As she struggled against his tight hold, she thought she caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of her eyes. Fervently, she prayed it was not her father’s men.
“Have I no’ already given enough fer yer country?” She growled. “Ye ferget, I am from Ireland, no’ Scotland! My first fealty is to my own home country!”
“Ye gave up Ireland when ye married Carlich, ye foolish woman!”
Her struggling only made him angrier, still, she persisted in her attempt to stall him. As she struggled, she saw the flicker again and it was drawing closer. “I’ll no agree to it, Archie! I will no’ do it!”
“Och!” he threw his head back in frustration and yelled. “Why? Why must ye be so damned foolish?”
Arline could see and feel his fury bubbling to the surface. Spittle formed in the corner of his mouth. She began to fear he’d have no compunction about killing her.
Enraged and furious, he tossed her to the ground and with drew his dirk. Arline’s eyes widened in terror. He was no longer her sworn protector, but a man hell bent on a mission.
“I should simply slice yer throat!” His voice echoed through the forest. He grabbed her by the hair and lifted her head as he placed the dirk against her throat.
“Nay!” she scratched out pleadingly. “Archie, do no’ do this!”
Something flashed in his eyes. His lips pursed together. He appeared to be mulling over his options when the sound of a twig snapping behind him drew his attention away from her.
Findley and Rowan were standing not ten feet away, with broadswords drawn and expressions of complete determination alight on both their faces.
“Step away from her, and I’ll let ye live.” Rowan’s voice was as cold and firm as the blade of steel he held in his hand.
Arline’s relief at seeing Rowan was short lived. She lay between the two men, afraid to utter a sound or move the tiniest of muscles. Archie snatched her hair up again and yanked her to her feet. She groaned and tried to pry her hair from his hands. He yanked harder and pressed the dirk against her throat again. “Rowan, I swear I’ll kill her if ye do no’ leave us be.”
Rowan cocked his head slightly. “Ye’ll be dead before she hits the ground.”
“If he doesna kill ye, then I will,” came a voice from behind. Archie spun around to see Duncan just a few steps away from him, with his sword drawn.
“Let her go, and ye’ll live.” Rowan repeated. “Harm her, and ye are as good as dead.”
Archie pulled Arline closer, using her as a shield, pressing her firmly against his chest. He wrapped one arm around her neck while he pressed the dirk against her throat. Taking careful steps backward, he was dragging Arline along with him. His breathing became jagged and harsh, like an animal caught in a trap.
“Ye dunna understand!” he yelled at Rowan. “This is fer Scotland! Fer her freedom!”
“Ye put too much faith in one person,” Rowan said. “What can she do that hundreds of others have no’ tried or done before her? Why is she so bloody important?”
Archie paused, still clutching a very terrified Arline to his chest. “He’s right, Archie!” she squeaked out. “Ye can find another to help ye.”
He cocked his head to get a better look at her. His expression told her he thought she was insane. “Another? Nay! Ye be the only one we can trust. Ye be the only one with a sense of duty and honor!”
He began dragging her away again. “I canna be the only woman in all of Scotland, Archie! I canna be the only one who can do what ye ask!”
“Shut up!” he howled at her. “Shut up!”
He jerked harder, increasing the pressure of his arm. If he did not stop, he’d either end up strangling her or breaking her neck. She looked to Rowan who followed them step for step. His eyes told of steadfast resolve to see her through this alive and unharmed. It bolstered her spirits and gave her hope. She made a split decision, one that she hoped would not cause Rowan’s death, or her own.
Pretending to faint, she let her entire body go limp. Archie fought to keep her on her feet, but with one arm holding the dirk and the other around her upper chest, he was hard pressed to manage it.
He howled in frustration and let loose his hold on her. Arline fell to the ground in a heap, while Rowan, Duncan and Findley sprang into action.
Archie continued his retreat. Unsheathing his broadsword, he held it outward with one hand, the dirk in the other. Waving them back and forth and the three men approached.
“If Scotland falls, I’ll make sure the whole world kens it to be yer fault, Rowan Graham!”
