The Maclean Groom (31 page)

“Y
our Aunt Isabel wrote that you may know the whereabouts of my lady wife,” Rory said to the lassie, who'd approached him with an odd mixture of diffidence and serene self-possession. “Did you overhear something the day she was abducted by her kinsmen?”

Raine studied him for a moment, unused to the full beard he'd grown while imprisoned and now kept as a constant reminder of how much he owed the Macdonalds. Then she shook her head, her long ebony braids swinging gently. “The men didn't say where they were taking her, laird. At least, not that I heard.”

Rory sank back in the chair, frustration eating at his vitals. Fearchar, Alex, and Nina, along with his two brothers, had joined him in the upper parlor at Archnacarry while he questioned the girl.

“But dearest,” Nina said, clearly disappointed herself, “why did you tell Aunt Isabel that you knew Lady MacLean's whereabouts?”

“I do,” the child replied, her jet eyes bright with the unflagging surety of youth. “But not because I overheard Lady Joanna's clansmen talking.”

Lachlan, his backside braced against a table piled with books, gave her a warm smile of encouragement. With his shock of auburn waves, his classic features, and his fastidious dress, he presented a picture of urbane refinement. “Then how do you know, child?” he asked patiently.

“I saw her in a vision.”

“Christ!” Keir exclaimed, “I can't believe it!” He sprang up from the tufted stool he'd perched on and glowered at the girl. “You wasted our time on some blasted hocus-pocus?”

Raine straightened beneath his accusing glare. Tossing her head, she folded her arms over her flat chest and met his scornful green eyes. “I didn't waste your time, Laird MacNeil,” she said with a mutinous lift of her chin. “I never even knew
you
were coming.”

Rory raised his hand, cautioning his hotheaded brother. “That's enough,” he said. “I'm sure the lassie meant well.”

“Pray, let her speak,” Isabel entreated. “My niece is fey.”

She'd entered the room unnoticed, and they turned to stare at her in surprise. The lady stood just inside the door, arms folded and hands slipped inside the wide sleeves of her mulberry wool gown. Wisps of her gray-streaked fair hair peeked out from beneath the sloping headdress; her eyes flashed with a droll humor.

Nina moved to her daughter's side and put an arm around her narrow shoulders. “Why, Raine, you've never spoken of this to me.”

The hurt in Nina's soft voice touched everyone watching. Her gentle nature enriched the lives of all she encountered. Yet there seemed to be a wall of misunderstanding between mother and daughter that all the lady's sweetness had never breached.

Rory had heard the servants' gossip. Hell, who hadn't? Superstitious people whispered that Raine had been sired by a black-haired elf prince. Some were ignorant enough to claim that the lassie was part faery and possessed magical powers. He didn't believe such blather. But like anyone who'd observed the sloe-eyed, dark-headed lass in the midst of a family of blonds, Rory felt certain whoever the child's father was, he hadn't been Gideon Cameron.

“Nevertheless, your daughter has the second sight,
Nina,” Isabel said, her voice ringing with pride. “I suggest you listen to her, Laird MacLean.”

They really had no choice—'twas the only straw to be grasped. Rory nodded to Raine and gestured for her to step closer. Taking the lassie's small hand, he leaned forward in the chair and spoke kindly. “You say you've seen my lady wife in a vision?”

Her dark eyes never wavered from his. “Lady MacLean's being held against her will, milord,” she told him eagerly. “She is with her kinsmen in a fortress far away. I've seen her standing at a tower window, watching the sea and praying for you to come rescue her.”

A tiny spark of hope glimmered in Rory's breast. Was he truly grasping at straws, or could this inexplicable child lead him to Joanna? “Can you tell me what this fortress looks like, lass?”

“The castle is on an island,” Raine said. “'Tis built on the edge of low cliffs.” She took a deep breath, bit her bottom lip in concentration, and then continued. “It lies on the tip of a promontory jutting out into the ocean. There are three sea walls, and the gatehouse is flanked by octagonal turrets.”

Rory met Alex's eyes with a feeling of desperation. Any number of Scottish strongholds would meet that description, especially in the Isles.

