Reid sighed. “When it comes to the heart, Archie tends to forget who is the enemy.”
“Ach! What nonsense. Archie’s love consists of a quick lift of the lass’ skirt.”
“Maybe, but he only takes what a lass offers.”
Waylon frowned at Reid’s poor excuses to defend his brother. Archie inherited the Maxwell's dark looks and devilish grey eyes, but throw in the carefree way Archie had about him and the lassies went wild with want to be near him. His brother’s lighthearted ways proved a damn nuisance more times than not.
“Are we going to give a counter attack?” Reid looked ready to lift his sword to defend his brother. He only had to say the word.
“This isnae livestock. ’Tis my fool brother they’ve taken and they’ll have his head before the night is through. Archie killed a Johnstone, our enemy. I should leave Archie to face his crimes and be done with it.”
“But he dinnae kill Two-left Feet. The man tripped and hit his head on a rock. It was self inflicted suicide if ye ask me.”
Waylon rolled his eyes at his cousin’s logic. “And how is it ye know what happened?”
“Uh...uh... ye see–”
“Ye were there whoring alongside my brother, werenae ye?”
Hot waves of shame washed over Reid’s face, making him look like he was about to burst into flames. “I dinnae want him to go alone.”
“Of course ye dinnae.”
“The deed is done, Waylon. I am sorry for no’ having more sense, but we cannae let the Johntones torture Archie.” He shook his head. “If only I’d thought to capture a Johnstone so we could ransom Archie back.”
Waylon scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration, but then a thought occurred to him. Maybe Reid didn’t have such a bad idea. “We ride tonight.” He placed his forefinger and thumb between his lips and whistled two sharp shrills. His gallowway lifted his head and whinnied in response before it trotted over. The shaggy pony was nothing to look at, but he was sure-footed, loyal and fast—important factors for a reiver’s way of life.
“What plan do ye have spinning in yer head, Waylon?” Reid followed along side him.
“Kidnapping a Johnstone. With the laird secreting Archie away to the forest, Lochwood is vulnerable to a raid.”
“Aye and only a daughter to defend the pele tower.”
Waylon’s lips curved. “Aye, the daughter is who I have in mind to take. Easy pickin’s.” He turned toward his men of two hundred strong and announced his intentions. “We ride to Lochwood this night. A young lass needs our comfort.”
Reid's lips spread into a wide grin. “And what will ye do with the lass?”
“She can bow down to her new laird or suffer the consequences. I care no’ what she chooses. I will have her in my keep before the night is over and then we’ll see if William willnae negotiate Archie’s release.”
“Aye, his daughter for yer brother. The lass is William’s weakness. He dotes on her, giving her freedom most men would be wise no’ to give a young lass. Feisty, too she is, with hair as dark as night and eyes the color of the Scottish sea.”
“I care no’ of her attributes.” He took his pony’s reins, leading the beast behind him as he walked.
Reid kept pace easily beside him. “But mayhap ye should. Wouldnae it serve William right that ye made him kin?” Reid chuckled in jest.
Waylon stopped in his tracks and whirled on Reid, his sword drawn, the tip of it pointed at his cousin’s throat. “I have no wish to be tied down to any woman, be her a Johnstone or a Maxwell.”
Reid swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Aye, of course. I thought perhaps ye could see an end to the feuds. William willnae call us out if ye are married to his only child. And ye said time and time again that reiving will have to eventually stop.”
By the grace of blood Waylon was a reiver, but he hoped for more for his sons ... that is if he decided to take a wife. He fancied himself sitting near a roaring fire in his keep with his own livestock to tend to and not that of his neighbors’ in Devil’s Beef Tub.
He knew no other way of life, but he would at least like to have the opportunity to find out if he could make do. He was tired of bloodshed, the late nights, the hiding out in the cold night air. He’d like to try an honest life without a feuding clan breathing down his neck. Farming, trading with the Celts came to mind.
For the time being, the Johnstones demanded his attention and he would be forced to deal with them.
