Dangerous Pride (15 page)

Gently he picked up the reins, pulling Laeg from his lunch so that they could return to the castle.  As the horse snorted his disapproval, Lachlan turned to better hear the sound of horses racing toward them.  Holding his hand to his eyes to block out the sun’s glare, he could make out Rory at the lead of a small group of men.  From the pace they kept, Lachlan knew  they could not be bringing him good news.  Guiding Laeg with his knees, Lachlan rode quickly to meet them.

As he neared the small party, Lachlan took in the bedraggled appearance of the men, their sweat-stained shirts and tense expressions.  The horses were in a lather, clearly winded from the ride.

Rory took a brief moment to catch his breath, gesturing towards a small village that lay a few miles outside the keep.  “We’ve had word reivers are raidin’ Pitmedden.  They are no’ contentin’ themselves with cattle this time.  Several of the crofthouses have been burned, an’ the crofters are tryin’ tae fight them off,” Rory said, struggling still to gain his breath.  “They are no’ equipped for fighting, Lachlan. Somehow a lad managed tae get tae us with word of the attack.  He says the men are standing up as best they can, but it is only a matter of time.  We need tae get there quickly to stop it.”

With a curt nod, Lachlan motioned for his men to follow as he raced toward Pitmedden.  Silently he offered a prayer of thanks for the sword laced to Laeg’s side.  He’d been a warrior for too long to travel unarmed, and once again his instincts had served him well.

Though the ride to Pitmedden did not take long, it seemed like an eternity to Lachlan.  His mind raced as his fear for his people grew.  It was unusual for reiving to turn violent – cattle and horses had been stolen and re-stolen for generations, mostly with minor consequences.  But since Calum had begun exerting more control over the Ogilvy men, things had taken a nasty turn.  The fact that they were now raiding in the daytime, without the cover of darkness, and when they knew they would face a fight, signified that much had changed.

The balance of power continued to shift, seesawing between the two clans.  The two men.  It was a circumstance Lachlan intended to remedy as soon as humanly possible, no matter how many of Leslie’s men died at his hand.

Stones and dust flew up from the trail under Laeg’s powerful hooves as the men neared Pitmedden.  Lachlan swore softly under his breath as he saw the black smoke rising in the sky.  Calum Leslie and his men had taken things too far this time.  Now there would be no turning back.  If Leslie’s men wanted a fight, they would have it, and not with innocent, unarmed crofters.  Battle-seasoned warriors would finish what Calum had started.

Laeg reached the outskirts of the tiny village, and Lachlan brought him to a sharp halt.  Leaping from the horse’s back, he grabbed his sword from its scabbard with a quick, angry gesture.  While some men chose to fight with a sword in one hand and a dirk in the other, Lachlan’s injury had forced him to focus on his skills with the sword and claymore.  He motioned for his men to stay on their mounts as he surveyed the situation in the village.  From a distance, they had seen no sign of any of the Ogilvy men, but it was possible they were hidden, lying in wait for Lachlan and his men.

Lachlan struggled to slow his breathing and control his surging temper as he walked toward the center of the village.  He cursed luridly under his breath when he saw the extent of the damage, but willed himself to stay calm.  Acting rashly, out of anger, would only give his enemy the advantage, and put his life and the lives of his men in danger.

Destruction was all around him as Lachlan surveyed the village.  Of the dozen or so crofthouses that formed the village, at least half were aflame.  Women raced among them, frantically carrying buckets of water in a futile effort to douse the flames.  Children stood to the side, some crying hysterically for the comfort of their parents, others with dazed, blank expressions that spoke of untold horrors.

Quickly scanning the area from a safe distance, Lachlan could see that few of the reivers were left behind.  Most had already fled with the bounty, no doubt satisfied there was little left in Pitmedden worth stealing.

A handful of men sat atop their horses at the far side of the village, loudly cheering on a friend as he did battle with one of the crofters.  Armed only with a scythe, the older man had little hope of defending himself against a well-armed warrior.  Still, the farmer struggled stubbornly to defend himself against the reiver’s blows, and the air rang with the sound of sword crashing against metal.

