by Ruth Langan
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Prologue
England
Fleet Prison, 1566
At the sound of booted feet echoing hollowly along the vast chambers, every prisoner looked up in fear. Most of the beatings were meted out at night, when there would be few witnesses.
When the footsteps halted outside the door of their cell, the two brothers glanced at each other, then turned to face the wrath of the jailer. While two men stood guard outside the cell, the one with the whip turned the key in the lock, then stepped inside. Rats scurried away as the light spilled into the dank cell. With feet apart, hands on hips, the jailer stood regarding his latest victims. The flickering light of the torch cast his face into the twisted mask of the devil.
“Who’ll be first?”
The taller of the two prisoners stepped in front of his younger brother.
“Nay, Kieran,” the younger one protested. “He’ll lay you open again.”
“If he’s man enough.” Kieran O’Mara touched a hand to his torn flesh and prayed the jailer would expend most of his energy on him before turning to the lad he tried to shield.
“Move aside,” the jailer shouted. “I know yer game. Ya’ve taken his beatings for the last four nights. This time I’ll start wi’ the weakling.”
As the jailer raised his hand, it was caught in a grip of steel. His eyes widened at the raw strength of the prisoner.
“Ya dare to defy me? Seize him,” the jailer shouted.
Instantly the two guards dropped their torches and wrestled the man to the floor of the cell. While they pinned him, the jailer sneered, “Now I’ll tell ya the truth, since ya’ll not live to repeat it. We’ve been ordered to see ya never leave this place alive, O’Mara, you and your brother.” He gave a shrill laugh. “And the best of all is that ye were betrayed by one who calls himself friend to ye.” The jailer’s lips curled into a sneer. “And ya musn’t concern yerself about yer lovely mum. She’ll be well taken care of. So long as she pleases m’lord. If ya know what I mean.” With a laugh he brought the whip down upon the younger prisoner again and again.
Kieran was suddenly filled with such rage that even the two guards could not contain him. With a burst of determination he broke free of the hands restraining him and battered the two men until they fell to the floor. Then, with a cry of fury, he brought his arm around the jailer’s throat.
With his lips close to the jailer’s ear he snarled, “Tell me who betrayed us.”
The jailer gave another evil sneer and defiantly clamped his mouth shut.
“His name, damn you, or I swear you’ll die.”
Again the jailer grunted and refused to speak.
Kieran’s fury boiled over. “Then take your bloody secret to the grave.” He heard the bones of the neck snap. As the jailer crumpled to the floor, Kieran knelt beside the bloodied form of his younger brother.
“Hold on, Colin. We are leaving this prison. We are going home.”
With a tenderness that belied his massive size he lifted the battered body of his brother in his arms and carried him along the maze of passageways until they were free of the prison they had shared for the past year.
Kieran trudged through narrow streets and filthy passages until the city was far behind. He walked all night without stopping. And when the dawn light touched the horizon, he climbed to a hayloft and cradled his brother’s body to his chest to keep him warm.
“I give you my word, Colin. You’ll not be buried in this godless land.”
At Colin’s slight nod, Kieran felt a wave of relief. At least he was still conscious.
By evening, his brother’s lips were blue. Kieran knew there was little time left. But he had never been one to break a promise. Though the journey before them would shatter the spirit of most men, he never flinched. As soon as the sun dipped below the hills, he lifted his brother in his arms and began the trek that would not end until dawn. He passed through villages and tiny hamlets, waded through streams and crossed fields of grain, stealing food to sustain their strength. And through it all, his mind worked feverishly. He did not yet know who had arranged their imprisonment in Fleet, but if it took him a lifetime, he vowed, he would learn the name of his enemy. And seek vengeance.
On the sixth day they had left England behind. When they reached the banks of the River Tweed in Scotland, Kieran wrapped the feverish lad in a stolen cloak and turned to study the Highlands looming in the mist.
“It’s not Ireland, but it’s not England, either. Do not fear, Colin. I will only leave you long enough to find food and weapons.” And a sturdy horse, he thought. For the journey home was far from over. It had, in fact, only begun.
Chapter One
“You make me proud, lass,” Duncan MacAlpin commented, standing as tall as his seventy-six years would allow.
Beside him on the balcony, the golden-haired leader of her clan, Megan MacAlpin, blinked away the sudden tear that threatened. Looking out at the sea of dear faces, she was overcome with emotion. The grounds of MacAlpin Castle were filled with the people who had come to pay their respects to this man.
Megan’s eldest sister, Meredith, was here with her husband, Brice Campbell, and their two wee bairns, as well as an entourage of Highland warriors, and of course Brice’s foster son, Jamie MacDonald, now grown to manhood.
Megan’s middle sister, Brenna, had come from England with her husband, Morgan Grey, who hovered by her side, seeing to her every need. His tender ministrations toward his wife, who was swollen with their first child, brought a smile to Megan’s lips. Who would have ever dreamed that two such ruthless creatures as Brice Campbell, the infamous Highland Barbarian, and Morgan Grey, the English Queen’s Savage, could be tamed by the love of two very different women?
