by Maya Banks
Brodie was leading a group of Armstrong warriors, and they were steadily slashing a bloody path through the McHugh and McGrieve combatants.
Her gaze swung rapidly around the courtyard to determine Bowen’s fate. Her heart lurched when she saw him in the distance, engaged in a fierce sword battle with a huge warrior who could only be from the McGrieve clan. It was not someone she recognized.
But what made her chest tight was the McHugh man behind Bowen. He was not one of the ones who’d left the clan with Patrick. He had stayed behind and had since sworn allegiance to Bowen and the Montgomerys.
He was a traitor.
Clutched tightly in his hand was a dagger, and he was advancing warily toward Bowen’s back. The loathsome coward was going to plunge the knife into Bowen’s back, attacking him in the most dishonorable fashion.
It was a distant shot, and one she couldn’t be assured of making with perfect accuracy. This was too important to miss or fall short.
Kicking up her skirts, she notched an arrow and bolted across the courtyard, praying she would make the shot in time to save Bowen.
CHAPTER 15
Bowen ignored the pain radiating from his side and his shoulder and fought with more savagery. This was his toughest opponent thus far, and the man showed no signs of tiring. Bowen would have to end it quickly or all his reserves would be used up, and he was already injured from his previous battles.
Their swords hissed and clanged, the sun bouncing off the blades in a rapid dance. Bowen drove him back, but then the bigger man charged, swinging like a crazed person, bellowing the entire way.
Bowen retreated but managed to slice his opponent’s upper arm, drawing blood and momentarily halting his progress. As the other man warily stepped back, pivoting to ensure Bowen didn’t gain position, movement caught Bowen’s eye and he glanced beyond his opponent to see Genevieve a short distance away, holding, of all things, a bow with an arrow notched. And she was pointing it directly at him!
Before he could react or think to avoid the coming arrow, she let fly. His snarl of fury over the betrayal roared from his throat just as the arrow sailed past him. A cry of pain sounded behind him.
Thrusting his sword upward to ward off the coming blow, he drove forward, determined to end the fight here and now. His mind was ablaze, and he was confused as hell as to what Genevieve had done.
He never had the chance. Before he could deal the killing blow, Genevieve notched another arrow and sent one into the back of his opponent’s neck. The arrow plunged directly through his Adam’s apple, coated in bright red blood.
An odd, sucking noise gurgled from the McGrieve warrior, and blood seeped from his mouth just before he toppled forward like a felled tree.
Bowen instantly spun to see that a McHugh clansman—one who had not fled the keep with Patrick—held a dagger in his hand and it was obvious that he’d planned to plunge it into Bowen’s back.
Genevieve’s arrow had struck him through the forehead—an impossible target at best—and yet she’d made not one but two lethal shots with her bow.
The McHugh betrayer was suspended in air for the longest time, his eyes glazed and gray, until finally he sagged and folded like a dropped blanket, the knife slipping from his grasp just before he hit the ground.
The earth shifted beneath Bowen’s feet and he swayed precariously, his head spinning. And then Genevieve was at his side, shouting for aid.
She drove her shoulder forcefully under his, fitting it into his armpit as she valiantly kept him from tumbling to the ground. Jesu, but he must have lost more blood than he’d imagined.
He nearly toppled them both, but her stubbornness prevailed. He heard her muttered oaths and smiled at the lass’s colorful language. She had quite the saucy mouth.
“Give aid to your laird!” she bellowed in a voice that carried across the courtyard.
One of his eyebrows went up at her forceful command. The lass would do well leading troops in battle. A man would have to be a fool to gainsay a woman with a growl like hers.
“Ah hell, Bowen, you’ve gone and managed to injure yourself.”
Brodie’s aggrieved voice echoed close to Bowen’s ears, but he lacked the energy to look up and find Brodie’s position.
“The lass saved me,” he said faintly, thinking that if he were to die Genevieve should at least be credited with prolonging his life a few more minutes.
