by Shayla Black
Murdoch groaned, as if disgusted with such a foolish question. “Witnesses, dear lady. A bloody blade in his fist.”
She frowned and cast a quick glance at Drake. Even beaten and upon his knees, he somehow looked proud and honest. Pain and dread clutched at her heart.
“Who are these witnesses?” she demanded. “What did they see?”
“My lady,” said Murdoch with exaggerated patience. “Duff and Wallace have already told the clan all they witnessed. This man is condemned to die for his crimes.”
“What did this Duff and Wallace see?” she demanded, ignoring him. “Did they truly observe Drake stab his father?”
“Ni, ye Campbell wench,” called one man. “But I saw the half-English bastard with the bloody blade betwixt his fingers.”
The crowd murmured its angry agreement.
“Who are you?” she asked, trying desperately to hang onto her bravado. If the onlookers smelled her fear, her uncertainty, Drake would lie dead within moments.
“I be Duff.”
She nodded, pleased. “And is Wallace here?”
“Aye,” said another smaller man as he stepped forward, a frown upon his surly face.
“Did either of you witness Lochlan’s stabbing?”
Both paused, hesitated. The crowd looked on in curiosity.
“We dinna,” Wallace answered finally. “But who else had reason to kill our lord?”
“Aye!” chanted a few members of the crowd.
“He claimed another did the evil deed and ran over the hill, but I dinna believe such a falsity,” spat Duff.
“But you cannot disprove that,” she pointed out.
“Ni,” he said. “I canna disprove it, but—”
“In a moment,” Averyl interrupted, holding up her hand to stay his protest.
“Hold yer tongue, wench. Ye canna prove Drake innocent,” shouted a man from the crowd.
Rumblings of agreement, sprinkled with an occasional “aye” sounded about her. Averyl repressed the urge to bite her lip, show any weakness that these fighting men might pounce upon.
“And you cannot prove him guilty, either,” she pointed out. “Before Lochlan’s murder, is there one of you who would have doubted Drake loved his sire with his whole heart?”
A pause settled over the twenty or so men about her. Silence lingered until finally broken by a “ni” or two. A few shook their heads.
“When he was a wee lad, Drake wasna ever farther away from his father than a shadow,” said one.
“Exactly,” she affirmed. “As a man, he felt no less affection. But Murdoch and his father, did they not argue?”
Again, a thoughtful still settled over the group. A few looked at one another as if for confirmation before casting speculative glances at Murdoch.
“’Tis a fool’s game she plays with words. I wasna there when my father died, and well you all know it.”
“Aye, but Drake did not say he saw you run over the hill that morn, but another. Is that not so?” She speared Drake with a glance that demanded an answer.
He hesitated. Murdoch tightened his brutal grip in Drake’s hair. But Drake managed to nod anyway.
“Did your father not make Drake tanist in your stead?”
“Aye, ’twas why he killed my beloved sire,” cried Murdoch.
“Or ’twas why you had Lochlan butchered and Drake blamed, so neither of them might stand in your way.”
Expressions of surprise and conjecture dominated the crowd.
“Is the lass right?” asked one man.
“Our chief hated his father somethin’ fierce,” came a voice from behind.
“I believe Murdoch did hate his father,” said Averyl. “’Twas why he bedded his father’s wife and got her with child.”
Loud gasps of surprise sounded through the men. The few women present crossed themselves. Apparently no one had known of that fact. She smiled, praying for victory, heart pounding.
She forged on. “Murdoch had reason and history to hurt his father.”
“Be closin’ your mouth, slut, or I will kill your lover,” Murdoch yelled, holding the claymore above Drake’s neck.
Averyl’s heart nearly ceased beating at the sight. The crowd murmured, rumbling in disapproval.
Forcing herself to go on, she shouted, “See, even now, he resorts to murder!”
“What say you, lady?” asked a MacDougall from the crowd, a big man with massive hands, a short kilt, and a braided beard. “We canna simply let him go.”
