont."

  She remembered now that Campbell was one of Henry's bodyguards. As he dragged her off his shoulder, she saw an opening and slammed her fist into his nose. "Ow! Bitch!" he yelped and dropped her.

  She landed on her knee, a shock of pain ricocheting through her. Gritting her teeth, she used all her strength to scramble away from him.

  "Grab her, you idiot!" Henry commanded. "She must sign the Greymont deed."

  The hulking guard looming over her, she rolled to her back and kicked him in the face. Yelling, he flipped her onto her stomach and pinned her down. She elbowed him in the throat, then kicked her heel into his groin.

  Yanking her up, he roared and slapped her hard. Sharp pain whipped through her head and neck as she fell in a whirl of dizziness. On the ground again, she attempted to crawl away from him. But the ache in her knee was too much to bear. Nausea welled up within her.

  "Put her on the horse now, Campbell!" Henry ordered. "Turner, grab that stallion's bridle. He's near as valuable as my house that's burning."

  Elspeth ground her teeth against the blinding pain in her knee, unable to prevent the ruffian from lifting her into the air again and throwing her across the saddle. The breath was near knocked from her and her vision slid toward darkness. She gasped for air, barely maintaining awareness.

  As the knaves rode away with her, she twisted enough to glance back and see her home turned into an inferno of orange flame and black smoke. And Cyrus and his clansmen fighting the Comyns.

  Her throat clogged with tears. She only knew she could lose her home, but she couldn't lose Cyrus.

  Dear God, please protect him.

  AS CYRUS FOLLOWED THE sound of Elspeth's voice, he found the whole of the Comyn clan lying in wait outside the walls. They all charged at once.

  "Tùlach Àrd!" Cyrus shouted. The MacKenzie battle cry should summon the rest of his clansmen, as well as the MacKay and MacInnis men from inside the walls to fight these bastards.

  In a fearsome rush, Cyrus slashed and thrust, battling his way through the Comyns and the smoke.

  Where had Dalacroy taken Elspeth?

  Cyrus had almost gone mad when he'd thought she was trapped in the burning house. Thank the saints she had gotten out. But then, for her to be nabbed by that weasel... he should've strangled the life from Dalacroy when he had the chance.

  When he defeated the last opponent, he spun around, looking for the next one, but only his clansmen and allies surrounded him.

  "The survivors fled north, into the wood!" Dirk shouted.

  "Let them go!" Cyrus sprinted toward the horses in the field. "I saw Dalacroy and his guards mounting horses. I wager he's taking her to Greymont."

  Dirk chased behind him. "Where's that?"

  "She said it was five miles south. 'Tis where Fraser and my injured guards are taking refuge."

  "M'laird!" A towheaded lad ran along the wall toward him. Cyrus remembered he was the stable lad, Tommy. "M'laird, I took care of Goliath since you left."

  "Why didn't you take him to Greymont?"

  "Master Fraser said you might need your horse here when you returned. But the other laird stole him away a few minutes ago. His guard was holding her ladyship captive on the other horse."

  Saints! An eye witness. "Did you see which way he took Lady Grey?"

  "Aye." Tommy pointed at the road which led south.

  "Do you ken how to find Greymont Castle?"

  "Indeed. I've been there a few times."

  "Can you ride with Norval and show us the quickest way?"

  The lad nodded and ran toward the guard. Cyrus borrowed one of the larger horses left by the Comyn clan.

  The MacKenzie, MacKay, and MacInnis clansmen mounted. Norval and Tommy led the way, Cyrus right behind them.

  In the road before them, several fresh hoof tracks had been jabbed into the black mud, confirming they were headed in the right direction. He resisted the urge to prod the horse to a faster pace.

  Cyrus prayed as he never had before that Elspeth was unscathed.
He hadn't even gotten a good glimpse of her to see if she'd been harmed by the fire. Thank the saints he'd heard her yelling his name, else he wouldn't have known she'd been captured.

  Finally, a half-hour later, Cyrus spied the castle's harled tower and curtain wall in the distance. Minutes later, the portcullis of Greymont came into view. Standing with three men, Dalacroy held Elspeth before him, a knife at her throat.

