Teresa Medeiros (32 page)

“Well spoken, Magwyn,” Colin said, slipping off the horse to rest his hands on Tabitha’s shoulders. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Tabitha’s heart swelled with happiness as they gathered around to shyly welcome her back into their fold, assuring her that Lucy had been well tended in her absence and giving Wee Blythe into Colin’s eager hands.

But her happiness faltered when she saw a woman with a careworn face craning her neck to see over the heads of the others. “Where’s my lad? Has anyone seen my lad?”

This was the moment Tabitha knew Colin had been dreading. Sobering, he handed the baby to Auld Nana before taking the woman’s chapped hands in his own.

He gazed down into her face, his expression indescribably tender. “I’m sorry, Gunna, but Chauncey’s dead, another victim of Brisbane’s treachery. He died a hero, sacrificing his life to save an innocent woman.”

The woman collapsed in Colin’s arms, muffling her
broken wail against his shoulder. It was only then that Tabitha became aware of the ring of sullen young faces lurking at the fringes of the crowd. She would have sworn they’d only been boys when she and Colin left, but now their narrowed eyes held the determined glint of men.

The one with the longest hair and meanest eyes stepped forward. “How many more, my laird?” he demanded. “How many more of our own will die before we strike back?”

Colin’s hands were gentle against the woman’s heaving shoulders, but his eyes glittered like the sharpest of diamonds as he uttered the one word they’d all been waiting to hear.

“None.”

Lord Brisbane woke up smiling.

He’d done so with increasing frequency since dispatching Iago to the MacDuff’s castle. His sleep had been warmed by visions of a certain self-righteous knight being roasted on one of Satan’s spits. Last night’s dream, in which a swarm of little red imps had scampered around Colin, poking him with their tiny pitchforks until he screamed like a woman, had been particularly entertaining.

Roger was still chuckling when he swept aside the hangings of his luxuriant four-poster and climbed down from the bed. His cheerful demeanor earned him an apprehensive look from the flock of servants who huddled in the corner, just waiting to do their master’s bidding.

A stooped old fellow rushed over with a brass pot, and Roger relieved himself with a hearty sigh of satisfaction,
caring little that he splashed piss on the poor man’s feet.

While the wretch was emptying the pot down the privy hole, Roger stretched out his arms, allowing his servants to drape him in one of the elegant robes he preferred. Although the floor-length garment was customarily worn over a linen shirt, Roger preferred the rich caress of velvet directly against his skin. He stood like a marble statue while they shaved him, coiffed his sleek blond hair, and perfumed his throat with lemon cologne imported from Sicily.

He wanted to look his very best. For this was the day all of his dreams would come true.

He’d already had his garrison throw open the bailey gates in welcome. At any time now his emissary would come riding through those gates at the head of the processional the MacDuff would have provided to escort his spoiled daughter to the arms of her eager bridegroom.

The MacDuff would never suspect it was not his mewling brat Roger awaited with such gleeful anticipation, but the woman who would travel with her. The woman who had realized the one ambition that had always eluded him—corrupting Colin’s soul.

His only regret was that he was to be denied the pleasure of gloating over his friend’s fall from grace. He’d decided it would be best to arrange Colin’s death before the pious fool had the opportunity to drop to his knees and beg his Lord’s pardon for slaking his carnal desires with a witch. Roger rolled his eyes. It would be just like God in his sniveling mercy and compassion to forgive him. If
he
were God, he would never forgive anyone anything. It was too much fun holding a grudge.

When his servants were done grooming him, they staggered over with an enormous mirror and held it up
in front of him so he could admire his reflection from all angles. Ignoring their grunts of exertion, he stroked his smooth chin, thinking how delightful it was going to be to have his very own witch. Once he’d planted an heir in the belly of the MacDuff’s daughter, he’d have the witch cast some deadly spell on his blustering father-in-law. Then, murmuring his sympathy all the while, he would step in and claim the MacDuff’s land as well as Colin’s, crowning himself ruler of a vast empire that would stretch from northern England to southern Scotland.

He fluffed up his bangs. ’Twas a pity Regan was dead. She would have made a most regal queen.

He was still preening when the old fellow who had emptied the chamber pot tapped him on the shoulder. “My lord?”

“Mmmmm?” he murmured.

The man cast the balcony window a shaken glance. “There’s someone comin’.”

Roger bared his teeth in a smile, admiring their ivory gleam. “Of course, there’s someone coming. ’Twould be Iago, coming to grant all of my fondest desires.”

The fellow cleared his throat. “I don’t think this would be Master Iago, my lord.”

Roger frowned, then smoothed the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes with his thumbs. “You’re not paid to think.”

“I’m not paid at all, sir, but I still don’t think this would be Master Iago.”

Roger whirled around, planning to box the insolent wretch’s ears, but a distant sound stilled his hand in midmotion.

He cocked his head to the side, trying to identify the elusive strains. “What the hell …?”

They were slowly swelling in volume, drawing Roger toward the balcony. When he saw what was marching
through the gates of his bailey wall, he had to brace his hands against the stone railing to keep from tumbling off the balcony.

Pouring into his courtyard was the most motley, ragtag band of invaders he had ever seen. Some were horsed, but most marched on foot, tattered rags their only armor. Stooped, white-haired old men marched next to fresh-faced lads, and most astonishing of all, there were women! Wild-eyed harpies and withered crones armed just like their male comrades with long-handled scythes, rusty knives, and blunt clubs.

A massive woman hugged an iron cauldron in the crook of her arm, banging on its hollow bottom to keep time with the stirring melody of their song. It was one of those rousing Crusade anthems, deliberately composed to incite some devout warrior with visions of sainthood into offering up his life for a hopeless cause.

Roger dug his fingernails into the casement, seized by outrage.

