CHAPTER 11
C HAPTER 11
Laird MacTier cursed aloud as he furiously scanned the hundreds of losses scrawled in his ledger.
Their sum was staggering, especially if one considered that the Falcon and his band not only attacked MacTiers but had also made a sport of raiding clans who were allies and whose welfare was directly linked to his own. If the Falcon attacked clans other than those with an affiliation to the MacTiers, he had not heard about it. He considered this a moment, but ultimately decided it was less peculiar than it first appeared to be. After all, his was the wealthiest and most powerful clan for nearly a hundred miles in any direction. It was easy to understand why a thief would choose to glean from it.
What was unfathomable was the fact that he had not yet been able to capture this infuriating outlaw.
The possibility that the amulet was protecting the Falcon filled him with rage. The powers of the relic were mysterious, and that idiot priest had not been able to tell him whether it was capable of protecting its bearer only from violent death, or if it also shielded him from other threats such as capture. Clearly it could not guard its wearer from simple theft, otherwise the Falcon would not have been able to steal it so easily from the priest. The bumbling fool assured him that the Falcon had no inkling of the powers of the charm, but obviously he could see that it was silver and bore a stone of some value. MacTier drummed his fingers thoughtfully against his desk. Better to have the Falcon under the protection of the charm than not, he decided reluctantly. At least then the outlaw would have the amulet on his person, as opposed to having sold it or given it away. All MacTier had to do was remove it from his neck when the Falcon appeared and the thief would be mortally vulnerable once again.
He was not troubled in the least by the fact that Derek had taken two MacKillon lads hostage. The MacKillons needed to be punished for daring to ransom his warriors; that they also knew the identity of the Falcon only gave him further reason to strike at them. If Roarke had hoped to arouse his sympathy by describing their current struggles, he had failed completely. MacTier had dedicated his life to the accumulation of wealth and power, which inevitably came at a cost to others. Fortunately, he was not inclined to concern himself with how his victories affected others. That was what had made him a great laird, just as it had once made Roarke a great warrior.
He sighed and reached for his goblet, wondering what had happened to leech the warring spirit out of his greatest fighter. He prayed to God it never happened to him.
A heavy rap upon the door startled him, causing him to overturn his cup. Wine bled across his precious ledger, staining the yellowed pages scarlet. Cursing viciously, he picked the heavy manuscript up, letting the liquid drip upon his desk.
“Come in,” he snarled.
The door opened hesitantly, revealing the towering form of Neill.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Laird MacTier,” apologized the warrior. “I wanted to inform you of the safe arrival of Laird Ross’s niece.”
“What?” said Laird MacTier, distracted by his efforts to mop up his spilled wine with some paper.
“Laird Ross’s niece,” repeated Neill. “She has just arrived with an escort of four men, and requested that I inform you directly of her safe journey. She said she knew you would be worried because of the danger of outlaws in the woods, and was most adamant that your mind be put to ease directly.”
“Laird Ross’s niece?” said MacTier blankly.
“Her name is Laureen,” said Neill, trying to be helpful. “She is on her way to visit her cousin, who is wed to the son of Laird Grant’s sister. She said to extend her deepest gratitude to you for permitting her and her men to stop here for the night, and said that her uncle was most appreciative of your generous offer to make them welcome.”
Laird MacTier briefly searched his memory, vainly trying to recall Laird Ross sending him a missive in which he requested hospitality for his niece. Nothing came to mind, but with so much happening lately it was entirely possible he had read the message and then instantly forgotten about it. There was nothing unusual about members of allied clans stopping there for a night or two before continuing on their journey. He dropped his sodden ledger on his desk, feeling tired and irritated. He was in no mood for playing doting host to some spoiled chit who, if she had even a drop of Ross blood in her veins, was more than likely to have both the body and face of a sow.
“See to it that they are given whatever they need,” he instructed indifferently, walking over to the window. “And tell Laird Ross’s niece that I extend my welcome, but unfortunately, pressing matters preclude me from being in attendance this evening in the great—” He stopped suddenly, taking in the vision of the exquisite woman who stood in the courtyard below.
