Catriona wasn’t sure how much of that might be true. Or even if the Mackintoshes did have blood ties to the Berserkers. She did know that even today, there were folk who swore Kendrew Mackintosh ate the babies and children of anyone who earned his displeasure.
Now that she was here, riding toward that chief’s own Castle Nought, she understood how the storytellers came to spin such frightening tales.
Mackintosh territory was harsh and barren.
It was a place for men who thrived in thin air and chill, black wind.
Hard men and—she was sure—women who were equally toughened. No one else could hope to dwell here. And she could have done without visiting.
But because of James’s tidings—Alasdair had finally told her of their damaged galleys and the tall, dark-cloaked figure James had chased that fateful day in the wood—Alasdair wished to speak with Kendrew Mackintosh before they returned to Blackshore.
Now, as they neared the soaring cliffs that supported the formidable Mackintosh stronghold, it seemed they’d made the tedious journey in vain.
Castle Nought appeared deserted.
Catriona craned her neck, straining to see the lofty castle through the billowing mist. From what she could make out, it did seem unnaturally still. As she’d heard, the walls were surely impregnable, hewn as they were from the living rock of the cliff. They were also thick and massive and rose to a dizzying height of at least thirty-five feet. Crenelated parapets ran the length of the walling, and only the narrowest slit windows broke the starkness.
But no men could be seen pacing the wall-walk.
And no matter how hard Catriona tried to see a flicker of life, nary a single candle flame shone in any of the darkened windows.
High on the bluff, a gatehouse loomed through the mist, apparently reached by a steep path cut into the cliffside. If there were torches to light the way, or even to illuminate the gatehouse, no one had bothered to set flame to them. Most startling of all, the guardhouse’s single arched entry lacked a sentry.
Catriona clutched her reins, not liking the thick silence that soaked the air.
She glanced at Alasdair, hoping he couldn’t tell that icy prickles were racing up and down her spine. “I told you we needn’t have bothered to come here. Either Kendrew and his men are sleeping or”—she suspected this was the truth—“they don’t want visitors.”
“No Highlander turns away guests.” Alasdair scanned the cliff face as he spoke. “If they wish to ignore us, it’ll be because of the three Mackintoshes we killed in that skirmish last summer.”
“They were stealing our cattle.” Catriona frowned at the dark stronghold. “They could’ve run when we caught them, but they chose to stand and fight.”
“They’re no’ fighting now!” One of the guardsmen hooted, slapping his thigh.
“Hiding beneath their beds, more like,” another called from the rear of the column.
“I say the bastards took flight.” One of the men urged his garron forward, trotting up alongside Catriona and Alasdair. “They’re no’ the spawn o’ Berserkers. They’re women!” He spat on the ground and then twisted in his saddle to glance at the other guardsmen. “They feared clashing swords with us and the Camerons.”
His comment earned a chorus of guffaws from his fellow men-at-arms.
Alasdair said nothing.
But Catriona saw the tense set of his shoulders. She also noticed that he’d placed a hand oh-so-casually on the hilt of his sword. Nor did she miss the swift, almost imperceptible nod he gave to three of his most trusted men, silently ordering them to ride closer, flanking her in a well-practiced defensive formation.
Two took their places on either side of her, with one riding at the rear, while Alasdair spurred ahead of her so that she was completely surrounded.
She wished James rode with them.
Even if she’d bite his tongue if he ever tried to kiss her again or if she wouldn’t mind feeding his man parts to the ravens, she’d feel better if he were here, his sword drawn and ready.
She knew he’d protect her.
Just as she was certain that he cared for her, maybe even loved her, though—damn his eyes—he was much too thrawn to admit it.
Someday she’d make him eat his stubbornness. At the moment, she only wished he were near.
“Ho, Alasdair!” Egan, the youngest guard, rode up beside them then, pressing close. “Mayhap the dreagans ate them? There do be tales and”—he threw a glance at the stronghold, his eyes wide—“the gatehouse door is open. Could be the slavering beasties—”
“There’s no such thing as a dreagan, slavering or otherwise.” Alasdair made a dismissive gesture. “But I can’t tell if the door is open.” He narrowed his eyes, peering through the mist. “Are you sure?”