That quiet power wielded by her sisters was alien to Megan. If there was some secret potion that a woman used on a man, Megan had not yet learned of it. She wanted no part of the silliness that went on between lovers. Love, she thought with a sudden frown. Look at all the turmoil it created. She glanced at the man who stood proudly beside her.
Old Duncan had served faithfully as man-at-arms to Megan’s father and grandfather, as well as to her sisters Meredith and Brenna. Yet it was not advanced age, nor failing health, that had finally robbed him of his position of importance. It was the care of the woman he loved.
“My Mary’s steps are faltering. She needs me with her night and day. ’Tis the only reason compelling enough to take me from your side. I hope you understand why I must step aside, lass.”
Megan did understand. She had seen that same kind of love shimmering between her father and mother until their deaths.
The old man’s voice broke. “You are so young to be leader of our people. I had hoped to stand with you.”
Choosing to disregard protocol, Megan wrapped her arms around the old man’s neck and hugged him fiercely. “I know, Duncan.” For a moment her voice caught in her throat and she stroked his head. “You have been brother, father, grandfather to me. I know what it has cost you to give up this place of honor. Especially,” she murmured, “since your own son and grandson lie buried in the ground.”
“Aye. There is no one left to carry on the tradition.”
“You have given all that a man can give.” In loud, clear tones she called out to those below, “I give you the most loyal soldier in all of Scotland. Duncan MacAlpin.”
The crowd roared their approval. Megan stepped back, leaving the old man alone to face his cheering friends. When she made her way inside, one warrior disengaged himself from the others and followed her.
As the crowd surged forward Brice Campbell leaned down and whispered to his wife.
Meredith nodded. A moment later Brice threaded his way through the throng and strode into the castle. He paused outside the door to the library. From inside came the sound of a man’s voice raised in anger.
“I am the strongest warrior in our clan. No man can best me in a fight.”
Brice recognized the strident tones of Malcolm MacAlpin, a distant cousin to Megan.
“Aye.” It was Megan’s voice, unusually calm, quiet. “Especially if ’tis fought your way.”
“My way?” The words were spoken in anger.
“In a fair fight, there are probably several who could best you, Malcolm.”
“When my life hangs in the balance, I do not care about the fairness of the fight. I care only for survival.”
“As well we all do. But my man-at-arms must be above reproach. There are those who say you would use any means to achieve victory.” She leveled her gaze on him. “There are even those who say your true loyalty lies with England.”
He flushed. “I am a Scot, born and bred. But I am no fool. Our future must be tied to England’s. That is no reason to reject me as your second in command. We are not at war with England. Our Queens are cousins.”
“As are we.”
“Aye. I am Duncan’s nephew. Since he has no more sons or grandsons, I am the logical choice to replace him.”
“Your logic, mayhap. But the choice will be mine alone.”
Malcolm’s voice rose. “If you do not choose me, I will be disgraced among our people.”
“Understand me, Malcolm. I do not call disgrace upon your name. But neither will I choose you to be my man-at-arms.”
For a moment Malcolm was too stunned to speak. Then he found his voice, and his tone held an edge of fury. “Mark me well, Megan MacAlpin. If you do not grant me this honor, you are no longer my leader. Nor are we family. From this day forward, I shall serve only myself. And someday—” his voice lowered ominously “—you shall pay dearly for this slight upon my name.”
The door was yanked open and a wild-eyed Malcolm pushed past Brice and strode away.
Stepping into the library, Brice found Megan standing before the fireplace, her head bowed in contemplation.
A cozy fire burned on the hearth, sending occasional sparks up the chimney. The scent of leather-bound books and ledgers hung in the air. Despite the tranquil setting, raw energy flowed from the young woman.
As he closed the door, she turned toward him. “So, Brice. Have you had enough of the celebration?”
“I might ask you the same.”
Megan shrugged. “’Tis Duncan’s day. And his Mary’s. They have no need of me for a while.”
“I could not help overhearing Malcolm’s words. Be on your guard, Megan. He could prove to be a dangerous enemy.”
“I will not be threatened by every vain peacock who desires a place at my side.”
It was like her to dismiss the threat. Had Megan, he wondered, ever been truly afraid of anything? “Who have you chosen to replace Duncan?”
Before answering him she turned to glance at the rolling lawn, alive with the brilliant hues of the men’s saffron shirts and Highland plaids and the colorful gowns of the women. “I have several young warriors in mind. ’Twill be difficult to fill Duncan’s boots.”
“Aye. Your man-at-arms must be willing to lay down his life for you.”
“As I would for any member of my clan. He must be skilled with longbow and broadsword, as well as sword and dirk.”
“Mayhap most important, he must be loyal to the death.”
“Aye.” Megan paused for a moment, then gave him a smile. “You are not a man to seek me out for small talk, Brice. Nor to eavesdrop on my…discussions with my unhappy clansman.”
Brice found himself wondering how many hearts would be broken by that dazzling, beguiling smile. “Nay. I have come to offer a candidate for your consideration.”
She arched an eyebrow. “A Highlander?”
“Not by birth. But in his heart he will always be one.”
Her eyes widened as she realized where this was leading. “Surely not Jamie MacDonald?”
