by Jayne Castel
Reassured that she’d do as bid, Iain towed her back the way she’d come before hauling her down a narrow stairwell. Only the guards used these stairs, as they led to the upper ward ramparts.
Halfway down the steps, Heather started to struggle. She wasn’t sure where he was taking her, but her instincts screamed danger. She had to get free of him.
A swift elbow to the belly caused her struggles to cease. He grabbed her by the hair, dragging her after him. Heather’s gasp of pain echoed against damp stone.
Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, Iain shouldered the door open and yanked her out onto the wall.
The moon was rising, a bright silver shell in the black sky, and a crisp, briny wind blew in from the sea.
Heather started struggling again, fear overcoming the pain in her belly and scalp. She couldn’t see why he’d bring her out here—other than to throw her off the walls to her death.
She kicked him hard in the shin, wriggling like a hooked eel as she tried to get free of him.
“Bitch!” Iain grunted. “Ye will pay for that.” Ignoring her struggles, he towed her after him along the wall. “A man goes off to fight for Scotland, and ye can’t wait to spread yer legs for others,” he continued, his voice flat and hard.
“I didn’t,” Heather gasped. “I was faithful to ye after ye left … ask anyone in Fintry.”
“Liar!” He shook her like a dog. “My brother saw ye with that cèin. Ye have been letting him hump ye… with yer rightful husband under the same roof!”
Terror clawed its way up Heather’s throat. If he knew about her and Maximus, she was doomed. However, she wouldn’t give up. She had to make him see sense.
“It was over between us, Iain … even before ye left Fintry,” she gasped out the words, oblivious to the fact that her scalp felt as if it were aflame. “We weren’t happy together. That’s why ye never let me know ye were alive. Ye only want me now because I’ve wounded yer pride.”
Iain ground out a curse and slapped her across the face. Heather’s head snapped to one side, her ears ringing. But still she persisted. “Leave it be, Iain … or ye shall hang for this.”
Draco Vulcan stepped out onto the walls and inhaled the tang of the sea. Agitated, he flexed his hands at his sides. He hadn’t been at Dunnottar long, and already he could feel restlessness rising within him like a spring tide. Even a day of toil, helping clear ditches before the western walls, hadn’t eased it.
We’re so close to solving that riddle … just one more line.
They just had to discover the identity of the White Hawk and the Dragon.
Whenever he had a spare moment over the last few days, Draco had immersed himself in the books Cassian had taken from the laird’s library, searching for clues. Yet nothing they’d read so far was helpful.
Draco wasn’t a patient man. Already, the search frustrated him.
Glancing up, his gaze alighted upon the silver-tailed Broom-star.
As always, the sight of it made him tense. He hated having his fate in the hands of that curse. That witch had made them all her slaves. Right now, the bitch was probably looking down from the heavens, laughing at their hope.
But this time, they’d foil her.
Mouth thinning, Draco walked to the edge of the walls, his gaze sweeping over the lower ward and the sea beyond.
I just want an end to all of this. The thought was bleak, but it was one that visited Draco often. After so long alive, even throwing himself into the Scottish cause couldn’t fill the void within.
Only death would do that.
A noise drew Draco from his dark thoughts—a faint, muffled cry.
Turning from the view, he surveyed the ramparts of the upper ward. The walls lay in shadow, save for the areas where torches burned. Yet Draco had a hawk’s gaze. He’d always been able to see things in the darkness that others couldn’t.
And so, he easily picked out the tall, broad-shouldered man with wild hair who dragged a woman along the far wall.
Draco watched them, his gaze narrowing. He recognized them both.
And as he looked on, the man silenced the woman’s protests with a swift punch to the belly.
Draco tensed. His first instinct was to go to the woman’s aid—a foolish urge that had gotten him in trouble more than once over the past centuries—but the wall on which he stood was cut off from the pair of them.
He’d have to go back indoors and find the stairwell to the northern ramparts.