“Sure as I’m here.” Egan nodded, importantly. “My eyes are sharp, or so I’ve always been told. Thon door is full wide, opened clear on its hinges. If it isn’t, I’m lying in my bed, dreaming.”
Impatient with their blether, Catriona clicked her tongue, sending her horse bolting from the little circle of men. She rode a few lengths ahead, only far enough to get a better view of the gatehouse.
The guardsman spoke true.
The door did stand open.
“Alasdair!” She glanced back. “His eyes are good. The door is wide. I can see it from here.”
“God’s curse!” Alasdair spurred forward to join her, his men following. “This cannae be good.” He peered up at the gatehouse, concern all over him. “It bodes ill. For sure, no dreagan crawled up there to fill his belly with Mackintoshes. But”—his voice hardened—“it could be the work of the cloaked craven James and I discussed. He’ll have henchmen helping him, that’s certain.
“And that leaves us no choice but to climb up there and see what’s amiss.” He pulled a hand down over his chin, drew a long breath. “Could be the Mackintoshes have taken themselves elsewhere, but if they haven’t…”
“You suspect they’re up there bound, maimed, or worse.” Catriona knew his mind. “And your honor would be forever tarnished if you hadn’t gone to their rescue.”
Alasdair’s frown proved she’d guessed rightly. “That is the way of it.”
His men grumbled and exchanged glances. But no one argued the need to have a look. Catriona wasn’t surprised. Honor was everything to a MacDonald, and theirs would be stained if they rode from Castle Nought without seeing to the rights of the place.
Even she agreed, however grudgingly.
Castle Nought didn’t please her.
But men—even if foes—could’ve suffered grievously up there behind the stronghold’s cold, forbidding rock face and gloom.
Women, too, she knew.
Kendrew had a sister close to her age. Lady Marjory, Catriona recalled. A great beauty, it was said, but whose icy blue eyes could freeze a man at a hundred paces. She was rumored so daunting that she’d earned the by-name Lady Norn after the three mythic Norse maidens, the Norns, who the Northmen believed ruled the destinies of men.
A curse and a loud thump returned Catriona to the present. She blinked to see they’d reached the base of Castle Nought’s cliffs.
One of their men had already dismounted and stood near the stone-cut path up to Castle Nought. His face was flushed red and he was rubbing his backside. He’d clearly taken a tumble down the slippery, near vertical stair.
“Have a care on those steps!” Alasdair swung down from his own saddle, allowing the man his dignity. But he bent a warning glance on the others. “If aught is amiss at Nought, we’ll need every hand.
“You, Catriona, will bide here.” He turned her way, one foot already on the path’s first step. “Egan will stay with you. And two others, as well. After we’ve had a look—”
“MacDonald—I greet you!” A booming laugh came from above them, where flaming torches now turned the mist red and a huge bear of a man almost filled the open door of the gatehouse. “If you’ve come to spill more Mackintosh blood, you’ll be
disappointed.” Kendrew Mackintosh grinned, his teeth flashing white in the torchlight. “ ’Tis your own guts that’ll slither to the ground this time, that I say you.”
He strode to the top edge of the steps, clearly enjoying himself. Wind caught his wild mane of red hair, tossing the unruly strands about his face. And the silver Thor’s hammer pendant hung about his neck made him look like a crazed-eyed denizen of Valhalla.
“My sword dances sweeter than a Glasgow whore, MacDonald.” He patted the great brand at his hip. “She’ll slice you in two before you can blink.”
“You’re a madman, Mackintosh.” Alasdair glared up at him, furious. “We come in peace, from Castle Haven. James Cameron and I—”
“That stoat! I’ll have his head, too.” Kendrew’s grin widened. “On a pike o’er my curtain wall. Or, better yet, stuck on my own bedpost.”