“If Scotland falls, it will no’ be because of me or Arline. It will be because cowards and traitors,” Rowan said as he pursued Archie.
Once Arline heard the men walking away, she pushed herself up to her feet. Though she no longer feared for her own safety, she did fear for Rowan’s. Of the men surrounding Archie, Rowan was the closest.
“That is what we are tryin’ to avoid, ye fool!”
“I be no more a fool than ye, if ye think one slip of a woman can save Scotland.”
She didn’t take it as a personal affront. Arline knew Rowan was simply trying to get matters under control.
Archie lunged forward, toward Rowan. Rowan saw it coming and jumped sideways. The blade of Archie’s sword barely missed Rowan’s abdomen. Too stunned and terrified to move, Arline could only stand by and watch, utterly helpless to do anything.
Findley took note of Arline’s distress. Uncertain if she would fall to pieces or do something foolish and attempt to intercede on Rowan’s behalf, Findley went to her side. With one hand on her shoulder and one on her elbow, he stood beside her and tried to offer her some reassurance.
“Rowan’s good with his sword, me lady. Ye needn’t worry.”
Arline thought his statement one of the most ridiculous that she had heard of late. Do not worry? How could she not?
“Lad, ye do no’ want to do this,” Rowan told Archie. “Put yer sword away and ye can live.”
Incensed, Archie refused to back down. “Nay! I shall no’! Ye dunna understand what yer up against, Rowan. ’Tis something much bigger than either of us. Let me take Arline and ye can go on about yer life!” Rowan met Archie’s sword as he swung it sideways, successfully blocking his shot.
There was not much room in the tiny clearing amongst the evergreen trees. Soon, the perimeter was surrounded with Rowan’s men. They would not interfere or act on his behalf unless it was absolutely necessary. This was a fight that Rowan had to battle alone.
Rowan made no attempts to swing or thrust. Archie was too angry, too infuriated to battle well. His movements were jerky, choppy, and Rowan knew he would soon wear out and tire. All Rowan need do was take a defensive stance, block the unbalanced and erratic thrusts, jabs, and swings.
Archie grew more frustrated with each swing that missed his intended target. He was coming apart at the seams, losing control; something shadow men never did. He tried channeling his anger, controlling it. He was slipping and he knew it.
Hope was quickly replaced with despair. He was surrounded by Graham men. Good, decent men who were loyal to Scotland, but they were first loyal to Rowan, which in his mind made them just as dangerous as the traitors he sought. He needed more men to help him fight Rowan and the men of Clan Graham. If he could just get to his horse, he could go to the camp where Arline’s father awaited them. In little time, he could have at least fifty men at his disposal, men who would fight tooth and nail to get Arline back.
As he contemplated his next move, turning in circles, thrusting his sword wildly, Rowan stumbled over a large rock and fell backward, landing on his back.
Archie took no time in making his move. He lifted his sword high above his head, ready to plunge it into Rowan’s chest. The only way to get Arline to agree to marry anyone was to kill Rowan Graham.
Duncan acted swiftly before Archie could bring his sword down. Flinging his knife through the air, it landed exactly where he had aimed: left of
the breastbone, straight into his heart. Archie fell to his knees, still holding his broadsword high above his head.
Rowan rolled away before Archie fell forward, plunging the knife in even further. The sickening sound of blood as it gurgled in his throat and sputtered from his mouth made Arline turn into Findley’s chest and cover her ears with her hands.
Duncan immediately came to Rowan’s side, extended his arm and helped him to his feet.
Rowan let out a big breath of air, shook his head and thanked his friend. “Thank ye, kindly Duncan,” he said as the color finally returned to his face. “I thought fer certain I was dead!”
Duncan gave him a firm slap on his back. “No man should die on his weddin’ day!”
Rowan gave him a quick nod before he rushed to Arline. He pulled her away from Findley and held her close, rubbing her back, and offering soothing words of comfort.
“Wheesht, lass, I be well. ’Tis over.”
