by Cathy MacRae
From what Tavia could see, men were obviously in control of others as they passed by, hands at their sides, heads bowed. But who? She searched the bailey for sight of Ranald or Finlay, afraid of what she would find.
A dark-haired man leapt from the parapet stairs, sword swinging from his hand, a shout sounding from his lips.
“Riona!”
It was Ranald. Tavia’s indrawn breath left her in a whoosh of relief, her arms suddenly trembling. The castle had been retaken by the Macrorys and the Scotts. But what of Manus and Morgan MacEwen? And where was Riona? Cold panic washed over her.
Gilda clutched her fiercely. “I want Ma,” she whispered into the side of Tavia’s wrinkled neck.
“We’ll find yer ma, lass, dinnae fash. We must wait a bit.”
“I want her now!” The petulant wail rose.
“Wheesht! We dinnae want to be found just yet. Cease yer greetin’.”
But Gilda had reached the end of her bravery—and her cooperation. Shoving away from Tavia, she broke the old woman’s grip, slithering to the ground as Tavia grabbed futilely at her.
“Gilda! Stay here! Dinnae go out there!”
Two men, crouched on the floor, lunged forward to intercept the lass, but Gilda darted past them, out into the brambles covering the path to the bailey.
“Gilda!” one of the guards shouted, his fingers closing on empty air.
“Useless men,” Tavia muttered as the guards clambered to their feet and elbowed their way out of the stable, chasing the lass.
Tavia scrambled after Gilda, but her old bones were no longer made to go dashing through thickets, and she quickly lost sight of the burnished curls and the white night shift shining like a beacon in the morning light.
Thorns pricked her hands as she warded off the smallest branches. She stumbled out into the yard, halting at the sight of the bodies littering the ground. A few moaned, lifting arms in supplication as the castle healer and her helpers moved among them.
A sharp cry captured her attention, and she spied Gilda, tiny fists clenched at her sides, the sparkle of tears on her face.
Tavia hobbled toward the child, one hand stretched in a calming gesture. “Gilda, a chuisle, dinnae move. I’m coming for ye, lass.”
“Kinnon!”
The voice was Riona’s and both Gilda and Tavia turned toward the sound. Before Tavia could stop her, Gilda darted away, skirting the men on the ground, hell-bent for the now-open gate and her mother.
Riona flung herself at her brother as he slid from his horse. Aghast at his wasted frame as he swayed against her, she could not bring herself to let him go. His arms circled her in a fierce hug belying his weakened condition, but within moments, he relaxed, his arms dropping to his sides.
“What have ye done to the keep, lass?” He teased her softly, motioning to the chaos within.
Riona’s laugh laced with hysteria and she choked on a sob. Swiping at her face with the back of one hand, she surveyed her brother, not ready to delve into the upheaval of the past days.
“Where have ye been? We received word ye were missing . . . or worse.” Her voice cracked again and she stared at him with wide eyes, drinking in the sight of him.
A small weight flew against her legs and Riona stumbled. Her hands went instantly to the form buried in her skirts, caressing the red-gold hair.
Kinnon sighed, his exhaustion plain. “I’d like to come inside, if ye dinnae mind.”
“Aye. It seems we have much to discuss.”
They looked up at the sound of the new voice. Ranald stared at them, his sword still drawn, blood matting his hair against one side of his face, his eyes bright and piercing behind narrowed lids. Riona’s stomach lurched, the emotions of the past hours still fresh and raw.
Sheathing his sword, Ranald swept Gilda into his arms, ignoring Riona’s gasp of protest. He strode to the door of the hall, leaving her and Kinnon to follow.
Chapter 29
Riona sat next to Kinnon, Gilda curled in her lap, as they waited for Ranald’s return. With a glare pinning them in place, he’d set Gilda in her chair, pivoted on his heel and stalked from the room, Riona and Kinnon gaping after him.
Kinnon patted Riona’s knee. “Dinnae fash, Ree. He needs time to gather himself. A splash of cauld water will help.”