Alex came and dropped to one knee beside his niece. He patted her on the back and spoke in a low, easy manner. “That's good, lass. That's good. Now try to picture the castle very clearly in your mind. Can you tell us anything about this particular one that makes it different from any other?”

“The keep has two square towers and two round ones, each with a bartizan,” she offered.

“Anything else?”

Bending her head, Raine pressed one finger to her mouth while she thought. Then she looked up to meet Rory's eyes, her adolescent features animated. “Along the parapets are gargoyles in the shape of ferocious eagles, with their beaks
opened as though screaming into the wind and a cluster of arrows grasped in their pointed talons.”

“Dhòmhuill,” Lachlan said, his voice sharp with exhilaration.

“Good girl!” Alex exclaimed as he hugged his niece.

Rory rose and patted Raine on the shoulder. “Thank you, lassie,” he said, his hopes soaring.

Castle Dhòmhuill on the Isle of Skye was the mighty stronghold of Angus Macdonald, chief of Clan Uisdean. Like Somerled before him, Ewen could have fled to another kinsman for protection.

“We'll need all three ships,” Lachlan said, pushing away from the table.

“And what if the lassie's wrong?” Keir demanded. “'Twill take a full week to load the armaments and supplies, another to sail there, and another back. That's nearly a month that we could be using to scour the countryside.”

“I'm not wrong, Laird MacLean,” Raine insisted. “I'm not.” Her lips compressed in a tight line, she clutched his sleeve and looked up at him beseechingly.

“Trust my niece,” Isabel said. “She saw Lady MacLean before ever she came to Archnacarry. Raine described your wife's red hair and plum-colored eyes two summers ago, when first she saw her. Neither of us knew the identity of the maid in her vision, until you brought her here.”

“Is that true, Raine?” Rory questioned in astonishment.

“'Tis true, milord.”

He crouched down before the child. “Is she well?” he asked quietly.

Raine smiled, her eyes flashing with happiness. “Lady Joanna is well,” she said. “In fact, she is more than well.”

“What do you mean, lass?”

“You will know when you find her, Laird MacLean.”

Rory looked up at his youngest brother. “Keir? Are you with us?”

Keir's green eyes narrowed and his cheeks flexed tensely as he met Rory's inquiring gaze. “Hell,” he replied in dis
gust, “I wouldn't let you leave without me, and you damn well know it.”

“All three ships lie off Stalcaire,” Lachlan reminded his oldest brother. “You can speak to Duncan about the status of the annulment before we sail.”

Rory took Nina's hand and met her worried eyes. “Thank you, once again, dear friend. At least now we have something to act upon.”

“My family will keep all of you in our prayers,” she replied. “I pray God you'll bring your wife back safely home.”

 

The Macdonald fortress sat like a stone monolith on the basalt cliffs above the Minch. From the high tower window, Joanna watched the three galleons approach. Her throat ached from holding back tears of joy. Their sails had been spotted the previous day. Now the ships were maneuvering into place in front of Dhòmhuill's formidable sea walls.

The
Sea Dragon
sliced through the waves, her sleek prow graced with a three-headed monster. From her mainmast flew a long black banner emblazoned with a ferocious Celtic sea serpent, its elongated green body slithering in the wind. On her decks, Rory MacLean, chief of Clan MacLean, scion of the Celtic-Norse sea kings of the Hebrides, and laird of Kinlochleven and all its lands and all its fiefs, studied the ramparts of Dhòmhuill with the practiced eye of a warlord trained in the fine art of the siege.

“So the man has finally come,” Lady Beatrix said from behind Joanna's shoulder. She gazed out at the galleons and sniffed contemptuously. “'Twill do him no good.”

Standing in front of the solar's other window, Lady Idoine peered out. Dressed in a gown of fine ruby silk, she fidgeted with the gold bracelets encircling her wrist. As long as her parents remained hidden away in the isolated castle, there'd be no chance of their contracting a marriage alliance for her, and Idoine was growing more and more discouraged every day. She'd had little to do in the past
months except fuss with her cosmetics and jewelry to while away her boredom.

“Will he kill us, Mother?” Idoine asked in her high-pitched whine. “Andrew said the King's Avenger would come with his brothers and murder us all.”