Waylon lowered his sword. “If the Johnstone wench is comely as they say, I may consider. What good are lands if I have no heir to leave them to when I’ve gone.” He chuckled and hit Reid on the back.
Reid held his own. He stood two inches shorter than Waylon’s six-three stance, but he out weighed the young laird by far. “’Tis true what they say aboot the lass.”
“Tell me more of what ye heard, cousin. I want all the details and we’ll need to find Heuy so he can earn his keep as March warden.”
Chapter Two
William Johnstone neared fifty years of age, but the graying hair didn’t portray a decrepit old man. He stood tall, trim with broad shoulders and muscled arms from wielding a sword for over forty of those years. He married young, loved with all his heart and grieved when his wife died of a fever, leaving him with a child to care for by himself. If Catrione had been a son, the situation would have been different. A son could fight beside him learn the trade of reiving, but a daughter he knew not what to do with her.
Catrione possessed his stubborn pride and she could hold her own in a sword fight. He saw to it that she could defend herself if he could not be there to do so. He gave her too much freedom and now he’d pay for his indulgence. She wanted to marry for love. He should have put his foot down, demanding she marry whom he deemed a good match. It baffled him still how he’d agreed to her terms before he realized he had done so. She had him wrapped around her finger and she used the advantage to obtain what she wanted. “I have to put her in her place. Aye, put my foot down and demand she listen to reason.”
“My laird?” Donal, his second, looked up from where he sat by the fire.
William waved his hand in dismissal. “Only thinking out loud.” He walked away and toward the prisoner. As much as he loved his daughter, he hated the Maxwells with the same passion. Archie Maxwell looked up as he approached. The dark-haired man with his boyish charm irritated him even more. The Maxwell pup thought he could wander onto his lands and take his women. Then kill his men and not be held accountable for his actions. Well, he would soon learn he couldn’t charm his way out of his clutches this time.
“Good eve, laird William.” The man had the gall to sound pleasant when he’d been tied up hand and foot. His mouth spread into a wide, even smile.
“You won’t be so cocky come tomorrow when we hang you.”
His smiled disappeared in what seemed a demure expression. “I dinnae realize I was being cocky. My apologies.” He nodded.
“What game do you play, Archie Maxwell?”
“No game. I have no wish to quarrel with ye or anyone for that matter. I am a lover no’ a fighter.”
“Aye, and your nether parts has put you in this situation. Perhaps you should have rethought your philosophy of life.”
“Never. To have a woman in my arms, kiss her, make love to her...” He sighed lost in his own reverie. “Perhaps it has been too long for ye, laird William, that ye’ve forgotten the feel of a woman beneath ye.”
William’s hand snaked out whacking Archie on the side of the head. The young man flew to the side unable to brace himself with his hands tied behind his back. William crouched down beside him satisfied to see the smirk wiped off Archie’s face. “You will pay for defiling a Johnstone.”
“My laird,” Donal walked up behind him.
“What is it?” William snapped.
“The March warden, Heuy Maxwell and his men are here to speak to you.”
William stared at Archie. “Don’t think we wi
ll negotiate for your release, whelp. I’ll see you dead before that happens.” He stood, leaving Archie to think about his fate.
Chapter Three
The shouts and screams of pain were deafening. Catrione paced her room, feeling helpless. She should be out there defending her home, her people. She stilled her movements when her door flew open and her priest entered.
"They have broken through our defenses, my lady Catrione,” Jon Luc, her priest, told her as he shut the door to her chambers. “Waylon Maxwell and his men, one hundred strong.”
“How did they hear of my cousin’s death so fast?”
“Word travels, my lady, when there is so much to gain. They took Waylon Maxwell’s brother, not cattle and this would not set well with him. It is the reivers way of life to retaliate.”
She knew the life well, lived it too. “Can we hold the Maxwells off until word reaches my father?”
“We’ve sent the best runner, but I fear your father is too far away. We are on our own and with half the men gone, we will not last the night.”