Riona shook her head. “He’s verra angry with me.”
“Tell me what has happened.”
“First I want to know where ye have been, Kinnon. Ye are so verra thin. I was so afraid . . . We’d heard . . .”
He gave her knee final a pat as he leaned back in his chair. “I went to fight in France. I was wounded and nearly died. It took me a long time to regain the strength to come home. Let’s no’ talk of it now.”
Riona inhaled a shuddering breath, aware how painful the past weeks must have been for him. As much as she needed to know what had happened, she didn’t have the heart to pry further.
“Aye, then. Yer welcome to talk when ye are ready. I’ll no’ press ye.”
“Thank ye. It looks as though ye have a lot to tell me.” He gave her an even look that brooked no further distractions. “Talk.”
Riona shifted uncomfortably and Gilda burrowed closer. “I’d rather no’ talk with her here,” she murmured, nodding at the lass surveying Kinnon with solemn eyes.
“Give me the quick version, then. Ranald won’t be gone long, and I think there are things needing to be said just between ye and me.”
Riona sighed. “After ye left, Da taught me the way of the clan. He let me learn to use a bow, practice with a sword, listen on his judgments and help our people. I was fifteen and such knowledge and freedom was exciting.” She fell silent, remembering the impudent lass she’d been.
“Laird MacEwen offered for me and Da refused. He dinnae think a laird who made a living in piracy would be the proper husband for me, and he realized the MacEwen wanted the land in my dowry more than he wanted me. But he was persistent, arranging to ‘accidentally’ meet me in the village, or on the beach below the castle.”
Riona shrugged, trying to forget the day he’d cornered her by the firth and she’d discovered how deep the caves ran beneath the cliffs, how she’d not believed no one would hear her scream. The dark, tunneling cave had absorbed her cries, and by the time he’d released her, her childhood was destroyed and she’d gained a deep fear of the power of men.
Kinnon sucked in a harsh breath. “Merde.” His gaze met hers and she felt dismay at the wealth of sorrow she saw on his face.
“Dinnae fash, Kinnon. I should no’ have . . .”
“Ree. ‘Twas no’ yer fault. I should have been here to protect ye.”
“Kinnon, even Da couldnae protect me when I was so reckless. It is over, and Gilda is much loved.”
Kinnon sighed. “I can see that. Tell me about Da. I heard rumors as we approached Scaurness there is a new laird here. Is it Ranald?”
Riona nodded. “Da was sick and wrote to yer commander to send ye home. He was devastated when we received word ye were presumed dead. He seemed to fade a bit more each day afterward. One day he collapsed and fell down the stairs, and it was only a matter of days before he died.”
“I am sorry, Ree. I would change it if I could.”
Riona shook her head. “He wrote to King Robert for a man to take over Scaurness. He dinnae want the clan in dissension when he passed. The king sent Ranald.”
“I remember him. He’s no’ much of a sailor, but he was a good friend when he and his brother visited.”
“Kinnon, now that ye are back, ye will be laird—” she began.
“Nae, lass. I’ll no’ be laird.”
“Why?”
“I may never regain my health and I have seen enough killing. I have chosen to enter a monastery.”
&nbs
p; “What?”
One of the doors to the hall suddenly swung open and booted footsteps sounded loud on the stone floor. Riona’s gaze jerked to Ranald as he strode toward them.
Then a shout from the stairwell made her swivel in her seat. “Laird! He isnae here! The MacEwen is gone.”
Ranald came to an abrupt stop. “Shite.”
The anger he’d managed to ease with fresh, cold water as he sluiced off the worst of the battle grime, flared anew.
“Have ye searched the rooms above?” Ranald’s voice cracked like a whip in the silent room.
“Aye.”
He ran a hand over his face as he turned to Riona, noting again her torn dress, her pale, drawn features.
“Where did ye leave him?” His question was blunt, taking no care for her battered emotions. There was a dangerous man still loose at Scaurness and smoothing ruffled feelings would have to wait.
