Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  Sean shoved the visor over his face. Why Campbell felt he had to say something was beyond him. Even the Lord of Glenorchy had tried to talk him into staying behind. You look like shite, Duncan had said. God’s teeth. Sean had gone without food and sleep before—mayhap things had never been as bad as his last day in the cave, but he’d eaten three meals since he’d returned and he’d slept. How much fitter did Duncan expect him to be?

  He had to do this alone. Not only was he the “Ghost”, more than one newcomer would cause a stir amongst MacCoul’s men. Even one was a risk, but Sean was a master at blending in. He took the torch from the wall and held it high.

  He slipped up the incline from the sea gate, into a dark cavern, praying it led directly under the inner bailey and into the catacombs of the donjon. The dank tunnel dripped with water. A clammy sweat crawled down Sean’s back as he was reminded of his recent hospitality on Kerrera. The lesions throbbed beneath his hauberk and infused his ire. He sped his pace.

  Stopping at the door, he held his breath and listened. Once sure he would be met with no nasty surprises, he tugged the door open. The hinges screeched as if they’d been sealed shut for three hundred years. He slipped inside and palmed his dirk, ready for a fight. But no one came.

  At the far side of the room, rats scurried away. Sean sniffed. It reeked of sewage. He strode across the dirt floor to the passageway. Dark in both directions, he continued to his left. If his bearings served him right, the tower stairwell was ahead.

  He crept against the wall. At any moment, some unsuspecting bastard could venture down to the catacombs—though he doubted it. The bowels of a castle were akin to the path to Hades. And if Sean had them pegged right, this mob of outlaws would be a suspicious lot.

  After he rounded the corner, dim light glowed from the stairwell. He’d chosen correctly. He doused his torch and snuck forward. Rumbles of voices from the great hall grew louder as he neared. He closed the visor of his helm. He’d need to cross through the great hall to get to the donjon—and Sean had no doubt MacCoul was biding his time in the second floor solar. It was where the king held court the infrequent times he was in residence—also where the Lord of Lorn had run his affairs. MacCoul would believe he was due such a chamber of opulence with its rich tapestries from France.

  Sean’s feet made not a sound as he ascended. Before the stairwell opened upon the great hall, he froze, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Conversation rumbling from the pillagers was gruff.

  “Even more Campbell supporters have arrived—and still no missive from the king,” a voice said. “Soon every army in Scotland will be here to drive us out.”

  “I think we should fight now—show them MacCoul’s army is one to be reckoned with.”

  “Aye? If our leader doesn’t move soon, we’ll be the ones they’re calling traitors.”

  Sean smirked. The lot of them were already traitors—and MacCoul would receive his missive from the king—in hell.

  He slipped through the entrance and moved at a meandering pace, as if he’d just been relieved of guard duty. His breath turned to mist against the helm, the eye slits barely giving him the range of sight he needed to see if there were any eyes watching him with suspicion. But he resisted the urge to glance from side to side and kept his face forward.

  Ten paces to the donjon stairwell, a man stepped in his path. “Why are you still wearing your helm?”

  Sean rubbed his neck. “Just returned from duty.”

  Before he could stop him, the man flipped up Sean’s visor and squinted. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  Sean snapped his head back and the visor dropped. Thank God the fool hadn’t recognized him. “I’ve been keeping to myself—guarding the rear.” He didn’t want to mention the sea gate. If this man put the pieces together, Duncan and the others could end up in a nasty fight. Sean tried to push past.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  Christ, the bastard couldn’t leave it alone. “I’ve a message for MacCoul.”

  The man grabbed his arm. “Have you a missive from the king?” he asked excitedly.

  If Sean said yes, the entire hall would follow him above stairs. “Nay.”

  “Then what is it?” His pickled breath oozed through the helm’s eye slits.

  Sean wrenched his arm away. “’Tis of a sensitive nature.” Jesus, the smelly varlet wouldn’t let it be. “Follow me and I’ll tell you.”

  That seemed to placate the cur because he chuckled and motioned toward the stairwell.

  “After you.” Sean bowed. “I take it MacCoul’s in the solar as usual?”

