The Guardian

by Margaret Mallory

  Sìleas squeezed Beitris’s and Ilysa’s hands as Payton made his way to the front of the room. Despite his limp and his graying hair, he was still a formidable man with powerful shoulders and battle scars on his face and hands. Her heart burst with pride to see father and son, fine and honorable men, standing together before their clan.

  “Da,” Ian said, “can ye tell us which of our clansman fought near ye in the battle.”

  “I fought on our chieftain’s left and Ragnall fought on his right, just as we always did,” his father said. “We were in the front—again, same as always.”

  There was a rumble of agreement among the men, for they knew the three always fought like that.

  “And who was behind ye?” Ian asked.

  “This time, it was Hugh Dubh and a few of his men.”

  Payton’s answer caused a murmuring in the crowd, though Hugh’s being behind the men who were killed proved nothing in itself.

  “Can ye tell us how the chieftain and Ragnall were killed?”

  Payton shook his head. “I didn’t see who struck the blows, but they came from behind us. I’ve puzzled on that ever since.”

  The hall was so quiet that Sìleas could hear her own breathing.

  “The English came at us hard, and we were fighting for our lives,” Payton said. “All the same, I don’t know how English soldiers could have gotten behind us without us knowing it.”

  Ian shrugged his shoulders. “In the heat of battle, ye can’t always see.”

  “But the three of us were used to fighting together. We watched each other’s backs. I can understand one of us not seeing an English soldier slip behind us—but none of us?” Payton shook his head. “No, that doesn’t seem possible.”

  Several men grunted in agreement, for the three men had been known as remarkable fighters who had survived many a battle when others had not.

  “The three of us were struck at almost the same moment,” Payton said. “I saw our chieftain fall forward at the same time that I heard Ragnall cry out. Before I could reach either of them, I took a blow to the back of my head.”

  “In the back, from behind,” Ian repeated. “Do ye know who struck ye, da?”

  Payton shook his head. “I woke up a fortnight later in bed with no leg.”

  “This is proof?” Hugh interrupted, lifting his arms. “ ’Tis a shame that my brother and Ragnall were lost at Flodden, but you’re wasting our time dwelling on the past.”

  Ian pointed to three older men in the front. “Would ye say ye have fought against the English and other Highlanders often enough to know the difference in their weapons?”

  “Don’t be a damned fool,” one of them said. “Of course we can.”

  “Then can ye tell us what weapon made the scar on the back of my da’s head?”

  Payton took off his cap and turned around. His head had been shaved around a five-inch wound.

  “Lucky he caught ye with just the tip of his sword, or you’d be a dead man,” one of them said. “Your moving to reach the chieftain and Ragnall as the blow fell is probably what saved ye.”

  “Can ye tell what kind of sword it was?” Ian asked.

  “This was made by a claymore, not an English blade,” the man said, and the other two nodded. “Ye see how thick the cut is? Aye, that was done by a claymore.”

  The noise in the hall was deafening until Ian raised his hands for silence.

  “We have plenty of enemies among the clans, and most of them were there that day,” Hugh said. “Our chieftain was my brother, and Ragnall, my nephew. I’d never raise my hand against my own blood.”

  “Is Connor not your own blood?” Ian said, stepping toward Hugh with his hands clenched into fists. “Why don’t ye tell our clansmen what ye did to Connor?”

  “I haven’t laid eyes on Connor in more than five years.”

  “I know what ye did,” Ian said, his eyes narrow blue slits. “First, ye asked Shaggy Maclean to kill the four of us before we got to Skye. But we surprised ye, when we escaped Shaggy’s dungeon.”

  Hugh started to speak, but Ian shouted over him. “So ye made a deal with that devil Murdoc MacKinnon. Ye told him he could keep Knock Castle—and take my wife—in exchange for murdering Connor.”

  Every man in the room had wondered why Hugh did not fight for Knock Castle; Ian had just given them an explanation they could believe.

  “You’re a liar,” Hugh said, but sweat was beading on his forehead.

