by Bess McBride
“No!” I said weakly, trying to push myself upright, but Igrid continued to lay on top of me, protecting me. A confused part of my brain thought that she was a wonderfully spunky little thing, so different from the quiet mousy maid I had met.
The men cursed each other in Gaelic, muttering things I didn’t understand—threats, death wishes, promises of bad things, I assumed.
They circled around, not as fencers do but as big men with heavy swords do—slowly. Dugald raised his arms suddenly and swung down hard, but Iskair sidestepped him as I shrieked. I wanted to stop shrieking, but it was all I seemed capable of doing.
“Hush, mistress,” Igrid said, covering my mouth lightly with her hand.
She was right. I had seen Iskair glance in my direction when I screamed. I endangered him...at the moment when he was trying to save my life.
I nodded and pulled Igrid’s hand from my face. The men moved around again, and I winced. Dugald was even bigger than Iskair, and thicker. But Iskair was younger and seemingly handled his sword with more dexterity.
Dugald swung down hard again, and Iskair moved quickly to undercut him. His blade sliced across Dugald’s chest, enough to enrage the Macleod but not kill him.
Dugald roared as Iskair had done earlier. I was reminded of lions fighting each other, using their voices to intimidate before attacking.
At that moment, John appeared, his sword dangling from his hand. He cast a glance at me, then returned to watching the men. It seemed apparent that he had no intention of double-teaming Dugald. But I assumed Dugald was not going to escape either.
Dugald seemed to know it. John’s presence distracted him, and Iskair raised his arms, brandishing his sword. I whimpered and slammed my eyes shut. I couldn’t bear to see Iskair kill again. I couldn’t bear to see someone die violently again.
I heard no scream, no guttural cry of pain, no sound of cracking bones. I opened my eyes to see Dugald down on his knees, Iskair standing over him with the brandished sword. Dugald dropped his sword and hung his head, his shoulders slumped.
I jumped up and ran to Iskair’s side.
“Please don’t. Please don’t kill him.”
Iskair, his eyes a bit crazed, his jaw locked into a grim determination, turned to look at me. John stepped in, pointing the tip of his blade at Dugald.
“Iskair is no going to kill him,” John said. “No a man on his knees.”
Iskair lowered his sword with the air of a man who had vanquished his opponent. I realized then that Iskair had never had any intent of killing Dugald once he was on his knees.
“We have taken the castle,” John said. “Castle Ardmore belongs to the Morrisons once again. I had lost hope of saying those words in my lifetime. I only wish my wife and children were here wi me.”
“How?” I murmured. “How did you guys manage to take the castle?”
“We shall tell those tales over the supper table for years to come, but for now, I must return to the castle, ensure that the prisoners are secure, and set out to find the women and bairns.”
“Angus will no tolerate this,” Dugald gasped, wheezing from the duel and clasping a hand across the slices on his chest.
“Dinna ye fash yerself about Angus, Dugald,” Iskair finally said. “Let him come. I am most happy to welcome him wi my sword.”
Iskair poked Dugald’s shoulder with the tip of his sword, not enough to break the skin but apparently to prove his point.
I winced.
John picked up Dugald’s sword and prodded the prisoner with his own sword to rise. Dugald stood straight, not giving them the satisfaction of hunching over to protect his injuries.
“I will ask Mrs. Mackay to see to yer wounds,” John said. “She has some skills.” He urged Dugald forward in the direction of the castle.
Iskair turned to look at Igrid and me, mostly me.
“Go wi them,” he said. “I will follow shortly.”
Sweat dripped from his forehead, and his face was pale.
“Go, Igrid!” I said, watching her hurry away before I turned back to Iskair.
“You’re hurt!” I reached for his kilt to examine his wound, but he backed away.
“Will ye desist wi lifting my kilt, woman? It is no proper!”
I rolled my eyes. “Is it the wound in your groin? Or are you hurt somewhere else?”
“Just some nicks and gashes. It is my privates that pain me.” He looked down at his kilt.
I didn’t see blood flowing down his legs, so I hoped for the best.
“I am afeared I may never be able to sire children!”