Her tall, graceful body was draped in a gown of dove-colored wool trimmed with gold, over which she had pinned a narrow sash of her clan’s tartan. A shimmering fall of sable hair had been elegantly arranged in a series of loose braids that were interwoven with creamy strips of ribbon, and a fine coronet of pearls was pinned to the crown of her head. Her features were fine and delicate, but her bearing evoked the confidence of a young lady who had been trained to understand that her place was well above most people she would ever meet. At that moment she was issuing directives to her four men, who were dressed in the Ross tartan and carried shields bearing their clan’s insignia. Her escort consisted of a couple of young warriors who looked as if they could handle a sword with decent ability, a flame-haired youth who seemed afraid of his own shadow, and an old man with shocking white hair who could be of no practical use whatsoever, except perhaps to guard her maidenly virtue from the other three.
A powerful heat stirred MacTier’s loins.
“Tell her that I am delighted by her presence, and hope she will be able to share our hospitality for longer than one night,” he said, suddenly feeling far less weary than he had a moment earlier. His wife had ceased to amuse him in bed long ago, and after she had finally given him his long-awaited son, he had sought his pleasures elsewhere. While he knew better than to force himself upon the tender niece of one of his neighboring allies, what harm could there be in spending an amusing evening with her? It had been some time since he had entertained guests. Now that he could see how young and lovely she was, the prospect of sharing a few cups of wine seemed infinitely more appealing than morosely pondering the current fate of his precious amulet in solitude.
“Inform our guest that my wife and I would be honored if she would share supper with us in my private apartments this evening,” he added. He had absolutely no intention of inviting his wife to dine with them, but recognized that propriety dictated that the young woman must believe she was not dining alone with him. “I shall look forward to seeing her then.”
The warrior gave his laird a small bow before quitting the chamber.
Laird MacTier stroked his chin as he watched the spirited beauty ordering her men about in the courtyard below. The fire in his loins intensified, until his body was hard and hungry for release. He sighed, reminding himself that he could not have her, which only had the effect of making her appear even more tantalizing.
At least her sparkling presence would help to pass the relentlessly tedious hours before the Falcon finally presented himself for his execution.
“You will take care of the horses first, being sure to rub them down well and see that they have ample food and water,” instructed Melantha, affecting an imperious tone for the benefit of the MacTiers who were watching her. “Then you will bring me my bags,” she added, looking at Lewis. “All of you may spend the evening as you wish, but you are not to drink to excess, is that clear?” Her forbidding countenance indicated to their audience that this was a weakness to which they were customarily prone. She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, just loud enough for the others to overhear her as she continued, “I’ve no desire to waken tomorrow and discover that you have lost all of your compensation to drunken wagering. Don’t dare come weeping to me about your misfortunes if you find you cannot control your thirst for ale. Now, go and see to your duties.”
With that she turned to gift Neill with a magnificently feminine smile. “Was Laird MacTier pleased to hear of my arrival?”
“Indeed he was, milady,” the warrior assured her. “He said to tell you that you and your men are welcome to stay as long as you wish, and we shall do everything possible to see to your comfort. Laird MacTier has also invited you to join him and his wife in their private apartments this evening for a meal. Until then, I would be pleased to escort you to your chamber so you may refresh yourself and rest.”
“How very kind.” Melantha laid her hand delicately upon his proffered arm. “I’m afraid I find riding about the countryside absolutely wilting—I can only imagine what I must look like.”
The warrior looked at her with boyish reverence. “You look beautiful.”
Melantha smiled and leaned into him a little more. “How very sweet of you.”
She chatted with him gaily as he led her into the castle, affecting a charm she had not previously known she possessed. Both Gillian and Katie had valiantly attempted to tutor her in the art of ladylike conduct before she left, but the opposition of Gillian’s dainty shyness and Katie’s saucy confidence had left Melantha hopelessly confused. It was dear old Magnus who had ultimately given her the most helpful suggestions, recalling how his beloved Edwina had beguiled him when he first wooed her in his youth.
“This is Tess,” said Neill, gesturing to a plain dumpling of a girl who was shaking out the coverlet in Melantha’s chamber. “She will see to it that you have whatever you need.”
Tess bobbed Melantha a respectful curtsey.
“If you find yourself wanting for anything during your stay here, please let either Tess or myself know,” said Neill.
“I would love to have a bath.” Melantha sighed wistfully. “Travel does make one feel so dusty.”