“You’ll not die,” Genevieve snapped. “ ’Tis a paltry wound at best.”
“Now she mocks my pain,” Bowen said mildly.
Brodie’s face appeared in front of Bowen, worried, his eyes crinkled with concern. “You’re not making any sense. Babbling about like a drunken sot. And you’re bleeding like a slaughtered pig.”
“Am I?”
He looked down, surprised to see the entire front of his tunic turned scarlet. Then he tightened his jaw, bracing himself against the pain.
“I’ll not rest until every last McHugh is driven from this place,” Bowen vowed.
“They are retreating,” Brodie assured. “We suffered minimal losses. When ’twas obvious we were well represented, despite our smaller numbers, the McHughs and McGrieves beat a hasty retreat. Our men are pursuing them to our borders now.”
The matter-of-fact accounting soothed Bowen’s agitation and pain. The world was spinning with increasing frequency, and he feared losing consciousness before he could ask the most pressing question.
He opened his mouth, but it had gone dry. He licked his cracked lips, sudden thirst gripping him.
“Patrick,” he said hoarsely. “What of Patrick?”
Before there was any response, his knees buckled and he heard Genevieve’s cry of alarm just before the entire world went dark.
Genevieve made a grab for Bowen, but he was far too heavy for her to prevent him from falling to the ground. Brodie lunged and managed to save Bowen from eating dirt, hauling him up to hang Bowen’s arm over his shoulder.
“Take him inside the keep to his chamber,” Genevieve ordered briskly. “Post a man you trust to guard his door at all times. There are vipers in our midst. A McHugh tried to kill Bowen after swearing allegiance to him.”
Brodie gawked at Genevieve, his eyes narrowing.
“Go!” she directed. “He is losing more blood and his wounds must be tended. I must send word to his brother. We are in a perilous position, and now, with him wounded, we are even more weakened.”
Brodie nodded tightly. It was apparent he had no love of taking orders from a lass, but her commands were logical. This much she knew. He could hardly argue with her when Bowen’s life’s blood was seeping onto the ground.
Hauling Bowen over his broad shoulders, Brodie staggered slightly before gaining his footing and hastening toward the entrance to the keep. Genevieve looked warily around, ensuring no danger posed a threat, and then she went to seek out one of the senior Montgomery soldiers she knew to be trusted by both Bowen and Teague.
“You sir, by what name are you called?” Genevieve demanded as she strode up.
The hulking man frowned down at her, seemingly puzzled by the fact she carried a bow and a quiver half-full of arrows.
“I am called Adwen,” he said gruffly.
“You must ride to intercept Teague Montgomery with all haste. If you do not overtake him before he arrives on Montgomery land, you must go to their keep and apprise Graeme and Teague Montgomery of all that has occurred. We are vulnerable to continued attack from the McGrieves and the remaining McHughs. You may also tell the Montgomerys that Patrick McHugh is dead,” she said flatly. “We need reinforcements as badly as we need food and supplies. Bowen has been injured in the battle and ’tis unknown what his condition will be. Give his brothers a full accounting.”
Adwen straightened and then motioned for two others to join him. Then he glanced back at Genevieve with something that resembled respect gleaming in his eyes.
Almost too late, she realized that she was uncloaked. She hadn’t given care to any
thing but quitting her chamber as quickly as possible. There was no hiding her disfigurement.
She turned quickly, presenting her unmarred cheek as heat rose up her neck and suffused her jaw. The urge to rub her hand over the rough, puckered skin was strong, but instead she curled her fingers into a tight fist, determined not to give in.
It mattered naught what these warriors thought of her. She wanted no man anyway. What did it matter if none desired her or looked kindly upon her?
Bleakness assailed her, because though it shouldn’t matter, what lass didn’t want to be looked upon with favor? What lass didn’t want to feel beautiful?
“I will depart at once, mistress,” Adwen said, his tone still respectful. “I’ll give report just as you’ve outlined it to me.”
“Then go with God, and a safe return to you and your men,” she said.