And if he was going to do that, he might as well fetch the man who was largely responsible for the scene unfolding before him.
Draco spun on his heel and made for the stairs leading down into the lower ward.
He needed to find Maximus.
XXXVIII
UPON THE TOWER
“MAXIMUS!”
EMERGING FROM the guard hall with Cassian, Maximus glanced up at his name. The pair had shared supper together, and he was about to start his evening shift on the watch.
Draco strode toward them, purpose emanating off his lean frame.
“You need to get up onto the northern ramparts … now,” Draco announced, without preamble. “Galbraith’s got Heather up there … and I’d wager he plans to throw her off.”
For an instant, Maximus merely stared at his friend, shock sweeping over him in an icy wave.
And then he moved.
Not bothering to thank Draco, or to farewell Cassian, he took off. He sprinted across the lower ward bailey and up the steps into the keep.
Neither of his friends said a word.
Maximus flew through the hallways of the keep to the narrow stairwell that led up to the northern ramparts. All the while, panic thundered through his chest.
What if I’m too late?
If he was, he’d rip Galbraith to pieces with his bare hands.
“Stop, Iain!” Heather heard the pleading sound of her own voice, but was past caring, past having any pride at all. Iain was now dragging her up the steps of one of the smaller watchtowers that lined the ramparts. “Please!”
He ignored her, pulling her the rest of the way and throwing her up against a battlement. The air gusted out of Heather’s lungs as her back hit solid stone. Gasping for breath, she looked up at the enraged man that loomed over her.
She’d tried to calm him, to change his mind—but every word she’d uttered had just served to anger him further.
The Galbraith rage was legendary in Fintry. It hadn’t taken her long before she’d discovered what a terrible temper her husband possessed, or that he wouldn’t be contradicted.
She should have left him then, should have made her way back alone to Dunnottar and admitted her mistake to her family.
But she hadn’t, and now it had come to this.
“Cheating whore.” Iain grabbed her by the throat and lifted her up. “How many have there been over the years?”
He clearly didn’t expect her to answer, for the iron grip on her windpipe prevented Heather from making any response. She clawed at his fingers, yet they didn’t budge. She was no match for his strength.
“Whore or not, I’m going to have ye, one last time,” Iain growled as he grasped at her skirts with his free hand. “And then ye are going over the wall.”
Terror slammed into Heather, and despite that she couldn’t breathe, she resumed her struggles. She’d fight him to the end; she had to. She tried to kick him, but he merely shoved her legs apart with his knee and began to unlace his braies.
What an awful irony this was.
She’d once been dizzy with desire for this man, had once craved his touch. But now the feel of his hands upon her skin made her bile rise.
And still she fought him—even as her lungs started to burn from lack of air and her vision swam. Iain cursed while he struggled with the laces on his braies. Even half-dead, she was still thwarting him.
But in the end, it would be all for nothing.
He didn’t need to throw her over the walls to end her life. He was goin
g to strangle her first.
Chill darkness closed in on Heather, as if she’d just been plunged into deep, cold water, and her struggles started to fade.
Maximus. Grief surged up within her. Consciousness began to slip from her grip. I’ll never see him again.
Suddenly, the pressure on her throat lifted. No longer held up, Heather slid down the wall, choking and gasping for breath.
For a moment, she merely lay there, sucking in great lungfuls of air. But as her vision cleared, she saw two men fighting on the top of the guard tower.
Iain and Maximus.
She wasn’t sure how her lover had discovered she was here, but the relief at seeing him slug Iain across the face and send him reeling back against the battlements made her choke back a sob. He found me.
However, while she lay there struggling to regain her breath, her gaze never leaving them, she saw that the men were evenly matched.
She’d thought Cory could handle himself in a fight—but Iain’s ferocity was something to behold. He was taller, broader, and stronger than his opponent. Yet Maximus was quicker, lighter on his feet. And he fought with a savagery that equaled Iain’s.