“I will order one for you immediately,” said the warrior, looking pleased that there was something more he could do for her.
“You are too gallant. I shall have to lie awake tonight and think of some way to repay you for all your kindness.”
He blushed to the roots of his hair before hurrying out of the chamber.
“I think ye’ve lit a flame in Neill’s heart, milady,” remarked Tess merrily. “ ’Tis not like him to be running about ordering baths and such when the warriors have strict orders to be on guard for the Falcon.”
Melantha gasped. “The dangerous outlaw? Why—are you expecting him?”
“Indeed we are. He’s due to arrive any moment now—that’s why you saw so many guards at the gate and upon the wall head. The very instant he appears, he’ll be surrounded by a hundred men and dragged before Laird MacTier. Then our laird is going to punish him for all his wicked robberies.”
“But how do you know he is coming here?”
“Our men were clever enough to learn that the outlaw has friends among the MacKillons,” Tess explained. “And so they went and captured two MacKillon lads, and told their clan that if they wanted to see them alive again, they’d best produce the Falcon right quick!”
Melantha looked appropriately dismayed. “They took mere lads as hostage?”
“They’re not that young,” the girl quickly assured her. “Actually, they’re almost men.”
“Ah, well, that’s different,” said Melantha, choking back the desire to correct her. They’re not men at all! she wanted to scream. Matthew is only ten, and Daniel is all of thirteen, although he tries to act much older. “You’ve seen them, then?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve a friend who works in the kitchens who knows the warrior who takes them their food at night, and she told me.”
Melantha went to the window and looked about nervously. “I do hope they’re not being kept in a chamber near this one, lest the Falcon or the MacKillons decide to attack the castle and try to free them.”
“The MacKillons haven’t the strength to dare try to attack us,” scoffed Tess. “Anyway, the lads aren’t being kept here. They’re in one of the dungeons below the east tower.”
Melantha’s heart broke as she looked at the dark tower on the opposite side of the courtyard. Somewhere, deep within its dank interior, Daniel and Matthew sat huddled upon the damp earth, cold and hungry and terrified. Soon, my sweet lads, she thought, trying to impart the strength of her love across the bailey and through the thick walls of stone. Soon you will be free, and we will all be home, and we will sit together in the great hall and tell the clan the story of how wonderfully brave you were.
“Your pardon, milady, where would you like your bags?”
She turned to see Lewis standing in the doorway. “Put them over there,” she instructed.
He scurried over to where she was pointing and dropped them on the floor.
“Take care, you lazy fool!” she snapped.
Lewis blanched. “Forgive me, milady.”
“Have the horses been attended to?” she demanded, going over to her bags.
“Aye,” said Lewis respectfully.
Melantha unlaced the flap of one of her satchels. “Look at this!” she cried, outraged. “You’ve shattered my precious bottle of rose oil, you clumsy oaf! Not only have you ruined my clothes, but now there is nothing to scent the water of my bath!” She stalked toward him with her hand raised, causing Lewis to cower.
“Your pardon, milady, I’m certain I can find you some fragrant oil for your bath,” interjected Tess quickly, clearly concerned for poor Lewis’s welfare.
Melantha hesitated. “Really?”
“We’ve all kinds of lovely scents for the bath,” the girl assured her. “I’ll just run and fetch you some.”
“I prefer rose oil. Not too strong a blend, mind, or else my skin will itch.”
“I’ll scarcely be a moment.” The girl gave Lewis an encouraging smile as she hurried from the room.
“They’re in the dungeon of the east tower,” whispered Melantha urgently. Any moment more servants would arrive bearing her bath.
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what that Tess said—you had best confirm it before you attempt to free them.”
Lewis nodded. “The ale will loosen the warriors’ tongues before it puts them to sleep. Already Magnus is whetting their thirsts with talk of the fine brew we have brought as a gift for their hospitality. He will keep them drinking and distracted with gambling while Colin, Finlay, and I get the lads. When you hear Magnus singing his favorite ballad about the warrior and the dragon, you’ll know we have the boys and are leaving. Meet us at the gate as fast as you can.”
It was Edwina who had cleverly suggested the use of a drugged ale to help them steal the boys back. She had developed a potent sleeping essence that did not affect either the scent or the taste of the brew, but had the effect of reducing a man to a state of deep slumber after scarcely half a cup.
