Highland Brides 03 - On Bended Knee

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Bloody hell.

  What assurances did he have they wouldn’t kill them both? Broc was right.

  “Drop your bow,” the man demanded, and Colin grimaced, wishing he truly did have one. He’d have given them each a hearty farewell.

  “Release Broc first!” Colin shouted at them. “Let him stand free of restraint and walk toward me!”

  They let go of him, letting him rise. Colin could tell by Broc’s rigid stance that he was entirely opposed to Colin’s ruse. Colin stepped out from the trees, well aware that they couldn’t see him very clearly. But they could see him.

  “Move away from them, Broc,” he directed.

  Broc did so, but reluctantly. “You’re a stupid son of a whore, Colin! Stupid!”

  “Mayhap so,” Colin agreed as he walked into the meadow, into plain view. “Walk toward me, Broc, and go tell Iain!”

  Broc didn’t bother to peer back at his captors. He simply obeyed, coming toward Colin.

  The Sassenach leader shouted at Broc. “Tell Iain MacKinnon that if he wants his brother back, he’ll hand over FitzSimon’s daughter. If he does not, his brother will surely die!”

  Colin winced at the threat. God’s truth, MacKinnon wouldn’t be trading with FitzSimon. Colin was a dead man.

  He passed Broc. “Tell Seana… tell her to remember what I told her.”

  “Iain loves his wife,” Broc returned fervently to him in warning. You will die.”

  “I know,” Colin confessed, and continued to walk toward FitzSimon’s men, not wanting to give them reason to go back on their word. The trade was tenuous at best, and they were watching warily, ready to fight if the need arose. He and Broc might make a run for safety, but neither of them were willing to risk the other—at least Colin was not and Broc seemed to sense it.

  “This is not your battle, Colin!” Broc hissed at his back, stopping and turning to give him another opportunity to change his mind. “Run—both of us now! We might make it!”

  “And we might not. Seana loves you,” Colin said calmly, without turning. “Treat her well, Broc.”

  FitzSimon’s men rushed forward suddenly, pouncing on him like rabid wolves.

  The Sassenach leader raised his sword, hitting him with its butt. And the last thing Colin heard before he crumpled to the ground, was Broc at a distance, shouting…

  “You’ll bloody well pay for that ye gadamned bastards!”

  Then he saw Seana’s smile… her hair black as midnight and those luminous eyes.

  Chapter 29

  It was a grand moment, one that would be remembered for ages to come, for it was the time all feuds were set aside to come together and stand united—the MacKinnons, and Brodies, and Montgomeries, and MacLeans.

  They were gathered together, all of them, in the meadow where Colin had been taken, surrounded by the great stones that had been carved by their forefathers. MacKinnons were seated with MacLeans, whose feud had begun long before anyone could remember, and had escalated with the death of Dougal MacLean’s eldest daughter Mairi. She had flung herself from a window rather than bear her husband’s touch, it was said. And the Brodies were conferring with Montgomerie—the Sassenach lord who had dared to come into their midst and steal Mad Meghan Brodie from beneath her brothers’ noses in retribution for a stolen goat.

  And then there was Seana… who belonged to none of these clans, and yet felt a part of all of them, somehow.

  “How many are they that we should tread so lightly?” Dougal MacLean, laird of the MacLeans, asked. “Look about you, Iain! Together we would crush them beneath our feet!”

  Iain MacKinnon stood in the center of the united clans. His was by far the strongest of these highland tribes. Descended of the powerful sons of MacAlpin, he had long been the unspoken leader of them all. Neither Dougal MacLean, nor any of the Brodies, nor any of the other clans would confess it, but they gave him deference even so. It was evident in the way they had gathered about him now, forming a circle of sorts to hear his counsel. Even Montgomerie, who had not been born to this history, gave him his due respect.

  FitzSimon’s daughter sat quietly at the MacKinnon’s side, her expression stricken, and full of concern. Her husband’s hand lay beneath her hair, caressing her neck unconsciously as he considered Dougal’s proclamation.

