“I believe the lass can be of use to us, captain.”
The English leader turned to him with only slightly less contempt than he’d shown her. “And who are you?”
“Arthur Campbell.”
“Campbell? Isn’t your brother one of Bruce’s companions?”
Undoubtedly, that’s why she’d recognized him. She remembered Sir Colin Campbell from Finlaggan. Arthur, though a score of years younger, bore the look of his distinguished brother.
“Aye, and myself and two other brothers are loyal to the Lord of Badenoch.”
The Red Comyn.
Divided families were not uncommon. The English captain accepted his explanation, and Campbell continued, “The lass is only recently married to the MacLeod chief—a love match I hear.” She smothered the hysterical sharp laugh that rose to her throat. “He will be anxious to get her back. Perhaps the chit can help persuade him to the righteousness of our cause.” The captain didn’t look impressed. Like most Englishmen, he made the mistake of dismissing the “barbarian” Highlanders. “She is also the daughter of Andrew Fraser,” he added.
That perked up his ears. The captain’s gaze narrowed on her. “Is this true, gel?”
She nodded, deciding it prudent not to mention that threatening her father with her safety wasn’t much of a threat.
A slow smile spread across his cruel face. “Bring her along,” he ordered to the man still holding her. “Perhaps she can be useful after all. And if she can’t…” He shrugged.
She knew what that shrug meant.
Though undoubtedly his motivation hadn’t been to help her, she shot Arthur Campbell a look of gratitude, but he’d already disappeared into the crowd of guardsmen manning the second galley. But his timely intervention was only a temporary reprieve; her father would not lift a finger to help her. And Tor…
She did not doubt that he would come after her. He did not love her, but he would see it as his duty to protect her. But would he discover what had become of them in time?
—
Success should feel better than this. Once again the team’s skills had proved invaluable—from Lamont’s tracking, to MacSorley’s seafaring, to MacRuairi’s instincts that led them to head toward Dunstaffnage. Tor doubted he would have been able to do it without them. But throughout the entire journey—even when they’d caught up with Brother John and MacRuairi had “persuaded” him to divulge who he worked for—Tor couldn’t shake the heaviness that surrounded him like a black cloud.
Christina’s interference could have destroyed everything. But she was only trying to help. He couldn’t blame her. She’d been tricked and had only tried to do the right thing. It was his fault for telling her too much. He couldn’t let that happen again. He’d done what needed to be done. Or so he told himself countless times. But why couldn’t he stop seeing her crushed face?
He adjusted his cotun, trying to relieve the nagging discomfort in his chest.
He wanted to put the past behind them. When the men left, he hoped to do just that and return to some state of normalcy—if such a thing existed with Christina. Nothing had been normal since the first moment he’d set eyes on her.
Two nights after he’d left, Tor strode up the sea-gate stairs, his mission an unqualified success. He’d prevented the clerk from passing on the information and learned who was responsible for the recent attacks on Dunvegan. John MacDougall of Lorne had earned himself a powerful enemy, and Angus Og MacDonald had a new ally against his treacherous kinsman. Tor would no longer stand to the side in the feud between the two powerful Island clans.
As he approached the Hall, he was thinking about what he could say to his wife to ease the discord between them, but right away he sensed that something was wrong. It was too dark. Too quiet. A funereal pall had been cast over the place.
Rhuairi and Colyne rushed out to meet him. From their expressions he knew it was bad. “What is it?” he demanded.
They looked uneasily back and forth, but it was Colyne who spoke first. “It’s the lady, ri tuath.”
A chill ran down his spine. He forced himself to speak calmly, though every muscle inside him tensed on high alert. “Is she ill?”
Colyne shook his head. Rhuairi said, “Nay, chief, she’s gone.”