  “Murdoc MacKinnon admitted the treachery to my wife.”

  “A woman will tell ye what she thinks ye want to hear.” Hugh’s eyes darted around the room. “What I think happened is that Connor and the other two decided to return to France soon after the four of ye came home.”

  “Then why have ye been spreading the word that they were murdered by the MacKinnons?” Ian asked. “Shall I call on Connor, Alex, and Duncan to tell us the tale?”

  The high, sweet sound of a whistle started at the back of the hall, causing everyone to turn and look. At the back of the room, stood Connor, Alex, and Duncan, without their disguises. Men gasped and women drew back their skirts to let them pass as the three started forward.

  “It’s Samhain, uncle,” Connor called out. “Are ye prepared to meet the dead?”

  Hugh’s eyes went wide, and he made a strangled sound, while his men crossed themselves and backed away. Though the three men limped and their faces were bruised, there was no mistaking that these were warriors to be reckoned with.

  “Ye should have murdered me yourself,” Connor said, when he reached his uncle at the front. “Only a fool would rely on a Maclean or MacKinnon for such an important task.”

  When several clansmen surrounded Hugh, he looked to his guards to protect him. But Hugh’s men, who as pirates were known for vanishing into the mists to avoid capture, had disappeared into the crowd. In no time, Hugh was disarmed and dragged to the side.

  Every eye in the room was fixed on the four Highland warriors who had returned from France. Despite their injuries, they were hard-muscled men in their prime, a new generation of MacDonald men, ready to take their place as leaders and protectors of their clan.

  Ian’s father began pounding his cane rhythmically on the stone floor. Immediately, others began to stomp and clap to the same rhythm. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Deep voices filled the hall, shouting in time to the stomping and clapping. “Chief-tain! Chief-tain! Chief-tain!”

  Connor stepped forward and raised his arms as the crowd roared louder and louder, proclaiming him as their choice.

  It was a miracle Connor managed to stand alone as long as he did. Sìleas didn’t think the crowd noticed when he started to weave, but Alex and Duncan limped forward to stand on either side of him.

  Ian stood a little apart, his eyes searching the hall until he found her.

  They had succeeded. Connor would be the next chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat.

  Ian felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders—a weight he had carried since the moment he first learned of the calamity at Flodden. He had redeemed himself by saving his clan from certain disaster.

  The fight was not over. Hugh still had supporters—some in the hall and others who slipped out of the castle in the chaos. They would have to be dealt with eventually, but they would cause no more trouble tonight.

  Ian wanted to share this moment with Sìleas. Smiling, he turned to look for her.

  His heart swelled when he saw her, because she was smiling back at him, her eyes shining. People moved out of his way as he pushed through the crowd toward her. Suddenly, her gaze shifted to something behind him, and she screamed.

  He spun around in time to see a flash of steel behind Connor, Alex, and Duncan, where the men were holding Hugh. In the midst of the tumultuous jubilation, no one else seemed to notice when one of the men holding Hugh sank to the ground with blood gushing from his throat. A moment later, the second man holding Hugh doubled over, with blood seeping between his lips.

 
; Neither did anyone heed Ian’s cry of warning as Hugh pulled the dead man’s dirk from his belt. Ian was already pushing through the crowd, racing to get to Connor before Hugh did.

  Though Ian was running as fast as he could, he saw everything with piercing clarity, as if time had slowed. He saw each person who fell out of his way, Duncan’s hands clapping, Alex’s head thrown back in laughter—and Hugh moving toward Connor with the point of his blade aimed at Connor’s back.

  “No!” Ian shouted, as he took the last three steps at a dead run and flew through the air.

  He felt the sting of a blade glancing off his back as he crashed to the floor on top of Connor with a hard thump. When he looked up, with his dirk ready in his hand, Duncan and Alex were holding Hugh above him. Screams and shouts echoed off the walls, and every dirk and claymore in the hall was unsheathed.

  “I appreciate ye saving my life,” Connor grunted from beneath him. “But do ye think ye could get off of me now? I feel as if a horse fell on me.”