  The gathering cheered Dougal’s words, echoing his sentiments, each spouting some dire tragedy sure to befall FitzSimon and his men.

  Leith Mac Brodie leapt upon a stone suddenly. “’Tis my brother he holds!” He shouted over their din. “’Tis easy enough for all o’ ye to say such things when ‘it is not your own flesh and blood that would be spilled! If we take him as ye wish to, what’s to stop the bloody bastard from murdering my brother?”

  Seana’s heart wrenched at the truth of his words.

  She clutched at her chest with a hand, and tried not to weep before all these people. Och, but she could not bear it… if she never had the chance to tell him she loved him.

  Aye, she knew now that he loved her too. He had sacrificed himself when he did not have to. He might have simply gone to get help, unarmed as he’d been. Most men would have, Seana was convinced. But Colin had stepped forward, saving Broc’s life, and risking his own so Seana might have Broc returned to her.

  “He willna know what struck him!” Dougal countered. “I say we take him whilst he sleeps and slit his Sassenach throat!”

  “Nay!” Meghan protested. She stood and appealed to the gathering. “I will not let you bear my brother’s blood upon your hands!” She began to sob and her husband took her into his arms, consoling her.

  Tears pricked at Seana’s eyes.

  She was torn with so many emotions: She wanted to go and comfort Meghan, wanted to be comforted as well, and yet she didn’t even truly have a say in how this was to be fought. She swallowed hard.

  Iain MacKinnon had moved behind his wife. He held her by the shoulders, squeezing them in a consoling gesture. “We are strong enough,” he interjected. The crowd hushed though he had not raised his voice. “To take FitzSimon per force…” His gaze met Dougal MacLean’s, then Leith Brodie’s, and finally Montgomerie’s. “But at what price?” he asked them all collectively. He turned to MacLean. “What is your stake in this?” he asked the elder laird.

  Dougal MacLean frowned in response. “I want no Sassenachs upon my land!” he answered finally.

  The gathering remained silent. A few echoed his sentiments with simple nods, but no one else spoke out.

  Page FitzSimon spoke then, her expression filled with pain and sorrow. “My father will… he will not hesitate… to kill Colin.”

  Her husband drew her against him protectively. Whatever anyone felt for her father, it was clear that Iain MacKinnon would not tolerate its direction at her.

  The mood between them became more somber still.

  Iain MacKinnon turned, then, to Leith Brodie. “We understand ye want him returned to ye unharmed, Leith… it only seems we’ve no choice. From experience I know that FitzSimon is ruthless.” He glanced down at his wife.

  Any man who, when speaking of his own daughter, could say, “keep her or kill her, I care not which” was not to be underestimated.

  Leith’s jaw remained clenched. The anger, clearly written upon his face.

  “It should have been me,” Broc Ceannfhionn declared, standing up beside his laird. He faced Leith Mac Brodie, then Dougal. “I do not know the best way to do this, but if it were me… I would want to live to see that bastard die!”

  Page gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth, and Broc realized, belatedly, the import of his words.

  No matter what else he was, he was still her father first.

  “Och, he doesna deserve ye, Page,” he said quietly, though only Seana and Iain might have heard his awkward apology.

  Tears welled in Page’s eyes. “This is all my fault!” she declared, her tone filled with regret.

  “Nay!” Iain said. “It is not!” And he shook her gently, as though
trying to persuade her to believe it. “It is not!” he told her once more.

  Seana met Page’s gaze, and she dared to reach out and place her hand upon Page’s hand. “It is not your fault,” she said, and meant it truly. “Ye canna be blamed for what your father does or doesna do.”

  Page smiled softly and turned her hand to accept Seana’s gesture. They sat there, holding hands, then, and Seana’s heart twisted with agony over Colin.

  Page somehow interpreted Seana’s wretched expression.

  “You love him?” Page asked in whisper.

  Seana nodded, tears in her eyes, her heart in her throat.

  Page gave her hand a little squeeze.

  “Well, he risked his life for me,” Broc said to the gathering, “I’ll not be a party to sacrificing his!”

