Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (27 page)

August 1303

Near Doune Township

Scottish Lowlands

P
ain radiated through Ronan MacGrigor’s body, tearing at the core of his being. His head throbbed in time to the beating of his heart. He could not see for the blood streaming into his eyes. The long chains locked around his wrists and bolted to the wall seemed to grow heavier, but Ronan again lifted his hands over his head as he knelt on the ground and smashed the manacles against the stone floor of his prison. Blinding pain radiated up his arms and he bit back an agonized cry. But he couldn’t allow the pain to stop him. He had to free himself. The shackles around his wrists were not well made. He could break them. He had no choice.

Although time had blurred for Ronan as he suffered the torture of his English captors, he thought it had been about three days since his horse had been slain out from under him in the midst of battle. Ronan could only remember flashes; the images in his mind clouded with blood. Ronan had led the cavalry to flank the English and turned the tide of the battle. But his horse had collapsed and blinding pain had rocked through his skull. He remembered fighting to free his leg from under his dead horse before everything went black. He had awakened to discover himself chained in this cell. That’s when the nightmare of torment and blood had started. Where was Aidan? Had he survived? Had he too been captured? Or was he searching for his eldest brother and laird?

He had to be alive. Ronan couldn’t bear to think of his brother dead. Not now. He had to keep his wits and escape. They had been on opposite sides of the battlefield, Ronan leading the cavalry, his brother the infantry. The gash on the back of Ronan’s skull still bled and throbbed, blurring his vision. That wound was the only reason the English had been able to take him alive.

The English called Ronan the Scottish Demon for his abilities on the battlefield, and ever since they had captured him, they made him pay for all the grief he had caused them. Wounds from the whip and brand marred his chest and back, bleeding heavily. He wasn’t certain, but it felt as if his ribs had been cracked on one side. Ronan forced down his thoughts and lifted his hands again. He slammed them down with all of his strength, a groan of agony escaping him. But one manacle popped open.

Scarcely daring to believe his eyes, he stared at his wrist, a bloody mess of torn flesh. But he had one hand free. He set the other wrist against the stone and brought his fist down with all of his might. His vision blurred black at the pain that cut through him from the manacle biting into his flesh. But it too popped open. Praise the saints!

Ronan staggered to his feet. He wore only his trews, now torn to shreds. His right leg threatened to rebel completely. He didn’t think it was broken, but it screamed at him. He lurched to the door of his cell. Because he had been chained to the wall, his captors hadn’t bothered to lock the door. Their mistake. He pitched through and caught himself against the far wall, fighting with everything in him not to slide down it to the floor.

He had to find a way out. He could not fight his way free, not in his weakened state. But he heard water trickling . . . falling steadily. The keep that was his prison was not well maintained. Longshanks’s war against Scotland had cost the king’s treasury. This keep was not of strategic importance, which is why it was now his prison, and Ronan prayed that its poor maintenance would give him an opportunity for freedom.

Ronan made his way toward the sound of the water, forced to use the walls to maintain his balance. He could smell it, and even though he knew the water would be as foul as the bracken in a dead swamp, it smelled wonderful to him.

He staggered around a corner and saw the runoff. The stream of water was far larger than he expected, running from the dungeon into a crack in the floor. He almost crowed his delight. That crack was large enough for him to escape through. It would be a tight squeeze, no doubt, but he remembered his antics with his brother in his youth, finding cracks just like this one and exploring them.

A noise sounded behind him and Ronan turned. Baron Hugh le March, a lord serving the Earl of Pembroke under Longshanks’s command, his captor, the man who had tortured and humiliated him, stood before him, his eyes wide with shock.

Rage cut through Ronan, chasing away his agony. He rose to his full height, towering over le March. Unlike the baron before him, Ronan was pure muscle, a warrior to the bone. Le March took a breath to call to the guards and Ronan reacted instinctively. He seized a torch from the wall stanchion and leapt forward. The flame left a strange trail of light in Ronan’s vision. Le March retreated, reaching for a weapon. On the table, Ronan saw the various implements of torture they had used on him and his rage strengthened. For an instant the memory of a dull knife ripping open his flesh assailed him. The small dagger on the table that le March grabbed was nothing against the torch Ronan wielded.