  Moving forward, at least the man wasn’t smart enough to stay at Sean’s rear. “Aye.”

  Good, that’s all the information Sean needed from this maggot. At the first landing, he slipped one hand over the man’s mouth, pulled him into the servant’s closet and ran his dirk across the bastard’s neck. He leaned the battleax against the wall. Sean preferred to fight with a sword and a dirk, not the clumsy axe of a novice.

  He wiped his dirk on the man’s chausses and then shoved it in his scabbard. “If you’d left me be, you’d still be alive.” Then Sean dashed up to the next landing, not stopping until he heard voices coming from inside the king’s solar.

  Sean clenched his teeth. Alan was arguing with none other than that festering-pustule, Brus. Sean would recognize that backstabber’s grating voice anywhere. Brus had always followed MacCoul around like a leech—had laughed in Sean’s face before they’d left him to die.

  Take your last breath, for hell is about to unleash its vengeance.

  Sean silently lifted the latch and peered inside. Alan sat in the king’s chair, with Brus leaning against the sideboard, arms and ankles crossed as if he owned the castle. Sean fingered the dagger up his left sleeve. In one fluid motion, he pushed through the door, flung the blade, hitting Brus in the neck, then drew his sword.

  Thus far, not a shout had been uttered. Staring MacCoul in the eye, Sean closed the door behind him and bolted it.

  Alan shoved back his chair and drew their father’s sword. “You,” he growled unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

  Gurgling empty curses, Brus clutched at the knife and fell face first on the table.

  Alan sidestepped, his eyes wide with fear. “Get thee from me, ghost. I left you for dead—no man could have lived this long.”

  “You are quite mistaken.” Sean leveled his sword with Alan’s heart. “Had you been honest with me from the outset, our feud wouldn’t have ended this way.”

  “Oh?” he continued to circle around the table. “And I would have survived in my little brother’s shadow?”

  “You’ve lost that chance. Now you will die in it.”

  Alan lunged. “I think not.”

  Sean skittered aside, a chair toppling over. He nearly lost his balance as he deflected Alan’s attack.

  Alan advanced with relentless hacks of his blade. He’d grown stronger since Beltane.

  And Sean had grown weaker.

  Backing around the room, it was all he could do to deflect the onslaught of vicious strikes. Sean’s muscles burned, barely able to wield the sword in his hands. Duncan had been right. Everyone had been right. Sean’s strength was half what it should be, his movement slowed by sluggishness.

  Gnashing his teeth, Alan lunged in for the kill. Sean raised his blade for the deflection, a hair’s breadth before the sword sliced him across the neck. His helm flew from his head and clattered to the floor. Iron screeched with iron as their blades locked until they met at the cross guards. In a battle of strength, Sean could no longer control his muscles and he quaked mercilessly. Planting his left foot, he used his right to push MacCoul away and gain enough space to run.

  He sped around the table to put some distance between them. Panting, he watched Alan swing his sword in an arc. The bastard laughed—taunted Sean. “I see my hospitality has turned you into a milksop.”

  Sean said nothing, sucking in deep breaths, willin
g the air to revive him.

  Alan sauntered around the table. “After I kill you, I’ll be Chieftain of Dunollie and I’ll marry that Campbell bitch—something you never had the cods to do.”

  “You bleeding bastard. You’ll not touch her!” Sean went on the attack, swinging his sword like a madman. He never allowed himself to lose control when in a fight, but rage gripped his chest like a vise. He couldn’t stop. The thought of Alan claiming Gyllis for his own drove him to the brink of insanity.

  A picture of Fraser’s mutilated body sent him into a raving frenzy. “I will avenge Fraser’s death.”

  “That spineless maggot?” MacCoul blocked Sean’s strike and the next. On and on Sean advanced while the blackguard continued to back around the table. “I took great pleasure in gutting your asp-biting spy.”

  Rage infusing him with strength, Sean used both hands, spinning, aiming for the braggart’s head. MacCoul ducked and came up, jabbing the pommel of his sword into Sean’s gut. Wind whooshed from Sean’s lungs. He gasped for air and steadied himself.