“And why not?”
“He is your son, Brice. As you yourself said, if not by birth, then at least in his heart. And in your heart, as well.”
“Aye. I do love him like a son. And always will. But now that I have wee bairns of my own, I yearn for the quiet of home and hearth. Meanwhile, Jamie grows restless. He yearns to be in the thick of battle.”
“Battle,” she scoffed. “We are at peace with the English. Or so our Queens have decreed.”
Brice’s smile grew. “For the moment. But you and I know, lass, that such a fragile peace can be broken at any time. Living here on the border, there is a sense of anticipation, a sense of adventure that is missing these days in the Highlands. Here you must be ever ready to fight for what is yours.”
She met his smile with one of her own. “I need no lectures on the dangers of living on the border, Brice. I am always prepared for a fight.”
“Aye,” he said dryly. “As is Jamie. You are two of a kind, Megan. Your blood heats at the very thought of war. That is why I offer him for your consideration. He would make a fine man-at-arms. I have taught Jamie all I know. He is a skilled warrior. If I were to find myself in battle, I would want him by my side. And I would trust the lad with my life and that of those I love.”
“How would Jamie feel about leaving the Highlands? Would he not feel isolated from those he loves?”
“We have already talked of it. Perhaps one part of him will always stay with us in the Highlands. But another part of him needs to be here, where his father and his father’s people lived.”
Megan turned away to gaze into the flickering flames of the fire. For long moments she was silent, pondering the choice that lay before her.
In the past few years, since her sister’s marriage to Brice Campbell, Jamie and Megan had grown close. Being just a few years apart, they had played like frisky colts, wrestling and racing, burning up energy in endless teasing. Megan was completely comfortable in Jamie’s company. He was the closest thing to a brother she would ever have.
She turned and met Brice’s gaze. “It is a generous thing you offer, Brice, to give up the lad who is like a son to you. If Jamie MacDonald is willing, I should welcome him by my side.”
Brice nodded. “I will send him to you and the two of you can seal your pact.”
He opened the door, then paused with his hand still on the door pull and turned to Megan. “A word of caution. Duncan’s zeal was tempered with age and experience. Though Jamie is an able soldier, he is perhaps too much like you. You are both young, hot-blooded and headstrong. Beware that you do not lead each other into dangers that are best left unexplored.”
“Aye.”
Her quick, impish smile did nothing to dispel the thread of doubt that tugged at Brice.
When the door closed behind the Highlander, Megan glanced at her father’s sword hanging over the fireplace. Her sword now, and she would handle it with all the skill of a seasoned warrior. With Jamie MacDonald at her side, she would welcome any army that dared to invade.
She lifted her skirts and resumed her pacing, eager to welcome her new man-at-arms. Suddenly she felt like joining the others in celebration. The threat from Malcolm MacAlpin was quickly forgotten.
Kieran O’Mara knelt in the shade of the forest and studied the herd of deer that grazed a short distance away. He had fashioned a stick into a crude knife. That and his hands were his only weapons; he needed nothing more. He forced himself to remain perfectly still as his gaze roamed the thick foliage. He would allow the doe and fawns to pass by unmolested and take the buck that brought up the rear. The meat from such a kill would sustain him and Colin on the long journey ahead. The thought of his weakened brother gave him renewed strength. Colin trusted him to bring them safely home. Kieran would not let him down.
The deer suddenly lifted their heads in alarm. Kieran’s eyes narrowed as he peered through th
e forest to see what had startled them.
Two riders approached. Kieran felt a rush of anger and frustration. He had been so close. So close. Hunger gnawed at him. His hand tightened on the wooden weapon as he strained to watch and listen.
“Now then. Do you not agree that the game is more plentiful here?”
Kieran studied the lad whose voice carried on the wind. Though the youth was tall and heavily muscled, Kieran had no doubt he could best him in a fight. The lad had youth on his side, but Kieran had something far more compelling—desperation.
“Aye.” Megan agreed, patting the bag that dangled from her saddle. “We have caught more quail and dove in the past hour than I often see in a day.”
As they urged their mounts across a stretch of flat meadowland ringed by gently rising forests, Megan gave a quick glance over her shoulder. “Keep a close watch out for the MacDougals. Though this is open land, they have long considered it theirs. They will be spoiling for a fight if they find us stalking their deer.”
So they were poachers, like him. Kieran kept the lass in his line of vision. From this distance he saw that she rode like a man, with her gown hiked up to reveal tanned, shapely limbs. Her gown was a shimmering shade of amber that caught the sun’s rays. The shirred bodice hugged her high firm breasts and tiny waist. Her mane of wheat-colored hair danced against her shoulders.
Jamie touched the sword at his waist. “If it is a fight the MacDougals want, I will be more than happy to oblige.”
Megan’s laughter rippled on the breeze. “Brice was right. Your blood runs as hot as mine at the thought of battle.”
As he watched from his place of concealment, Kieran’s eyes narrowed at the woman’s laughter. How long had it been since he had heard such a wondrous sound. For one brief moment it stirred something in his heart that he had thought long dead. He had feared that a year in Fleet Prison had destroyed everything human in him.