Joanna leaned against the edge of the stone casement and grasped the iron grillwork, her fingers taut and whitened. Despite her outer semblance of calm, her insides quivered with each breath she took. She fought the feeling of faintness that plagued her, refusing to give in to the fear that Rory might not be successful in his attempt to rescue her.

But he was there. Rory was alive, and he had found her.

“Don't be foolish, child,” Beatrix told her daughter with a brittle laugh. “Dhòmhuill is impregnable. In two hundred years, no enemy has ever taken this castle.”

Joanna clutched the elf-bolt in her other hand, remembering Raine's promise that it would protect her from danger. She prayed that her husband would be safe and that he'd forgiven her for betraying him in front of his friends. The rage she'd glimpsed in his eyes before he'd been struck from behind haunted her still. Yet if she'd refused to go with Ewen, Godfrey would have murdered Rory while he lay unconscious on the floor.

At Joanna's shoulder, Beatrix spoke coldly. “Ewen's already told you that the papal dispensation has been granted. You're free to marry Andrew as we all wish. Why worry about the King's Avenger and his contemptible brothers? They can do no more than yap at us like curs prowling around a dunghill.”

“The annulment is still being investigated,” Joanna reminded the callous woman, her gaze fastened on the scene below. “And I am still the wife of The MacLean.”

As the first ship took her position in front of a twelve-foot-thick curtain wall, the second galleon drew near. On the tip of her prow, a great hawk soared above the waves on outspread wings. The
Sea Hawk
rode gently on the crests, her tall sails dipping to the castle in a deadly greeting. Lachlan MacRath, chief of Clan MacRath, whose an
cestors included the kings of Ireland and Norway, had come to pay a call.

“Well, at least there won't be any more foolish attempts to sneak out of the castle.” Lady Idoine twined a wisp of frizzled hair around her finger and giggled spitefully. “Unless Joanna intends to walk straight into their cannon fire.”

But Joanna refused to be baited. She'd take no chances. Not now, after five and a half months of carefully avoiding confrontation, lest one of her cousins, in their mounting anger, become physically abusive.

High on the mainmast of the third galleon, a raven, symbol of an ancient Norse deity, flew on a blood-red flag. Keir MacNeil, chief of the MacNeils of Barra and descendant of Celtic sea raiders, maneuvered his ship alongside the others. Then the
Black Raven
dipped her flag in salute to her sister ships as a skiff was launched to take her captain to confer with his two brothers.

“Your disloyalty to your clan is shameful, Joanna,” Beatrix needled. “Ewen has only the best for you in mind, my dear.”

“Ewen is driven by ambition and greed,” Joanna replied, her frayed temper unraveling at last. “He's never been concerned with the good of our clan. My cousin is willing to do anything, including murder, to get control of my inheritance.”

With a sweep of her flowing satin robe, Beatrix turned and walked to a cushioned bench beside the fireplace. Joanna could hear the smile in her voice as she sat down and picked up her embroidery. “There's no sense in standing at the windows, girls. There'll be lots of noise and smoke for a while, but in the end they will merely have to sail away.”

 

Time stretched endlessly as Dhòmhuill's inhabitants waited in near silence. Men-at-arms were ranged along the high battlements. Arquebusiers and archers stood impatiently in battle position, while cannoneers took their places
at the gun ports. 'Twas the breath-stealing quiet before the storm.

The men on the ships below were in no hurry. They were making careful calculations as they measured the range. Joanna's husband would take utmost care that no stray cannon shell exploded against the walls of the keep, knowing that his wife would be lodged in the highest, most secure tower of the castle.

Just when it seemed that the battle would never begin, the first salvo sounded, and a cannonball struck the northernmost curtain wall. Shouts rang out along the parapets. The clatter of swords on targes, beating in cadence, filled the air, and the Macdonald war cry lifted from the throats of Joanna's kinsmen:
The Heathery Isle!

The siege of Castle Dhòmhuill had begun.

T
hey bombarded the sea walls methodically, testing the strength of the ancient fortress. Rory's master gunners fired their cannons with the precision of surgeons dissecting a cadaver. As he'd suspected, the castle's outdated ordnance couldn't match his advanced naval artillery. Dhòmhuill's ponderous culverins boomed from their keyhole gun ports, but the iron balls fell far too short to do any damage.