The reivers had not yet seen Lachlan approach, too caught up in watching their friend battle a virtually unarmed man.  This was no well-executed raid; it was naught but a bunch of dimwitted bullies greedily taking what others had worked hard to gain. Lachlan carefully made his way back to the horses, motioning Rory to his side.  “There are only five men left.  All but one are mounted.  The last is toying with one of the crofters.  Him, you leave to me.  Take half the men and deal with those on horseback. The others can follow me on foot and do what they can to put out the fires, though I fear we have arrived too late to do much good.”

Rory nodded his understanding, signaling three of the men to ride with him.  Lachlan’s instructions were relayed to the others, who dismounted and followed their laird to the center of the village.

The sound of approaching horses soon reached the raiders.  When they saw Rory and the others bearing down on them, swords drawn, they quickly forgot their loyalty to their kinsmen, and with frantic shouts, raced from the village.  Rory and the others followed in pursuit, the Forbes war cry springing from their lips.  Lachlan knew the men wouldn’t get far; their skills were no match for Rory and his warriors.

The remaining reiver stood in the center of the village, leaning over the crofter who now lay sprawled before him.  He was poised to finish the battle as he held his sword to the man’s throat.  “I would no’ do that if I were you,” Lachlan called, quickly closing the distance between himself and the reiver.  Years of experience on the battlefield had taught Lachlan the importance of clearing his mind, and concentrating on the task at hand.  Today, his job was to teach the reivers that anyone who hurt his kinsmen would pay a high price.

The reiver stepped back, his eyes flashing wildly as he took the measure of the warrior before him.  Lachlan caught the elderly villager’s eyes for but a moment, and with a nod of his head motioned for the man to seek shelter.  The reiver quickly regained his composure, and a mean grin spread across his harsh, scared features.

This man, too, had seen many battles in his lifetime, Lachlan decided, carefully assessing his opponent.  His clothes were dirty and in ill-repair, but his sword was of good enough quality. The young laird did not recognize him, but he knew many mercenaries had made Boyne Castle their home in recent years.  This was no ordinary clansman.  He was a sword for hire.

While the reiver was clearly exhausted from the day’s looting – his chest rising and falling rapidly in testament to his fatigue – Lachlan was well rested, and fueled by a heady need for vengeance.

The man’s close-set, black eyes quickly took in Lachlan’s strength and barely contained fury.  But whatever common sense he might have possessed was overcome by his need to prove himself – and perhaps earn a lucrative reward in the process.  Lachlan wore the badge of a clan chieftain, and the evidence of his power and position provided more temptation than the reiver could resist.  “So ye’ve come fer a lesson in swordplay, have ye, laddie?” the man taunted as Lachlan began to circle around him.  “I should have time tae finish ye off an’ still be back tae the keep fer supper.”

Lachlan showed no reaction to the man’s words, knowing that if he rose to take the bait he would give the mercenary a huge advantage.  His calm, controlled demeanor seemed to unnerve the man, who suddenly lunged, striking a blow at Lachlan’s shoulder.  The attack was easily parried, and soon the two were engaged in a heated battle.

While the man was several years older than Lachlan, and obviously exhausted, he was a more worthy opponent than Lachlan had expected.  He expertly deflected Lachlan’s attacks, and managed to inflict several small wounds on the younger man’s shoulder and arms.  Cursing his lack of armor, Lachlan found himself taking the defensive position.  Blood dripped down his forehead from a small wound, and he quickly wiped it from his eyes.  Struggling to put some distance between himself and the man, he moved back, continuing to parry the blows that were being delivered, though each with less strength.  Despite his greed and ambition, the man was tiring.  Lachlan knew he need only bide his time until the man relaxed his guard.

“You made a mistake when you decided to hurt my kinsmen,” Lachlan said, his voice steady despite the struggle he felt to pull air into his lungs.  The man looked startled, for these were the first words Lachlan had spoken. “I’ll no’ fault you too harshly for the reiving, but you had no cause to harm the crofters.  That is the sin you’ll pay for today.”

The older man snarled his contempt for Lachlan’s words, but his desperation proved they had met their mark.  He lashed out at Lachlan with a blow that failed to meet its intended mark, but gave Lachlan the opportunity he had been waiting for.  The reiver had been caught off balance, and with one well aimed strike Lachlan was able to knock the sword from his hand.  The force of Lachlan’s attack pushed the man to the ground, and he soon saw the point of Lachlan’s sword at the base of his throat.