Arline knew it wasn’t over. It would never be over until she settled matters with her father once and for all.
Someone offered a cloak to Rowan who carefully wrapped it around Arline’s shoulders. “Come, let us go home,” he said as he kissed her cheek.
More than anything, she wanted to return to Áit na Síochána. She wanted to marry Rowan and begin a life with him. Fearful that her father or one of the shadow men would eventually interfere with that plan, Arline shook her head.
“Nay, Rowan,” she said firmly. “There is one more matter we must deal with before we go home.”
Thirty-Two
Arline sat on Rowan’s lap as they headed to her father’s encampment. With his arms protectively folded around her, Arline explained matters as best she could and as she knew them. The more Rowan learned, the more furious he became. Grinding his teeth together, he remained silent as he listened to her tell her tale, beginning with the events that took place more than seven years ago.
She left nothing out. She told him about Robert Stewart, the letter in Carlich’s box, the shadow men; everything was laid bare before him.
He was proud of his wife. Aye, they weren’t married in the biblical sense just yet -- he hoped to have that issue resolved completely before the sun rose on the morrow -- but still, he thought of her as his wife. Although she’d been through much these past seven years, had been married to two suspected traitors to Scotland, had been beaten, nearly killed by an arrow, drugged and taken from her home, she still held on to her dignity and pride. She hadn’t fallen to pieces, hadn’t cowered in fear. Nay, she faced it full on, as brave as any warrior he knew.
And she was about to face one of the main sources of her fear. She’d not back down from her father. She’d not cry or plead or beg.
The more she talked, the more indomitable she became. Rowan was quite glad to have her as an ally and soon, as his wife.
Her father’s encampment was not far from where Archie lost his life. He was housed in a small clearing, scattered with tents and fires. A quick survey told Rowan that Arline’s father had mayhap only twenty men with him. Most of them looked barely old enough to have sprouted chest hair.
Rowan stopped near a group of lads sitting around a fire. “Where is Orthanach Fitzgerald?”
Three sets of fearful and confused eyes stared back at him. Only one lad moved. He raised and arm and pointed toward a group of larger tents. “He’s in the big one at the end,” the lad answered nervously.
Apparently Orthanach had not felt it necessary to bring men or soldiers instead of inexperienced lads, who didn’t even bother to inquire as to who he was or what he was doing here.
That could prove a fatal assumption on his part.
Rowan clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward. They passed a few more young men, all with the same confused looks on their faces as the lad who had directed him toward Orthanach’s tent.
Rowan brought his horse to a stop, swung a leg over and lowered himself down. His men followed suit, each of them keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. Rowan lifted Arline down from the horse and took her hand in his.
He did not stop to ask her if she was certain she wanted to face her father. Her green eyes flickered with purpose. She would do this and he would stand beside her while she did it.
Rowan held the tent flap open while Arline ducked inside. He followed in behind her, but remained back a few steps, with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
The tent was large. A full-sized bed stood off to the right. Finely upholstered chairs sat around a large round table. Carpets adorned the floors while tapestries hung on the walls. Dozens of lit candles, some in silver candlesticks, others in large candelabras, were scattered about the room. Ostentatious was the first word that came to Rowan’s mind.
Orthanach Fitzgerald sat behind a long table in an ornately carved chair. His booted feet were propped up on the table as he held a document in his long slender fingers.
He had short-cropped light brown hair that had grayed at his temples. His nose seemed far too large for his hollow-cheeked face. Dull blue-gray eyes looked up, first at Arline then at Rowan.
Orthanach made no effort to stand. He carefully laid the document down, twined his fingers together and rested them on his belly.
“Arline.”
There was no warmth in his voice, no sign of fatherly affection.
Arline refused to offer him a curtsy as was due his station and title. She was not going to beat around the bush.
“I’ve been told ye arranged yet another marriage fer me.”
He gave a barely perceptible nod of his.
“I’m here to tell ye that that won’t be happenin’.”
He breathed in deeply through his nostrils and let it out slowly. “What’s done is done. We leave on the morrow, fer Edinburgh where ye will marry Phillip Randall.”
