Chapter Seven

"On what was once an island in Loch Dunvegan, Dunvegan Castle consists of…a 16th-century tower known as the Fairy Tower, which was built by Alasdair Crotach…"

TheCastlesofScotland.co.uk

Sara's limbs ached with impotent exhaustion, so she draped forward over the neck of the horse the Lion had thrown her onto. As her heart slowed, her gaze followed the patches of small white flowers on thread-thin stems shooting up from the thick clumps of moss as the horse walked along the edge of the narrow road.

She almost wished to slide off under the horse's feet, but being trampled to death was painful. There was also the chance that Rory MacLeod wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't let her come to harm. Where there is life, there is hope . Her mother's advice calmed Sara.

Rory paused and came to the side. Sara didn't bother to move. She felt his fingers pry her foot from the stirrup. The saddle tipped as he lifted upward, but she gave him no room in the saddle. Let him keep walking.

She gasped as he lifted under her, setting her onto his lap. With a quick wiggling shift, she slid off his crotch to straddle the pommel. But there was no helping her backside pressing into his groin. At least her petticoats bunched between them. "'Tis not decent," she said.

"'Twill be less decent if ye keep rubbing yer arse against my cock."

She snapped her gaze around to face him. His golden eyes were narrowed in challenge, but wry humor played about his lips. Before she could say anything, he looked over her head. "Hold on."

She gasped as the horse lunged forward into a gallop. The beast thundering beneath them was no leisure palfrey but a courser, a war horse. If Rory's arm hadn't latched around her middle, holding her in the seat, Sara may have indeed slid off to her death.

Wind filled her face, and Sara took large inhales to calm her heart. The air no longer made her cough, but as they closed the distance that she'd run, the smell of smoke rode the breeze. St. Mary's Chapel smoldered ahead, its roof having caved in. Villagers stood around it, watching the structure that couldn't be saved.

Gazes turned toward them as they neared, some curious, some hostile. Sara wasn't sure who had yelled to throw her into the burning chapel, so she imagined it coming from all of them. In a show of defiance that hid the quake running up and down her spine, she tipped her chin slightly higher and kept her back straight.

Most of the men who'd escaped the burning church had left the area. The litter holding her groom was gone. Was Jamie still her groom, her husband? Sara had watched the flames hungrily grab the wedding contract, destroying it. But did the priest still consider Jamie and her married? Did God?

Rory pushed them up the incline and through the village to the base of towering Dunvegan Castle. Margaret and Gus, the wolfhound, remained near the side of the castle with several horses tethered there. Rory guided his horse toward them.

When they stopped at the wall, Rory dismounted. Sara pulled her leg over to jump down, but Rory's large hands wrapped around her waist, setting her down without jarring. Gus pressed against her legs, and Margaret came up to her with a drinking bladder.

"Here, milady," Margaret said; the woman's voice was strong and kind. "I'll get ye a rosemary and peppermint poultice to lay on your chest and a steam for ye to breathe once we're inside." She thumped her own chest and coughed. "'Twill help all of us."

Sara nodded her thanks but felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "I am sorry for—"

"You pulled me out of that inferno, milady." Margaret waved off the rest of her apology.

Margaret's gaze swung back to Rory. "You opened your wound again," she said, frowning between them. She squinted at Rory. "And your eye is swelling."

"No matter," he said.

Rory issued orders to a few soldiers who wore soot-free tunics, making it evident they hadn't attended the nightmarish ceremony. "Lay the dead Macdonalds out on a wagon bed and deliver them to the nearest Macdonald holding. Morag Gunn."

"The witch with the crows?" one asked.

"Aye," Rory said.

Sara opened her mouth to say Morag wasn't a witch, but she really didn't know. To be associated with her aunt right now wouldn't help her. She looked at the two Macdonald warriors. They were her father's men, but no one she knew.

"Send a message to Kenan Macdonald about this"—Rory waved his hand indicating the smoldering chapel—"atrocity. Let Walter Macdonald know that we are officially at war with the Macdonalds of Sleat. To make peace, they must replace the chapel and compensate us for the attack with two wagons of grain."

Sara knew her father would never give them anything. They were at war. Her heart sank deeper. No matter the brave, cold face she presented, her stomach roiled as if she would vomit. Without his old adversary leading the MacLeods, both Sara and Kenan had hoped a peace between the clans could be settled. But her father had fouled that up completely.

The looming stone castle sat on a saltwater strait off Loch Dunvegan. A ten-foot-thick curtain wall surrounded Dunvegan Castle. Sara had heard her father grumble and curse about the difficulty of getting inside the seat of the MacLeods, and now she saw why.

