by Allie Mackay
“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, well aware that his jaw was working, but no words were coming out.
“By the blood of Christ,” Tavish swore beside him, “ne’er have I heard a greater pack of lies.”
Aidan’s accuser set his mouth in a grim 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 those of 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”—this time he did flash 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 canna 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 canna leave Ardcraig.” He pulled back, clearly torn. “I am Conan Dearg’s man. I—”
“Go, and dinna 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 canna 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 cut her off, 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 saints he knew her to be safe and guarded in his own bedchamber.
“Please, sir,” the maid wailed again.
Aidan schooled his features, not wanting to frighten her.
“You shall have all you need and more, my lady,” he promised, hoping she’d believe him. “My own patrols will guard your walls, and I will make certain your stores and fuel remain plentiful.”
He didn’t add that he would also attempt to find more suitable fathers for her and the other maids’ bairns.
“No one here will suffer—lest you repeat my cousin’s mistakes,” he added, 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 men 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 thing, 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. “Nevertheless, 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 accompan
y 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 willna 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 canna 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 turned on his heel and strode for the screens passage and the arched kitchen entry, quickening his pace as he neared the torchlit 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 as he found 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 graybeard 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 corn, clearly unaware his hours were measured.
The old man looked up, his expression as tight as his posture. “Can we not 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 not 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 yanked 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. “But you shall—leave here alive,” he shot back, easily sidestepping the other’s charge. “You’ll meet your end in my dungeon, where you’ll need neither corn nor a woman’s skirts.”
Conan Dearg lunged again, his blade meeting Aidan’s with an earsplitting 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, but Aidan was on him in a heartbeat, knocking the knife 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 own 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-faced 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.”
He just hoped he didn’t shame himself by dragging Kira into his arms and having his way with her the instant he returned.
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.
Willing the twitching to cease, 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 fear 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, half thinking he might be attempting to blast him with the evil eye, but the double-dyed blackguard sat ramrod straight in his saddle, his expression stony and his gaze fixed stubbornly on the back of the man leading his steed.
Tavish, his other men, and even young Kendrew appeared oblivious. Some of Aidan’s younger kinsmen even 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 celebratory feasting he’d sworn would mark Conan Dearg’s capture.
Aidan frowned. He’d hoped to enjoy a bit of celebratory wooing, perhaps steal a few sweet kisses or more from his dream woman. A quiet evening spent in bliss that would help him banish the distastefulness of the morn.
Instead, he grew more apprehensive 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 own banner raised and snapping in the breeze. Everything looked as it should, and from what he could see of the landing beach and the 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 strand 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 a hand over the worn leather scrip hanging from his sword belt, hoping the clutch of freshly picked heather tucked within would banish 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 wooing only worsening Aidan’s mood.
Leaning close, he 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 back, glaring at him. “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 since it was the first time since I’ve known you that I’ve seen you call for such a halt on such a short journey?”
Aidan harrumphed. “Mayhap I drank too much watered-down 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 bonny patch of heather is known to bloom?”
Aidan bit back a curse.
“I’m not the only one who saw you,” Tavish continued, making it worse. “Perhaps it’s a good thing for the men to know you’re so smitten. They’ve been worried about you.”
“They’ve been grinding on my patience.” Aidan flashed him a dark look. “You most of all!”
“You wound me, my friend.”
“A God’s name! I’ll do
more than that if you dinna soon leave me be,” Aidan groused. He clamped his lips together, refusing to be goaded any further.
“Ho!” Tavish called, leaning over to thwack him on the shoulder not a breath later. “We’ve been seen. The drawbridge is down. But isn’t that Geordie and Ross with the gatehouse guards? I thought you’d ordered them to guard your lady.”
“I did.” Aidan’s stomach dropped.
He stared ahead, squinting against the afternoon sun. Disbelief washed over him, but there could be no doubt. The drawbridge had been dutifully lowered and the gatehouse’s heavy iron portcullis was rattling upward even as they approached, his best guardsmen hastening to swing open the second, inner gates.
As was expected of them.
Them, and not Geordie and Ross, two of his most trusted men.
The apparent lackwits who’d sworn they’d watch over Kira with their very lives.
A score of dire possibilities making his head reel, Aidan spurred his horse across the last stretch of rough, cattle-dotted grass. But when he thundered over the drawbridge’s hollow-sounding planks and through the arched gatehouse pend, the only men crowding the open guardroom doorways were the ones he’d assigned duty there.
His relief great, he swung down onto the cobbles, tossing his reins to a running stable lad. “The sun must’ve blinded us,” he said, striding over to Tavish the instant his friend dismounted. “I should have known Geordie and Ross could be trusted not to leave their post.”
“The sun?” Tavish snorted. “My vision has yet to fail me, though I’ll agree I see nary a sign of them now.” He jammed fisted hands on his hips and glanced round, wearing a frown as dark as some of Aidan’s own. “What I do see isn’t pleasing. Too many of your men are still avoiding your eye.”
“They will think more kindly of me when they see my cousin hauled into the dungeon.”
Looking doubtful, Tavish glanced to where a handful of Aidan’s stoutest guards were already escorting Conan Dearg across the bailey.
“Then let us make certain he’s put in a cell he canna escape,” he said, starting after them.