  “I hope I didn’t break open any of your wounds,” Ian said, as he got up. “Ach, from the blood it looks as though I did.”

  “The blood is yours this time,” Connor said after Ian helped him up. “Turn ’round and let’s see how bad he cut ye.”

  “I don’t even feel it,” Ian said, looking over his shoulder at his bloody shirt.

  “Connor, what do ye want us to do with this murderer?” Alex asked, and gave Hugh a shake.

  “My father was a great chieftain, and my brother Ragnall would have been an even greater one,” Connor said, looking at his uncle. “You have deprived the clan of their leadership.”

  Ian thought Connor would be a better chieftain than either of them, but it wasn’t the time to say it.

  “You haven’t the hardness it takes to be chieftain,” Hugh spat out. “Your father at least had that.”

  “I won’t mar tonight’s celebration with an execution—but say your prayers, Hugh, for you’ll die in the morning.” Connor turned to several clansmen who were standing nearby. “Take him to the dungeon. He’s a slippery one, so mind him closely.”

  The noise in the hall was deafening as men carried Connor around in the chieftain’s chair. In the wake of the revelation of their former chieftain’s murder, the clan’s choice was clear. That did not mean no one had doubts about Connor’s leadership, but none would express them tonight.

  They chose Connor because he was his father’s son and Ragnall’s brother—and because he was not Hugh. Most members of the clan did not know Connor’s mettle yet. In time, he would prove himself to them. Once they knew him as Ian did, they would follow Connor because of the good man he was and the great man he was destined to be.

  For tonight, Connor and the clan were safe. The celebrations would go on through most of the night, but Ian did not need to stay for them. He had one more thing he must do to make up for the past, one last step to redeem himself with the person who mattered most.

  He found Sìleas elbowing her way through the throng of men crowded around the front. When she felt his gaze, she gave him a broad smile, as before. After all the ways he had failed her, her smile was a small miracle, a gift he hoped to earn in time.

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the hall.

  Most of the guests would be sleeping on the floor of the hall tonight, but Ian intended to take one of the few bedchambers. Connor owed him that.

  CHAPTER 42

  As soon as the chamber door was closed behind them, he pulled Sìleas into his arms. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in the familiar scent of her hair and skin. While she was in danger, all his focus was on rescuing her. Then he had to turn his mind to getting Connor to the gathering and making him chieftain.

  “I almost lost you.”

  Only now that his tasks were completed and the dangers passed, did it fully hit him. His knees felt weak at the thought of how close it had been. He ran his hands over her to assure himself that she was whole.

  “I should have prevented Murdoc from taking ye,” he said.

  “Ian, ye can’t blame yourself for everything that happens.” Sìleas leaned back and looked at him with her honest green eyes. “And ye did save me.”

  “I’ve failed ye so many times—starting with the day I found ye outside the tunnel and didn’t believe ye were in danger,” he said. “I never should have left ye to deal with everything alone while I went off to France. I don’t know how to tell ye how sorry I am for it all.”

  “Ye returned home precisely when we needed ye most,” she said, touching her fingers to his cheek. “If ye had been here all along, ye might have been killed at Flodden with the rest of them. And where would we be now without ye? Your da would still be lying in bed spewing venom at Niall, Hugh would be chieftain, and I’d likely be wed to that brute Angus.”

  The thought of Angus’s hands on her sent a wave of cold fury through him. If he could kill him again, he would. “I don’t know how ye can forgive me.”

  “Do ye know why I waited five long years for ye, Ian MacDonald?” she asked with a soft smile lighting her face.

  It was a wonder to him that she had.

  “It’s because I always knew ye were special. I could see it in ye from the time I was a wee bairn. Even when ye made mistakes, I believed in that lad who had so much courage and kindness in his heart. I knew the man ye could be.”