His head rang as if he’d just been clabbered on his helm with a sword. It took him a moment to realize what the seneschal had said. He grabbed Rhuairi by the clasp of his plaid brat. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
Tor listened to the seneschal explain that she’d left with the men going to Mull with a mixture of disbelief and rising panic as the truth sunk in. She’d taken him up on his foolish vow to permit her to retire to a nunnery. He’d never dreamed that she’d actually do it, though why he didn’t know. He’d given her a way out; why was he surprised that she’d used it?
Lord knew he’d given her no reason to stay. She’d done nothing but try to please him since he’d married her. She’d given him her heart, and he’d given her nothing in return. He’d been a cold-hearted bastard, driving her away.
Alone. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To feel nothing but emptiness? But it wasn’t emptiness that he felt at all but raw, searing pain. He felt as if he’d just had a blade plunged into his chest and had his insides ripped apart.
A lifetime of loneliness stretched out before him. A lifetime of nothing but war and duty to his clan. A lifetime of misery.
God, what had he done?
He should be furious that she’d dared leave him. Highlanders were known for their pride, and he was no different. But all he could think of was how badly he must have hurt her for her to do this. He felt ill just thinking about it. He had to get her back. Not because she was his wife—his possession—but because this was where she belonged. Here. By his side.
Why he felt so strongly he didn’t know. But he would have to make her see it. No matter what it took.
He continued into the Hall, the two men hustling after him. A few clansmen were sleeping around the fire, but most sat quietly at the long tables. The room was just the way he’d left it, but different. Somber. As if all of the joy had been extinguished. His dogs lifted their heads as he entered. Instead of rushing to greet him, they gave him a disappointed look and laid their heads back on their paws.
“Where’s Murdoch?” he demanded.
Both men looked grim. Colyne shook his head. “He is with the men who were traveling to Mull. They’ve not returned.”
“What do you mean they haven’t returned?” Tor exploded. “Even with the added travel time to Iona, they should have been back yesterday.”
Neither man responded. His stomach took a sudden turn as if he’d just swallowed a mouthful of rancid beef. Panic welled up inside him, but he tamped it down. She was fine. There had to be some explanation. But Rhuairi hadn’t finished. “This arrived for you not an hour ago. The messenger said it was for your eyes only.”
Tor unfolded it, the premonition of doom suffocating him.
His heart stopped and the blood drained from his face as he read the crudely written words on the scrap of parchment. Words that changed his life. “Men killed. English took your lady. Dumfries. Do not delay.”
Do not delay. They’d murdered his men and meant to kill her as well.
The loss of his men enraged him. He wanted to kill someone. But the thought of Christina in danger…
Bile rose up the back of his throat. He thought himself fearless, but fear unlike anything he’d ever known consumed him—black, soul-eating fear that tore like acid through the steel encasing his heart. He felt raw. Exposed. And more terrified than he’d ever been in his life.
If the news of her leaving him had jolted him from his emotional stupor, the news that she was now a prisoner of the English was like a lightning rod of clarity, forcing him to acknowledge the truth.
He loved her.
Too late, he realized what a fool he’d been. Stubborn pride in the belief that he was impervious to emotion had blinded him fro
m what had been there all along. It was the reason he could never stop thinking about her. The reason he looked for excuses to spend time with her. The reason it felt so different to make love to her. It was what made him content to hold her in his arms for hours and listen to her voice as she read him those silly, romantic tales. It was the reason he wanted to wake up beside her every day for the rest of his life. It was the reason his chest twisted when he walked into a room and she looked up to see him, a wide smile spreading across her face.
She’d brought warmth back into his life, broken through the icy shell that he’d erected around his heart, and dug down deep to find emotions long buried.
And now he might never have the chance to tell her.
Images long suppressed flashed before him. His mother’s naked, broken body covered in bruises and blood. The look of terror fixed for eternity in her gaze. And then he remembered the rest. How he’d thrown himself over her and refused to let his father’s men take her body away. How he’d cried. How the pain had burned and ravaged him, just like it did now.