“Plague take you.” Alasdair’s voice rose with anger. “ ’Tis to your bed you can return. Or whate’er dark hole you’ve been hiding in. I erred to think a man could reason with you. We’ll leave you be. But know this”—he set a hand to his sword, jerking it halfway from its sheath—“we shall meet again soon and—”
“I say we’re meeting now.” Kendrew whipped out his own sword and tossed it high in the air, laughing as the blade flipped brightly. “And you, MacDonald”—he caught the sword by its hilt as it fell—“are going nowhere this day, save taking a journey to hell!”
In the shadow of the cliff, Catriona’s heart pounded fiercely.
Were she a man, she’d draw her own steel and charge up the stone steps, running the bastard through before he could loose another of his horrible bray-like laughs.
She shot a glance at Alasdair, the white around his lips and the hot glint in his eyes showing he burned to do the same. But he’d restrain himself because of her presence, a truth that galled her.
It was then that her necklace began to hum and burn.
“Alastair, my ambers—” She started to yell, but sudden shouts behind them made her twist around in her saddle. Men were running toward them, their war cries and the thunder of their pounding feet echoing from the hills as they streamed out from behind the odd rock formations and raced like wild-eyed demons through the rolling mist.
Mackintoshes, each man heavily armed, bristling with swords, axes, and spears. They bore no shields, as if they felt secure in their victory. And some—Catriona stared—had blackened their faces and slung terrifying-looking wolf pelts over their plaids.
“Bastards!” She leapt from her horse and ran to Alasdair, seizing his arm. “They’ve laid a trap for us!”
But he’d already seen. “So they have, but they’ll no’ have us without a fight.”
Scowling fiercely, he grabbed her, dragging her round behind him as he whipped out his sword. The others acted as quickly, forming a wall of shields and horseflesh around her. All she heard was the screech of steel as they, too, jerked their blades from their scabbards.
Then, from behind and above her came an equally terrifying sound.
It was an inhuman bellow, followed at once by Kendrew Mackintosh’s pounding footsteps as he charged down the steep stone stair.
Chapter Thirteen
Hell everlasting, MacDonald!” Kendrew Mackintosh stood in the middle of his colorful, mead-reeking great hall and bellowed like a steer. “Have you lost your wits, man? Coming here with a woman? Your sister, no less! So easy”—he thrust a hand in the air, clenching his fist, swiftly—“and we could’ve snuffed out her life!”
“You would’ve lost your own, trying.” Alasdair spoke hotly, his face dark.
“Ho!” Kendrew’s deep voice shook the rafters. “Your blade couldn’t find me if I were tied to a chair!”
Alasdair snorted. “A blind beggar could find you, loud and clumsy as you are.”
“Nae, ’tis deadly I am.” Kendrew drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “And just seeing you beneath my roof is making me itch to redden my sword.”
“I’ve no’ qualms to spill blood in your hall.” Alasdair’s words were harsh. “Mackintosh blood, no’ my own!”
At his side, his men growled their agreement. They also placed demonstrative hands to their sword hilts. One produced a wicked-looking, well-honed dirk and used its tip to clean his fingernails.
Kendrew raked them with a glare, his eyes glittering dangerously. Then he glanced at the man nearest him, one of his own warriors, a tall man nearly as burly and broad in the chest as himself. “Did you hear, Gare?” He thumped the man’s shoulder, his gaze snapping back to Alasdair. “Beware, MacDonald, for we’ll stuff your blades down your throats before you see a drop of our blood.
“Then”—he clasped his sword pommel, grinning now—“we’ll dance on your corpses before we take our supper! Try and draw your steel and I’ll prove it.”
Catriona stood near one of the hall’s narrow slit windows, watching. She almost expected Kendrew to turn into a bear any moment. There were tales said that he could. Stories that claimed the Berserker rage ran deep in his veins, slumbering and waiting to be roused. Those who believed in such things whispered that he most often became a bear when he was in a black temper.
She could well imagine it, big and fearsome as he was. Especially having seen him storm down the cliff stair, roaring like an enraged beast as he’d ordered his men to hold their steel. He’d taken the steps three at a time, his tangled red hair flying in the wind and his face wild-eyed and livid with rage.