“Then ’tis a contest I call for. A fair joust. God will give the man in the right the strength to be the victor.”
“’Tis fair,” called a clansman to her right.
“I canna disagree,” said another.
“Aye!” cried the kilted man. “Let them fight fairly for right. Let them fight to the death.”
* * * * *
A scant few minutes later, Drake, in his armor, mounted his steed. To his shock, Kieran had appeared, dressed in, of all garments, a monk’s robe. His Irish friend doffed the robe and stood at the ready with lances, a broadsword, and an ax.
Aric strode up to the duo moments later, dressed as a peddler. Drake frowned in question.
Kieran began, “We had a magnificent plan—”
“’Twas adequate,” interrupted Aric. “Averyl’s is better.”
Aye, Averyl’s plan was brilliant. She was a fine woman, and he ached to see her. Drake stared down the crisp February field for a glimpse.
But his vision blurred with fatigue. He saw only a crowd.
Murdoch, solitary against the sunlight, appeared moments later at the opposite end of the long field upon his own great mount. His bearing was of calm and readiness.
Damnation! Drake could feel himself shaking.
How had Averyl thought to suggest this joust? A victory would buy him freedom, and he thanked her making some of his clansmen see the falsity of Murdoch’s “truth.”
But Drake feared he was in too much pain to fight.
Every movement of the chain mail set his back afire, despite the padded doublet beneath. His vision blurred again. He felt weaker than a newborn bairn.
Murdoch was a cunning warrior, and Drake wondered how he could best his clever half brother with so little energy.
Ahead and to his right, he finally spotted Averyl clad in resplendent red silk, clasping her hands together in prayer. An unknown man stood beside her, arms crossed over his wiry chest. Drake turned his gaze back to his wife.
By the saints, how he had missed her. He loved her so much, ’twas as if his heart had ceased to live when he had been without her. But now he feared. What would happen to her, to their child, if he could not best Murdoch?
He shuddered, afraid he knew the answer: suffer.
“You will best Murdoch; have no fear,” Kieran encouraged. “He is no match against all your fine training.”
“But I am weak.”
“Here,” said Kieran suddenly, offering bread and water—his first sustenance in nearly a day.
Ravenous, Drake demolished the hunk of bread, washed it down with the crystal-fresh water, and handed the flask to his friend. “Bless you for that.”
Kieran flashed a tight smile. “Win. You are by far the better man. Then you can claim your wife, whom you do not deserve—”
“Shut your mouth, Kieran,” Aric advised in commanding tones.
“He speaks the truth,” Drake admitted.
“As you see,” Kieran piped up before turning directly to Drake. “Marry her in a church, or I will do it myself.”
Before he could block the vision out, Drake’s mind flashed him a picture of Averyl in Kieran’s arms, her sweet mouth open in surrender, her silken flesh accepting—
“No one touches my wife but me,” he growled. “And if you test me, you will surely find yourself missing that cock you’re so proud of.
”
With that, Drake nudged his horse to the end of the field.
“God be with you,” called Aric.
Drake prayed He was with him—and Averyl.
Aric turned to Kieran then. “Would you really wed Averyl?”
Kieran hesitated. Aric knew something devilish whirled in the Irishman’s head.
“Unless Averyl and the babe would have suffered, nay. You know I will never wed.” Kieran smiled. “But the idea revived Drake with the fire of anger, aye?”
* * * * *
Drake glanced at Averyl from the stands. She had remained by his side, exchanged her freedom for his, proposed this tournament to save his life. Her actions alone told him she cared. What had he ever done to prove his feelings to her?
He vowed to show her in every way he could that he loved her, that his heart and soul were completely hers.
If he lived.
Kieran be damned.
Pushing away the grim thoughts, he thrust on his helmet. Moments later, he saw the signal given and charged.
The horses’ hooves pounded the rich Scottish earth below, matching the nervous thundering of his heart.