Riona’s eyes widened in agitation, then narrowed in annoyance. And what looked like hurt. “My room,” she bit out.
The soldier at the stair nodded. “Aye. There was blood on the floor an’ a MacEwen guard just inside the door.” He ducked his head in Riona’s direction. “Milady cracked yon rascal’s heid, she did,” he noted with due respect.
“The MacEwen?” Ranald glared at the soldier, unwilling to be impressed with Riona’s prowess. Had she listened to him, she could have avoided the need to ‘crack yon rascal’s heid.’ She hadn’t believed him able to save her life or that of the daughter he’d claimed for his own. He didn’t trust himself to look at her, afraid to see what her lack of confidence had cost her. He knew what it had cost him.
“Nae sign of him, Laird,” the soldier replied.
“Take as many men as ye need and secure this castle. I want him found!” His voice rose to a roar, goading everyone to action.
Gilda hunkered deeper into Riona’s lap, a short sob and snuffle escaping her as she buried her head against her mother’s breast. Riona’s torn gown shifted lower on her shoulder, pulling the tattered neckline to the brink of respectability. She reached for the ripped lace to tug on it, but Gilda’s weight held it fast.
Something akin to revulsion swept through Ranald as the image of MacEwen’s hands on Riona rose in his mind, gouging at a visceral part of him.
“Change yer gown,” he snapped, instantly regretting his words, but unable to soften enough to apologize for the wounded look that leapt to her eyes.
“I’ll sit with wee Gilda.” Young Brian, his face battered almost past recognition, hastened to Riona’s chair.
“Brian!” she exclaimed, coming to her feet. “What happened to ye?”
The young lad shrugged, his usual devil-may-care attitude no longer in evidence. “They thought I knew where Gilda was hiding.”
Riona encircled the lad’s thin shoulders with her free arm, holding him close. He allowed the embrace but for a moment before taking a deep breath and drawing away.
He held out his hands for Gilda. “Here, lass. I’ll sit with ye while yer ma runs upstairs.”
Pulling her thumb from her mouth, Gilda slid to the floor and placed her hand in his, tugging him toward her chair. He sat, drawing her into his lap, and the pair huddled together.
As Riona stared at Ranald, the sting of her betrayal yet stole his breath and he couldn’t speak. It wasn’t her fault the castle had been taken, nor was it her fault Gilda had been in danger. Both those things could be laid directly at his feet and he’d not deny his responsibility. But she had defied him, chosen to give herself to the MacEwen in exchange for Gilda, not trusting him to care for his own. Was the bond they’d formed rent beyond repair? Without trust, was anything left?
He found the answer in her eyes. Hurt blended with sorrow as she silently begged him to forgive her. The moment passed and he could not move past the pain in his chest.
Her expression grew aloof and he knew the instant the wall went up between them. He took a hesitant step toward her, but his words of apology froze on his tongue when she turned and walked away.
He had waited too late.
Riona stumbled to the stairs, tears blurring her vision. She struggled to draw breath, refusing to meet the eyes of those who stopped to stare as she passed.
How could he criticize me? Gilda meant everything to her. She would gladly die for her daughter, and she’d faced a fate worse than a thousand deaths to save her. Ranald couldn’t understand. Gilda wasn’t his.
She shuddered as she climbed the steps, her slippered feet barely supporting her shaking legs. He didn’t want her anymore, would never be able to look at her or touch her without wondering if she’d lain with Morgan MacEwen, if he’d taken her yet again.
Damn him! He’d promised Gilda would be safe! They’d been trapped by MacEwen soldiers the moment they’d entered the bailey. How could Ranald have hoped to prevail against such odds? She’d done her best to save both him and Gilda, and damn him for hating her because of her choice.
Her blood sang angrily as she yanked open the door to her room. The fire had died down again, but morning sunlight slipped through tiny slits in the partially open shutters. A band of light fell across the bed, reminding her where the MacEwen had held her down, rubbed against her . . .
