Chapter 22

Chapter 22

James, Laird of Clan McFerguson,

After my honor has been tested time and again, the time has come to put an end to the madness and war that you and your traitor wife have brought upon these Highlands that were once a peaceful home. You have scorned each and every olive branch offered to you these many years, instead choosing to keep my family from me and threaten my birthright and my people.

Know this, McFerguson. When the final battle comes, it will be swift and decisive. Your clan and your people will fall to me and become mine by right, just as everything one day will. You could have avoided this, all of it. All you had to do was return unto me what was and remains rightfully my own.

Your sons, your niece and nephews, your precious Wraith, your friends, soldiers, servants, and clansmen: their blood will be on your hands. The purple heather will grow red with their spilled life, and I will ensure you are alive to survey every last drop. And Blair, should you read this, know that you and your sisters will not all survive the night—and that perhaps the one who does not will be the lucky one.

Do not bother surrendering. At dawn five days hence, my men will arrive with the strength of Clan McMillan, Clan Brennan, and more at my back. And I will cut you down where you stand.

Prepare yourselves. And die like the worms you are.

Bram, the true Laird of Clan McMillan

Jocelyn arched an eyebrow when Blair finished reading the letter out loud to the whole war room. The second sister said, "Well. Age has certainly made him more pompous."

Her words caused a low chuckle around the room filled with advisors and soldiers, but Deirdre did not have the heart to join them. She felt sick to the stomach as she'd listened to the declaration of war. She knew that her sisters were only attempting to bring light to what was otherwise an unspeakably dire situation, but she did not have it in her to join in their efforts.

The strength of Clan Brennan, the letter had said. So the Brennans would be joining the fight after all. Deirdre wondered if Ciaran had gotten her letter, and if so, had he cared? Had he gone to his father and demanded they change the course of action, or had he simply thrown the paper into the fire? Or perhaps he had never read it at all. She'd probably never know the truth for sure, and after all, it didn't really matter. Either way, it would all soon be over.

"The declaration has come," James announced once the noise quietened a bit. "Which means that, five days hence, this war will end—one way or another. There is much tae be done before that time, and I need men and women around me who are strong enough tae do what it takes. Some of ye may wish tae flee with yer families. If ye do, now is yer last chance. Ye may leave, with no hard feelin's or shame from me."

He waited, but nobody moved. Deirdre looked around the room, amazed by how there wasn't even a stir. Every person there, man or woman, young or old, sat resolute and determined in their chair, watching James, their silence an unspoken promise. They were swearing their loyalty to him, and to Blair, and to the sisters as a whole.

Deirdre's heart filled and tears welled in her eyes. These people would fight and die for them, for James, for her family. Before she knew what she was doing, she was on her feet, and her voice rang out loud and clear around the room.

"He will not win," she declared.

A cheer rose at her words, as well as several shouts of "hear, hear!" She felt it, then, that spirit of hope, of camaraderie, of family. Could it be that her declaration could come true?

"He will not win!" James agreed, causing more cheers. He held up a hand again, "But first, there's work to do."

And there was, indeed, more work than Deirdre had ever dreamed of. The next days were a blur, each waking moment filled with chores, activities, and planning, as they prepared for the battle that was coming to end the war for better or worse—forever.

Each of the sisters ended up tending to a different part of the castle.

For Blair, the Lady of McFerguson, her focus had to be on her people. While her husband prepared for warfare, she took charge of protecting the women and children, the sick and disabled, and anyone else who could not fight. She arranged small evacuation efforts of the castle town and surrounding areas, sending away whatever servants they could and any clansmen and women who were not directly needed for the war effort. To the sisters' surprise and intense gratitude, many refused to leave, preferring instead to stand with the Laird and Lady they'd grown to love.

Jocelyn, with her brilliant strategic mind, helped her own husband with tactical planning, arranging strategic parties along the route where Bram and the Brennans would attack to help forestall and reduce the eventual threat. She directed their book learners to help with the strategy, while Lachlan worked on whipping the men into fighting shape through vigorous training. She also helped rig the castle for its final stand; they would meet Bram on the field, but should he try to directly attack the keep, he would find traps and hazards that made it less easy than he was perhaps expecting.