“Did you find out if Roarke and his men are here?”
“They left a week ago for Roarke’s new holding,” reported Lewis. “They are not expected to return for months.”
Relief poured through Melantha. Ever since she had formulated her plan to rescue her brothers she had been plagued by the possibility that Roarke might be here. The fact that he was gone would make everything simpler.
“I am to dine with Laird MacTier and his wife in their private chambers,” she whispered quickly. Already she could hear the sounds of men in the hallway bearing a bathing tub. “Once I hear your signal, I will tell them I am weary and bid them good night. Then I will slip outside and meet you at the gate.”
Lewis nodded.
“Now go!” she urged.
He went to the doorway, then hesitated. Looking back at her, his eyes were filled with trepidation. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course I will,” Melantha assured him. She had not shared her plan to murder MacTier with any of her men. If she had, they would never have permitted her to come. She forced herself to smile.
Lewis looked at her with penetrating clarity. “Melantha—”
“Here is my bath,” she said, severing any further comment from him as two men arrived carrying a heavy copper tub.
Lewis cast her a final look of concern before disappearing into the corridor, leaving Melantha to face her enemies alone.
The laird’s chambers were brilliantly lit with dozens of candles, gilding the rooms in flickering ribbons of gold.
“I am pleased that you are able to join me this evening, my dear,” said Laird MacTier, laying his hand against the small of her back as he escorted Melantha into his private dining hall. He had dressed for the occasion in a splendid tunic of crimson wool edged with gold thread, over which he had arranged a generous swath of his clan’s tartan, which was secured by not one but two elaborately jeweled brooches. “I have been eagerly anticipating your visit, and hope you might be willing to grace us with your charming presence for longer than just one night.” He pressed a lingering kiss to her hand, his lips slightly parted.
“Unfortunately, my dear cousin is anxiously awaiting my arrival,” said Melantha gaily, restraining her impulse to tear her hand away. “We have not seen each other since she wed Laird Grant’s nephew. I could not bear to disappoint her by delaying our reunion.”
“Alas, then it is I who must be disappointed.” Laird MacTier sighed, relinquishing her hand to seat her at the elegantly carved oak table. “Our visit will be brief, so we must be certain to make the most of it.” He brushed his palms over her shoulders.
Melantha noted the table had only been set for two. “Is your wife not joining us this evening?”
“Unfortunately, my dear wife has taken ill,” Laird MacTier replied, seating himself opposite her. “She sends her regrets, and hopes she will be recovered sufficiently to see you tomorrow.”
“How distressing.” Melantha was absolutely certain Laird MacTier had never intended for his wife to join them. “I hope it is nothing serious.”
“Not at all,” he said, closing the subject of his wife as he raised a magnificently worked silver decanter and generously filled her goblet.
Melantha swept her gaze over the table laid before her. Elegant silver platters offered what was easily enough food for ten people. Roasted venison, rabbit, partridge, and duck were flanked by colorful vegetables and blanketed in rich gravies, while plates of tender smoked salmon, heavy dark bread, tangy cheeses, and soft bannocks vied for their share of space on the crowded table. At home Beatrice, Gillian, and Edwina would work hard to stretch this food to serve thirty or forty people, she thought furiously. The realization had the perverse effect of making her feel sick.
Laird MacTier frowned. “Is the meal not to your liking?”
“It looks wonderful,” Melantha said, forcing a smile to her lips. She swallowed a mouthful of wine, then served herself a chunk of bread and a morsel of salmon. If she could just get that down, she might be able to make herself eat a little more. It was vital that she keep Laird MacTier occupied while her men drugged his guards and freed her brothers.
Once she heard Magnus’s signal, she would unsheathe the dirk strapped to her calf and plunge it deep into MacTier’s heart.
“Was your journey here without incident?” he enquired conversationally as he piled his trencher with food.
“Nothing untoward happened at all.” Melantha sighed, feigning girlish disappointment. “After hearing all these tales about the Falcon and his dreadful band of outlaws, I was hoping he would try to rob us, just so I could see if he is really as terrible as everyone says!”
“You are fortunate that you did not encounter him. ’Tis well known that the Falcon and his men have been the ruin of many a beautiful lass who had the misfortune to fall victim to their brutish ways.” His gaze was vaguely predatory as he finished. “It is not a fate I would like to contemplate for one as lovely as you.”