  A blinding rage grabbed hold of Cyrus, making him want to choke the life from the blackguard. Never taking his eyes off them, Cyrus drew up and slid from the horse. Elspeth's ginger curls were disheveled, and her face and clothing muddy. Thank God, she appeared completely untouched by the fire, other than a bit of soot on her creamy skin. Had that bastard hurt her in some way he couldn't see? Confidence glinted in her amber eyes. In fact, he was surprised to find that she looked far less terrified than Dalacroy. Cyrus felt his chest expand with pride and love for her. She was an exceptional woman.

  "Release her, Dalacroy," Cyrus commanded. "You cannot win."

  "We'll see about that." The whoreson tightened his arm around her waist.

  "You have but two guards and a solicitor. How do you imagine you will be victorious over four dozen highly trained soldiers?" Cyrus motioned at his allies behind him.

  "I have the wench, so I have all the power. You or any of your men come near me and I'll slit her throat."

  Just imagining such a fate for Elspeth, Cyrus felt as if he'd been kicked hard in the stomach. He could barely draw breath. Never had he been seized by such a paralyzing fear combined with fury... similar to the time Ben Comyn had murdered wee Patrick, but a thousand times worse.

  Cyrus's rage was like a lit cannon ready to explode, but he had to think rationally. "What do you want?"

  "I want your brother and all your men out of Greymont Castle. 'Twill soon be mine anyway. Then, the five of us will go in so the wench can retrieve the deed and sign it before Talbot."

  "I want naught more to do with this madness. I'm not going in," the dark-clothed, skinny solicitor said, holding up his hands in surrender.

  "Aye, you will or you'll be dead, too!" Dalacroy snarled.

  "Several of my men inside are injured." Cyrus forced himself to remain calm and focused. He would pretend to cooperate with the madman until he saw an opening. "I'll have some of the others carry them out."

  Narrowing his eyes, Dalacroy nodded, then dragged Elspeth backward, out of the way.

  "Fraser!" Cyrus called toward the portcullis.

  "Up here." His brother waved from the battlements, one arm in a sling.

  Cyrus was glad to see he was recovering. "You and the others come out. I'll send in men to help the injured."

  "Very well."

  "And be quick about it!" Dalacroy yelled.

  While they waited, Cyrus scrutinized the whoreson. Sweat beaded on his pasty brow and his gaze shifted back and forth between him and the dozens of men behind him. Dalacroy had a white-knuckle grip on the dagger's hilt. The lunatic was as unstable as a powder keg stored next to a flaming torch.

  Did the knave truly think Cyrus would let him live if he did kill Elspeth? He was fit for Bedlam and not thinking clearly.

  "Why would you risk your life over a property when you have so many already?" Cyrus asked.

  "Who gave you leave to ask questions?"

  What a trifling bastard, full of self-importance. Restraining his need to wring the wee rooster's neck, Cyrus glanced aside at Goliath, picking grass along the wall. "And you stole my horse?"

  "I assumed Ben Comyn would run you through."

  "You assumed wrong."

  "Where are the Comyns? They were supposed to be helping us," Dalacroy's pallid-faced guard grumbled next to him.

  "We don't need them." Dalacroy spoke through clenched teeth.

  "The survivors ran," Cyrus said. "Fled into the wood like wee mice."

  "As I said, I don't need them."

  "M'laird?" The guard's eyes grew wider.

  "What?" Dalacroy snapped.

  "They're going to kill us."

  "Nay, they are not! Shut your gob!" Dalacroy ordered.

  If Cyrus could find an opening, the guard's prediction would hit the bullseye.

  Elspeth winked, riveting Cyrus's attention. What the devil was she about?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Cyrus prayed Elspeth was not about to make a foolish move with Dalacroy's knife a hair's breadth from the delicate skin of her throat. But he knew that wink had been a signal.

  Before he could say a word, she lifted her bound hands, gripped Dalacroy's forearm and shoved it forward while also ducking her head.

  Dalacroy scrambled to snatch her back into position while Cyrus launched himself forward. He grabbed the whoreson's wrist and hand while tackling him to the ground and shoving the dagger upward. Elspeth rolled away, and the blade stabbed into Dalacroy's neck. He shrieked but Cyrus didn't let up.

  Teeth clenched and abject fear radiating off him, the knave eyed Cyrus at close range. He knew 'twas the end of the road.

  "You made a fatal mistake when you threatened her life," Cyrus growled.

  Dalacroy's eyes closed. He soon went limp and gave up the ghost. Cyrus stood to see that the two guards had been captured and tied up, along with Talbot, after they had surrendered.