He inclined his head and then turned sharply on his heel, barking an order to the two men accompanying him. They were bloody and looked battle-weary, but they didn’t flinch at their duty and Genevieve respected them for that. They hadn’t questioned her word.
She hurried toward the keep entrance, anxious to see how Bowen fared. The blood worried her, but she knew not where he’d been injured.
She stopped first in her chamber to put the bow and arrows away. She slid a finger lovingly along the worn wood bends and then solemnly closed the trunk, pushing herself upward to her feet once more.
Swaying precariously, she closed her eyes momentarily and steeled herself against the inevitable reaction setting in. She’d not spend a single moment regretting her actions. Nor would she allow Patrick McHugh to cast a pall over her. He was dead. No longer a threat. Vengeance was finally hers.
Her eyes popped open as she remembered Taliesan, sequestered in the tower, likely terrified and wondering the fate of the keep and clan.
Gathering her composure and breathing deeply to reinvigorate herself, she hurried out of her chamber and traveled to the far end of the hall, where once she’d been imprisoned, and where she’d existed for an entire year.
She beat soundly on the door, calling to Taliesan to open. A few moments later, there was much scuffling heard and then the door creaked open, only the dim glow of a few candles emanating from within.
“Genevieve!” Taliesan cried.
She was enfolded in Taliesan’s hug. Beyond Taliesan, many of the women and children huddled inside the small room, their gazes anxious as they stared at the two women embracing.
Against her will, Genevieve’s heart softened a bit at the fear so clearly written on the faces of the women of the clan. And the children. Eyes so big and wide. Their lives had been turned upside down by the selfish actions of an inept laird.
She didn’t want to feel anything for these people. They’d all been a party to her misery and humiliation. They deserved nothing from her, and yet she couldn’t turn her back on them, even if it was what she wished to do.
“What has happened?” Taliesan asked, pulling away. “Are we safe?”
The other women leaned forward, eager to hear. For once, there were no disparaging looks, no insults hurled, no name-calling. They all looked … vulnerable.
It was a feeling Genevieve was well acquainted with.
“Patrick attacked the keep with the aid of the McGrieves,” she said without emotion.
There were shocked gasps all around the small chamber.
“Did he mean to kill us all?” one of the women demanded.
Her tone was angry, and a quick look around showed Genevieve that there was anger on more than one face.
Genevieve shrugged. “He is without care for his kin or his duty as laird. ’Tis difficult to say how the mind of a coward works. He is dead now,” she said in a dispassionate voice. “He is no longer a threat, but I have sent word to the Montgomerys, because now that Patrick is dead, we’ve sustained one attack and our numbers are lower than necessary to defend the keep from a larger attack. The McGrieves might very well decide to ally themselves with yet another clan in order to take over the McHugh holding.”
There were cries of distress, a series of murmurs, whispers, and louder objections that echoed down the hall.
“You did right, Genevieve,” Taliesan said, crushing Genevieve’s hand with her own. “You have my thanks for looking after our interests so well.”
None of the other women went as far as to express gratitude. Several still looked at Genevieve with consternation in their eyes, as if they were loath even to consider the possibility that she was the one who’d been wronged.
“Where is the new laird in all of this?” one of the women asked, suspicion heavy in her voice.
“He lies injured in his chamber, under tight guard. One of the McHugh men who swore allegiance to the new laird attempted to cowardly attack him from behind. He is also dead, and the laird will remain under guard by those he trusts until he is well enough to be up on his own.”
“Nay!” several whispered. “Who is dead? Who killed him? Who was it, Genevieve? You must tell us if it was one of our husbands.”
The questions peppered her from all directions. Genevieve knew there was no easy way to relate the news. She raised her gaze, seeking out the woman she knew to be the wife of the McHugh man who betrayed Bowen.
“ ’Twas your husband, Maggie,” Genevieve said quietly.
“You lie!” Maggie hissed. “He would never do something so dishonorable.”
Genevieve steeled herself for such a response. It wasn’t unexpected. Who, after all, wanted to believe such of their husband?
