by Allie Mackay
He leaned back in the chair, watching them. “I am a patient man. It willnae cost me to while here for days. Indeed, I intend to stay put until one of you tells me where my cousin is keeping himself.”
None of the men said anything, though several tightened their jaws and glared at him.
One spat into the floor rushes.
Another slid a nervous glance at the screens passage and the arched entry to the kitchens.
The kitchens.
At once, the hall tilted and dipped, spinning around Aidan as the answer hit him like a fist in the gut.
“Thor’s thunder!” He leapt to his feet, his own words echoing in his head: He’s sacrificed his men, hiding behind them as he would a woman’s skirts.
He wheeled to Tavish, triumph surging through him, hot and sweet. “I know where he is!” He grinned, and slapped his mailed thigh. “The bastard is in his kitchens, disguised as a scullery wench!”
“For truth!” Tavish’s face split in a comprehending smile. “The unfortunate creature we saw sitting in a corner, querning grain. The big-boned woman with a head veil and her back turned to us!”
Aidan nodded. “That’ll be him. I’d bet my life on-”
“Your life is over!” One of Conan Dearg’s men lunged forward, snatching the sword of Aidan’s youngest guardsman. “It’s you who shall die!”
“I think not.” Aidan whirled with eye-blurring speed, his own sword already drawn as the man rushed him, swinging his blade in a stroke that would have been deadly against any other foe. Steel met steel, the clang of clashing metal and angry snarls filling the air as Aidan parried the man’s every slashing blow, then closed in, his arcing blade cutting a mortal wound in the other’s side. The man folded in a pool of his own blood, his roar of pain echoing in Aidan’s ears.
Jerking his sword free, he swept Conan Dearg’s men with a heated stare.
“Should any others amongst you feel honor-bound to defend my cousin, come forward now or hold your peace,” he challenged them, furious. Bile rose in his throat that he’d been forced to cut down yet another kinsman. “I’ll see that you’re given a blade and even a shield. It’ll be a fair fight. On that, you have my word.”
A sea of hostile gazes met his cold stare, but no one made a move to accept his dare.
“You have no right to speak of fairness when you’d have us ride to Castle Wrath only to be slaughtered by your allies on the journey!” An older man pushed past the others, glancing hotly at the fallen guardsman before turning his glare on Aidan. “Your treachery is the reason we-”
“My treachery?” Aidan stared at him, a chill dread icing his blood. Suspicions too blasphemous to consider. He strode forward, clutching the man by the arms. “What is this you’d accuse me of? If we have our differences, every man within these walls is of my blood. Ne’er would I harm a kinsman without due reason.”
He paused to shove the hair from his brow, taking heart in the doubt beginning to flicker in the man’s eyes. “I see you know it,” he said, releasing him. “I would think every man in these isles knows it as well.”
“Your words spoke otherwise.” The man rubbed his arms, his face darkening again. “One of Conan’s riders intercepted the courier you sent to the MacKenzies of Kintail. Your missive fell into Conan’s hands. He told us of your perfidy. How you planned to invite us to feast with you and how the MacKenzies would lay in wait, falling upon us when we passed through the narrow gorge not far from your holding.” The man put back his shoulders, fury blazing in his eyes. “Your orders were to give no quarter, that not a one of us should be left alive.”
Heat swept Aidan, scalding the back of his neck. He felt his face flush, aware his jaw was working, but no words were coming out.
“By the blood of all the gods,” Tavish swore beside him, “ne’er have I heard a greater pack of lies.”
Aidan’s accuser set his mouth in a hard line, his gaze angry and unflinching. Behind him, others surged forward, their own faces red with outrage. “He speaks the truth,” one of them called. “The MacKenzies were to ambush us-”
“Who amongst you saw these orders?” Aidan thundered, his temper fraying. “Speak up and prove your lies. Here and now, that I might dispel them.”
“I will speak.” A young man barely sporting a beard elbowed his way to where Aidan stood. Ignoring the disapproving glances of his fellow guardsmen, he straightened his shoulders and drew a great breath. “We did not see the missive,” he said, his tone respectful. “We but believed what our lord told us he’d seen. He claimed his fury was so great upon learning of your plans, that he tossed the parchment into the hearth fire. All know of the strife between the two of you, so why should we have doubted his word?”