Tables were set up outside the wall where the wedding would've been celebrated. The villagers had decorated the area with garlands of bluebells and daisies. The flowers flapped in the wind from an arch at the top of the table where two chairs had been set side by side. Food and tankards had been abandoned and chairs knocked over. A doll made of twisted reeds lay in the path as if a child had dropped it when her mother grabbed her to run to safety.

Sara picked the doll out of the path, brushing the dirt from the sewn dress of blue. Yellow and red-dyed wool had been braided and attached to the faceless head. She set it on the table to be found. When she turned back, Rory was watching her. Their gazes connected, and she felt a flush warm her cheeks at being caught doing something so…inconsequential.

Sara turned her face from his and searched the soaring wall for a portcullis or gatehouse. There was nothing but solid wall and a dock at the water's edge. "We must take to the water to enter Dunvegan?"

Margaret answered, "'Tis the only way in or out through the wall."

Sara watched Gus leap easily onto a flat ferry that looked to hold ten large men. Margaret motioned for Sara to follow her onto it. The vessel dipped with the shifting weight as men climbed on board, two of them taking up poles to push them through the water. Thankfully, Gus stood before Sara so that men couldn't press against her front, but she felt someone brush her back.

Prickles skittered along her nape, and she felt breath brush her hair.

"Do not try to escape through the water." Rory's deep voice sent chill bumps down her arms, and her body prickled with awareness. "Men have been known to drown trying to swim."

"I'll be sure to grow wings and fly to my freedom then." Her gaze remained out over the water as the polemen pushed the barge around the side of the massive castle. Only the lapping of water and slight grind of pebbles being crushed by the poles on the bottom broke the silence.

The ferry docked on a spit of land that faced the outlet to the sea. One by one they stepped off to climb the bank to a set of granite steps carved into the steep incline. Gus half ran, half walked up them to bark at a barred gate in the stonewall. Rory remained behind, taking Margaret's hand to help her down with his good arm. He turned back to Sara.

"I can manage," she said, pulling the hem of her skirt higher to find her step. She'd lost both her slippers on her run, and the bottoms of her feet ached with bruises. Rory took her free hand, and the warmth against her cold fingers made her clutch it as he helped her from the ferry. He then turned away, releasing her and striding up the steps. Sara's fingers curled inward as if trying to contain the warmth he'd left against her palm.

Fatigue weighed on Sara, but she paid close attention as she passed through the barred gate through the ten-foot-thick wall and then up another set of narrow steps into the entryway of the castle. One warrior helped Margaret, but no one asked Sara if she needed any, not that she expected it. She was the enemy here. Dear Mother Mary. She'd probably be poisoned within three days.

High-arched ceilings of timber buttresses soared overhead in the great hall. Rich tapestries hung on the walls depicting battles, flags, and stag hunts. One showed a man and woman being wed beside a loch that sparkled in the sun.

Another showed the woman handing the yellow Fairy Flag to her groom. There were several legends about the revered flag. 'Twas said a fairy princess wed a MacLeod hundreds of years ago and gave him the powerful flag to protect him and his clan. The flag was still housed somewhere in Dunvegan. Alasdair MacLeod had unfurled the banner in 1520 when her clan almost conquered the MacLeods. Both sides felt the battle had turned in MacLeod favor only because of the magical scrap of silk.

A wooden table ran down the center of the room, and a cluster of chairs and stools sat in a semicircle before a hearth at one end. Jamie must have been carried above because he wasn't in the hall. Margaret issued instructions for medicines, while her husband fretted around her, giving her a goblet and wet rag for her flushed face.

Sara stopped in the middle of the room like a tree rooted in the center of a flooded river as people rushed around her. A bearded man with a hawk-like nose to match a tall forehead hurried across the room to Rory. She felt lost and weak. Her gaze latched onto the strong features of her captor as if he were a buoy.

"Sit down," the bearded man ordered Rory. "We cannot lose ye."

Rory's large form folded into a chair at the table while the man inspected his sliced arm.

"Jamie's in more jeopardy than me, Hamish," Rory said.

"I tended him and will go above after I sew yer arm."

Windows high above allowed in light, and lit beeswax candles in an iron chandelier hung over the table draped in colorful embroidered linen.

Several times a guard or maid nearly ran Sara over but slid past her at the last second without giving her so much as a look. How could she escape from a castle surrounded by seawater?