He’d quite terrified her, though she’d sooner stick a needle in her eye than admit it.
She did feel her face coloring, the heated words making her pulse quicken. She also pretended to smooth her skirts, in truth seeking and resting her hand against the hilt of her lady’s dagger.
Its hard shape against her thigh reassured her.
She might be a woman, but if a fight did erupt between her brother and Kendrew, she’d not stand by weeping. In a tightly packed hall, full of men and rows of long tables and benches, a short blade such as hers was handier than a man’s great sword. She knew how to fight. And she wasn’t squeamish. If she must, she’d seize her dagger and jump into the fray, stabbing and thrusting and doing whatever damage she could until someone stopped her.
Indeed, she burned to do so.
“You needn’t prove aught, Mackintosh,” Alasdair snarled then. “Your actions this day, ambushing good folk who came here in peace, speaks clear enough.”
“I had reason.” Kendrew’s face set mulishly. “If you’re getting forgetful, think back to last summer. We agreed that quarrel was over, vengeance served and accepted. Then you—”
“It was over.” A muscle twitched in Alasdair’s jaw, anger pouring off him. “I sent men with my condolences and, by God, I meant it!”
Kendrew laughed, coldly. “To be sure, you did. So much that you sneak onto my land, trying to kill me unawares. Think you—”
“I think only that you’re crazed.”
“That may be! Many say so. But you’re overlooking one thing—”
Kendrew broke off to grab a horn of honey-mead from a passing squire. He tossed down the frothy brew in one long, guzzling swig.
“Mackintoshes dinnae make war on women.” He thrust the silver-rimmed horn back into the lad’s hand, flashing an outraged glance at Catriona. “We bed ’em, we do. We please and satisfy those who catch our eye, making them beg for our loving. And we honor the ones who give us life, and we protect the wee ones borne of our wives.
“Ne’er do we draw steel on them.” He took a menacing step toward Alasdair. “I could split you for bringing thon lady here.” He shot another look at Catriona, his blue eyes blazing like ice shards. “Had I no’ seen her run to you, and called off my men, they’d have been all o’er the lot o’ you in less than a beat.”
“And did they no’ see her before?” Alasdair seethed with equal fury. “It took us long enough to pick our way across your stony ground.”
“Mackintosh land where your ilk
isn’t welcome.” Turning his back on Alasdair, Kendrew elbowed his way through his sullen-eyed, black-faced men and went to stand by his hearth fire. Double-arched and massive, the fireplace could’ve roasted two oxen. Just now, huge logs blazed on the grates, the flames giving a hellish cast to the round, brightly painted shields adorning the wall above.
The shields, and an impressive array of weaponry, ran the length of that side of the hall. Boldly colored hangings and animal skins covered the other three walls, giving the vast chamber a masculine air. But the floor rushes were spread thick, clean, and had been recently freshened with meadowsweet. Catriona nudged the well-kept flooring with her toe, releasing a waft of springlike scent.
She also noted the polished sheen of the silver candelabrums set on the long tables. Each candle appeared to be of fine beeswax rather than inferior tallow. These were small but pleasing touches that, like the freshening herbs, indicated a woman’s careful householding.
Curious, she edged away from Alasdair and their guardsmen. They were sticking so close to her, she couldn’t breathe. Her ambers had cooled, so she no longer felt threatened. And if she had to find herself at Castle Nought—however unpleasant the circumstances—she did hope to catch a glimpse of the famed Lady Norn.
But Marjory Mackintosh was nowhere to be seen.
Glowering men, MacDonald and Mackintosh, filled the smoky hall, their angry words beginning to make her head ache.
“That was no answer, Mackintosh.” Alasdair was striding across the hall now, making for Kendrew. “I already know we’re no’ welcome. I’d hear why your men can’t tell a wench with streaming, flame-bright braids and a bosom from a score of plaid-draped, ugly-faced men.”
He reached the other chieftain, going toe to toe with him, crowding Kendrew against the shield-covered wall. “I’ll have your explanation, or I’ll be standing here till the end of all days, and so will you.”
Sins of a Highland Devil Page 19