He paused to clear his throat, his cheeks reddening a bit. “I ask you, sir, would you not expect the same trust from your own men?”
“Indeed, I would.” Aidan folded his arms and did his best not to scorch the louts with a listen-and-learn-from-this-lad glare. “I would know your name.” He eyed the boy, judging him to be not more than fifteen summers. “Your name, and if you are skilled with horses.”
“I am Kendrew. I was orphaned and left at Ardcraig’s gates, or so I was told.” The boy flushed anew, his gaze darting to Conan Dearg’s silent, set-faced men, then back to Aidan. “And I am good with beasts, aye. Especially horses,” he added, shifting legs already longer than most of the men crowded near him. “I also know my letters and am handy with both a blade and a battle-ax.”
Aidan nodded. “So-o-o, Kendrew” – he flashed a narrow-eyed glance at his men – “are you afraid of witches?”
The boy blinked, then shook his head. “I do not fear them, no. From my experience, the older ones are naught but healers and the young ones are often women who’ve fallen out of favor with powerful men. There are some who say my mother was such a woman, but I cannae believe she was bad. Were that so, I think I’d feel it here” – he paused to clap a hand over his heart – “Though I’m sure there are many things in these hills we’ll ne’er understand.”
Under other circumstances, Aidan would have smiled. As it was, he made a swift decision. Turning to the man at his left, he ordered, “Mundy, see Kendrew’s clothes returned to him and give him a blade.” Before the oversized Irishman could protest, he took the boy’s arm and drew him forward. “You, lad, shall hie yourself outside and help my men tend their horses. Then you’ll return with us to Castle Wrath where I have other duties in mind for you.”
The lad’s flush deepened, turning as bright a red as his hair. “But, sir, I cannae leave Ardcraig.” He pulled back, clearly torn. “I am Conan Dearg’s man. I-”
“Go, and dinnae make me regret my rashness.” Aidan turned from him to Mundy. “See him into the bailey, then set others to gathering my cousin’s horses and weapons. We’ll be leaving anon. With Conan Dearg.”
“No-o-o, please!” One of the sobbing women ran at him, clutching his sleeve. “You cannae take the laird from us! See you, I carry his child.” She ran her hands down the front of her skirts, displaying the bulge at her middle. “Several of us are heavy with his seed,” she added, gesturing to the clutch of females. “We need him-”
“My regrets.” Aidan shook his head, wishing his cousin’s manhood was long enough to be tied into a knot. Unfortunately, he knew from earlier years that it wasn’t.
Frowning, he disentangled himself from the woman’s grasp. A comely wench with fiery-red hair and a lush, creamy bosom fair spilling from her low-cut bodice, she smelled fresh and sweet, her scent reminding him of Kira and what would happen to her should she land in his cousin’s hands. He shuddered at the thought, thanking the gods he knew her to be safe and guarded in his own bedchamber.
“Please, sir,” the woman pleaded again.
Aidan schooled his features, not wanting to frighten her.
“You shall have all you need and more, my lady.” He hoped she’d believe him. “My own patrols will guard your walls and I will make certain y
our stores and fuel remain plentiful.”
He didn’t add that he’d also attempt to find more suitable fathers for hers and the other women’s bairns.
“No one here will suffer, lest you repeat my cousin’s mistakes,” he added, already turning back to the captive men. “I give you my word.”
“Your word!” A swarthy man spat at his feet. “A snake’s honor,” he sneered. “We’ll no’ have your leavings.”
Great shouts of agreement rose from his fellow warriors and the older man stepped forward again, anger rolling off him in waves. “Hear me, Aidan of Wrath, I am Walter of Ardcraig and have dwelt here since before your birth. I, too, share your MacDonald pride. You may well slay us here where we stand if you mean to leave us unable to defend ourselves. We do not want or need your men riding our lands.” He glared at Aidan with withering scorn. “In your place, Conan Dearg would ne’er-”
“Let us speak plainly, Sir Walter.” Aidan lifted his voice now that the woman had scurried back to her friends and young Kendrew was out of earshot. “My cousin would and has done many things, including deceiving you.” Reaching beneath his plaid, he withdrew the rolled parchment, penned by Conan Dearg’s own hand.
