Chapter Fifteen
A thick mist hung over the castle as if obscuring the possibilities of the future. The thump of marching men, the harsh scrape of axes sharpening and the huffs of horses’ exhales filled the courtyard, reminding all of the coming battle. The world taunted her with the chance Alec wouldn’t return.
Alec yanked at the neck of his briganda. He had fallen asleep to her sound reasons for donning the leather, quilted shirt. They were only two—to make sure he was not killed and to make sure he wasn’t harmed. He liked those two reasons and agreed to calm her though no intention to don it through battle. When he mentioned highlanders once fought naked, she told him that was obscene and imagined what body part could get cut off. Yet, when she woke him during her last twist of reasons that were still only two, he agreed. The woman loved him. He could do no less than ease her fears.
She stopped him with a touch. Her nails pressed into his forearm. “Promise me you will not remove it.”
“I have a dozen times.”
She stroked his bare arms. The hairs tickled her palm as his warmth banished her cold. His strength in muscle and sinew filled her hand. These arms had held her, loved her and cared for her and she prayed they would again.
He pulled her in to his embrace. The smell of leather and wool blocked his scent. She burrowed against him, searching for the sensual scent of him. She forced herself to memorize the feel of his exhales against her hair, the fragile rustle of the strands. She swallowed back tears. He had knocked over the sword. That meant his death. Nay, it was a silly superstition. But the niggling voice laughed at her, taunting her for not believing but she would learn the truth when the men returned with his lifeless body.
“Husband…”
“Aye, wife,” he said, humor brightening his burr.
“I shall be here awaiting your return.”
He cupped her face. “I will return.” He memorized her, running his slow gaze over her lips to her eyes then around her cheeks and jaw. He repeated it, looking deeper each time until she felt the caress of his fixed attention.
For a brief moment, she knew he would. She clung to it, afraid she might shatter her belief in him.
“I love you,” she blurted. She closed her eyes. That wasn’t how she planned to profess her love again. She had an image—her and him resting in bed, her in his arms, his heart beating beneath her ear as his chest rose and fell. Her fingers snagged in his chest hair. Their legs intertwined.
He would lift up her face and confess his love for her. He would list all the reasons he loved her. With tears in her eyes, she would speak those three words. Then they would kiss—an earth shattering one brimming with love. Their lips would linger, not ready to break the bond.
Instead, Alec tightened his embrace in consolation. He held no love for her. Her back twisted from the blow of rejection. She lost a will within her.
She raised her face, searching for tenderness at the very least. With his fingers, he traced her face and down along her jaw. His gaze lingered and she swore he wanted to speak. His lips parted then closed. He claimed her mouth instead. All she tasted was salt and a bitter-sweetness that puckered her mouth.
“I will return to you.”
“I shall be here.”
* * * *
In Glen Mallie, Cameron forces lined up. Ronan’s sept took the left. The front line marked across the glen. The weak sun flickered over the blades of grass. Small forces awaited the MacKintosh’s forces to halt their progress. Alec would win this fight and claim the land. His land that the new members would work. Most important, he must return to Portia. She loved him.
His mother had loved his father and when she shared her love to her children, life became torment, always needing her love and not functioning without it. After Ailsa’s birth and his mother’s death, the loss of her love soured and brought out the man’s cruel side. Would the same happen to Alec? Cameron blood coursed through him and worse, he hungered for Portia’s love.
He mustn’t. He would care for her, give her everything and that meant he could lose her but he couldn’t open his chest to let her burrow inside him and become his life. Aye, it was better this way, though he would make her happy. For the first time, he mulled over the outcome of the battle. He must return to Portia.
From the line, the Chattan’s chieftain galloped forward, along with his commanders. Alec, along with his two chieftains, rode to meet them.
In the center of the glen, they pulled up.
“Do ye give up and leave my land?” Chieftain Uilleam leaned forward, trying to appear bigger than he was. According to the tales, his commander had to help him mount his horse. His graying hair waved in the wind, giving him a comical appearance. His belly fell over his thighs and his horse whizzed as he did.
“I am on Cameron land.”
“Ye bastards destroyed my crops.” His narrow eyes were mere slits.
“I would say see you in Hell but the devil won’t have you.”
His face turned red. His fish lips bubbled, sending spit all around him. “I am na the man who killed his father.”
“Yet, you wish to test me.”
“Cameron, ye won’t see my back.”
“Good, I wish you to see my sword cut you in half.”
Uilleam turned his mount and rode back to his line. Alec headed to his, giving orders on his return. His chieftains rode to their positions. Cameron fielded more men until MacKintosh’s arrival. The secret to his plan was hold back the forces so their numbers remained low.
The Chattan line began their formation, only to halt in disarray. MacGillivary and MacPhail, septs to the Clan Chattan, gathered about their chieftain.
“Oh, let’s have a talk before we fight,” Ronan said, bored by the situation.
Cameron watched as their motions became exaggerated and they started bickering, more like yelling. Both MacGillivary and MacPhail jabbed their fists against their chests and pointed to the right flank, the place of honor.
“A battle before the battle,” Ronan added.