Steel flashed in the hallowed light of the single torch that burned atop the watchtower.
Iain had drawn his dirk.
A moment later, the scrape of steel against leather warned her Maximus had done the same. The two men lunged and stabbed at each other, circling the top of the tower like alpha-wolves.
I need to help him. Clutching her throat, Heather tried to scramble to her feet. But her legs had turned to porridge, and she was shaking so violently they wouldn’t cooperate.
A hiss of pain echoed across the tower, yet Heather wasn’t sure which man had just been injured. They fought in a blur now, blades flashing, grunts and curses cutting through the cool night air.
And then, as she stared at them, her heart thundering in her ears, she saw the fight turn in one man’s favor.
Maximus slammed his knife into Iain’s shoulder. An instant later, he punched him in the stomach with his free hand.
The impact sent the pair of them reeling back against the northern wall, just a few feet from where Heather sat.
Iain snarled a litany of curses, struggling against his opponent. And then Maximus yanked the blade from his shoulder and stabbed it into Iain’s throat, cutting off his tirade.
All of a sudden, it went silent upon the tower top.
A choking sound intruded as Maximus withdrew his blade and sheathed it at his hip. He then grabbed the struggling man and attempted to haul him over the edge of the wall.
But despite that he was mortally injured, Iain Galbraith was a big, strong man—and he fought his opponent with everything he had left.
Heather could see that Maximus wasn’t going to be able to cast him over the edge on his own.
But then, he wasn’t alone.
Two figures emerged from the shadowy stairwell leading down to the wall. They moved fast, reaching Maximus’s side in just a few strides. Together the three of them picked Iain up and hauled him onto the crenelated edge of the tower.
Heather’s breathing stopped while Iain balanced there, still struggling weakly.
Then he was gone.
Breathing hard, Maximus turned, staggered, and slumped against the wall.
Heather let out a whimper. He’s injured.
Maximus Cato was immortal, but she knew he could feel pain as keenly as any man. She didn’t like to see him suffer.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Maximus pushed himself off the battlements and moved to her.
“Heather, carissima.” His voice was rough, broken. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come earlier. Did he hurt you?”
Iain had, although not as badly as he’d intended. Her struggles had been so frantic that he hadn’t been able to rape her. And her throat, although badly bruised, didn’t feel permanently damaged.
Heather opened her mouth to speak, but only a rasping sound escaped. The full realization of how close she’d come to dying hit her then, and tears spilled over, coursing down her face. Despite her blurred vision, she spied the other two men draw near behind Maximus, their faces recognizable in the guttering torchlight: Cassian and Draco.
Maximus sank to his knees before her, muttered a string of words in his own tongue, and hauled her into his embrace.
And when his arms fastened around her, the last strands of Heather’s courage snapped. She sank into the wall of his chest, a sob convulsing her aching throat.
Maximus gathered Heather in his arms and heaved himself to his feet. His left flank throbbed, for Iain had stuck him twice there with his dirk. The wounds would heal soon enough, yet right now they hurt so much he felt bile sting the back of his throat.
Holding Heather against his chest while she trembled and wept, Maximus turned to his friends.
Both Cassian and Draco were watching him. “We’ll go down to the rocks and deal with Iain,” Cassian informed him, his gaze dropping to Heather’s tear-streaked face. “You’d better get her back to her family.”
Maximus nodded, grateful that his friend knew what needed to be done. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Cassian and Draco both nodded, and then the pair of them turned and disappeared down the stairs. A moment later, Maximus followed with Heather.
Iona gasped at the sight of the bloodied man who carried her daughter into the solar. Seated next to her mother near the window, Aila cried out, “Heather!”
Donnan De Keith slammed down the cup of wine he’d been enjoying in front of the fire and hauled himself to his feet. “What have ye done to her?”