The blackguard’s seal, cracked and broken, still dangled from the missive, attached to the end of a crumpled bit of red ribbon.
Red as blood and just as damning, as were the words inked inside.
“Read this and then tell me I’ve no right to put an end to my cousin’s villainy once and for all time.” Aidan thrust the scroll into the man’s hands, then stepped back to wait. “Read it aloud if you will.”
Walter of Ardcraig glanced at the scroll, looking up as quickly. His face was ashen. “My lord, this is beyond reason.”
“Reason was ne’er one of my cousin’s better points,” Aidan agreed. “Never the less, I’d have his words known. Read on, and loudly enough so all may hear.”
Looking miserable, Walter complied. A great silence descended when he finished. Again, Conan Dearg’s men avoided Aidan’s eye, but this time shame stained the faces of most. Regrettably, not all, so he took back the parchment and tucked it carefully into his plaid.
Then he cleared his throat. “Since my cousin intended to slay me and any of my clan who cared to accompany me to his feast, there will be some amongst you who knew of his plans,” he said, his voice ringing. “Be glad I am not him. I willnae damn innocent men for the dark deeds of others, but I will keep your horses and your weapons until I’ve decided I have no further reason to distrust you. Or until those brave enough to throw yourself on my mercy, step forward and admit your guilt.”
“I cannae think of a man present who’d be party to the like,” Walter spoke up again. “Not a one.”
“Then so be it.” Aidan gave him a curt nod. “I charge you to ensure I have no cause to return here in anger. If I must, not a stone will remain uncharred.”
Before the other could reply, Aidan wheeled about and strode for the screens passage and the arched kitchen entry, quickening his pace as he neared the torch-lit steps spiraling down into Ardcraig’s heart.
He took them two at a time, Tavish and a few others fast on his heels. At the bottom, his heart bounded to find a cluster of his best guardsmen, standing at ease as they watched over the seemingly innocent kitchen scene. Young boys stirred the cook pots and a straight-backed gray-beard kneaded bread at a table laden with butter, milk, cheese, and other goods obviously meant for the evening meal. Conan Dearg still sat quietly in the corner, his back angled to door as he ground his grain, clearly unaware his hours were measured.
The old man looked up, his expression as tight as his posture. “Can we no’ be left in peace to tend our work?” he demanded, his voice thrumming with indignation. “Your guardsmen frighten the wee fire laddies and I’m too old for the likes o’ such scrutiny!”
“Indeed,” Aidan agreed, stepping deeper into the kitchen, the zinging hiss of his sword leaving its scabbard, announcing his purpose. “We are no’ here to plague you or yon laddies, though you’d be wise to stand clear lest you get injured in the fray.”
“There’ll be no fray! Only your death!” Conan Dearg whipped his sword from beneath a pile of grain sacks and leapt to his feet. He lunged forward, overturning a bench as he swung wildly, his movements hampered by his skirts. “You’ll no’ leave here alive,” he snarled, crashing into the table before he regained his balance and attacked again.
Aidan’s mouth twitched. “You shall leave here alive,” he shot back, easily side-stepping the other’s charge. “You’ll meet your end in my dungeon where you’ll need neither grain nor a woman’s skirts.”
Conan Dearg lunged again, his blade striking Aidan’s with an ear-splitting clang. “You’re mad,” he bellowed, jumping back when his sword went flying. His face red with fury, he dived for the table, grabbing a kitchen knife. Aidan was on him in a heartbeat, knocking the weapon from his hand before he could even blink.
“Och, I’m no’ mad.” Aidan tossed aside his own sword, then slammed his fist into his cousin’s nose. “I’m reminding you that no one threatens my people and lives to tell the tale.” Another blow sent Conan Dearg to his knees, where he pressed a hand against his nose and gaped up at Aidan for a split second before sprawling facedown on the floor.