Half-created scenarios twirled in Sara's mind until the walls around her seemed to wobble. She realized she'd locked her knees and purposely made them bend. She pulled in a long breath but still swayed, the vision of Rory blurring. Perhaps if she swooned, all of this would end. Her eyes flicked closed. Then open. Then closed.

"Bloody hell," Rory yelled, "someone get her a chair!"

Sara felt someone touch her elbow, and her feet moved without her attention. A chair edge hit the back of her knees, making her sit near the low fire in the large stone hearth.

A cup was pressed into her hands. "Drink, milady," a voice said. She looked up into the lean face of a tall, thin man with dark hair and a smile that showed upper teeth that jutted outward. His jaw had little definition, but his eyes were large and concerned. He nodded at the cup, making his hair fall in his eyes. "'Tis a weak honey ale." He gave a slight shake of his head to part the hair so he could see. 'Twas such a quick, subtle gesture that Sara imagined he did it all day long.

"Thank you," she said and took a drink, closing her eyes to concentrate on the soothing liquid.

"I'm Reid Hodges of Lewis," the man said, and she opened her eyes, immediately seeing Rory MacLeod staring at her from his seat. She frowned at him and turned her gaze up to Reid.

Reid cleared his throat. "Mistress Margaret tasked me to look after ye." He gave her a little nod, almost like a bird bobbing its head, shook the hair from his eyes again, and took the empty cup. He turned away to hustle off before she could say anything else. Apparently, he already knew who she was. The hated Macdonald bride whose father tried to murder everyone on her wedding day.

Margaret had disappeared. Had she gone above to see Jamie? Should Sara go to him, her betrothed or husband or enemy? When she'd met him before the church and realized her fantasies had been about Rory and not Jamie, an unbidden sob had settled inside her chest. Such disappointment had almost made her turn away from the church. Would her father's plans have proceeded if she'd refused to wed? Walter Macdonald would probably have killed her before everyone.

Rory remained sitting at the table, his knees splayed wide, while the slice to his arm was washed and stitched. Sara stood slowly from her chair and walked over, stopping before him. "I should see if I can help…Jamie," she said. "Is he above?"

The elderly man at Rory's shoulder stopped, as well as several others nearby.

"Ye're no chief's wife," said an old man with one eye pinched shut and sunken in. He cut his hand in the air. "Trying to murder yer groom and his family on yer wedding day makes yer vows lies said to God."

"Aye," another man said, stepping up next to the first. "No dowry, no consummation, and an evil plot to murder…" He waved a hand in the air, and Sara noticed his other sleeve was tied under the elbow, his left forearm missing. "Means no marriage. Ye, the Flame of Dunscaith, are our prisoner." His scowl matched the expression of the one-eyed man.

"What John said," the first man said, tipping his head toward him. "And Jamie, bless him, might never wake. Throw her in the dungeon."

Sara's heart thumped hard. The dungeon at Dunscaith Castle was damp, cold, and dark with rats scratching around for food, or bare toes. Gilbert had locked her in there once when they were children when she'd told her father that he'd been sleeping in the barn instead of training. Feeling forgotten and trapped in the space had terrified her.

Rory stood, the needle and string dangling from his arm where the barber-surgeon hadn't finished. Sara looked up into his hard face. Just like when she'd peered up at it through the ferns, she saw questions there.

"Until my brother regains leadership," he said, "ye will remain at Dunvegan."

"In the dungeon?" she asked, squeezing her hands so Rory didn't see her tremble.

He continued to stare into her eyes. It was as if he were trying to read what was inside her head. "Reid, take Lady Sara to wash in the kitchens and then take her to the west tower." Rory never took his eyes off hers. "Make sure she's given food and drink."

"Bloody hell," the man missing an arm cursed.

The one-eyed man snorted. "In my day, she'd have been—"

"Lady Sara is under my protection," Rory said, his gaze moving about the great hall and finally falling on the two gray-haired men. "I am the chief of Clan MacLeod on Skye until Jamie wakes, as well as the commander of our armies. Unless…" His gaze moved to the warriors being treated by maids or standing armed about the room. "Unless someone challenges me."

Silence swelled between them. Even the men who were still plagued by coughing muffled the sound in their elbow pits. No one seemed inclined to challenge the Lion of Skye even with his one arm sliced. The thread of his suture hung from his massive arm as he scanned the quiet hall.

A large warrior with red hair and freckles over his scowling face walked toward him, and for a moment Sara worried he might challenge Rory. But then the man stood beside him looking out in a silent gesture of support. Five others came forward to do the same.

Rory nodded to them and walked back to the barber-surgeon. "Reid, lead Lady Sara to the kitchens." He didn't even look at her.