As Murdoch drew near, each raised his lances. Closer, closer… Drake aimed for the center of Murdoch’s chest and ducked as his half brother took his own aim. A moment later, Drake felt his lance spear something. Murdoch howled and cursed, and Drake looked back to see him grip his arm as the small crowd of fighting men cheered for blood.
On the next course, Drake did not strike Murdoch but felt instead a sharp glance of his enemy’s blade graze his thigh. Fire seared his flesh as he readied for a third pass.
Vision blurring momentarily, Drake prayed for fortitude. Kieran had been right those months ago: Averyl was his reason to live. Today, he would fight for a future with his wife and their bairn, as well as for revenge and justice.
Urging his mount on once more, Drake made his way toward Murdoch. As they passed, Drake saw a small blade in Murdoch’s right hand. He feinted moments before Murdoch might have planted it between his ribs. The crowd shouted for more.
At the end of the field, Drake glanced once more at Averyl, beautifully rounded with child, then the man by her side. Drake scowled. The man seemed oddly familiar—at least until his vision blurred once more.
“You look worse for the wear.” Aric offered his flask.
Drake turned down his friend’s offer of water and glanced at the blood trickling down his thigh. “Aye. I feel such.”
He all but groaned as he made another pass across the field toward his enemy. This time, Murdoch stabbed his lance into the horse beneath Drake. The animal whinnied and crumbled beneath him, and he was forced to jump from the animal or be crushed.
Laughing, Murdoch jumped from his own mount and accepted the broadsword his squire brought.
Drake turned to find Kieran at the ready with a blade. He grabbed it from his friend’s outstretched hands, then stalked toward Murdoch, ready for the fight. Ready for the end.
Neither man hesitated in the battle. Instantly, swords clashed and grunts rang out. Sweat trickling in his eyes, vision blurring again, Drake focused on Murdoch’s determined face, looked into his cruel eyes.
Before him lay the man responsible for nearly every misery in his life: his childhood pain, this terrible accusation of murder, his outlaw status, his wife’s fear. No more!
A new strength roared into him, warming his veins, numbing his pain, his anger, his heart. All of those would come later, but not until this war was done.
With a growl of fortitude, Drake swung his broadsword at Murdoch, who raised his shield to counter the blow. With a flash of silver, he raised the blade to Murdoch again, on the other side. Murdoch staggered back, off balance. Drake charged forward and kicked Murdoch in the stomach. The blow ripped the air from the chief’s body. Murdoch slumped to his knees. Drake used the opportunity to kick the sword from his half brother’s hands and tackle him to the ground.
With a clank of armor, they went down. Drake threw aside his broadsword and, holding Murdoch to the earth with a forearm at his throat, pulled his dirk from his boot.
His half brother struggled, his face straining with effort until ’twas redder than his hair. To no avail. Drake felt naught but strength and rightness in his body, the power to win.
Gripping the dirk, Drake whisked it up to Murdoch’s throat. “Tell me now who you paid to kill our father.”
“Rot in hell!”
“Nay, I will leave that to you, brother. Now, I want the truth. Who killed him?”
Murdoch hesitated. Drake pushed the blade under Murdoch’s helmet and chain mail, against his bare throat. Aye, ’twas vulnerable he was now, and well he knew it, for the way his dark eyes bulged with shock and alarm.
Still, Murdoch spat, “I will say naught.”
A slow, killing rage overcame Drake. He wanted to push his blade into Murdoch’s throat and be done with it. God had determined him the victor, at least according to this joust. ’Twould not be too difficult to convince the clan of such.
Breathing hard, once, twice, Drake fought the urge to kill. God, how he ached to end Murdoch’s life. But he could not until he had the truth.
“I pity you,” Drake said finally. “I once believed you bedded my mother to hurt our father, but I know you did such to get his attention. ’Tis jealous you were.”
“Ach! I simply made certain you did not receive money and power you were not entitled to as his mere bastard.”
Again, Drake restrained the urge to wet his knife with Murdoch’s lifeblood. “My parents were married upon my birth.”
“After you were conceived. Such hardly counts.”