I wasn’t sure Iskair was kidding. He certainly didn’t smile but continued to stare at his kilt. I did note bleeding from several cuts on his hands and one near his collarbone. One more inch and it would have punctured his throat. But he stood before me—tall, strong and valiant.
“You’re fine, Iskair,” I murmured. “While that wound is close to your reproductive organs, it didn’t touch them.”
Iskair looked up at me. “Reproductive organs?”
“Your ‘privates.’ You’re fine. You’ll be able to sire children.” I blushed hotly and swallowed hard. I didn’t want to think about him with another woman...at all.
Iskair’s own cheeks, stained with sweat, darkened, and he dropped his eyes as he had not done in the heat of battle.
“Aye, well, I hope so. I dinna plan to become a priest.”
He looked toward the castle.
“Come. We must retreat to the castle. Angus and his men will reach the castle at any time.”
He sheathed his sword and took me by the arm, leading me out of the forest. Just as we emerged, two groups of men on horses rode up from opposite directions, surrounding us before we could run.
“So here ye are,” a large man called out in a booming voice.
Chapter Seventeen
“Murdo!” Iskair responded. He pulled me tightly to his side. “What brings ye here?”
Murdo rested his arms on the pommel of his horse, cowboy style, and regarded Iskair. I realized the burly, grizzled gray-haired man on the horse, sporting a mustard-yellow great kilt and a gray bonnet, was Iskair’s cousin Murdo Macaulay.
I recalled Igrid’s words. Mrs. Mackay said he is no evil like Angus. He is no a saint, mind ye, she said, but no evil. He has a wife and children and cares for them.
I dearly hoped they were right. I noted for a moment that Iskair’s clothing seemed to smell...or perhaps it was still me. I refocused.
“I wondered where ye had gone, cousin,” Murdo said. “And who is this bonny lass?”
“This is Mistress Debra Donaldson. Mistress Donaldson, may I present my cousin Murdo Macaulay, chieftain of the Macaulays?”
I nodded cautiously. Were we about to become prisoners? Again? I wished I could have warned John and the rest of the Morrisons in the castle. According to Iskair, Murdo would support the Macleods, not the Morrisons. It seemed likely he and his men would join forces with Angus and his group.
“Pleased to meet ye, Mistress Donaldson. I see ye wear the Morrison tartan. Are ye kin to the Morrisons?”
“She is,” Iskair interjected.
I wasn’t about to start explaining time travel to a group of sixteenth-century Scottish warriors, but Iskair must have worried that I would.
“And whose blood is that?” Murdo asked, looking at Iskair’s hands.
“Some of it is mine. Some of it is Dugald Macleod’s.”
“Who won the day?”
“As ye see, I am alive and the lady is unharmed.”
“How did Dugald fare?”
“He lives. He and his men are locked in the barracks.” Iskair eyed his cousin with a defiant lift of his chin.
Murdo lifted a bushy gray eyebrow. Around him, some of the horses moved restlessly, pawing at the ground.
“Are ye saying that John Morrison has taken his castle back?”
“Aye, that is the truth of it!”
“Wi so few men? I have no counted Morri
sons lately, but surely he had no more than twenty good strong men?”
“I dinna ken I should comment on the number of men he has.”
“Aye, of course.” Murdo looked over his shoulder at the castle tower. “Will he welcome me, do ye ken?”
Iskair stiffened. “I dinna ken that he will, cousin. Ye...we have long allied ourselves wi Macleod. Why would the laird have ye in for a dram of whisky?”
Murdo nodded. “Why are ye here?” The older man’s eyes traveled to me.
“It has naught to do wi the lass,” Iskair said.
I swallowed my disappointment at his dispassionate words.
“I am a Morrison as well, ye ken.”
“Aye, I remember. It kent it was ye who had forgot!”
Iskair stared at him. I sensed that the two men didn’t dislike each other...at all.
“I have never forgotten who I am,” Iskair said in a deep voice.
“No even when I sent ye on raids to Dun Eistean?”
“Particularly then. Why did ye never ask me how many men we killed? How many weapons we stole?”