“I saw him with my own eyes,” Genevieve added gently.
Maggie stared at her with obvious scorn. “And we’re to believe the word of a whore?”
Genevieve flinched and took an immediate step back.
Taliesan rounded on the woman, her face flushed with fury. “You will cease your insults! Genevieve has done much for us, and I struggle to understand why. She should have washed her hands of us. She should have welcomed our deaths, and yet she saw us all to safety. Even now she has sent word because we are in danger of another attack, and all you can think to do is heap petty, childish insults on her. Enough, I say! Act the adult you claim to be and cease acting like a child. The children of the keep behave better than the women of this clan ever have.”
Several of the women had the grace to look abashed, but others regarded Genevieve with open hostility. She knew she’d gained instant enemies the moment she named the betrayer. But she would not lie. Not to save feelings. Not when the dishonorable person merited no respect or goodwill.
“I must go now,” Genevieve said in a low voice to Taliesan. “I must see to the laird. I know not how seriously he was injured. There is much to be done below. The men will be hungry from their battles, and they must bury the dead. We will mourn our losses this eve, when an accounting is given.”
“You’re a brave and giving lass,” Taliesan said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “I know not how you manage it when Ian tried every conceivable way to crush your spirit. Your resilience is inspiring. I hope one day to be as you are.”
Genevieve’s response came out more as a sob. “Nay, Taliesan. Never pray for my fate. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
CHAPTER 16
Genevieve hesitated at Bowen’s chamber door. It was closed, and she wondered if she would even be permitted entrance. Brodie had looked at her with suspicion, but surely he didn’t believe she had anything to do with Bowen’s injuries.
Thrusting her chin up and scolding herself for being the coward she so easily labeled Patrick, she knocked softly at the door. There was a long moment of waiting, and she was debating whether to knock again when it opened the barest crack and Brodie stood frowning at her.
She thought to explain her presence, when he swung the door wider and motioned her inside.
“Have you any skill at healing?” Brodie asked as she stepped through the doorway.
She paused, blowing out her breath. “It depe
nds on what he has need of. I’ve never done any stitching, and I have no knowledge of poultices or drams.”
Brodie’s lips pressed together in consternation. “He has need of stitching for one of his wounds, certainly, and I would give him something to make him less restless, to ease his pain so the stitching can be done, but I do not trust a McHugh healer with his life.”
Her hand went automatically to rub at the ragged scar on her face. “Nay,” she agreed quietly. “I’d not have the McHugh healer stitch him, either.”
As she spoke, she moved toward the bed, where another Montgomery soldier stood guard. Bowen lay there, eyes closed, but he fidgeted even in unconsciousness. His tunic had been removed, and she could see a ragged cut to his chest. The flesh lay open and was still bleeding, though the soldier wiped at it with cloths.
“Think you are up to the task?” Brodie asked. “Your hands are smaller and you would perhaps be more adept at a needle and thread than I or one of the other men.”
She swallowed hard, still staring at the open wound. Then she squared her shoulders. “Aye, I have skill with a needle and thread. Surely ’tis not more difficult than laying stitch to material. I can sew a tight seam. But I dare not sink needle into his flesh if he’s had nothing to calm him.”
“I’ll have the materials you need fetched to the chamber. If we give him enough ale, it will dull his senses enough for you to do the task.”
Genevieve wasn’t as convinced as Brodie was, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t want to anger the warrior, and if he saw no use for her, ’twas likely he’d bar her from Bowen’s chamber.
Brodie pulled a chair from the window and positioned it directly beside the bed before motioning for Genevieve to sit. He gave terse instructions to the warrior attending Bowen, and then quit the room abruptly.
Genevieve leaned forward, her hand going to Bowen’s forehead in an automatic gesture of comfort. He shifted beneath her touch and then quieted, rubbing against her palm.
“Bowen, are you feeling any pain?” she asked.
“He’s remained unconscious, mistress,” the warrior explained.