  “We’ll bloody well not barter with him either!” his laird said, holding his wife close, looking as frustrated as everyone else.

  They had gone round and round with this discussion all morning and were getting nowhere. Seana knew everyone was feeling as helpless as she was. She only wished there were something she could do. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing Colin, and loathed this feeling of utter helplessness.

  There must be something they could do…

  There must be something she could do…

  Och, but she couldn’t just sit about like some witless fool and lose him forever whilst these men debated his fate. None of them could agree on a plan, and nobody seemed inclined to do anything at all until they all agreed together. As Seana saw it, they were losing precious time. If FitzSimon thought his opportunity was lost, he would kill Colin and flee.

  “I need a bloody drink!” auld Angus declared suddenly. “We all do,” he added when everyone turned to look at him.

  Seana turned to face him and blinked, staring at his ruddy face, a seed of an idea germinating…

  Aye… but mayhap there was something she could do. Mayhap the women here could accomplish something these men could not.

  Angus’ thick white brows drew together. “By the bloody stone, what did I say?”

  Seana’s heart began to pound with hope. She leapt up from the stone she was seated upon and exclaimed excitedly, “I have an idea! Och, God! I know what to do!” And she might have even jumped up and down with joy, save that for an instant, her declaration was met with stony silence and even disapproval. The expressions of the men were at best bewildered.

  Dougal MacLean was the first to speak. “Sit down, lass.” He waved her down, dismissing her. “Let the men settle—”

  “But…” Seana couldn’t do it alone. She needed help. They must at least let her speak!

  She met Meghan’s gaze, pleading

  Meghan’s husband, too.

  “Hush, Father!” Alison MacLean said suddenly, standing. Her hands went to her hips. “Let Seana speak!”

  Meghan Brodie stepped forward, then, her expression hopeful. “Aye,” she demanded, “let her speak!”

  “Aye!” came an outcry from the rest of the women. One by one they stood, defying their men. A mumble of protest answered them, but Seana suddenly felt hope.

  “Go on… tell us,” Iain MacKinnon beseeched her.

  Seana’s heart beat frantically within her breast. She peered up at Iain MacKinnon, thankful for his support, and then at Page and smiled. Page smiled back at her.

  Encouraged, Seana told them her plan. “But I would need help,” she begged everyone.

  Silence was her answer.

  Her gaze met Meghan’s once more… then Alison… and Page…

  “I will do it!” Meghan declared, and without hesitation. “And my husband has the supplies!”

  “Me too!” Alison agreed, stepping forward.

  “It’s a verra good plan, Seana,” Page said, reaching out to touch Meghan’s soiled dress. “Though he would know me… I will help however I may.”

  Seana smiled. “Thank you,” she said. And turned to the gathering for any more volunteers.

  “I will help too,” said a woman, stepping forward from the back.

  “And me!” exclaimed another.

  “And I will!” said another.

  And another.

  And another.

  And another.

  Seana clutched at her breast, grateful for the first time for all of Colin’s women. She couldn’t help herself. She chuckled with joy and then shouted with glee, “Let us go to Meghan’s, then!”

  One by one, the women moved toward Meghan, some abandoning fathers and others their brothers, and even a few their sons and husbands, as well. All of them ignoring protests and doomsaying, resolved in their desire to help.

  Seana shook her head, marveling at the numbers that stepped forward, young and old alike.

  Her hands went to her burning cheeks. “Ye rotten rogue!” she said of Colin beneath her breath, but she smiled as she said it…

  Chapter 30

  Colin awoke with a headache.

  Sassenach bastards.

  They hadn’t needed to hit him. He hadn’t intended to run. He tried to work his hands and legs free of his bindings but his effort was in vain.

  Hell, at least he was still alive.

  And this way, at least, there would be time enough to try to figure out how to free himself… or time to contemplate his imminent death.