Murdo pursed his lips. “I didna care. I only sought to harass the Morrisons, no wipe them out. Angus is more concerned wi killing them off...wi the exception of his grandbairns and perhaps Lady Ann.”
I looked up at Iskair, his eyes cold, his jaw grim.
“Are ye saying that ye sought to protect the Morrisons during the raids? That ye acted against Macleod interests? Against mine?”
Iskair didn’t answer. I knew then what Iskair’s secret had been, why he had stayed with the Macaulays.
“Aye. Murdo, ye are my cousin, but my heart is Morrison. My mother saw to that. She asked me before she died to protect them, and I did so in the only way I kent, by pretending that my allegiance was to ye, to the Macaulays.”
Murdo’s face didn’t transform into an expression of anger so much as astonishment. His men grumbled, some of them probably throwing out Gaelic curses. One spit on the ground in the age-old sign of disrespect.
Murdo barked over his shoulder, and they quieted. He reverted to English.
“This is between my cousin and me, no ye lot!” He turned his attention back to Iskair.
“Ye have made yer choice, and I dinna blame ye. It is an honorable man who respects his mother’s wishes. Ye ken I was fond of the lass. She was a braw wife and mother.”
I felt Iskair’s body stiffen. “Aye,” he said in a husky voice. “She was.”
Murdo nodded and looked up at the castle walls again.
“Is Angus dead then? Or did ye take him prisoner? If it were me, I would kill him.”
Iskair shook his head. “He was no within the castle when we took it back.”
Iskair clearly did not intend to tell Murdo that Angus was probably on his way.
Murdo clucked and shook his head.
“Then it is no over. Too bad. If he were dead...” He pursed his lips again and turned to look at his men.
“I canna help ye wi whatever it is ye must do now, ye ken, lad. Angus would exact revenge on the Macaulays, and I dinna have enough men to fight him off.”
“We have taken some of them prisoner,” Iskair said.
“Unless ye plan to kill them, they will return to their own castle. They are likely to wish my head for betraying them...if I were to help ye.”
“I understand, Murdo,” Iskair said. “Then ye must ride on.”
“Aye, I ken that is what we will do.”
I heard grumblings among his men again, another spit on the ground, restless horses. It seemed that the Macaulay men were eager for a fight, though I wasn’t sure with whom. Maybe anyone.
“Be well, Iskair,” Murdo said, tipping a finger to his bonnet. He rode off, and his men followed.
Iskair’s legs seemed to give out for a moment, and he leaned on me before straightening again.
“I dinna wish to frighten ye, lass, but I dinna ken if ye realize how close we came to dying. Murdo is no usually as understanding as he seemed just then.”
“He seems to hold you in affection,” I said.
“I ken ye are right. Else I would certainly be dead.”
He grabbed my hand. “Come. We must get to the castle!” He pulled me along, and I smelled his clothing again.
“Wait! How did you all get into the castle?”
“We climbed up through the latrine chute. John said he had done so as a child. A nasty business it was!”
“So that’s why your clothing smells!”
“Aye! And why I canna properly embrace ye as I wish.”
I gasped but could find no words as Iskair dragged me around the perimeter wall of the castle and toward the gate. I recognized several of the Morrison men guarding the gate, pistols and swords at the ready. They let us into the courtyard, largely unchanged though it was the first time I had seen it in daylight hours. To the right, the two-story structure did indeed hold horses, as I thought. Beyond that, another two-story building featured several Morrison men pacing, as if standing guard. I wondered if that was the barracks where the Macleod prisoners were being housed.
Iskair took my hand and led me toward the tower house. I ran his words over and over in my mind. And why I canna properly embrace ye as I wish. I stared at his tall, broad back, wishing with all my heart that he would stop and embrace me. But he moved quickly, pushing open the door. We stepped into the great hall, and he sat me down in a chair.
“I dinna ken where Mrs. Mackay or Igrid are. Perhaps Mrs. Mackay attends to Dugald’s wounds in the barracks. Ye must stay here in the tower until I come for ye.”
“What? No, I can’t stay in here!”
“Ye must. Ye can do no good out there!”
“Well, give me a pistol or something. I’m sure I can shoot.”
“Do ye ken how to load shot into a pistol?”