  Finding Elspeth standing close by, he tugged her into his arms, holding her fiercely to his pounding heart. Dear God, he had come so close to losing her twice over. He could not believe the gratitude rising within him. "Are you well?"

  "Aye. Thank you for coming after me," Elspeth breathed against his chest.

  "No need to thank me. I cannot believe you took such a risk." Cyrus pulled back to gaze down at her, a fierce scowl upon his face.

  Wishing he would relax, Elspeth reached up and smoothed his troubled brow. "I wasn't going to allow him to dictate my future, nor my son's. If the knife was away from my throat, I knew you could defeat him."

  His expression easing, Cyrus nodded. "'Twas a brave move. And I appreciate your confidence in me. Do you hurt anywhere?"

  "My knee and my neck." Both still throbbed—a dull ache in her knee and a sharp pain in her neck. She was certain her knee would have a large bruise on it. Her face might, too, considering how hard that blasted guard had slapped her.

  "Let's get you inside." Startling her, Cyrus picked her up into his arms and carried her through the portcullis, which had been raised moments earlier. When she noticed Rebbie and Dirk grinning in their direction, heat rose to her face.

  "I can walk," she whispered, not wanting to draw attention.

  "Nonsense. Your knee is hurt, and I don't want you to injure it further," he grumbled. "Mistress Almsly should still be here taking care of my injured men."

  "Aye. I'm sure she can make a poultice for my knee."

  He carried her across the bailey, activity all around them. "How did you hurt it?"

  "When I was trying to get away from them, I landed on it."

  "What about your neck?"

  "I was fighting the guard. He slapped me and wrenched my neck."

  "Which guard?" Cyrus demanded.

  "The big one named Campbell."

  Cyrus jerked around to glare at the man in question. Jenkins and Norval were escorting him toward the dungeon. "I'll make sure and slap him down."

  She tried to shake her head, but her neck hurt too much. "There's no reason to now."

  "The knave had no reason to abuse you, either," he muttered, carrying her up the steps and into the castle's great hall, which was mostly empty.

  "'Tis over now. I will be fine soon enough." She stroked his massive shoulder, wishing she could calm him.

  "Thank God you were unharmed in the fire. How did you get out of the house?"

  "Through the kitchen. I'm so glad your friends kept you from going back into the blaze."

  She glimpsed the latent flash of anguish in his eyes.

  "I was mad with worry for you. I thought you might be upstairs and unaware o
f the danger you were in." He lowered her onto a settle near the hearth, then sat beside her. "How did the fire at Darby start?"

  Elspeth explained about the overturned candle and the whisky on the table, and how she'd escaped the men. When she absorbed the full impact of the loss of her home, tears stung her eyes. "I'm sure 'tis only a burned-out shell by now."

  He nodded with regret. "'Twas a fine home."

  "Did anyone perish in the fire?"

  "MacTarril is the only one I know of. Course, he could've been dead before that flaming beam fell on him."

  She gasped in shock. "In truth? The magistrate was killed?"

  "Aye. Moments earlier, he had grabbed me around the neck, trying to force me to unhand Dalacroy, and I'd flung MacTarril off. My main concern was getting to you. I didn't know where the hell you were. I thought you might be in your bedchamber. I've never known such all-consuming fear and devastation," he rasped.

  Tears burning her eyes at his heartfelt confession, she shook her head, then pressed her face against his. "Thanks be to God, we're all right."

  "Aye." He kissed her forehead, warming her heart.

  Emerging from the stairwell, Mistress Almsly noticed them. "Och. M'laird, m'lady. Are you both well?" She hurried across the great hall toward them.

  Cyrus stood. "Lady Grey is injured."

  "Oh, good heavens. Do you wish to go to your bedchamber so I can attend to you?"

  "Aye." Using her arms to take some of the pressure off her knee, Elspeth pushed herself up.

  "I'll carry you." Cyrus lifted her, causing another flush of heat to cover her.

  "I'll be fine walking," she whispered.

  He shook his head, giving her a mock stern look.

  Before Cyrus, she had never been carried by a man and couldn't get used to the sensation. With his brawny arms supporting her effortlessly, she felt like a wee lass.

  Mistress Almsly waited by the narrow spiral steps.

  "Her knee and her neck pain her greatly." Cyrus climbed the steps. "And check to see if she has any other wounds."

  "I'll be glad to, m'laird." Mistress Almsly quickly followed, then hastened forward in the corridor to open the bedchamber door.