As they searched for the weak spot in the castle's defense, the trio of galleons moved along the low-lying cliffs, well out of range of the stronghold's ineffective guns. They found what they were looking for on the eighth day. A crack appeared in the northeast wall.

After that, the three crews took turns pounding away, hammering through the old stone and dry mortar with relentless accuracy. The guns boomed day and night, respites given to the cannoneers only long enough to cool down and regrease the iron barrels and their pivoting mounts.

Thick yellow-gray smoke, pungent with sulfur, drifted heavily on the moist sea breeze, and the constant noise of the cannonade ate away at the defenders' spirits. The explosions shook the battlements on which the Macdonalds stood watching in cold dread as their enemy, true masters in the art of war, worked with dispassionate expertise.

By dusk of the tenth day, the weakened rampart had been breached. Rory stood at the
Sea Dragon
's landward rail and
studied the fortress that tomorrow would be his. The reflection of the ships' lanterns bobbed on the cold, black sea, creating a shimmering pathway to his heart's desire.

“She'll be fine,” Fearchar said, standing quietly beside him.

Rory nodded, his eyes fixed on the highest tower of the keep, where a single taper shone in the window. He smiled crookedly. “My only worry is who my wife will be pretending to be this time. Will I find Joanna disguised as a hackbutter or a faery princess?”

Fearchar scratched his whiskered jowl and laughed deep in his chest. “The bonny wee lass knows how to lead a poor laddie on a merry chase, 'tis certain,” he agreed. “Your sailing days are fair numbered. You'll be too busy at home to be looking for any trouble abroad.”

Rory hefted the astrolabe up to shoulder height to sight the Pole Star. He'd soon be charting their course for the return voyage. “Lady MacLean has a penchant for playing dress-up that I'm only now beginning to appreciate,” he admitted, the warm affection in his voice undeniable. “I think I'll gift her with harem pajamas for Hallowmas and teach her how to salaam.”

Later, under the protective fire of his cannons and the smoke-filled midnight sky, Rory took a squad of men in a skiff, scaled the low slopes to the west, where the fortress walls reached nearly to the water, and blew open the castle's sea gate to create a diversion. As the Macdonalds rushed to protect the small, insignificant portal, the three ships' crews clambered up the cliffs to the east.

At daybreak Rory and Fearchar led the first wave of assault through the gaping castle wall and into the teeming outer bailey. Behind them rushed their clansmen, the MacLean war cry loud and fierce in their throats. Lachlan and his kinsmen, followed by Keir and the MacNeils, made up the second and third waves. Screaming and shouting, the Macdonalds met them with arquebuses, swords, dirks, pikes, and Lochaber axes.

Rory, armed with broadsword and dirk, slashed his way
through the initial line of defense. In the clamor and confusion someone bumped into Rory's back, and he whirled to find Fearchar, who grinned with a fearsome happiness.

“'Tis a great day for a fight!” the colossus bellowed before wading back into the fray.

From the corner of his eye, Rory caught sight of Keir, pounding a Macdonald down to his knees with mighty blows from the pommel end of his heavy hilt. A second fellow attacked from behind, and Keir impaled the man neatly on the spike of his targe before turning to kill his first opponent.

Rory fought his way steadily toward the keep, continually scanning the melee for a glimpse of Ewen or Godfrey. Across the length of the inner bailey, three husky men in half-armor, one brandishing a long-handled ax, were charging Lachlan. Light-footed and resilient, he ducked just in time to avoid decapitation, then lunged low with his dirk, skewering the Macdonald axman.

As Rory raced to his brother's side, one of the remaining two foes turned in belated awareness of danger. Rory rammed the thickset fellow with his shoulder so hard his helm flew off, then struck his nose a vicious blow with his sword hilt. The soldier staggered beneath the shock. Rory adroitly kicked his legs out from under him and slit the bastard's throat with his dirk on the way down.

By that time, Lachlan had dispatched his third opponent. He scowled at his older brother. “Are you trying to spoil my fun?” he called over the tumult. “Find your own Macdonalds to kill.”

“I'm trying to find Ewen and Godfrey,” Rory shouted.