Satisfied, Aidan glanced at the grim old man and the three wee boys. They cowered in a corner, their distress only deepening his anger. Wiping his hands on his plaid, he turned to Tavish.
“See that someone looks after them.” He started toward the kitchen door arch, snatching up his sword on the way. “As for Conan Dearg, we are cousins no more. Have someone get him out of those skirts and properly clad. I’ll no’ have him shaming us on the journey back to Wrath.”
Once there, he might seize Kira and have his way with her, wooing and restraint be damned.
After the ordeal he’d just put to an end, his need for her was that great.
***
Unfortunately, when Aidan and his party approached Castle Wrath a few hours later, all such urges were swiftly replaced by an odd sense of ill ease. Nothing he could put his finger on, but something out of place all the same. A muscle began to twitch in his jaw and a hard, tight knot started pulsing somewhere deep inside him.
Frowning, he adjusted his plaid to better shield him from the sudden cold he suspected only he’d noticed.
Were he a superstitious man, he might think someone had hexed him, feeling such an uncanny chill twice in one day. As it was, and just for the sake of good Highland prudence, he shot a glance at Conan Dearg. It wouldn’t surprise him if the craven was attempting to blast him with the evil eye. But the double-dyed blackguard sat ram-rod straight in his saddle, his face stony and his gaze fixed stubbornly on the back of the man leading his horse.
Tavish, his other men, and even Kendrew, appeared oblivious. Some of Aidan’s younger kinsmen whooped and jested with each other before kicking their beasts into flat-out gallops in their eagerness to reach Castle Wrath’s looming walls and the warm welcome of its great hall. The promise of a seat beside the fire, free-flowing ale, and a trencher piled high with fine, roasted meat.
Perhaps, too, the grand feast he’d sworn would mark Conan Dearg’s capture.
For himself, he’d hoped to enjoy a bit of celebratory wooing. Slake the simmering burn inside him with a few long, deep kisses from his dream woman. Perhaps more, if she proved agreeable. At the least, he’d desired a quiet evening in her company. Shared hours spent in bliss that would banish the distastefulness of the morn.
Now….
He grew more wary the farther he rode along the steep and twisting track leading out to his cliff-girt home. And for no apparent reason, as the day had turned fair, with a fine deep blue sky and a bracing autumn wind. Not far ahead, Castle Wrath with its square keep and high curtain walls stood tall and proud as ever on its pinnacle of rock. Aidan’s banner was raised and snapped in the breeze. Everything looked as it should. From what he could see of th
e landing beach and little harbor below his stronghold, naught was amiss there either.
He turned in his saddle, craning his neck to make certain. The seas were running steep, but his flotilla of longships and galleys appeared safely moored in the choppy, sun-dazzled water. Several of the galleys had been drawn up onto the shore for repairs and the fires of the beachside smokehouses looked well-tended, with the usual number of men going about their business drying fish and mending nets.
Even so, something wasn’t right.
Sure of it, he placed his a hand over the worn leather scrip hanging from his sword belt, hoping the clutch of freshly-picked heather tucked within would dash his dark thoughts and put him back in fine fettle.
But as so much of his luck seemed to be going of late, Tavish caught sight of the movement and cocked a knowing brow. “Think you a handful of crushed heather will win a lady’s heart?” He edged his horse nearer, his implied superior knowledge of women, only worsening Aidan’s mood.
Leaning close, Tavish lowered his voice, “You’d be better served to seat her next to you in the hall, pouring her wine and hand-feeding her fine morsels. Whispering sweet nothings in her ear and letting your men see-”
“It would seem my men see all too much.” Aidan shot him an annoyed look. “Since when can a man no’ pause to tend nature’s call without some long-nosed kinsman who claims to be his friend spying on him while he’s at the deed?”
Tavish chuckled. “Mayhap because it was the first time I’ve seen you call for such a halt on a notably short journey?”
Aidan harrumphed. “Perhaps I drank too much watered ale before we left Ardcraig. The morn’s doings left a bad taste in my mouth and I but sought to wash it away.”
“Then why not tend such matters standing beside your horse as you usually do? Why sneak off behind a great outcrop where a particularly bonnie patch of heather is known to bloom?”