“We must try or die in the process.” Catrione strode to her trunk that sat at the end of her bed and threw open the lid. Moving a few gowns to the side, she pulled out a jac, inspecting the quilt, and hoping the three layers still covered the iron plates.
Jon Luc walked over to her, looking over her shoulder as she prepared. “What are you doing my lady?” Fear laced his words.
“I am preparing to receive our company.” She eyed him closely. “You’d be best to arm yourself also. They have no morals and your robe will not save you. Surely, you know this.”
“You cannot be thinking you will war with the Maxwells. You have heard the rumors.”
“Of Waylon Maxwell, nicknamed the Devil’s Wolf, who cares not who crosses his path? Oh, I am delighted I am to meet the blackguard so I may send him back to his maker in hell.” She pulled out the basket hilted broadsword and swung it.”
“Dear God in heaven.” Jon Luc made the sign of the cross. “You’re mad if you think I shall allow you to go up against such a man as the Devil’s Wolf.”
Catrione turned on him, pointing her sword. “Listen priest, you shall do what I command. When my father is absent, I am laird at Lochwood and I will protect it as such. Now leave my chambers at once so I may dress the part.”
Chapter Four
Castle Lochwood stood perched in upper Annandale, in the valley of the Annan River. The pele tower wasn’t heavily guarded since William of Lochwood believed Waylon would go after him to save Archie. The fool would rue this day.
Waylon sent Huey Maxwell, their March warden, with a small party to meet with William. Come tomorrow, Huey would have delivered his message: “I have yer daughter at Caerlaverock. If ye would like to see her alive, I suggest ye release Archie into Huey Maxwell’s hands.” Waylon wished he could see William’s face when Heuy read the proclamation.
Waylon made his rounds making sure the pele tower was secured. The people of Castle Lochwood put up a good fight, but in the end Waylon’s men had proved too many for them to handle.
“We have secured the post, but we have yet to find lady Catrione,” Reid informed him as he took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Unless the lady has the ability to make herself invisible, she is here. I suggest ye find her.” Waylon knew his response was delivered in a curt manner, but it irked him that his men couldn’t find one hapless lass.
“Aye, we’ll find her, mi’laird.”
Waylon was about to turn away, but Reid cleared his throat, drawing his attention. “What is it? Say what ye must and be quick aboot it.”
“We are secure where it matters, but there is still the chapel.”
“The chapel?”
“Aye. In the courtyard, ye may have seen the squared off building—”
“Fine, fine, the chapel. What aboot it?”
“There is a young warrior and a priest who refuse to surrender.”
“Then make them.” He waved his hand in dismissal.
“Uh…Some of the men are reluctant to cut a man down in—”
“In what? Ye try my patience Reid.”
“The chapel is sacred ground, mi’laird.”
Waylon made a growling sound in the back of his throat and his eyelids fluttered as he tried to muster restraint. “I’ll take care of the matter myself.” He stormed out into the courtyard and to the pathetic building masquerading as the chapel. Without pause, he threw open the wood doors.
His gaze swept the room of wood benches arranged in two rows. An altar sat as the focal point of the room with a small crucifix displayed upon it. He spotted the old priest, frail and hunched over, already looking defeated despite his attempt at bravery. Waylon’s gaze shifted to the skinny lad standing beside the priest. The youth wore a helmet that nearly covered is face, leaving only his smooth hairless chin as witness to his age. Waylon had to give the lad credit. He stood tall and held his sword like a fearless warrior. Waylon would loathe having to kill him, but if the lad forced his hand there could be no other way.
“Come now lad, the fight’s over,” he coaxed.
The priest's hunched shoulders sagged further and he dropped the dagger he gripped in his hand, but the lad refused to be intimidated.
“It’ll never be over until every last one of you is dead.” He waved his sword in the air as he spewed his threat.
Waylon’s brows lifted. The lad’s voice hadn’t even changed, but it still rumbled like a distant thunder.