“Haven't seen them.” With a salute of his sword, Lachlan hurried to meet two pikemen coming toward him. “Try the keep,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

Once engaged in close combat, the Macdonalds proved unable to sustain the shock of the first charge, and the battle's outcome was quickly decided. The invaders' initial violent rush swept through the defenders, isolating them in pockets. MacLeans, MacRaths and MacNeils were now
systematically annihilating any of the enemy who refused to surrender. By Rory's orders, prisoners were not to be killed and the wounded were to be tended. He didn't want any more Macdonald blood on his hands than absolutely necessary.

Knowing victory was inevitable, Rory raced to the door of the donjon, which had been left ajar, its guards dead on the flagstones. The vestibule stood empty. The tables and benches in the great hall had been shoved willy-nilly in a jumble of furniture and half-eaten food.

He crossed the floor, stirring up the scent of the herbed rushes, ironically sweet in contrast to the gore and mayhem just outside the thick walls. Halfway across the chamber a blur of movement caught his eye, and he turned toward an inside staircase.

Cool and collected, Ewen stepped down from the last stair. With a faint smile, he moved confidently to the wall by the huge fireplace, where a pair of claymores hung, their blades approaching four feet in length, and calmly dropped his broadsword on the floor at his feet. He took one of the great swords down, and with the large hilt grasped in both hands, whipped it about, testing its strength and flexibility. He appeared fresh and relaxed. Clearly, he hadn't bothered to participate in the defense of another laird's castle. He'd left the fighting to his unfortunate kinsmen, along with the valor.

“So it comes to this,” Ewen said with a smirk of satisfaction as he moved across the floor. “We can decide now, just the two of us, once and for all, the ownership of Kinlochleven and the chieftainship of Clan Macdonald.” He gestured for Rory to approach. “You want the other claymore? Come get it. Or is it your wife you've come such a long way to recover? Come and get them both, MacLean—for you'll not have one without the other.”

Rory advanced cautiously, the broadsword in his right hand, his dirk in the left. Without forewarning, Ewen charged, swinging the huge, double-handed sword like the scythe of death.

Parrying the claymore with its wide, drooping cross-guard, Rory dodged and feinted, edging sideways across the floor, moving whenever possible in the direction of the hearth and the other weapon. Fighting for his life, he used his agility and fleetness to avoid the limb-severing blade.

Again and again, Rory retreated before his opponent's aggressive, slashing attack. Ewen narrowed the distance between them relentlessly. He struck the smaller, lighter broadsword with his heavy claymore repeatedly, the jarring impact vibrating up Rory's arm and numbing his fingers. Canny and skilled, Ewen stayed out of range of the two shorter blades as he hacked viciously, trying to drive Rory to his knees.

Emitting a sudden shout of rage, the Macdonald war commander struck downward with all his strength, and the violent impact forced the broadsword to the floor. As Rory sank to one knee beneath the punishing blow, his blade snapped at the hilt and the blue steel clanged, useless, on the stones.

Ewen stood over him, breathing quickly, with a look of triumph on his dark, bearded face. He raised the claymore high over his head for the deathblow.

Rory sprang out of his crouch and propelled himself forward, striking out at Ewen's exposed thigh with his dirk in search of tendon and bone.

Ewen jumped back, the razor-sharp blade missing him by a hair's breadth. Off-balance, he staggered, crashed heavily to the rush-covered stones, and rolled to his knees, weapon ready.

In those few precious moments, Rory dashed across the floor to the fireplace and reached the other claymore just in time to turn and meet Ewen's slicing blow. With the great sword in his hands at last, Rory moved directly into the attack.

The claymores exploded together as the two enemies fought fast and viciously. Lunging, traversing, wrenching, parrying, they moved around the floor. The blades gleamed,
wicked and deadly, in the flickering candlelight thrown from the brackets on the wall.

Two swordsmen of great strength intent on beating down the other's blade, they eddied back and forth across the chamber. They stepped over benches and tables, kicking the discarded trenchers and flagons out of their way, both men gasping for breath. Sweat poured down their faces and soaked their shirts.