  He cradled her face in his hand. He felt an overwhelming gratitude for her faith in him—for the wee bairn who trusted him to rescue her from every mishap, for the brave thirteen-year-old lass who threw her fate in with his without thinking twice. And most of all, for the young woman who waited for him to return, and who, when he failed her again, gave him yet another chance to prove himself.

  He had come home seeking only atonement, and she had given him the wonder of love. “I’ll do my best to be the man ye believe I can become.”

  “Ye already are,” she said.

  He felt a powerful need to make love to her, to show her how much he cared. But she would need time, after what she had been through. The image of Murdoc standing between her legs would be with him for a long, long time. How much worse the memory must be for her. Would it ever fade enough for her to want him again?

  “Let me help ye to bed, a chroí. Ye need your rest,” he said. “But if ye can bear to have me touch ye, I’d like to sleep holding ye in my arms.”

  He wanted much more than that, but he brushed his lips across her forehead.

  He was already hard with wanting her before she slid her arms around his neck. When she rose up on her toes and leaned into him, he held himself in check and gave her a chaste kiss. But when she pulled him down into a deep kiss, thrusting her tongue into his mouth with an urgency that sent his blood pounding through his veins, he was a lost man.

  Finally, he forced himself to break the kiss. “Ye don’t have to do this to please me. Ye should r—”

  “I want ye something fierce,” she said, pulling him to her by the front of his shirt. “Don’t ye dare tell me I must rest.”

  Ian trusted his wife to know what she wanted.

  Sìleas needed him to make love to her to wipe away the fear that had dogged her since Alex burst into the house bleeding the morning before. She had kept up a brave front most of the time, but she had feared rape and degradation and death; she had feared for the lives of Ian’s family and friends, who were now her family and friends. And most of all, she had feared she would die and never see Ian again.

  She felt desperate to hold him, to feel him inside her and all around her. They fell to the bed, kissing and running their hands over each other as if they might never get the chance again—because it had almost been true. They tore at each other’s clothes until at last they lay skin to skin. But it wasn’t enough.

  She needed to feel his weight on her. When she tugged on his shoulder, he rolled to cover her. She closed her eyes and drew in deep breaths. It was as if she needed to feel him pressing down on her, touc
hing her from head to toe, to believe he was truly here with her.

  She felt safe at last.

  And she wanted him as she had never wanted him before. He slid his hands between her legs and groaned when he found how wet she was for him.

  “I need ye inside of me,” she said, her voice coming out hoarse. “I need us to be one.”

  When he brought the head of his shaft to touch her center, he shuddered with the effort not to plunge into her. But when she clamped her legs around him, he gave in to what they both wanted. She gasped as he thrust deep inside her.

  For a long moment, they held still, and she reveled in the intensity of the sensation of him inside her, and the anticipation of his moving again.

  “Mo chroí.” He held her head between his hands and kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her hair. “Do ye know how much I love ye?”

  “Aye.” She did know it now. His love shone in his eyes, his voice, his touch. It was all around her, encompassing her in its warmth.

  Ian’s heart was worth waiting for. He was worth waiting for.

  With his eyes locked on hers, he began moving slowly inside her. The pouch holding the crystal she gave him dragged across her chest as if connecting their hearts as he moved over her again and again. His breathing was ragged, and the muscles of his face were straining.

  “Harder.” She arched her back and pulled on his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper. She clung to him with all her strength and love.

  “Mo shíorghrá… mo shíorghrá…”

  He whispered endearments to her as he moved inside her, but she felt too much now to speak. Tears streamed down the sides of her face from emotions too strong to contain. Ian captured her mouth and swallowed her cries as they melded together in an explosion of white fire.

  Ian rolled with her until she lay sprawled on top of him. His heart thumped wildly in her ear, and his hand shook as he brushed the hair back from her face.

  “We are one,” he said. “We always will be.”

  The gray light of dawn was coming through the narrow window when she awoke. Ian lay behind her, his arms wrapped about her and one hand cupping her breast. She snuggled closer and felt his shaft press against her. When she turned in his arms to face him, he traced her skin with his fingers and kissed her with a tenderness that squeezed her heart.