After what seemed an eternity, she took her hand off his arm and walked away. He waited until he heard her repeat his instructions to young Thomas outside her door, then trudged the rest of the way up the stone steps to the battlements.
Bile rose in his throat.
Had he truly claimed he was not a fool?
15
an unceasing and exceedingly annoying thumping noise disturbed Duncan’s much-needed sleep. Determined to ignore the infernal sound, he flung out his arm, intending to draw Linnet to his side, but his outstretched hand encountered only matted straw, not his sweet wife’s slumbering form.
“What the—” he began, only to leap to his feet, wide-awake, when he realized where he was and why.
As quickly, the source of the loud thumping became apparent when two of his men lumbered into view from the base of the turret stairs. They carried a limp MacKenzie in their arms.
A bloodied MacKenzie with an arrow shaft protruding from his neck!
“Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” Duncan yelled, girding on his sword belt. “Fergus! Rouse the men! We’re under attack!”
“Cuidich’ N’ Righ! Save the king!” Fergus shouted in answer, scrambling to his feet as swiftly as his age-bent legs would allow. At once, he began scurrying about the hall, delivering a sound kick in the ribs to any kinsman not yet awake.
“Get yer arses off the floor!” he scolded, waving his mace in a wild circle above his grizzled gray head. “Cease lolling about like witless varlets wi’ their feet caught in a sea o’ muck!”
“Man the walls!” Duncan thundered, running toward the two kinsmen bearing the injured man. Halting before them, he cleared the nearest trestle table with a broad sweep of his arm.
Duncan leaned over Iain, the wounded clansman, the moment the others lowered him onto the table. He’d meant to offer him a bit of comfort, but the intended words stuck in his throat when he got a closer look at Iain’s blood-drained face and the unnatural stillness of his broad chest.
Although he knew what he’d see, Duncan carefully lifted Iain’s eyelids. Sightless eyes gazed up at him, their vacant stare piercing him with dread, filling him with rage, and making him aware as naught else could, of the danger lurking outside Eilean Creag’s thick walls.
A danger he would not allow entry.
An enemy who’d soon suffer Duncan’s vengeance, taste his fury, and rue the day he’d dared thought to lay siege to the MacKenzie stronghold.
“God’s blood!” Duncan hissed, thinking not only of Iain’s spent life, but also of the young wife and four small bairns left without husband and father.
His mouth set in a grim line, Duncan eased down Iain’s eyelids, then covered his waxen face with a linen napkin. Closing his own eyes, he shook his head to rid himself of the white-hot fury threatening to consume him.
After a moment, he opened his eyes and scanned the hall for his first squire. The youth stood about twenty paces away, tucking all manner of weapons into his belt and boots. “Lachlan,” Duncan called, “hie yourself over here.”
He came at once, leaping over a table and knocking down a bench before skidding to a halt on the slick rushes. “Aye, sir?” he panted, nigh breathless.
Duncan rested a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Becalm yourself, boy. You willna be able to aim your crossbow if your chest is heaving with each breath you take.”
A dark stain colored the squire’s cheeks, but he nodded in acquiescence. “What would you bid of me, my lord?”
“Have Cook boil lard and see the kitchen boys gather whatever nastiness they can find,” he ordered, his voice steady despite the heated anger coursing through him. “Tell the pages to fill buckets from the cesspits, then make haste getting it all to the battlements.” Duncan paused, tightening his hold on the lad’s shoulder. “But not afore you’ve taken a few deep breaths.”
Lachlan bobbed his head in answer. His cheeks still flamed, though Duncan suspected his high color came more from nerves at seeing his first true fighting than over embarrassment at having been told to compose himself.
Bracing his hands against his hips, Duncan watched the squire hurry toward the screened passage and the kitchen beyond. On sudden impulse, Duncan halted him with a sharp cry before he disappeared through the darkened archway.
The lad spun around so quickly he almost collided with two burly warriors hastening past him. “Aye, sir?” he called, his arms flailing wildly as he sought to regain his footing.