Ewen's strength slowly waned before the furious onslaught of his more powerful opponent. Chest heaving, eyes bulging, he was no match for a man who'd spent the last ten years training in close combat. Swordplay was embedded in Rory's bones. Getting his second wind, Ewen thrust, dodged, and thrust again. The blades rang and slid.

Then Rory saw the opening he'd been waiting for. He parried, feinted, and slashed. Ewen dropped his weapon and stared blankly, knowing the clang of his heavy blade on the stones sounded his death knell. With a final lunge, Rory administered the
coup de grâce
, sending his claymore straight through his adversary's heart.

Then drawing in great drafts of air, he turned and started up the stairs, claymore in hand. Andrew stood at the top of the landing, holding a broadsword and targe. The youngster stared down at his mortal enemy, his beautiful dark eyes wide and terrified.

“Your father's dead, lad,” Rory said quietly as he hurried up the stairwell. “Don't make me kill you, too.”

His face stark with fright, Andrew took a step back, opened his hands, and let the weapons fall to the stones. As his circular wooden shield rolled down the stairs past Rory, he leaned his back against the rough stone wall and slowly slid down it. Resting his arms on his knees, he hid his face from sight.

Rory paused on the step below. “Where's my wife?”

“Up there,” the boy answered, pointing one raised finger to the landing above.

Rory climbed the stairs to the third floor and found a
door standing open. When he entered, Lady Beatrix flung herself at his feet.

“Don't kill us!” she implored, her hands lifted toward him in supplication. “Oh, my God, don't kill us! Idoine and I are innocent of any wrongdoing.”

Idoine began to screech, her ear-splitting shrieks filling the room. She didn't emit a single comprehensible syllable, just screamed over and over and over in mindless terror.

His wife stood at the window, her slim, rigid back squarely to Rory. Utterly silent and immobile, she looked out on the carnage below, where her kinsmen had suffered an ignominious defeat at his hands. He had broken the power of the treasonous Glencoe Macdonalds.

Rory tightened his jaw. He'd let her rail and call him names with patient composure. She could scratch and bite and kick if it brought her heart's ease. Hell, he preferred her clever tongue to this composed, icy silence.

All the while, Idoine's strident wail, piercing and monotonous, never stopped.

To Rory's relief, Fearchar appeared at the doorway. “Damn,” he muttered, sheathing his weapons and stepping inside.

“Get them out of here,” Rory ordered, his gaze fixed on his wife.

“Oh, please don't hurt us, don't hurt us,” Beatrix moaned as Fearchar caught her elbow and drew her up. With a soft snort of disgust, he pushed her gently toward the door. Then he clapped his big hand over Idoine's mouth, lifted her up, and hauled her bodily out of the chamber. The muffled sound of the girl's squawking could be heard going all the way down the stairs.

Still Joanna didn't turn. With one slender hand braced on the stone casing, she stared straight ahead. Rory had no idea what she was thinking or feeling, for she gave no sign. His spirit shriveled inside his chest at the possibility that she hated him.

With a mighty thrust, he buried the claymore's tip in the oak planking at his feet. Then he held out one hand and
tried to speak in a cool, dispassionate tone, though his hoarse voice betrayed him. “I've come to take you home, Joanna. 'Tis time to go home to Kinlochleven.”

Joanna bent her head and blinked back the tears. The words spoken in that marvelous deep baritone were achingly familiar. They were nearly the same words Grandpapa had said when he'd come for her at Allonby Castle. “'
Tis time to be going home, darling of my heart. 'Tis time to go home to the Highlands
.

She didn't need a bonny knight in shining armor to come riding up on a white steed to rescue her. Her magnificent husband, in his green and black plaid and clan bonnet with the three chief's feathers, had saved her from her evil, perfidious cousin Ewen.

Night after night, she'd dreamed of Rory coming to get her and take her home. And now he was here.

Her heart soaring, Joanna turned…and gazed in paralyzed revulsion at the barbaric creature standing before her. Here was no romantic Highland chief. This stranger wore leather breeches and long black boots that came past his knees. His full, luxurious beard hid half his features, and his sleeveless jerkin hung in tatters about his grimy, blood-smeared chest. The upper part of his face and his clubbed hair were covered with splotches of soot, and he reeked of gunpowder.