“It clearly does or you would not fear that I could seize your position as chief. But ’tis certain I am that money was only a part of your reason you saw our father murdered.” Drake leaned toward Murdoch, daring him to refute the claims he was about to make. “You were jealous of the time I spent with Lochlan and tried to kill me, rather than winning him yourself.”
Murdoch reached up to push at Drake. “You know nothing.”
Drake remained firmly planted over Murdoch’s prone form. “You insisted that being first born should make you more loved, and he disagreed,” Drake said, tone taunting. “So you discarded him before he could disown you.”
The sunlight glinted silver to his right suddenly. Catching sight of the hidden dagger in Murdoch’s hands, Drake moved to contain the threat. Behind him, Averyl gasped loudly. Gripping his half brother’s wrist and forcing it to the ground, he looked back at his wife.
“Nay,” he heard Kieran warn. “He will only hurt you.”
“Or use you to kill Drake,” added Aric.
Drake cast his gaze to her, hot, searing, intent.
“Stay away,” he warned, then looked back to Murdoch. “While I finish this feud—for good.” Cold, stark rage filled his every nerve. He directed a killing glare to Murdoch.
Gripping Murdoch’s sweat-damp hair in his hands, Drake shoved him against the damp green grass. Upon Murdoch’s grunt, he pressed the knife harder to his half brother’s throat.
“I have lost patience, you wretch,” he growled, “you can tell me how you had our father killed. How did you arrange it?”
“I would rather go to hell.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed. “I vow I will send you there soon.”
Drake’s fingers trembled with the need for revenge. “You deserve to die for what you did to our father.”
“Lochlan’s heart was revoltingly soft,” Murdoch hissed. “He loved flea-ridden kittens, that half-English bitch he called wife, and you.”
“Who did you pay to kill him?” Drake demanded, losing patience.
Murdoch opened his mouth, to lie, Drake felt certain. Fury sizzling through his blood, he sank the sharp of his blade just under his half brother’s skin, just enough to draw blood.
“Tell me now,” he demanded. “Or you die in seconds.”
“Drake, nay,” Averyl called.
Keeping Murdoch pinned to the ground with his blade, he turned back to Averyl. The stranger beside her took hold of her shoulder and kept her from the fight. Drake looked again at the unruly dark hair, the lean build, the gray eyes. He had seen this man before. Aye, he had. ’Twas dark then, and a battle ensued. His mind racing, Drake searched his memories until the truth hit him.
The stranger touching his wife had killed his father.
“You!” he barked, fury pulsing so hard it stung him. “You killed my father. Release my wife!”
Around him, the crowd gasped. Whether ’twas over the announcement of the murder’s identity or Averyl’s married state, he knew not and cared not.
“My cousin Robert?” Averyl asked. “How can that be?”
Drake frowned at her question. Her cousin? Had a Campbell killed Lochlan all along, and not Murdoch?
Before he could release Murdoch and charge the guilty stranger, Aric and Kieran grabbed him and dragged him into the circle, beside Drake and Murdoch. Averyl followed.
As they came closer, Drake continued to stare at the man. But his mind told him naught different. This man had stabbed Lochlan to death.
“You killed my father,” he said slowly, that truth dawning over and over in his head.
Robert tired to jerk away, but he was no match for Kieran and Aric’s hold. Resignation crept across his face. He flinched, sounding suspiciously as if he whimpered. “I did. At Lord Dunollie’s order.”
“Dear God,” Averyl whispered as the crowd gasped again, then fell eerily silent.
Gaze whipping back to Murdoch, Drake turned in time to see denial spread across the chief’s face.
Drake cut him off with a curse, a new fury consuming him. Rock-hard tension gripped his entire body. “Robert spoke true, did he not, Murdoch?”
His half brother said not one word.
“Such would explain Robert’s unexpected presence here,” Averyl offered into the silence. “My father distrusted him, and ’tis doubtful he would have sent the scoundrel to see after me. He is here at Murdoch’s bidding.”