How dare these wretched peasants march through his open gates and spoil his fine mood? How dare they make his courtyard ring with music?

But when he saw the man riding to the head of their pathetic processional, he knew exactly how they dared.

The magnificent ebony stallion pranced forward, the man seated on his back looking as if he were lord not only of the horse, but of all he would ever survey. Clenched in his gauntleted fist was a staff bearing the Ravenshaw standard. He reached the front of their ranks just as the song soared to its majestic climax, the silver raven on its bed of black silk rippling proudly in the wind.

Silence reigned until Brisbane spat out, “Christ, Colin, you’ve more lives than a cat.”

“I should hope so, Roger, given your disturbing fondness for trying to murder me.”

Roger scanned the mob. “And what have you done with Iago?”

Colin shrugged. “The last we heard, your henchman was on his way to London. As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, his mission failed. Which means the MacDuff won’t be sending any reinforcements your way. ’Tis rumored that he’s nursing his grief over his daughter’s sudden elopement by withdrawing his entire household to Castle Arran. Permanently.”

Roger barked with laughter. “And why would I need reinforcements against this motley band of outlaws?”

Instead of replying, Ravenshaw reached into his saddlebag and drew forth a parchment scroll. He unrolled it with a flourish, his voice booming through the courtyard. “I hereby proclaim that from this moment forward this castle is under siege and demand the immediate surrender of its lord—Roger Basil Henry Joseph Maximillian, Baron Brisbane.”

Roger glanced wildly at his bailey walls where his guards had taken up an offensive position, swords drawn and crossbows slotted with lethal bolts. The captain of his garrison was helping his men roll a mangonel into place. Roger knew at his command, the miniature catapult would hurl a shower of rocks down upon the vulnerable heads of the intruders.

“Have you lost your wits, man? I can almost understand your ridiculous need to martyr yourself, but must you make saints of your people as well?”

Colin continued to read as if he hadn’t spoken. “Upon surrender, you’ll be taken to the court of Alexander the Third where you’ll be judged for the murders of the sixth Lord of Ravenshaw, his noble wife, Blythe,
and four score and ten of the King’s loyal Scottish subjects.”

Roger drew himself up to his full height, quivering with rage. “Henry is
my
king. I’ll not answer to you or that barbarian Scot for my crimes.”

As Colin let the scroll snap shut, his mocking smile chilled Roger to the marrow. “Oh, but I think you will.”

His army parted to reveal a lone woman.

A woman who did not slump, but stood straight and tall. A woman wearing a shimmering purple gown and stroking the tiny black cat cradled in her arms without the slightest hint of clumsiness. A woman who glided forward to stand beside Ravenshaw’s horse with all the arrogant grace of a guardian angel.

A woman who terrified him.

The sun glinted off her golden hair, the belt draped around her slender hips, the plump emerald nestled between her breasts.

Roger did the only thing he could think of. He looked the captain of his archers straight in the eye and bellowed, “Fire!”

CHAPTER
26

A
s Tabitha awaited Colin’s prearranged signal, she prayed the knocking of her knees wouldn’t drown out his people’s singing. It had taken her nearly three days to teach them all the words to “Do You Hear the People Sing?” from
Les Misérables
, but she had finally succeeded. Their rendition had given her chills. She doubted even the finest Broadway cast could imbue the song, with its stirring melody and hope for a brighter tomorrow, with so much heartfelt emotion. She’d felt a genuine flare of triumph when she saw Arjon’s former doxy reach over and squeeze Lyssandra’s hand during the chorus.

She was terrified she would trip over her hem when Colin summoned her forward. Granny Cora had been forced to stitch nearly five extra inches of silk to one of Lady Blythe’s most beautiful gowns before it would fit her. Lucy nuzzled Tabitha’s hair as if to whisper words of comfort. Brisbane would never suspect the cat was nothing but a harmless prop.

“Oh, but I think you will.”

Colin’s rich voice cut through her reverie. His people parted like the Red Sea, clearing a path for her. If she hadn’t known Colin was waiting for her at the end of
that path, she would never have had the confidence to put one foot in front of the other until she stood beside his horse. She would never have had the pleasure of watching Brisbane’s sneer fade …

 … a second before he looked at someone on the wall behind them and yelled, “Fire!”

As she grabbed the amulet, Tabitha knew an instant of pure panic. What if Colin had been a fool to put his faith in her? What if she failed as she’d failed so many times in the past? What if her incompetence left the courtyard littered with their bodies?

The crossbows loosed their missiles with a mighty
thrum
.

It was the image of an arrow piercing Colin’s bold and noble heart that gave her the courage to spin around and make a wish.

The feathered shafts shooting toward them melted to nothing but feathers, drifting harmlessly to the ground. As she turned back toward the castle, Colin gave her a bone-melting smile and his people cheered. Having been previously deprived of the opportunity by her ballet instructor and chorus director, she could not resist making a pleased little bow.

“You might perform your heroics with a little more haste,” Arjon hissed, looking a little green around the gills.

It seemed she would soon get another chance, for at Brisbane’s frantic command, the catapult perched on the wall high above them sent an avalanche of deadly rocks hurtling toward their heads.

Tabitha whispered a wish and the rocks turned to rose petals, raining down around them in a fragrant shower.

She blew a petal off her nose, a surge of naughty
exultation making her giggle. She’d never dreamed being a witch could be so much fun.

“Engage them, you fools!” Brisbane shouted, hysteria rising in his voice. “Cut them down where they stand!”

His men hung back for an infinitesimal second, plainly cowed by the strange goings-on. But their fear of their sadistic lord still surpassed their fear of Tabitha. So it was with false bravado and savage snarls, they came plunging down the gatehouse stairs, blades at the ready. But when they reached the courtyard, their weapons had turned into Nerf swords.