  Never had he tired this easily.

  A blast came from beyond the walls. The cannon’s warning had been fired. MacCoul was already supposed to be dead.

  Alan advanced. Sean deflected. Iron clanged. Sean erred with slips of the wrist and deadly mistakes. But he wasn’t about to give up. Spinning, he hurled his blade. MacCoul met his strike with equal force. With jarring power reverberating up his arms, the sword flew from Sean’s grip.

  Before he could reach for his dirk, Alan slipped his blade against Sean’s neck and laughed like Satan himself. “I should have cut your throat at the cave and been done with it.”

  Sean spat. “You’ll never succeed. The king will not recognize your claim.”

  Alan’s eyes flashed wide and he pressed the blade harder. “I will be Chieftain of Dunollie and Lord of Lorn. It is my rightful place. My inheritance.” The man’s face grew red. Clearly, he couldn’t bear to think he could possibly fail.

  Pride is a great sin.

  “What about Dugald?” Sean purchased time. “He’s Lorn’s heir.”

  “I killed Lorn,” Alan gloated.

  “But he didn’t die before he took his vows.” Sean dropped his arm and slid the dagger from his hose. “And our father only claimed one son. The king signed your death warrant.”

  Alan bellowed like a caged lion. “You lie! You’ll not be here to see the riches I am granted. All of the Highlands will fear me. I will cut off your head and impale it on a pike above the gate as a testament as to who is the better son.” Baring his teeth, he grasped Sean’s hair, swinging his blade back.

  Time slowed.

  The cannon boomed with a long drawn-out blast.

  Sean watched the blade rise then focused on the pulsing vein in Alan’s exposed neck. He could hear the thump of his brother’s heart. A drop of Alan’s sweat splattered on his cheek. He will never touch Gyllis.

  Before their father’s sword began its downward momentum, Sean sprang up and sliced his dagger across MacCoul’s throat.

  In mid-swing, the sword’s edge embedded deep into Sean’s shoulder, but he didn’t feel a thing.

  Stunned and grasping at his throat, Alan fell onto Sean. “I am the eldest son,” he croaked.

  Sean wrapped him in his arms. “I wish it had been different between us, brother.”

  Alan let out a long hissing breath. His last.

  Sean rested his brother’s body on the floor and passed a hand over his face to close Alan’s vacant eyes. Aye, he’d done what he must, but this was not victorious.

  When he started to stand, Sean’s head spun. He glanced down at the gash in his shoulder. Thick blood oozed down his hauberk. He reached for the chair to steady himself, but it was just beyond his grasp. Grunting, Sean fell forward and collapsed atop Alan’s body.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Gyllis and Meg clung to each other in Duncan’s tent while the battle raged. Every blast from the cannons made Gyllis quake in the oversized kirtle Meg had borrowed for her. “When will it be over?”

  “I know not,” Meg’s voice trembled every bit as much as Gyllis’s did. “But we will be victorious. There is no other option.”

  A man screamed, followed by a bone-crunching thud. Gyllis didn’t want to think—but her mind’s eye still pictured a warrior falling from the battlements.

  She forced herself not to scream. “What if Sean or Duncan is hurt?”

  Meg grasped her shoulders firmly and looked Gyllis in the eye. “We will not think on it.”

  “I hate hiding in this tent. What more can we do to help?”

  “Pray.”

  Meg had always been pious and Gyllis grew inordinately guilty about having cursed at God the day before. She cringed. “I yelled at the heavens when I couldn’t find Sean. God could be very upset with me this day.”

  Meg clasped her hands, squeezing tighter with her claw. Meg only used that hand when she was dead serious. “Did you find Sean?”

  “Aye,” Gyllis whispered—of course Meg knew she had.

  “Well then, sometimes you might need to yell to be heard.” She closed her eyes and recited the twenty-third psalm. Gyllis followed along, mouthing the words. Evidently Meg didn’t feel it necessary to yell, because she kept her tone even and somber.

  When Meg finished, an eerie hush hung over the encampment. Gyllis stood and turned full circle, hearing not a single scrape of a sword.

  “The siege is over, long live the king!” someone bellowed.