  He grimaced over that thought, and tried to roll over, groaning with the effort. His entire body ached, and he thought it was because they’d bound him and tossed him into a corner of this fat lord’s tent without the least concern for his comfort. His limbs were twisted into the most ungodly positions, and there was no telling how long he’d slept that way… or what hour it was now…

  He’d yet to meet FitzSimon, or if he had, he sure as hell didn’t recall the momentous event. Judging by the meager light in the tent, it was night still… or mayhap again…

  He peered under the tent… night…

  Christ, how long had he slept?

  He lay there, trying to gain his bearings… thinking about Seana…

  He wanted her to be happy—hoped she would be very happy with Broc.

  The faint sound of the reed reached his ears and he closed his eyes, thinking he’d only imagined it… thinking it was some memory come back to haunt him… the first time he had met Seana again… the night of Meghan’s wedding… the music had been just as lively… but then, it had been a celebration.

  There was hardly a reason for celebration tonight.

  Or mayhap there was.

  If it was true, as they said, that he had broken so many hearts… mayhap all the women he’d known were now celebrating his death.

  But he wasn’t dead yet.

  Colin groaned at the thought, hardly pleased with the life he’d led.

  Och, but he wanted to be a father. He wanted to come home to Seana and have her meet him with kisses and… uisge, blah! Did she know how to make anything else? He grimaced at the thought of drinking even a dram of her spirits. The stuff was rotten enough to kill a man. And if he didn’t die while drinking it, he would surely wish he had the next morn.

  Well, it didn’t matter. He didn’t care if she didn’t know how to cook. He loved her anyhow.

  The sound of the reed grew stronger… and merrier, and Colin drew his brows together as he considered it. Voices accompanied it… female voices… and revelry…

  What the hell were they doing? Having a bloody festival in truth? Christ, Colin, thought. He’d known MacKinnon wasn’t going to barter with FitzSimon, but he wasn’t even dead yet!

  In frustration, he tried his bindings once more, but in vain. He couldn’t even loosen them. He slammed his head back against the ground, cursing beneath his breath.

  FitzSimon cocked his head as he listened. “What the devil is that?”

  Women, laughter, and music assailed the otherwise peaceful night. Tonight, unlike the night before, the skies were clear, affording them a perfect view… but there was no sight of women as yet. Their revelry ca
rried upon the night air, their music sweet but jubilant.

  “I don’t know, my lord.”

  “Go and see, then, you idiot!” FitzSimon demanded.

  His man bounded to his feet at once, abandoning his meal.

  FitzSimon nodded at another man, as he took a hearty bite of his mostly charred hare. “Go with him,” he ordered.

  The man froze in the middle of his own bite. “Aye, my lord,” he said, and set down his fare. He rose and hurried to do his lord’s bidding.

  “Damned Scots!” FitzSimon railed. “A man cannot even eat in peace!”

  “Should we feed the prisoner?” another of his men asked.

  “Hell no!” FitzSimon replied. “He’ll either be back with his brother soon enough and he’ll fill his belly then, or he’ll be dead and have no need. ’Tis as simple as that!”

  “True, my lord,” agreed the man, and returned to his plate, resolving to mind his own affairs, lest he end up having to sacrifice his own meal.

  FitzSimon smiled as he ripped off another bite of his meat. Respect was what it was all about.

  The two men he’d sent to investigate returned quickly, swaggering, grins on their faces.

  “’Tis only a bunch of women, my lord.”

  FitzSimon’s face screwed. “Women? Doing what?”

  The man shook his head and shrugged. “Dancing.”

  “And how they are dancing!” exclaimed the other, with a dreamy look in his eyes.

  “Mayhap they are camp followers?” suggested the man who had inquired about feeding the prisoner.

  “Are ye sure ’tis only women?” FitzSimon expression was puzzled. No self-respecting man would send a woman to fight his battles. He hardly took MacKinnon for a coward.

  Their merrymaking remained at a respectful distance, or he might have grown suspicious…

  He tossed his meat down and rose, curiosity getting the better of him. All his men rose with him.

  “No, no, no, no!” he railed at them. “We can’t all bloody go!” He nodded at the man who had offered to feed the prisoner. “You stay,” he commanded, and motioned for the others to follow.