Arline did not so much as bat an eye. She did not flinch or move or otherwise act afraid or frail. She stood her ground. “Nay, I shan’t.”
“Arline, do no’ give me any grief over this. The arrangements have been made, the bride price paid. Ye shall go to Edinburgh and ye shall marry Phillip Randall.”
Arline walked forward, placed her palms on the top of his desk and leaned in. “Nay. I shan’t. I will no longer be yer pawn. I will no longer cower and bend to yer will. I am of an age where I can decide who I want or do no’ want to marry.”
Orthanach was about to speak when a small commotion began just outside the entry to the tent. Rowan lifted the flap and stepped aside.
Findley came in, bearing Archie’s lifeless body over his shoulder. “Where do ye want, this Rowan?”
Rowan motioned toward the desk. Orthanach shot to his feet as he watched Findley give a curt nod to Rowan. He walked toward Orthanach and Arline, went to the side of the desk, and with a slight heave, he tossed Archie’s body off his shoulder. It landed with a thud in a heap next to the desk.
Findley gave a slight nod and cast a smug grin at Orthanach and quit the tent.
Arline stood with her hands crossed over her chest and glared at her father. “I believe ye ken who that is?” she asked, giving a nod toward the dead body at her father’s feet.
Orthanach was speechless. He looked dumbfounded as he stared at Arline.
“I ken him as well. Or did.”
Orthanach looked down at Archie. He was visibly shaken and pale when he turned his attention back to Arline.
“Hear me, and hear me now,” Arline began. Her tone was serious, firm, unyielding. “Ye will never contact me or me sisters. Ever. Ye shall leave the three of us in peace. No more barterin’ fer marriages. No more bargains with Robert Stewart. I’ll never be yer pawn again.” She took a breath as she leaned forward to look him in the eye. “Ye will never threaten me, me sisters, me husband, me daughter, or any future children I may have. Ye shall never send the shadow men fer me or mine. Fer I swear if ye do, I will run me blade through yer heart, just like I did Archie’s.”
Orthanach didn’t need to know who actua
lly plunged the blade through Archie’s heart. It was enough to keep him guessing, fearful, and understanding that she meant every word she spoke.
Orthanach leaned over the desk, placing his hands palms down on top of it. “Ye wouldna dare,” he challenged her.
In the span of two heartbeats, Arline drew the dirk Rowan had given her and thrust it through her father’s right hand until it hit wood.
For several long moments, he was too stunned to speak. He looked disbelievingly at the knife sticking through the top of his hand. Blood trickled from it.
Arline held on to the hilt and leaned in closer, her nose almost touching his. “That will be yer only warnin’. Heed me words or ye’ll no’ live to regret the day ye didn’t.”
Using both hands, she removed the knife from his hand, turned and walked away.
Blood spilled out and ran down his arm as he lifted it to his chest. “Ye stabbed me! Yer own father!” he cried out in shock and pain.
Arline stopped and turned back to him. “Remember, that was yer only warnin’. Ye’ll no’ get a second.”
She took Rowan’s hand and hurried from the tent. She didn’t want her father to watch as the blood drained from her face. She didn’t want him to see how ill she’d become.
Rowan climbed on to his horse, extended an arm to Arline and lifted her up. He wrapped his arms around her and without speaking, he took her away from the encampment.
Night had fallen but Arline begged Rowan not to make camp for the night. She wanted to go home, back to Áit na Síochána. She wanted to wrap Lily in her arms and hold her. She wanted to marry Rowan before dawn, and fall asleep in his arms.
A sense of peace, a kind of comforting peace she was not accustomed to, draped itself around her. Arline knew that her father was neither dumb enough or brave enough to test her promise. She was certain he would never bother her, her sisters or her family ever again.
She rested her head against Rowan’s chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. How wonderful it would be to fall asleep like this each night, and wake to him each morn. She could barely wait to return home, to marry him, to start a new life and, hopefully, to bear him a few dozen children.
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