The torch slammed into le March’s face, sizzling. Flame exploded, searing his skin, catching his hair on fire. Le March screamed as his skin bubbled and melted, the flame covering the entire left side of his face. Ronan again stepped forward, snarling, knowing this was his opportunity. He would slay le March for what he had done, for the agony he had brought upon him.

“You will never be free,”
le March’s voice echoed in Ronan’s memory, and he could feel the hot iron searing his flesh again. Ronan bellowed in agony. His soul cried out in torment, begging for the pain to stop, but he knew it had only begun.

Voices shouted in the corridor and Ronan instantly came back to the present, dropping the torch. Le March’s cry had alerted the guards. If he stayed, they would put him in chains again. Growling curses, he forced down the overwhelming desire to snap the bastard’s neck and instead lunged for the crack in the floor.

Pain roared through his body. The gap was smaller than he had thought. Only because of the muck and slime was he able to force his way through. The stench caused the bile to rise in his throat. But Ronan forced himself forward, deeper into the crack and farther down into the earth. He landed in ankle-deep water. The crack widened a bit and Ronan pushed forward. Pain blurred his vision as he fought to breathe. His head wound pounded, dizziness threatening to bring him to his knees, but he doggedly put one foot in front of the other. He refused to die in this black hole, just as he refused to die in that cell.

If his life was to end, it would be with the sun on his face and as a free man.

The crack ended abruptly but water continued to leak onto his head from above. He knew he had only one chance. He reached up, his fingers clawing at the mud above his head, and caught roots.

Hope blossomed once again within him. The roots were small, but they were a good sign. Ronan ripped and pulled at them, the muddy earth giving way easily. Roots disturbed the earth of the motte a castle was built on. Ronan paid men good money to make sure weeds did not grow on the motte of his own castle. He continued to pull at them and more mud fell. The roots grew larger and stronger. He grabbed one about as thick as two fingers and yanked. The chunk of dirt that fell allowed light to stream into the black hole. Desperation granted him strength and he clawed his way toward the light, opening the hole wider. Freedom beckoned . . . only a distance about the span of his hand separated him.

Ronan broke through the earth. Like a dead man returning to life, he sucked precious fresh air into his lungs. He was surprised that the light he had seen was caused by the dawn glowing in the east. He had thought it brighter than it actually was. He heaved himself free and crawled forward. Glancing over his shoulder, he was abruptly grateful for the darkness that clung to the land. He was still within bowshot of the walls. If they saw him, he would be dead in an instant. Too weak to rise, he crawled on his belly through the ditch that surrounded the keep then up the high dirt mound that had been formed when the keep had been built as part of its defense. He had to reach the top before the sun cleared the eastern horizon. Before the guards on the walls could see him.

He dragged himself over the rocks and dirt, his hands and nails torn, still he scraped his way forward, using only the rapidly fading strength of his arms. His desperate race against the sun goaded him to the top of the berm. The pink streaks in the eastern sky grew larger and more golden. Muscles burned and trembled with effort. The agony within him strengthened, his body protesting every movement, his ribs protesting every breath. Nay! He would not stop. He would not give in to the pain. He would not hand the English a victory so easily.

Ronan reached the top of the mound and slid down the other side. His vision darkened and threatened to go black. He hit the bottom and struggled to suck air into his lungs. Not yet . . . not yet. He had to gain more distance. He was still too close to the keep. He reached out with one arm, his fingers burying into the soil, and he slowly hauled his body forward. His other hand grasped dirt and he pulled again. One agonizing inch at a time, the distance between himself and his former prison increased.

The light of the sun flared as it cleared the horizon and began its journey through the sky.

Time blurred for Ronan. All he could do was pull himself forward over the rocky earth. But a strange sound reached him. He felt the vibration in the earth he gripped; it traveled through his chest and his heart hesitated. Heavy horse, approaching fast. His gut clenched and he lifted his head. They galloped on the road a short distance from him. Fighting to blink his vision clear, he struggled to focus. At first, Ronan could not tell if they were Scottish or English. Then he caught a glimpse of color, a plaid that was so very familiar.