She whirled, forcing herself to walk to the wooden chest where her clothing was stored. Reaching behind her, she fumbled with the laces of her gown, unable to still the trembling of her fingers enough to untie the cords. Giving vent to her anger, she grabbed the torn neckline, ripping the sleeve completely away, feeling the tiny stitches tear beneath her hand.
It felt good. She grabbed the other sleeve and yanked, and the bodice fell to her waist. With a tug and a wiggle, she pulled the dress away, stomping it into the floor beneath her feet.
Satisfied on some level she’d rid herself of the stench of the MacEwen, she knelt before the wooden chest. She opened the lid and plucked out the soft, nubbed silk of the first dress in the stack. Ignoring the wrinkles and not caring about the style or color, she rose and pulled it over her head, lacing it as best she could. With a shove, she closed the lid, the satisfying sound as it rebounded on the wooden frame ringing in her ears.
Something rustled on the bed behind her, and she whirled, her heart racing in fright. A dark form loomed over her and a bed sheet snapped down, wrapping tightly around her head and shoulders. She sucked in a breath and screamed, but like the walls of the dark tunnel long ago, the folds of fabric absorbed her cry.
Once more, no one came to her rescue.
Finlay strode the floor, his face dark with anger. “They tell me the MacEwen cannae be found.”
Ranald grunted. “Nae.”
“I have locked away thirty men, MacEwens and Macrorys, in the dungeons. The rest appear to be loyal, though misguided. I sent most to the barracks where the healer will see to their wounds, and lined the walls with Scotts. He’ll no’ get past us again.”
“How many dead?”
“A score. Men are sorting through the fallen. A few are badly wounded and will be moved as the healer releases them.”
Ranald clenched his jaw. “A long day ahead. I will keep those in the castle here in the great hall, and allow none to leave. They can be protected here.”
Finlay searched the people huddled in the room. Some clung to each other, some stood or sat alone, seemingly too shocked at the day’s violence to do more than stare. He noticed those seated at the laird’s table.
“Who is that?” he asked, jutting his chin at the thin man next to Gilda.
“The old laird’s son, Kinnon.”
Finlay arched his eyebrows in question. “Now what happens?”
Ranald shook his head. “I dinnae know. I havenae asked him.”
Finlay shrugged. “A wee breeze would knock him down. Think ye the Macrorys wou
ld follow him?”
“I dinnae have time for this discussion. I want MacEwen found.”
“All right.” Finlay peered around the room. “Where is yer lady wife?”
“In her room.”
“Is that safe?”
Ranald sent a look sideways at Finlay, then at the stairs. He hesitated but a moment, feeling the blood drain from his face. He shook his head.
“Nae.”
She couldn’t fight. Riona’s hands were bound tightly behind her, a wadded piece of fabric shoved so far inside her mouth she was afraid she’d choke. A blow to her chin had addled her wits long enough for her to be trussed and bound like a chicken for market, and the sheet covering her head and shoulders now wrapped around her like a shroud. It was difficult to breathe. Riona inhaled deeply through her nose, but the fabric flattened against her face.
Strong arms banded around her and she tried to squirm away, but there was no way to move her arms and legs within the sheet, and precious little air to fuel her rebellion.
She was lifted, and with a twisting movement her captor flung her upward. Her breath left her in a whoosh as her stomach slammed against his shoulder. Another blow to her midsection as he adjusted her weight made her dizzy from lack of air. Her head hung downward and blood rushed past her ears with a roar, sudden nausea choking her.
Swaying slightly, the man strode across the room. Riona heard the snick of the door latch and the subtle creak of hinges. After a moment’s pause, she sensed forward movement, jerky and fast. Her head clipped the wall and she cried out.
But the sheet muffled the sound and Riona could do nothing more than hang like a dead thing.
Ranald and Finlay rushed the stairs together, two at a time as they wound upward to the second level. Ranald drew to a halt at the head of the stairs as two soldiers gently led three sobbing women from the room next to Riona’s. Another man turned down the hallway, a shrouded form over his shoulder. This one would go to the burial grounds.