“I warned you already – you do no’ have the right to harm my people,” Lachlan spat out, his chest heaving.  “If you give me yer word you’ll not cause any more harm to my kin, I will spare yer miserable life.  But no’ before.”

Lachlan searched the man’s cold black eyes, seeing little sign of honor.  Still, the man nodded his agreement, and Lachlan was honor-bound to spare his life.  Twisting to one side, Lachlan kicked the man’s sword out of reach.  From the corner of his eye, he watched as the man reached into his boot, extracting a small dirk that gleamed as the afternoon sun reflected off the steel blade.  The man reached back, taking aim at Lachlan’s chest, but before he could launch his weapon, Lachlan lunged forward, impaling the man on the end of his sword.  Blood, red and frothy, foamed at the man’s mouth as the reality of his imminent dead sparked briefly in his cold eyes.

“You son of a bitch – you’ve gotten what you deserve,” Lachlan muttered as he drew out his sword.  God’s teeth, but he hated to take a man’s life – even in a circumstance like this, when he’d been forced to in order to save his own life.  Steeling himself, Lachlan grabbed the man’s plaid tightly, pulling him close enough so he could peer into the depths of his dark, empty eyes.  “Before you draw yer last breath, you’ll tell me who organized this raid,” Lachlan demanded, his gaze direct and unflinching.  “Who is yer leader?”

The man merely stared at Lachlan, a wry smile crossing his lips as the light left his eyes.  Frustrated, he tossed the body to the side, pushing himself to his feet as he wiped the man’s blood from his blade.

There was little doubt in his mind who was responsible for the raid.  Calum Leslie was the only man with the motive – or desire – to attack innocent villagers like this.

With a reluctant sigh, Lachlan turned to help his men battle the fires that still blazed throughout the village.  It was one thing to know who was responsible, and quite another to even the score.  The price it would take to put an end to Leslie’s power was a price that was very high indeed.  The real question was whether or not he could afford to pay it.

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Catriona stood nervously in the hallway outside the abbess’ tiny study, leaning into the solid oak door as she struggled to make out the details of the heated conversation taking place within.  Occasionally, she could hear the abbess’ raised voice, but it was the loud, firm male voices that troubled her the most.  It was uncommon for the abbess to have guests in her study, and it was rarer still for the kindly, elderly woman to show her anger in such a blunt and boisterous way.

As Catriona raised her hand to knock on the door, she noted with an odd detachment that she was visibly shaking.  She’d been in the classroom, preparing lessons for the coming day, when Sister Morag had rushed into the room, pleading with her to join the abbess at once.  Catriona had been unable to extract any details from the frantic sister, and as the two had hurriedly made their way into the abbey, the younger woman’s fear had infected Catriona.

She had finally worked up the courage to knock when the heavy wooden door was suddenly yanked open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stood blocking the doorway.  Startled, Catriona took a step backward.  Though the man’s height and bulk were enough to intimidate her, the scowl that crossed his fierce features caused her heart to skip a beat.  His serious eyes took in Catriona’s appearance, as he carefully scanned her from head to toe.  A slight glimmer of recognition crossed his face, but it was quickly masked with a vague, emotionless expression.

Besides his unusual bulk, and lack of manners, the man’s appearance was nondescript.  His long blond hair was clubbed carefully at the nape of his neck, and his dark brown eyebrows were knotted in concentration.  Impeccably dressed, he had a presence that was calculated to be dominating, she quickly decided.  “Sister Gillian?” he asked when he finally seemed to  remember his manners.  Still, he blocked the door, staring at Catriona with an intimidating scowl.

Though her mind raced with a thousand possibilities for the purpose of the meeting, Catriona quickly regained her composure.  “Aye, sir, I am.  Though I fear you have me at a disadvantage, for I do no’ ken yer name.  Nor why I have been called here.”

Catriona thought she saw a brief flicker of amusement on the giant’s face as he laid claim to her elbow, steering her into the room.  Before she could protest, Catriona was ushered into a chair in front of the abbess’ desk.  The giant lumbered across the room and took a seat across from Catriona’s. There was another man at the far corner of the room, near the fireplace, but the light from the small window did not reach far enough for Catriona to make out his features.  She quickly dismissed his presence, assuming he was the giant’s assistant.  Instead she turned her attention to the person she trusted more than any other in the world.