  A roar of triumphant voices rose around them.

  Gyllis grinned at Meg and pulled her hand. “Come.” Together they made their way over the barbican bridge and into the inner bailey as fast as Gyllis could manage. Men were celebrating, running past them with their weapons held high, but the women fought through the crowd. When they reached the donjon, Gyllis clapped a hand to her chest and caught her breath. “Have you seen them?”

  Meg turned full circle. “Not yet.”

  A fallen man clutched at his stomach, lying in a pool of blood. “Help. Someone, please help me.”

  Meg pointed to the doors. “You go—I cannot leave him.”

  Gyllis needed no more encouragement. For all she knew, Sean could be laying in his own pool of blood. When she pushed into the great hall, all she saw was madness. Duncan’s men were rounding up the usurpers and had them lying on the floor with their hands behind their heads. But the King’s solar was above stairs. Pushing through the crowd, she made her way to the stairwell.

  As she climbed, pounding grew louder. When she reached the landing, Duncan and Mevan were chopping the solar door with a battleax. She didn’t need to ask. Sean was in there, and so was Alan MacCoul.

  Dread iced through her veins while she watched them beat down the door. When they finally had it clear, she rushed in. “Sean!” Her heart stopped. Sean didn’t move. Slumped over the body of MacCoul, all color had drained from his face.

  Blood pooled thickly on the floor. Splatters covered everything.

  “No!” He cannot be dead.

  Tears stinging her eyes, she threw herself over him. “Sean. ’Tis me. We’ve won!” She shook his shoulders. “Sean. Wake up. Please. Wake.”

  Duncan grasped her shoulder. “Our dear friend is gone, lass.”

  Ice coursed across her skin. “No,” she cried through her tears. “I do not believe it.”

  Duncan again tugged, but Gyllis clamped her arms around Sean. “I will not leave him.” She turned and glared at her brother. “Carry him to a chamber.”

  “But—”

  “Do it.” She pointed. “Now!”

  Duncan nodded his head once and beckoned Mevan. “There’s a bedchamber next door. The women will be able to prepare his body there.”

  Gyllis grasped Sean’s hand. His fingers were frigid—and there was a deep gash on his shoulder.

  “Stand aside,” Duncan said.

  Sucking in her tears, she allowed the men to lift Sean’s body. His head
flopped back and his arms and legs hung limp as they hauled him into the next room and placed him on the bed. “Send for Lady Meg,” she snapped.

  Duncan hesitated for a moment, but he didn’t say a word.

  They left her alone, holding Sean’s hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  In the dimly lit room, Gyllis threw herself over Sean’s lifeless body, a wail erupting from her throat. “Please God, no.” She could scarcely utter the words through her fitful sobbing. She held up her blistered palms, still so painful from rowing to Kerrera. “You did not guide me to Kerrera only to see him killed here!”

  She prostrated herself atop him.

  “I do not believe it.”

  “I do not believe it.”

  “I. Do. Not!”

  Reaching down, she threaded her fingers through his and kissed them. “You told me you would be careful.”

  A pained cry caught in the back of her throat.

  “Why did I allow Meg to talk me into letting you fight? I knew you were weakened, yet I trusted everyone and ignored my own heart.”

  Spittle leaked from the corner of her mouth. “Please, God. D-do not take him from me.”

  She scooted up and cupped his face with her palm. He seemed so peaceful—not dead, but in a deep sleep. How a man could be so beautiful, she could not fathom. And this man had loved her in spite of all her adversity, in spite of her limp, in spite of her every weakness.

  “I will always love you.” She pressed her lips to his and closed her eyes, praying all the while. His lips were far warmer than his fingers—warmer than the chill within the chamber.

  Sean’s chest rose and fell.

  Gyllis jolted up. “Sean?”

  He didn’t move.

  She held a finger beneath his nose. A faint puff of warm air caressed her finger.

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, she gasped. “Oh, thank God.” She limped to the door as fast as she could and swung it open. “Fetch Lady Meg. Sir Sean is alive!” Gyllis latched on to an arm of a passing guard. “Did you hear me? Fetch Lady Meg at once.”