Melantha’s eyes widened with appropriate shock. “The Falcon ravishes women? I had not heard that.”
“You have nothing to fear, my dear, now that you are safe within my holding,” he soothed, reaching out to lay his hand over hers. “However, you might consider delaying your departure to your dear cousin’s home until I have had a chance to capture this depraved beast. I expect to do so within a day—two at the very most. Until then, I’m sure that I could find ways to keep you pleasantly entertained during your stay here.” He languidly drew his forefinger along the flesh of her palm.
He paused suddenly, frowning at the thickened skin years of swordplay and archery had developed on her hand.
“I was told that you are expecting him,” said Melantha, abruptly closing her fingers into a fist. “But with the scores of guards you have posted about the castle, do you really think he will just ride into your holding and announce himself?” She casually withdrew her hand to lift her goblet.
Laird MacTier took a swallow of wine and smiled. “He has little choice, I’m afraid. I have laid an exceptionally compelling trap.”
“Because of the lads you have captured?” She was careful to keep her tone clean of contempt.
He nodded. “Until now, no one has been able to determine to which clan the Falcon belongs, or if he is, in fact, affiliated with any clan at all. That has made it impossible to determine his identity. His relationship with the MacKillons will prove to be his ruin—for it will force him to deliver himself to me.”
Melantha regarded him over the rim of her cup. “But why do you believe he cares what happens to the lads? If he is as vile and depraved as everyone says, why would he sacrifice himself to save them?”
“If he doesn’t come forward, then one of the MacKillons will reveal the secret of his identity,” he replied impatiently, brushing aside the implication that the Falcon was less than utterly despicable. “The boys probably have parents whose love for them exceeds whatever regard they have for the Falcon. Either way, I will capture this bloody outlaw. And when I do,” he finished darkly, “I will see to it that he returns every goddamn item that he has stolen from me—down to the last scrap of cloth.”
No, it is you, MacTier, who has stolen from me, and from my brothers, and my people. And nothing you have could ever repay us for that which you have taken. She drained her goblet, feeling her pain and hatred begin to meld.
“More wine?” offered MacTier, smiling. It was clear he intended to get her drunk.
“Thank you,” said Melantha breathlessly. If he believed her to be intoxicated, his own defenses would be dulled.
That would make him easier to kill.
Drunken laughter and singing wafted through the window. Melantha strained to hear Magnus’s ballad, but could not detect his song above the chorus of raucous male voices.
Laird MacTier frowned. “What the devil is going on down there?”
“It sounds like your men are enjoying themselves,” said Melantha dismissively, wondering why the MacTiers weren’t falling asleep. Surely they had drunk more than a half cup of Edwina’s ale by now? “ ’Tis the reflection of a good laird when his men feel so inspired to indulge in song. Come, Laird MacTier, you have barely touched your dinner—”
“My men are not permitted to indulge in so much as breathing without my orders,” he said in a scathing voice. “And at this moment they have been ordered to keep alert for the Falcon—which they can hardly do if they’re blinding drunk.” The singing and laughter grew louder as he moved toward the window.
Panic surged through Melantha. If Laird MacTier discovered that his men were either drunk or drugged, he might suspect the Falcon was within his holding, and immediately dispatch guards to bring Matthew and Daniel to him. Colin, Lewis, and Finlay were probably at the dungeon trying to free her brothers this very moment. If they were discovered, they would be slain.
She had to stop MacTier from reaching the window.
It was this simple, desperate purpose, rather than the painful web of her hatred and fury, that caused her to stand and wrench her dirk from its sheath. There was no time to consider the morality of her actions, no time to torment herself with vagaries of right and wrong. There was only the absolute need to prevent the man before her from murdering those she loved.
She hurled her dirk across the chamber.
The blade flew in a straight, true line, slicing a clean path toward her target. But Laird MacTier, perhaps distracted by the action of her rising from her chair, turned at the last instant, altering her mark. He did not make a sound as the dirk burrowed into his shoulder, but merely stared at it incredulously, as if he could not quite believe how it had come to be there.
And then his eyes met hers, and his incredulity turned to rage.
“Guards!” he roared, taking a step away from her as if he feared she might have some other weapon concealed upon her. “Guards!”