“No, I already know I can’t do that!”
“Then stay here.”
Iskair strode out of the great hall, and I ran after him. I opened the door and peered out to see most of the men rallying in the courtyard for some kind of strategy session. I saw Andrew in the mix, and I breathed a sigh of relief to see him intact and unhurt.
“I didna ken I would be back here so soon,” Igrid said behind me.
Startled, I jumped.
“I brought some tea.” She pointed to a tray she had set on a table. “Mrs. Mackay went to see to Dugald’s wounds, but she bade me prepare some tea for ye.”
“I can’t just sit and have tea with all this stuff going on!”
“Well, ye canna help. I heard Iskair tell ye so.”
I strode over to the table and picked up the cup Igrid had evidently poured out for me. Without sitting, I gulped the hot liquid, keeping an eye on the door. Moments later the door opened, and Mrs. Mackay slipped in carrying a basket.
She paused when she saw us, frowned and then approached.
“I canna say that I am no disappointed in ye, mistress. Dugald could have had my head for losing ye. And Igrid here...well, I can only say that I was verra surprised to see her gone and ye wi her.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mackay. We would have offered to take you, but I didn’t think you would go.” Privately, I couldn’t imagine the housekeeper dropping down the latrine chute, at any rate.
“And I would no have left the castle. Still, the laird has returned. He will rout Angus, and we shall see the Morrisons dine in the great hall here at Ardmore Castle once again!”
She dropped her basket on the table and sat down to help herself to a cup of tea.
“Were you tending to Dugald’s wounds? How is he? What’s going on out there?”
I sat down across from her, and Igrid joined us.
“Dugald is well, sore, but he will mend. The men stand guard awaiting Angus’s arrival.”
“When do you think that will be?”
“I dinna ken,” she said. “The scout said he was close.”
Gunfire erupted just then, and the sound of shouts filtered in th
rough the solid-oak door. Mrs. Mackay jumped up and bustled to the door. Igrid and I followed. She pulled it open a crack, and we looked out over her shoulders. Morrisons, notable by the color of their kilts, leaned over walls and parapets, firing down on what I assumed were Macleods.
Across the courtyard, Iskair, John, Torq and Andrew crouched below a ledge above the gate, rising occasionally to firing down upon the Macleods. They stopped to reload, a process that seemed to take some time, then fired again.
“I didna think to hear pistol shot at the castle again during my lifetime,” Mrs. Mackay said. “I ken it sounds horrid, but it is the sound of liberty!”
She was right. It was the sound of liberty for the Morrisons, fighting for their homeland. They had retreated for years to a tidal stack hardly large enough to support even a hundred people, and now they had come home.
I kept my eye on Iskair, who ducked down to reload. I saw him look toward the door of the tower. He waved at us frantically, as if ordering us to close the door. Mrs. Mackay complied.
“We canna distract the lads from the battle. I ken I should go down to the kitchen and seek out cook. She must be hiding in the root cellar, poor woman. We will need some food for the men, for the prisoners.”
She turned away and gasped. I swung around, as did Igrid, and we stared at three men, sporting blue-green tartans, descending the spiral staircase, swords in one hand and pistols in the other. One pointed his gun at us.
“Angus!” Mrs. Mackay whispered.
“Mrs. Mackay,” a slender gray-haired man said in a weaselly voice as he approached. “Who have we here?”
“A new maid, yer lairdship.” She moved protectively in front of Igrid and me.
A stench filled the room, and I saw the moisture and staining on the men’s clothing. Apparently, everyone had figured out how to get into the castle. Angus and his men approached, searching the corners of the room.
“Ye are lying. Her skirt bears the Morrison colors.”
Mrs. Mackay looked down at my skirt and shook her head.
“Aye, she was prisoner of the Morrisons, but she seeks refuge wi us here.”
“Us, Mrs. Mackay? Do ye think I forget ye are a Morrison?”
“I have served ye faithfully, yer lairdship.”
Angus continued to approach, pistol drawn. Behind me, I could feel the latch of the door. If I opened the door and tried to run, Angus might shoot Mrs. Mackay or Igrid. But to do nothing wasn’t a good plan either.