It couldn’t happen to her, too. The thought of never seeing her again…never touching her…never inhaling that soft, flowery scent was unbearable. He couldn’t lose her.
Something inside him snapped. Rage. Madness. A single-minded determination to find her and to strike back with the sword of vengeance. He would hunt down every man responsible for the murder of his men, and if they’d harmed one silky dark hair on her head, he vowed to make their deaths slow and painful.
Edward’s minions had made a fatal mistake. In killing Tor’s men and capturing his bride, the English had made Scotland’s war his war.
His course was clear. Tor began immediate preparations to rejoin the men at the broch. To have any chance of rescuing Christina, he needed them. Surprisingly, the admission didn’t bother him. Before he left, he gave Rhuairi a short message to send to MacDonald: “We are ready.”
He’d made his choice. There was no turning back.
—
“I apologize for the captain’s manners, Lady Christina. It appears he was a bit overzealous in his questioning.”
A bit? Christina stared at the richly outfitted and impeccably groomed English commander, seated opposite her in the luxuriously appointed solar of Dumfries Castle. His eyes told her that he was not at all sorry. But beating a woman—even a Scotswoman—was un knightly. Lord Seagrave, with his crisp white-and-gold embroidered tabard and gleaming mail, struck her as the type of man who didn’t like to sully himself with the more unpleasant aspects of his position, as the commander of the English garrison at Dumfries Castle in Galloway. At around fifty years of age, he was one of the king’s most experienced commanders in Scotland, having taken part in most of the major engagements for the past decade.
Though she wanted to throw his false apology back in his face and rail at him for attacking their ship for no reason and killing all those men, she knew that to protect her husband and family she had to continue playing the frightened, simpering girl as she’d done since her capture. The past two days had been the longest of her life. Horrified by the senseless killing of her husband’s men, she’d lived in a constant state of fear that they would change their minds. She had to survive long enough to let someone know what happened. Their deaths had to be avenged.
The English captain had broken the tedium of their long sea journey by questioning her about her father and husband’s activities. When he hadn’t liked her answer, he struck her. The captain’s arrogance, however, worked in her favor, as it was clear that he did not truly expect her to know anything. To most men, women were inferior creatures, and Englishmen with their haughty superiority were even worse.
She’d learned far more than she had revealed. The men talked freely around her—especially at night. She’d discovered that they’d just come from Inverlochy Castle, the Highland stronghold of the Lord of Badenoch, the Red Comyn. The Highland escort mostly consisted of Comyns and their MacDougall kinsmen.
When they’d arrived at the Galloway Castle, Christina had been brought to the English garrison at Dumfries while the Highlanders had gone to Dalswinton Castle to await the arrival of their lord.
She was almost certain something nefarious was afoot and that it involved the Earl of Carrick, Robert Bruce. One of Comyn’s guardsmen had made a stray mention of him in an English prison, but that was all she’d been able to discover. She hoped to learn more from Lord Seagrave.
She resisted the urge to put her hand on her swollen, bruised face and tell Lord Seagrave exactly what he could do with his sympathy. Her face would heal, and her chances of escape were better if they underestimated her. She would die before she would betray her husband. The past few months had given her strength and courage she didn’t know she possessed. She cowered now to play a part, not from fear. So instead of a rebuke, she bowed her head and said, “My father is a loyal subject of the king. What your man inferred”—she leaned over and whispered—“is treason.”
She hoped she had the proper amount of innocent shock in her voice.
He smiled indulgently, as if deferring to her simple womanly intellect. “Have you forgotten that your father was imprisoned for treason not so long ago?”
Her eyes widened. “Of course not, my lord. That is the reason I can assure you of his loyalty to the king. Though he said he was treated with every courtesy,” she lied, “he has no wish to return.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I think it’s because he missed his whisky and cook’s apple tarts.” She forced a wrinkle between her brows. “Do you have apples in England?”
He looked at her as if she was a half-wit and she hoped she hadn’t overdone it. “We do.”