The chamber door crashed open and four warriors of awesome proportions tore into the room, their swords poised for massacre. When they saw only Melantha standing there looking small and pale, they turned to their laird in confusion.
“Arrest her!” ordered Laird MacTier. “Take her to the dungeon and—”
“Escape! The prisoners have escaped!”
This new development had the effect of stripping Melantha of everyone’s attention as both MacTier and his warriors raced to the window to see what was happening below.
“Stop them!” shouted a warrior who was staggering drunkenly toward the gate. After giving this directive he stopped, belched, then turned around and started to whistle, evidently satisfied that his contribution toward catching the prisoners was complete.
Another warrior gamely took a few faltering steps before collapsing to his knees. “Somebody close the gate,” he murmured thickly. With that he fell facedown onto the ground and began to snore.
“Och, Ewan, ye’re not lookin’ very good, my friend,” remarked a warrior who stumbled out of the stables carrying a jug. “Do ye want a drop more o’ this fine drink?” When his friend didn’t answer he drained the jug himself, then turned to relieve himself against the stable wall, singing at the top of his lungs, “Oh, there once was a lass with a bonny round ass….”
“Close the gate!” roared Laird MacTier, watching in frustration as Colin, Lewis, Finlay, Magnus, and the boys suddenly burst from the stables on horseback and thundered toward the open portcullis. “Somebody close the goddamn gate!!”
“…so I gave her my shaft and she near left me daft, with a hey, ho, come lie with me….”
“What the hell is the matter with them?” demanded Laird MacTier, watching in outrage as his prisoners escaped and the courtyard was littered with the staggering, falling, singing bodies of his finest warriors.
“They look drunk,” observed one warrior.
“Maybe they’ve been put under some kind of spell,” offered another.
Laird MacTier’s face turned crimson. “I’ll kill him! I’ll catch that bloody Falcon and I’ll see him torn to pieces—do you hear!!” He waved his arms in frustration, then inhaled sharply at the pain in his right shoulder. “You!” he snarled, his eyes narrowing at Melantha. “You’re part of all this—and you know who he is, don’t you?”
Melantha said nothing.
“Bring her to the great hall,” Laird MacTier ordered brusquely. “And one of you find someone to take this goddamn dirk out of my shoulder!”
Misery was carved upon the face of every warrior who dragged himself into the great hall to face Laird MacTier’s wrath.
Their laird’s fury was awesome, but Melantha did not believe it could compare to the current effects of Edwina’s powerful brew. Edwina had assured Melantha it would send those who drank it into a blissful slumber. What Edwina had failed to mention, however, was that once the pleasant euphoria began to wane, it would be replaced by a crushing headache and roiling nausea that might well make the sufferer pray for death.
It looked to Melantha as if an inordinate number of warriors were praying at that very moment.
“Fools!” barked Laird MacTier, his mood even nastier now that the dirk had been plucked from his throbbing shoulder. “Idiots! I should chain each and every one of you up by your wrists and leave you to rot in the dungeons!”
No one said anything. Either they were overwhelmed by their physical suffering or each had wisely decided it was better to remain silent in the face of their laird’s rage.
“And you,” he said, suddenly switching his attention to Melantha. “Just who the hell are you, and how are you associated with the Falcon?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Melantha replied coolly, enjoying his obvious frustration. “You’ll never capture him.”
Laird MacTier had tried to find some warriors who were not falling-down drunk to go after her men and her brothers. By the time he finally settled upon a handful who were still capable of mounting a horse, her men had the advantage of a lengthy start. She had no doubt they would be able to lose themselves in the shadows of the woods they knew so well.
“Your profound loyalty to this outlaw is as brainless as it is pathetic.” Laird MacTier slowly circled her. “Don’t you think it cowardly that he sent a mere lass to keep his enemy distracted while he had a force of warriors to protect himself? What kind of a man would expose a maiden to such danger and then callously leave you behind?”
“What kind of man would take two innocent lads and put them in a dungeon, using their precious lives to lure his enemy?” challenged Melantha scornfully. “It could only be the same kind of man who makes a sport of attacking clans that are weaker than his, stealing every scrap of cloth and morsel of food from them so he can drape himself in ridiculous robes and seat himself at tables ready to collapse beneath the weight of the food prepared solely for his gluttony!”