“Dinna fret, laddie,” Duncan’s deep voice boomed across the hall. “Whoe’re would attempt to breach these walls will taste the bite of our steel… or gag to death on the muck we’re going to dump on them!”
Hearty cheers went up at Duncan’s words. Lachlan’s face turned a deeper red, but he made Duncan a low bow before turning and dashing off about his task, a most obvious new bounce to his steps.
Satisfied, Duncan waited until Lachlan disappeared into the shadowy kitchen passage, only then allowing his own face to settle back into a tight grimace.
Once more, he leapt onto a table, this time loudly banging two tankards against each other to get his men’s attention. “Cease bellowing, lads, and take your positions!” he roared, tossing aside the tankards when the cheering stopped and all eyes turned his way. “We’ll soon have hot oil and refuse enough to drown the bastards in! Now, be off, and may God be with us!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth, than the sounds of angry shouts and the furious clash of steel against steel reached them from above.
’Twas a clamor so earsplitting, if he didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn men were coming to blows in the far end of the hall. Duncan cast a quick glance at each of the hall’s dark corners before jumping down from the table.
Impossible though it would have been for an enemy to gain entry to the sanctity of his hall, a great surge of relief washed over him at seeing none but his own men hurrying about, arming themselves or hastening to their posts.
Nay, the loud ruckus echoing through Eilean Creag’s cavernous hall, bouncing off the cold stone of its massive walls, came from above, not within.
Men were fighting on the ramparts.
On the ramparts!
With the realization, an unholy chill seized Duncan, curdling his blood and sending icy fingers around his neck. Fingers of dread, cold and unerring, hailing from the blackest pits of hell.
And if he didn’t soon free himself of their stranglehold, they’d cut off his air, squeeze the very life out of him.
Saints sustain him, if the attackers had gained the walls, they had scaling ladders and might, even now, be laying one against Linnet’s window. Might be attempting to reach her chamber and lay waste to all that was dear to him.
With sickening clarity, the images that had plagued him since first learning of Kenneth’s attack on the crofters came back to revisit him.
Only, this time, a thousandfold more frightening.
“Alec! Malcolm!” he thundered, stopping two of his most stalwart men before they could charge up the turret stairs. “Go at once to my lady’s chamber. Make certain her windows are shuttered and barred. Kill any who would dare attempt entry. And tell young Thomas to keep his post at the door and to guard it with his life.”
Both men nodded, then bounded toward the circular stairway leading to the tower chamber Duncan shared with his wife. Duncan’s fists clenched as he watched them take the stairs two at a time.
Hellfire and damnation, but he wanted to race past them; ’twas his task to see to his lady’s safety.
And the child’s, the thought coming as one with his concern for Linnet.
Seeing naught but their beloved faces before him, Duncan barreled his way through the hall. He made straight for the tower stairs, roughly shoving aside any who had the misfortune to happen across his path.
But the weight of duty halted him on the fifth step.
God’s blood, what had come over him? He was laird and as such, was honor-bound to see to the safety of his clan
.
His entire clan.
Every man, woman, and child, under his roof.
Yet here he was hightailing himself to his lady wife’s side, forgetting his responsibilities, and turning a blind eye to his duties as clan chief.
Duncan heaved a great, calming breath and dragged his hands through his sweat-dampened hair. Never would he have thought mere lust, simple physical need and mayhap a spot of affection, would drive him to act so rashly.
Truth tell, and ’twas well he knew, only in commanding his men, in fighting at their sides, could he ensure the safety of all within his walls.
Including Linnet and Robbie.
Knowing what he must do, he cast one more glance up the darkened stairwell. He could still hear Alec and Malcolm’s hurrying footfalls. Both would defend his lady and the child with their last breath if need be.
As he, too, would do… from the battlements.
Next his men.
His resolve clear, he turned to face the hall. With his hands planted firmly on his hips, he surveyed the chaos unfolding around him.
Praise the saints, it was an orderly chaos.
Fergus still dashed about brandishing his mace and ranting at Duncan’s men, barking orders, and doing his best to spur them into action.