Aoife worked closely with the kitchen staff, herbalists, weapons experts, and suppliers to ensure that they were well-stocked. Should the battle go poorly and they ended up locked in a siege, it was essential that they were prepared to keep themselves and any clanspeople who sought shelter alive and well for as long as it took for help to arrive. She knew how to charm the butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers; how to find the smallest chink in any armor, and how to make the best of any situation. Her secondary job was inspiration, and she provided it in spades.

And for Deirdre, well, she finally got to speak her mind. They wanted to know everything, every detail of the moments she'd been in Brennan territory, every whisper she'd overheard. But it was more than that. Every time she'd escaped the confines of Keep McFerguson to go to the market, every time she'd mingled with the servants out of sight—each time had been an opportunity to learn things she herself hadn't even known about, and now her role was to piece it all together like one huge puzzle, one which would end in a solution that meant her life and the life of everyone she loved.

Jocelyn and Blair had another project brewing between them, one which Deirdre discovered two days in when a small, elderly woman with power emanating from her strode into the castle with the confidence of any Laird. Agatha, the wise woman, had come, and she summoned the four sisters together when they had a moment spare from their other duties.

"The prophecies are comin' tae pass," Agatha told them as she showed them how to mix particular herbal medicines, unguents, and edible little cakes she insisted were spells of strength. Deirdre wasn't sure she believed in the last, but she learned diligently anyway, working hard enough under the old woman's tutelage that her brow was covered in sweat. "Soon it'll be over."

"The wolves risin' up," Blair murmured. "Is that what ye mean?"

Agatha hesitated, and Deirdre caught the old woman casting a sneaky glance in her direction for some bizarre reason. "Among others, aye," Agatha replied.

Jocelyn frowned, her eyes too darting first to Deirdre and then to Agatha. Then Deirdre remembered the prophecy that Jocelyn had already told her when she returned, the one that Agatha had uttered when Deirdre was thought lost. Carrion for the crow.

She shivered, feeling a piercing gaze of stormy grey-blue even from so far away. He was coming for her, one way or the other. Another prophecy. Another ending.

"Then we must work twice as hard," Deirdre declared. And that was what they did, the four of them. They attended to their castle duties during the day, and at night, exhausted but alive with the spirits of hope and fear, they obeyed Agatha's tutelage under the light of the moon.

The fourth day dawned grey and dark, and Deirdre watched the sky as it did. Time was nearly up, and the storm was nearly here. All she could do now was wait and hope, and wonder if Ciaran had ever received her letter.

"He's injured!" someone shouted, and Aoife dropped what she was doing to run to help as the bleeding soldier was pulled through the side entrance and into the herbalist's room. "Someone get Nettie!"

While someone rushed off to get the healer, Aoife approached the man now thrashing around on the healer's table as if in a dream. She didn't know how, but she knew what she was going to see. As the herbalist checked his wounds while they waited on Nettie, Aoife reached close enough to touch the soldier, who was so pale and drawn he may as well already be in the grave.

"Liam," she whispered, feeling almost detached from herself as she stared down into his face.

His sunny, golden hair was limp and stuck to his head, his rosy skin whiter than snow except for the sticky blood that covered his hands. She traced that blood back to a wound, much deeper than the last, a deep one in his lower abdomen that she knew at a glance could easily be fatal. His breathing was ragged and heavy, and his eyes roved wildly; he was barely conscious.

"What happened?" she whispered, numb, the horror of the moment too much for her to bear. "How did this—what did he?—?"

"He was coming back with us," a soldier said, and Aoife realized with a start she did not know who he was. Fear blossomed in her heart for a moment, but it faded instantly when she noticed the emblem that the man wore.

"Ye're a soldier for hire," she whispered. "And that…that's McLeod's merchant seal."