A horrified gasp rose from the stunned MacTiers.
Laird MacTier’s face betrayed not a flicker of emotion as he clamped his hands on Melantha’s shoulders. Slowly he began to squeeze, first bruising the tender flesh, then crushing against the bones until she thought they would shatter beneath his cruel grip.
“Beware the sharpness of your tongue, my little asp,” he drawled, his breath hot and foul upon her cheek. “ ’Twould be a shame to be forced to break such a pretty little neck.” He released her shoulders to trail his fingers down her throat, his touch gentle yet menacing.
“ ’Tis you who needs to be afraid, MacTier, for a man with nothing but enemies can never know an easy moment.” She lowered her voice to the barest of whispers as she fervently vowed: “If the Falcon doesn’t kill you, one of your own men will. That is the price of power wrought by tyranny and fear.”
His hand froze against her.
She smiled, taking grim satisfaction in the spark of apprehension she saw kindled in his eyes.
“We’ve got him!” shouted excited voices from outside. “Make way— we’ve got the Falcon !”
It was Laird MacTier’s turn to smile. “Now, this is a fascinating turn of events, don’t you think?”
Abruptly he released her.
Alarm streaked up Melantha’s spine. Affecting only a modicum of interest, she watched as several MacTier warriors stormed into the hall, roughly hauling not one but two captives.
When she saw that they were Colin and Daniel, her alarm turned to terror.
Laird MacTier walked slowly over to Colin, who was being restrained by two men. One of them she recognized as the fair-haired warrior who had led the recent attack on her holding. The other was Neill, who had been so chivalrous in his attentions when she first arrived.
“I have been waiting a long time for this moment, my outlaw friend,” Laird MacTier murmured.
He drew back his fist and rammed it hard into Colin’s face.
Somehow Melantha stifled the cry in her throat. Anything she did to reveal her feelings for either Colin or Daniel could only put them at further risk. And so she forced herself to watch with rigid calm as Colin spat a scarlet stream upon the floor, spattering red droplets upon the finely stitched leather of Laird MacTier’s shoes. Then Colin raised his head to regard Laird MacTier once again.
“Is that how you welcome all your guests?” he enquired mildly. “I must say, it isn’t very gracious.”
“Oh, but you are not just any guest,” Laird MacTier said, enjoying his position of power over him. “You are the man who has managed to vex me constantly by making a sport of stealing that which is mine. And now that you have been caught, I’m afraid you must be made to pay.”
He struck him hard in the face again, causing blood to spurt from Colin’s nose.
“Stop it!” cried Daniel, fighting to escape the grip of the warriors who were holding him. “Leave him alone!”
Colin shook his head, which had the effect of spreading the blood leaking from him across his cheeks, making his face look as if it had been beaten to a pulp.
Melantha clenched her fists, feeling her deliberately constructed calm begin to crumble.
“It seems your young friend does not relish the sight of you in pain,” remarked Laird MacTier archly as he unsheathed Derek’s sword. “That is a pity—I’m sure he is not going to enjoy what I am about to do to you now.”
“Kill me if it pleases you,” snarled Colin tautly, “but at least have the decency to let the lad and the lass leave.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Laird MacTier informed him, testing the weight and balance of the heavy claymore in his hands. “Not when we still have so much to talk about. You, my Falcon friend, have taken a great many things from me over the past few months, and I mean to find out exactly what you have done with them. All I’m doing at this moment is making it eminently clear to everyone in this hall that I do not take the crime of stealing lightly. After all,” he continued, moving behind Colin, “stealing is a sin.”
He swung the heavy blade down with all his might, striking Colin on the back with the flat of it. It was a blow that would have felled any man, but with the severed muscles of Colin’s back still in the painful stages of healing, the effect was devastating. He groaned in agony and fell to his knees, his head bent so that neither Daniel nor Melantha could see the depths of his suffering.
“Stop it!” cried Daniel, tears streaming down his face. “Stop it— you bloody bastard !”
Outraged by his insolence, Laird MacTier moved to strike him.
“Leave him alone,” commanded Melantha, her voice like the lash of a whip. “Or I swear to you, you’ll never see any of your precious possessions again.”