“Brave words, I do say, but all within the keep has laid down their weapons.”
The lad hesitated, but then straightened his back. “You lie.”
“Now why would I?” He moved forward with careful steps. He didn’t believe the priest would interfere, but he sensed the lad was unpredictable. “Come now, put down yer sword so we may talk freely.”
“Talk? Do you think I do not know who you are?”
“Who is it ye think I am?”
“The Devil’s Wolf.” He spat on the ground. “You slay all in your path and eat the young for breakfast.”
If the situation wasn’t so grim, he may have laughed. He had heard the rumors, but had ignored them. It was better the enemy feared what they thought he could do than know the truth. “Now, now, is that any way to greet yer new laird?”
“I will never swear fealty to you.”
“Nay? We will have to see aboot that.” He lunged forward, but the lad anticipated his move and blocked it with one of his own.
Waylon was impressed. He had underestimated the lad. He thought to disarm him and be done with this charade. “So ye insist on playing, do ye?” Waylon would participate in the lad’s game for a while, but in the end he would win. They paced, each sizing up the other. Out of curiosity to see what the youth had in him, Waylon would allow the lad to make the next move.
He didn’t make Waylon wait for long. He leaped forward swinging viciously, his sword slicing the air with vengeance. Waylon was forced to retreat as he defended himself from each blow. The look in the lad’s eyes told Waylon his intent. The lad wished to kill him. Waylon swung his sword sending the insolent child back.
The lad jumped onto the wood bench giving him height and an advantage as their swords clanged together. The lad was light on his feet and agile as a cat. Waylon would have to work to put an end to this.
“Come now, ye tire,” Waylon spoke to distract.
“It is you who tires, Devil’s Wolf.” The boy swung his sword again with ferocious intent.
Waylon barely deflected the blow. His eyes narrowed. “Enough! Ye will end this now or I will.”
“Hah! We’ll see who ends what.” And he came after him again.
Waylon backed up blocking every swing feeling the jolt up his arm. Whoever taught this lad to fight was good. If the lad lived long enough, he’d make a fine warrior. The lad swung again, the tip of the sword sliced through Waylon’s leather jacket hitting flesh.
The lad
gasped in shock and stepped back.
Waylon glanced at blood oozing from the cut, a flesh wound only. His pride stung more for allowing the youth to take him unawares. “Now ye’ve done it.” Waylon leveled his gaze on the lad. “We are done here.” He charged the lad, lashing out mercilessly. The lad was wearing down, but he refused to surrender. With swirl of Waylon’s sword he swung up, flipping the weapon from the lad’s grip and pushing him down. Waylon was upon him, his sword at the lad’s throat.
“Stop!” the priest shouted, running forward. “Please, I beg of you do not kill her.”
“Waylon’s gaze riveted to the priest. “What say ye? Her?”
“Do not listen to the old man. He is senile,” the lad claimed. “Do what you must and be done with it. Slit my throat. I am ready to die an honorable death.”
“No, I say,” the priest begged. “Forgive me, my lady.” His gaze turned toward the lad. “I cannot stand by and see you slain.”
“Mi’lady!” Waylon took hold of the helmet that hid the lad’s face and yanked it off his head.
Waves of dark tresses came tumbling out and wide sea-green eyes met his with alarm.
Waylon’s mouth dropped open. He had been about to slash the throat of a mere lass. “By all that is holy, are ye mad?” He yanked her to her feet. His gaze took in the length of her and he reprimanded himself for being so blind. Every curve stood out now that he knew the truth. He pursed his lips together. “The lady Catrione, I presume?”
She refused to answer and Waylon turned to the priest for confirmation.
“Aye, she is the lady of Lochwood.” He bowed his head.
Reid entered the church as the priest made the introduction. “Mi’laird...” He stopped dead in his tracks lowering his sword. “Where is the lad?”
“There was never a lad.” He pushed Catrione away from him, disgusted with her attempt to deceive him. “Take her. Bound her if ye must. but I want to ride now!”
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