“Then perhaps it was the plum. They are equally delicious. Do you have those as well?”
His veneer of politeness was wearing thin. Talk of food, furnishings, and music had permeated her two interrogations—much to his impatience.
“We’ve sent a message to your father, but he has yet to respond. Why is that?”
This was dangerous territory. Her value would diminish considerably if the English discovered that her father wouldn’t come for her.
“Perhaps he is away? Has your messenger returned from my husband?”
He frowned. “Not yet.”
There was another knock at the door, but Christina was used to the constant interruptions. In the hour he’d been trying to question her today, a steady stream of men had moved in and out.
A young soldier entered and handed him a missive without explanation. Lord Seagrave must have been expecting it because he opened it and read it quickly. The devious smile that turned his mouth piqued her curiosity.
“Have the men gone?” Lord Seagrave asked.
“Nay,” the young knight said. “Should I send them in?”
Christina stood, not hiding her eagerness. “I can return to my…chamber.” The small, windowless room in the tower hardly qualified.
He gave her a hard look. “We’re not finished. Stay here, I’ll be only a moment.” He left her alone, closing the door behind him.
Christina frowned until she saw the open parchment on the table. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She couldn’t believe it. He’d left the missive.
Heart pounding, she leaned over the table and turned the documents around to face her. She scanned the top page first, noting that it was written in French.
She gasped, reading it again to make sure she’d done so correctly. It was from the Red Comyn to King Edward, informing him of treason by Bruce—the proof attached herein. She quickly lifted the top piece of parchment and saw a sealed indenture in Latin below. It was detailed, but it appeared to be a pact between Comyn and Bruce against King Edward. And now Comyn meant to betray Bruce, using their bond as proof of treason.
Hearing heavy footsteps outside the door, she replaced the documents and leaned back in her chair, trying to steady her pulse and wipe the nervous flush from her cheeks.
Her heart pounded as she forc
ed her mind to answer his questions as nonsensically as she could, while planning her escape.
She couldn’t wait for rescue, not when that message would be on its way to London at any moment. Though she was unfamiliar with the area, she knew that Bruce’s Annandale castle of Lochmaben was nearby. How she would find her way, she didn’t know, but she had to try.
If that letter reached King Edward, Robert Bruce would soon be following Wallace to the grave.
It was a perfect night for a raid—dark and misty, with nary a sliver of moon to betray them. Darkness would be their first weapon, speed and surprise their second. Strike fast and hard was the motto of all pirate raiders. No chivalry, no rules.
Tor and the team waited in the woods behind the small motte-and-bailey castle, biding their time until the wee hours of the night, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the movements of the English soldiers.
After the long sea journey from northern Skye to Galloway in the southwest corner of Scotland, it was torturous having to wait, knowing that his wife was only a few hundred feet away. He didn’t want to think about what she might be enduring right now. Nor would he allow himself to consider that she might not be alive. He had to focus on the task at hand. Taking a castle occupied by an entire English garrison was no simple proposition.
But it could be done.
Wallace had famously taken the English garrison at Ardrossan Castle in Ayr by surprise, and Tor decided to use a similar approach. With roughly a score of men and no siege engines, storming the gates was out of the question, so they would need to use stealth and distraction.
They had to assume that Christina was being held in the stone peel tower house located on the top of the forty-foot earthen motte. To reach her they would need to breech the two layers of defense offered by a motte-and-bailey fortification: the ditch surrounding the entire complex and the wooden palisade on the other side.
He would lead eight of Bruce’s team over the ditch and palisade at the rear of the castle opposite the outer drawbridge. Once inside they would break into two groups. His team would search for Christina, while the others would prepare for their escape. MacRuairi was certain he could get her out of the tower house once they were inside, no matter where they were holding her. One look at his expression and Tor was inclined to believe him. Seton and Boyd would also come with him. He needed men skilled in close combat who could kill silently—with dirks and by hand.
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