"Aye, ma'am," another soldier said. There were three of these soldiers-for-hire in the room with them, some of them also spotted with Liam's blood. "The lad found our party an' convinced the master that the cause was worth it, regardless of any agreements."

Aoife's heart raced as Nettie burst into the room. She was bustled to the side before she could ask any more questions, but it was clear now what had happened. She'd send Liam out to find the McLeod delegation…and he'd done so much more than that. He'd brought soldiers here, at risk to himself, to save her. To save her family. How had he done it? How had he convinced William and his father to help her despite her treachery?

The next two hours were agonizing. Aoife sat at the side of the room, watching Nettie work on Liam, feeling every time he cried out in pain as an agony in her own self. He was hurt, bleeding, maybe dying because of her. And even if Nettie managed to stabilize him, what then? War would come tomorrow, and Liam would be in no state to fight, nor to defend himself.

At last, Nettie grunted and moved away. Silence fell in the room, everyone but Nettie and her herbalist and Aoife long since gone. Liam lay still on the table, but some color had returned to his cheeks.

"He'll live," Nettie announced in her usual no-nonsense manner. "I'll have some of the lads take him to a bed. God kens he'll not be the only one over the next few days."

"He'll be all right?" Aoife breathed, feeling like something was blocking her throat.

Nettie grunted again, then sighed. "Ye can sit with him for a while," she offered. "Just tae be sure."

Aoife thanked her, and once Liam had been safely cleaned up and moved to one of the sick beds, she settled into a chair next to him.

Another hour passed. The sun was setting now, their time running out. Nettie left, and soon only Aoife and Liam remained in the room. His fitful groans had given way to more natural breathing, and he seemed to have fallen into a sleep.

Aoife stared at his face, biting her lip, then tentatively reached out to touch his hand. "Ye shouldn't have come back," she whispered. "Ye should have run, while ye had the chance. We'll never survive what's comin'."

Liam groaned, and his hand tensed under hers. Suddenly, his fingers laced through hers, and Aoife felt tears in her eyes as she held tightly to his hand.

"Why me?" she asked quietly, because there was no point in pretending now. No point in acting properly, not when tomorrow morning it would all be over. "What made me so worth it that ye'd throw yer life away, Liam? I, who spent most of the time we had together in love with someone else—I, who never returned yer affections as ye wanted, I who ye may never have? Ye have no bonds tae this clan, no need tae be loyal. Why did ye return?"

A small pressure on her hand was the only sign, and soon she was pulled forward, stumbling a little as she fell onto the bed at his side. His eyes opened, bleary but with a sharper focus now, still as blue as the bright morning sky. "Aoife," he whispered.

Silently, bound by that gaze, she tucked up her legs and lay with him, face to face, their bodies only just far enough apart to avoid her jostling his wound. Their hands were knotted together, and Aoife knew now that, even when she let go, they'd never be separated again.

"Why?" she asked again, as quiet as the wind.

Liam's voice rasped as he spoke, gentle, quiet, familiar words. " I should think freedom more to prize, than all the gold in the world that is," he murmured. Then his eyes fluttered closed, his breathing slowing back into sleep.

Aoife was stuck in place once more, a loud ringing in her ears as she processed what he had just said to her. Those lines, that poem…that was the last line of the Barbour verse, the words on the joy and anguish of freedom that protected the heart of Scotland.

The poem she herself had quoted, only weeks before, in a half-finished letter.

What did it mean? What did any of it mean?

Aoife was tired, terrified, and sure that the worse was yet to come. But right now, in this moment, the only thing she was sure of was this.

"I have tasted freedom, Liam," she told him. "And if we survive the night, I want tae spend the rest of that freedom with ye."

And as for the rest…that could wait. For now, there was only Aoife, and the man she loved. Them, and the freedom to live whatever was left of their lives together. No matter what that meant.

"Why are ye givin' me this?" Deirdre asked reverently as Blair pressed the rose necklace into her hands. "It was our mammy's. Ye should keep it. She gave it tae ye."