Not that any amongst them could be called a laggard.
Nay, far from it.
To a man, they’d roused and armed themselves. With pride, Duncan noted even his youngest squires had heeded what they’d been taught and disposed of their scabbards. Their naked swords gleamed at their sides, unsheathed and battle-ready, thrust through naught but a simple ring attached to their belts.
Not a one would be hindered by an unwieldy scabbard dangling empty at his side.
And none would fall without a fight.
His men were feared as bold and courageous warriors. They ranked as some of the fiercest e’er known to walk the Highlands.
Whoever was foolhardy enough to attack Eilean Creag would pay dearly for their daring.
With pride, Duncan watched his best archers race to man the walls. Others equally skilled, hurried toward umanned wall embrasures whilst those already in place raised their bows, aiming them with deadly intent through arrow loops cut deeply into the thick stone walls.
Duncan curled his fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. A trusty weapon, light and perfectly balanced, it’s double-edged blade was sharp enough to slice off a man’s arm without even taking a notch in its steel if wielded properly.
And Duncan wielded it well.
Better than most.
His hand tightened around the leather grip. ’Twas soft and smooth, growing warm beneath his touch, welcoming him almost as seductively as a woman would her lover’s caress.
Duncan’s lips curved upward in a bitter travesty of a smile. His intent wasn’t that of a lover’s. His purpose was earnest.
Deadly earnest and meant to be dealt swiftly and without mercy.
With the strength of mind he’d mastered through years of battle, Duncan pushed all thought from his mind. All thought but protecting his own and driving the enemy from his castle walls. Quickly, he descended the few steps he’d climbed, then crossed the hall with great strides, eager to join his men on the battlements.
But before he could mount the turret stairs, Sir Marmaduke came barreling down them. Breathing hard, his scarred face glistening with beads of sweat, the Sassunach came to an abrupt halt beneath the arched entrance to the hall.
Duncan didn’t wait for his friend to catch his breath. “Who?” was all he asked, though deep inside, he already knew. It could be no other. Still, he repeated the single word. “Who?”
“’Tis Kenneth, the bloody whoreson,” Marmaduke panted, dragging the back of his arm across his damp brow. “With the devil’s own stealth, they’ve left their galley anchored out of firing range and used one-man coracles to sneak ashore. It would seem they’re trying to undermine the walls.”
“And our defenses?”
“We’re prepared,” Sir Marmaduke reported, breathing hard. “We’ve been letting loose a steady barrage of arrows upon them, but they’re using their boats like shields, holding the upturned coracles over the sappers whilst they pick at our walls.”
“And fired arrows?” Duncan asked, stepping aside as two laundresses hurried past, clutching baskets of linen, obviously come to tend poor Iain’s body.
“It wouldn’t be worth the effort to set the arrows aflame. They’ve covered the coracles with wet hides. I did set fire to a few of the vessels before they could toss hides over them,” Marmaduke boasted, his lips twitching in an attempt at a wicked grin. “But I didn’t do it with flaming arrows.”
Duncan quirked a brow at the Englishman, a sudden suspicion stealing into his mind. “Pray then, what did you use?”
Marmaduke clamped a large hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “Something much better, my friend,” he said, his voice smooth, fair oozing contentment. “Something we should have consigned to the fires of hell long ago.”
“You didn’t,” Duncan said, his suspicion confirmed by the look of satisfaction on Marmaduke’s ravaged face.
“Indeed I did,” Marmaduke acknowledged, a twinkle in his good eye. “Now lets hurry her nithling lover and his pack of misbegotten buffoons on their bloody way to join her. As I recall, she could get quite cross when left waiting overlong.”
“Aye,” Duncan agreed, a smile spreading across his own face. “’Tis a journey long overdue.”
Marmaduke gave a hearty laugh and thwacked Duncan on the back, then both men began the circular climb to the turret wall walk. “Have they gained the gatehouses?” Duncan wanted to know, as they ascended the curving stone steps.