Two white-tailed eagles flew away as MacGillivary left the field, his men trailing behind him, insulted for not receiving the honor.
“That’s half the battle,” Ronan joked.
The sun moved through the sky. Cameron, along with his men, watched as they completed their formation.
The Chattan war cry broke the air. The whoosh of arrows sliced through the sky as dozens flew at the open formation. The pikemen’s formation, an easy target for the archers, held under the rain of arrows. Men's screams of pain were replaced by the Cameron war cry and jeers.
A jolt of energy rushed through Alec, giving him a strength that solidified his muscles. He was ready to charge in but waited for the perfect moment to press his attack. His sword pressed heavy against his side.
“Archers, fire!”
The MacGillivary watched from the side as Cameron arrows returned fire. He watched as men fell, their pikes littering the ground. Not enough but a well-pitched battle happened in stages and required patience to press the advantage of force and skill.
Then Chattan made his move. Pride. Always worked for Alec.
Skirmishers moved forward. Through his mount, he felt each of their footsteps pounding the earth. The taste of battle a sour, dry taste only experienced in war. Soon, the taste of blood, tears and sweat would filled their mouths.
“Hold! Archers!” Alec brought his arm down. Some men fell, few came forward, arrows jutting from their bodies while the rest surged forward.
Now was his moment, they had come to him. A wall of highlanders rushed forward. Their mouths opened in cries that were muted to Alec’s ears. Clops of earth flew into the air. Closer. Closer.
Cameron called forth the cavalry. The drum of men getting into position started the solemn music war created. With the sun at the apex in the sky, sunlight glinted off claymore blades. Alec remained in line, remembering a time when he would have been leading them, ready to cut a man in half.
Th
eir formation broke into a mess. Men scattered toward the flanks of the field. Alec smiled. Chattan sent in his horses. Their cavalry was slowed by fleeing clansfolk, just as Alec expected. He called on his right wing and their horses. Behind them came the pikemen, finishing those who still lived. The men fought with sword and axes.
MacGillivary rushed forward, no longer insulted by the chieftain.
* * * *
Portia stood in the underbelly of the castle, inventorying the winter stores. Usually, this was as exciting as having toenails ripped from the body. She was willing to do anything to take her mind from the battle. Unfortunately, the numbers blended with the death count she tallied in her mind. Sure Alec was among them even as she pleaded to be wrong.
“The stores are ample this season,” Cairine said. Her false bright tone sharpened the shadow that lingered about them.
“We still have the later crops and animals to gather,” Leah added.
“Good. Winter is sparse enough. On the morrow, I shall hear from the drover.”
“I believe we have more this season than last.” Leah peered over Portia’s shoulder. “Aye, we do.”
“Lairdess,” a castle guard called to her. “You must come now.”
She stumbled back a step and clutched Leah’s thin arm. “For what reason? Alec. Speak now.”
“Nay, there are English outside the walls.”
“Baron de Mowbray.”
Portia flew up the stairs with Leah and Cairine calling out to her, pleading her to stop. She did when she stood on the battlements. She leaned over the crenellated wall. The beast sat upon his massive mount that glistened from the chain mail and metal he and animal donned. Yet Alec departed with nothing more than wool, leather and some quilting to face an army.
“England is that way.” Alec’s words to her. This man was here to steal her away from her home, her husband, her love.
“Tsk, tsk, Portia, you shouldn’t have run away.”
“That is where you are correct. I should have put a sword in your heart.” She leaned over the parapet so the words reached deep into him.
“As your lord husband, I demand you return to me.”
“Husband. Ha!” Her head flicked back and cramped a muscle in her neck. “My husband is Laird Cameron.”
“Portia, ride out or I will attack.”
“You surprise me, Baron, since your preferred method of attack is to stab in the back.”
“Bitch!” He yanked his mount and slammed his spurs against the animal’s side.
Weakened, she propped herself against the wall. She foolishly professed that she didn’t require protection. At this moment, she needed it.
Portia had no choice. When men went to war, the defense of the castle fell to the ladies. She was ready to fight. She was a Cameron.
“Send word to the line and Laird MacLean about the attack. Then prepare for war.”
* * * *
Cameron gave the retreat signal as the winds shifted, bringing rain with them. Men rushed forward, blood, sweat and dirt blanketing them, but never loosening their grip on their weapons.
The pikemen formed a schiltron. Their sharpened spears aimed high in their round formation. Each man was on a knee, waiting for the charge.
MacGillivary’s mounts pressed their advantage. Uilleam galloped forward, joining the men in the rush. Alec drew his sword and charged to meet him along with his own men.
In a blur of swords, axe, pike and animals, the forces clashed together. Alec blocked an over-arching swing. He turned his hand and slid his sword under the strike. Hilt first, Alec recovered and made an attack of his own. With the back of his hand, he cut down and split Uilleam from sword arm to leg. The man toppled sideways. For a man who bore a heavy weight, he moved swiftly. A scant space opened, letting the men fight. Blood trailed among them drenching the grass and soaking into the earth.
Alec swung only to be brought short by the block. The men crowded in and forced Alec back into Uilleam’s face. Alec punched him and heard the crack of bone. Uilleam fell onto some soldiers and pushed back into the crowd to get away from Alec.