“Nothing,” Maximus grunted, carrying Heather over to a chair and lowering her gently into it. “Iain Galbraith attacked Heather … dragged her up onto the walls … and tried to kill her.”
The baldness of the guard’s words made a chill steal over Donnan. “Where’s he now?”
“Dead.”
The word fell dully in the now silent solar.
Iona and Aila were staring at Maximus wide-eyed and pale faced, while Heather struggled to sit up straight. Her neck was reddened, her face tear-streaked.
Something twisted deep in Donnan’s chest. He’d never seen his strong, proud daughter in such a state.
“Maximus saved my life,” she rasped, wincing, for speaking hurt her. “I left Lady Gavina … and was on my way back here … but Iain was waiting for me in the gallery.”
“Lass!” Iona rose to her feet and hurried over to her daughter. Kneeling before Heather, she grasped her shaking hands, eyes glittering with tears. “Thank the Lord ye are still with us.”
Donnan watched his wife and daughter together, warmth seeping into the icy shock and anger that still pulsed through him. Heather’s departure from Dunnottar years earlier had caused a rift between mother and daughter that he’d feared would never heal. And since Heather’s return, there had remained a reserve between the two of them—but not now.
“I’ll get ye some wine, Heather.” Aila hurried to the sideboard and poured a cup of bramble wine before carrying it to her sister. “Ye need something to calm yer nerves.”
Donnan turned back to the guard. “So, ye killed the swine?”
Maximus nodded. “Stabbed him through the throat and threw him over the walls.” He grimaced then, and Donnan raked his gaze down the length of him to see that the left side of his vest was wet with blood.
“Ye are injured.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Maximus waved off his concern. “For Heather’s sake … no one in this keep can know of what happened tonight. I’m going to make sure Galbraith’s body is never found … but I need ye and yer family to keep this secret.”
Donnan held the man’s eye, his own never wavering. “Aye … none of us will speak a word.”
XXXIX
ALLIES AND ENEMIES
“THE LAIRD WILL see ye now.” Donnan De Keith stepped out of the clan-chief’s solar, and his gaze settled
upon Maximus. A silent look passed between the two men, one that needed no words. “The Wallace is with him.”
Maximus nodded. He wasn’t surprised. Three long days had passed since Iain Galbraith’s death—and the Wallace’s men had been out searching for him.
They’d never find him though.
After leaving Heather with her kin, Maximus had left the castle and skirted the rocks below. He’d found Cassian and Draco—with Iain Galbraith’s broken body.
The man was now buried under a pile of rocks five furlongs farther up the coast. No one would ever find him.
Stepping inside the solar, Maximus’s gaze swept the large, comfortable chamber. It was a masculine space: a deerskin covered the flagstone floor, and a stag’s head loomed above the hearth at one end of the solar, while a sword hung upon the opposite wall under the De Keith banner.
Maximus glanced at the motto embroidered there. Veritas Vincit—Truth conquers. His belly tightened. Sometimes telling the truth wasn’t in one’s best interests.
Two men stood by an open window. Outdoors, it was a fine spring morning, balmy with the promise of summer. The bellows of warriors at combat practice drifted into the chamber, a reminder that Dunnottar was preparing itself for battle.
“Good morning, Cato,” David De Keith greeted him. Dressed in fine chamois braies and a crisp white lèine, the laird leaned against the window frame, silver goblet of wine in hand. Although the man’s expression was genial enough, his brown eyes were hard, assessing.
Hearing how the man had raged for days after the threatening missive from his neighbor, Maximus knew his relaxed posture was a ruse.
A few feet from the laird, William Wallace remained silent. A thick, dark beard hid most of his lower face, and his brown eyes were inscrutable when they settled upon Maximus.
Wallace was a warrior. Maximus had met few men with his size and presence. Unlike De Keith, he didn’t cradle a goblet of wine. He was dressed in a mail shirt and thick leather braies, as if he expected to go into battle at a moment’s notice.