"And now I give it tae ye, me brave little rose," Blair told her. They sat in Blair's room now, cosied together on one couch in front of the flickering fire. "Ye never got tae ken our parents. This will keep them close tae ye, keep them with ye, no matter what will happen tomorrow."

Deirdre sniffed, trying to keep herself from crying. "I don't want it tae end like this," she whispered. "I don't want this tae be our last night together."

"I ken," Blair told her soothingly, stroking her hair. "I ken." She hesitated, then said, "Did ye love him?"

Deirdre paused, thrown by the sudden subject change. "Love whom?"

"The Brennan lad."

Deirdre meant to deny it, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was, "How?—?!"

Blair laughed sadly. "Och, me poor wee dollie. Ye hid it well, sweet one, ye truly did, but I ken the look when I see it. I saw it in me mirror when I realized I loved James, and I saw it in Jocelyn's eyes when she told me she wished tae wed Lachlan and asked for our blessin'."

"But Ciaran isn't James or Lachlan," Deirdre replied. The tears flowed freely now, and she leaned into Blair, allowing herself to cry while her older sister, the closest thing she'd ever truly had to a mother, embraced her. "I was a fool, Blair. I'm at fault. I'm so sorry. Now he'll come tae kill us all."

"Never apologise for yer heart, little wolf," Blair told her softly. "Misled or no, what ye felt was true, and that ability tae love openly is what gives us our strength."

"And yer strength?" Deirdre whispered. "Yer love? Is that why ye won't come with us tae safety with the bairns?"

"Aye," Blair told her. "I want ye and Aoife as far from here as ye can be. I ken I will never convince Jocelyn tae leave Lachlan behind, and no more will I abandon James now."

"Ye'll die."

"Probably," Blair admitted, sadness in her tone. "But I will fight by James's side to my last breath tae protect me clan and me family. Both me clans. Tell me ye understand."

"I understand," Deirdre replied, and she did. "I just hope that ye understand as well. I will not go with the bairns and the other women. I cannot. Grace and Maggie are with them; they're family too, and they'll protect them. And Aoife as well. I must be here, and I won't stay behind."

Blair sighed, but didn't argue. Perhaps she'd been expecting it.

A few moments later, the door opened, and Deirdre moved away from Blair so she could see who'd come in. There they were, both Jocelyn and Aoife, each carrying bottles of wine, each with sad smiles on their faces. Aoife looked preoccupied, but it didn't matter. Right now, none of it mattered—none of it, that was, except that they were together.

"The bairns…" Blair started.

"Gone," Jocelyn told her. "I sent them away. I kent Deirdre would refuse, and Aoife already did as well."

Aoife laughed, sounding a little dazed. "Let's drink together, sisters. It might be the last time."

Jocelyn and Aoife sat, and together the four of them poured wine. As they drank, the stories began to flow, half-remembered tales and once-forgotten memories of their lives.

"Do ye remember when…?"

"Have ye forgotten…?"

"Can ye believe…?"

They didn't speak of the war, nor of the men, nor of anything now except for each other. As the wine disappeared, they laughed and they cried and they loved, just Blair and Jocelyn and Aoife and Deirdre, the four McMillan sisters who had always had each other. The four lost wolf cubs, bound by magic, bound by love, like the petals of a rose that refused to fall away.

"And so, sisters, even though we may die, at least we die together," Deirdre finished, wiping her eyes.

"No, me love," Aoife corrected. She reached out and took Deirdre's hand in one of hers and held Jocelyn's in the other. Deirdre took Blair's, and Blair and Jocelyn too joined hands, creating a circle. "We're choosin' tae live together. No matter what."

Deirdre nodded, her tears turning to resolve as she held her sisters. Yes, they would live. Let Bram come. He could take what he wanted from them. Their home. Their titles. Even their lives.

But he'd never take from them who they were. They were the McMillan sisters, the rightful heirs to Clan McMillan and the beating heart of the Highlands.

And that could never be destroyed. So let him come. They were ready.