“Nay. Our guards are keeping a hail of arrows and stones raining upon them; they won’t venture near either gatehouse or the causeway.”
“How many scaling ladders have you seen?”
“Only a few, and they aren’t setting them up where they’d do the most good,” Marmaduke puzzled. “So far there have been no tries to reach the lady Linnet’s window, and Kenneth must know its her chamber.”
“Yet they attempt to sap our walls?” Duncan frowned. Something wasn’t right. “Kenneth knows this castle cannot be assailed. It’s built on solid rock. ’Tis a fool’s errand he’s on.” He stopped in his tracks, turning around to face his brother-in-law. “Or else he means to distract us. But why?”
The Sassunach rubbed his chin. “Hmmmmm…”
“Hmmmmm is not an answer.”
Marmaduke began tapping his cheek with his forefinger. Finally, he said, “Iain was struck down.”
The man was going daft on him. Heat shot into Duncan’s cheeks and his pulse leapt with aggravation. “I know that,” he snapped. “His body’s not yet gone cold, rest his soul. Now, think and dinna tell me what I already ken.”
“Iain was one of our best archers.”
Now he was angry. “So?”
Marmaduke drew a deep breath before speaking. “I would swear upon my beloved Arabella’s bones they chose to slay Iain. Kenneth had laid his hand above his eyes and appeared to study the men lining the wall walk, then said something to the crossbowman standing beside him. The man took aim, and Iain went down.”
Duncan thought a moment. It made no sense. “Mayhap Kenneth had a quarrel with Iain? I know of naught ever falling betwixt them, but I canna conceive any other reason Iain would’ve been sought out to die.”
“Red James was attacked as well.”
“Red James?” Duncan fixed Marmaduke with a penetrating stare. “Do not tell me he, too, is dead.”
“Nay, he lives. The man is stronger than ten oxen.” Marmaduke cast a quick glance up the stairwell before continuing. “One of the miscreants climbed a scaling ladder and slashed open his right arm. The bastard nigh cut him to the bone.”
Anger welled in Duncan’s chest. Red James was one of his best warriors. “By the Rood,” he swore. “Will he lose use of the arm?”
Of a sudden, the noise increased. The sound of running feet and the furious clatter of steel against steel warned them the fighting had taken on a new fervor. Men’s shouts rose above the din.
Shouts and sharp screams.
Screams of pain.
The kind a man only emits when a blade bites deep.
Deep, sure, and deadly.
“Come, English,” Duncan said, yanking his sword from its ring. “We’ve tarried too long.”
With speed born of anger, Duncan charged up the stairs, the Sassunach close on his heels. From behind, Duncan heard the hiss and zing of cold steel as Marmaduke, too, freed his great broadsword.
At the top of the stairs, Marmaduke’s hand closed over Duncan’s elbow, preventing him from bursting onto the battlements. “Hugh’s been hit, too,” he said, raising his voice above the clamor.
Duncan swore. “Saints preserve us. Is he down?”
“Nay, only wounded. The arrow passed cleanly through his shoulder.”
“Damnation,” Duncan swore again. “We have no finer archer than Hugh.”
Marmaduke nodded. “True, and ’tis his right shoulder—like Red James.”
The nagging suspicion that had been dancing so elusively on the edge of Duncan’s mind flared and took form. “Iain, Red James, then Hugh,” he said, his fury curling into a tight, black knot deep in his gut. “The whoresons are picking off our best warriors apurpose!”
“So it would seem.”
“Then let us return the favor.”
“With the greatest pleasure, my friend,” Marmaduke said raising his sword.
“Cuidich’ N’ Righ!” Duncan shouted, brandishing his own blade. Then he stepped onto the battlements and into complete chaos.
In her tower chamber, Linnet paced like a caged animal. “You canna mean to keep me locked in here,” she railed at the two brawny warriors who blocked the room’s only exit. They stood unsmiling before the locked door, their muscular arms crossed forbiddingly over their massive chests. “There will be injuries, mayhap deaths. My husband would want me in the hall to tend his men.”
Devil in a Kilt Page 27