His ribs protested as he drew a deep breath into his lungs. “MacGrigor!” he roared. His bellow stole the last of his strength, and he lowered his head to the dirt. The rumble of hooves drew closer. Ronan squeezed his eyes closed, praying.

“My God!” a familiar voice cried.

Ronan lifted his head again, but his vision refused to focus. His heart pounded in his chest. Please let this be real and not some bloody hallucination from the crack in his skull. “Aidan?”

His brother dropped to his knees beside him. “Ronan, what have they done tae ye?”

He reached for his younger brother and sighed in relief when Aidan’s hand closed on his with a powerful grip. Ronan closed his eyes and his awareness slipped away.

HHH

Aidan feared his brother would die before they could get him home. As soon as he learned the English had captured him, Aidan had gathered men to search and had scoured the land for the past three days. Sorrow and fear battered him. He had been terrified he would never find Ronan, that he would never see his brother again. Finally, hearing a rumor of where the English held him, Aidan had rode in the direction of the fortress, determined to either ransom his brother back or steal him.

Ronan’s cry had stunned them all.

Judging by Ronan’s broken body, Aidan’s worst fears had come true. He had suffered terribly at the hands of the English. But Aidan marveled that Ronan had managed to escape. The people living in the shadow of the prison keep whispered that le March barely had enough men to form a watch on the walls. Longshanks had placed le March in control of a keep that was nothing more than a boil on the backside on the devil’s arse.

Aidan prayed that the fact that Ronan had been able to free himself and crawl a quarter mile from his prison meant that he was strong enough to survive this.

“Almighty have mercy,” Laird MacFarlane said as he stepped next to Aidan. The laird had been a friend of their father’s and a longtime ally of MacGrigor. He and his troops had fought with them in the battle when Ronan had been captured. The laird had not hesitated to accompany Aidan to find Ronan.

“Aye,” Aidan said tightly. “Come. We must get him home.”

MacFarlane nodded, although his face had grown unusually pale.

The sun descended in the western sky as the small group crested a rise and Castle MacGrigor stood before them. A more welcome sight Aidan had never seen.

Aidan had no desire to reveal the state of their laird to everyone who worked and lived at the castle, but he had little choice as they rode through the gates and into the bailey. Aidan bellowed for a litter and for servants to help as he hustled his brother into the castle. The occupants stopped and stared; many crossed themselves, whispering prayers.

Inside the great hall, Ronan groaned and suddenly sat up on the litter, forcing them to stop and place it on the floor before he toppled from it.

“Ronan,” Aidan barked, kneeling beside him. “Easy, ye are safe.”

Ronan blinked at him and his eyes widened. He then glared at a young serving maid only a pace away. The muscles in his face went rigid, his lips pulled downward, giving him a cruel snarl, and for a moment, his pupils grew in size and Aidan caught a red glint in them.

Bloody hell! Not now! Aidan recognized the expression from childhood, but the blackouts had become so rare Aidan had begun to hope Ronan had defeated them. Unfortunately, as the years passed, Ronan’s expression during these rare attacks had turned vicious and terrifying. Now with his terrible wounds and with blood covering him, he appeared as if hell had welcomed him to its bosom then spat him back out.

The serving maid he had locked in his gaze gasped and retreated. She covered her mouth, shaking.

Aidan gripped his brother’s shoulders. “Ronan,” he barked but knew it would do little good. “Ye be home!”

For the barest instant, Ronan’s eyes flicked to him, but then to Aidan’s horror, they rolled back into his head. Every muscle in his brother’s body stiffened and he knifed backward. Aidan only just stopped him from slamming his already cracked skull into the stone floor. His arms twisted upon themselves and his entire body jerked spastically. Aidan could only stare in shock; never had he seen anything like this from his brother. This was much more than the blackouts Ronan had suffered as a child.

Ronan’s muscles clenched, standing in sharp relief under his skin. The cords in his neck raised and the veins bulged. He fought to breathe, choking as froth formed on his lips.