Shoving men aside, Alec caught him. He twisted his torso, powering his swing with every drop of strength and chopped into Uilleam’s gut. The man fell.
Pressing his advantage, Alec stabbed down, burying his blade between the man’s eyes.
“Get off Cameron land.” Alec kicked him.
From the rear, Cameron forces, from foot soldiers to claymore wielding men, overran the MacGillivary.
Chattan forces lay wasted on the earth. Scattered about the glen, were dying horses and axes, pikes, dirks and claymores. Men’s cries replaced the roar of battling. Horses trotted through the field, absent their rider. Blood dried on Alec. His mouth was not as dry as blood wet it. Dirt covered him. His plaid stuck to his body. He wiped his arm across his forehead, mixing the blood, dirt and sweat to a smear.
Hurley stood before a pile of dead and raised his sword high. “We are victorious.”
Pulling his sword from the man’s head, Alec heard the warning call breaking the eerie silence.
* * * *
Portia fled to the safety of the chamber. She pressed both hands tight over her mouth to kill the scream within her. The tears didn’t stop. She scraped them away.
She clutched the back of the chair until the wood creaked and her knuckles nearly broke. The clock ticked. She wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.
For the first time in her life, she wanted to kill a man with her bare hands and let the animals feast on his putrefied remains. She lacked the power to accomplish the feat but she had these soaring walls and highlanders, though their numbers were low but surely enough to triumph over a dozen English men.
All she had to do was hold him off until Laird MacLean arrived or hopefully, Alec.
She raised her eyes heavenward. Alec, please hurry.
One fact for sure, she couldn’t stay here and hide. She would lead. She exited the room.
“Cairine, check on the food and water supply and gather supplies. Leah, see to safety precautions. I have no wish for a fire within these walls. We will defend our home.”
She slammed her fist against her open palm. She would not turn her from her course. She shouted out more orders on her return to the battlements.
The winds held more of a chill than earlier. Rains were coming, stirring the scent of peat and decomposing foliage. The night would not be a comfort for the baron.
“There aren’t many trees to cut down for the siege and those that are, happen to be a ride from here. He won’t spare the men, not yet at least.” She may be a noble woman but she had some skill in battles.
“There are still winter stores outside the walls.” Cairine held her hands out.
“I cannot do anything about that. What about the clansfolk?”
“Most have fled. They know what to do,” Leah said.
She nodded. “Most of the men are off. We must do something before their return.” She turned her regard to the distance obscured by the mist. If he returns…
“Why?”
“They will be tired and riding in to another fight.”
In the distance, the baron set up his tent and earned the laughs of the guards. “A wee fearful of a wee bit of winds and rain—Tis fine weather—Och! Is that a barrel of wine? Is that the laird?”
A force of riders approached. Ten…nay…twenty men rode forward. Portia narrowed her gaze to see more clearly. “Nay, MacKintosh.”
* * * *
Hagan gave the order to fire. Arrows flew from the castle’s murder holes. Some landed in the ground, quivering uselessly. Too few found purchase in human flesh.
“Cease,” Portia ordered. “Save them for when they are near.”
Below the army gathered the lonely foot soldier who worked for food, clothing and some gold. Aye, the numbers must be controlled but they would quit once their lord died. Portia wanted to kill the man. Not for her. She didn’t fear him. Nay, he must be banished to Hell t
o reap what he had sown.
“I beg of you, Lairdess. Seek shelter. The laird winna like if anything happened to you.” He clasped his hands together, begging her to find protection.
“Hagan, I am not leaving.”
“Do not be stubborn. I cannot protect you and the castle.” Poor man’s face drooped from his pleading. There might have been tears. There certainly was a little wetness about the rims.
“Protect the castle first. I shall be fine.”
“The laird won’t like if you are harmed,” Hagan grumbled.
“And I won’t like if he takes this castle.”
Hagan shook his head and mumbled something about women and stubbornness.
She could do nothing as the first wave stormed the castle. The attack was ineffective, wasting resources and willpower for a fruitless measure, pleased they would tire themselves out.
“Take cover!”
She remained at the wall.
A Cameron tossed Portia behind the safety of the tower. The guttural yells of courage crashed over the wall. Around her, guards bellowed orders as they fought against it. A dozen sounds mixed together so nothing was distinguishable. She knew that this was what Hell must sound like.
Her ears still buzzed after the attack ceased. She pushed off the wall.
“Portia! Portia, come to the wall, dear!”
She came forward. Baron de Mowbray sat on his armored mount. She wanted to spit on him but it wouldn’t reach.
“I hate doing this. I would rather focus my attention on you solely. However, you have left me no choice. This is but a sample of the torture I will inflict upon these barbarians. Bring him to me.”
Two men dragged a bloody man forward. One raised his head by gripping his hair. The messenger she had sent to Alec. Word would not reach him. She must protect the clan and castle.
The other looped a rope around his neck and gave the other end to de Mowbray.
He twisted the slack about his wrist. “I will kill one villager an hour and I will light the night sky with their homes. Come to me and then there will be peace.”
The Laird's Right Page 16