Laird MacTier hesitated, disconcerted by the steely confidence with which she spoke. “What are you talking about?”
“The man you have there is not the Falcon.”
“Is that so?” He skeptically cocked one eyebrow. “Then I suppose this sniveling lad is the one who has been plaguing me all these months?”
“No,” returned Melantha. Her expression was deadly serious. “I am.”
Stunned surprise rippled through the great hall.
“Don’t listen to her!” yelled Colin, staggering to his feet. “I’m the Falcon!”
“No, he isn’t,” Melantha countered, her gaze intent upon Laird MacTier. “You may trust me, MacTier. I am the outlaw you seek.”
“She’s mad!” protested Colin furiously. “How could that thin slip of a lass be the Falcon? For God’s sake, just look at her! She could scarcely lift a bairn, never mind wield a sword! She’s just saying this to try to save me—you mustn’t listen to her!”
“No one has ever been able to describe the Falcon because he always wears a helmet,” continued Melantha calmly, ignoring Colin’s outburst. “That was because I had to keep the fact that I was a woman a secret.”
“I wear a bloody helmet because I want to keep my skull intact,” interjected Colin, growing even more adamant. “Don’t listen to her childish fantasies!”
“As you have already noticed, my hands bear the marks of years of swordplay,” she continued, lifting her callused palms for Laird MacTier’s perusal. “I have been trained in the use of a sword from the time I was six.”
“Every country wife has work-worn hands,” scoffed Colin, desperately trying to discredit her confession. “It doesn’t make them a dangerous outlaw, for God’s sake!”
“But not every country wife bears the marks of an enemy’s sword.” She jerked down the sleeve of her gown, revealing the jagged pink scar that snaked from her shoulder to her elbow. “Surely one of your men returned to boast of managing to wound the elusive Falcon, MacTier?” she asked scornfully. “ ’Twas in the late spring and we had attacked a coach bearing a king’s supply of silver goods and one overly fed priest. The guards assured us that the entire lot was on its way to you—”
Laird MacTier crossed to her within three strides. “Where is it?” he demanded fiercely.
Melantha regarded him in confusion. “Where is what?”
He slapped her with such force she was knocked to the floor.
“Don’t give me a reason to finish off your gallant friend over there,” he warned, his eyes narrowed into dark slits of fury. “If you truly are the Falcon, then you know exactly of what I am speaking.” He leaned down and whispered harshly, “Where is the amulet?”
Melantha fought to clear her head from the dizziness his blow had caused. What was he talking about?
“Don’t pretend you don’t have it,” he snarled. “That fool of a priest told me how you and your men threatened to disembowel him if he didn’t turn it over to you. You knew he carried a sacred relic of great power—that was why you attacked the coach in the first place—wasn’t it?” He kept his voice low, guarding his purpose from the rest of his clan.
He was speaking of the silver-and-emerald pendant, Melantha realized. The pendant Magnus had insisted she take for herself, instead of selling it or trading it in exchange for something useful like food or weapons. She had worn it constantly around her neck from that day forward. But the gown she had donned for her journey here had left the pendant exposed, and she had feared that either Laird MacTier or someone else within the clan might recognize it.
And so she had given it to Gillian to wear for safekeeping.
“It is hidden in a safe place some three days’ journey from here,” she said evasively, realizing that producing it was the only way of appeasing Laird MacTier’s anger and securing Colin and Daniel’s freedom. “Release these two, and they will retrieve it and bring it to you in exchange for our lives.”
Laird MacTier studied her a moment, debating whether or not to believe her. “If you try to trick me, I swear to you, you will suffer beyond your worst imaginings,” he warned softly. He plunged his hand into her hair, painfully jerking her head up by its roots. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Melantha, wincing beneath his cruel grip.
He released his hold, leaving her crumpled at his feet as he rose to face his clan.
“The Falcon and I have come to an agreement,” he announced pleasantly. “I have decided to release you tonight,” he said, speaking to Colin, “so that you may go and retrieve a few items of mine that your leader was foolish enough to take. She will tell you exactly what it is I seek, and where you may find them. Bring them to me within six days, and then you and this angry young lad will be released unharmed.”
He paused for a moment, studying Daniel as if he were looking upon him for the first time. Then he turned to Melantha, his expression oddly triumphant.
“He is your brother, isn’t he?”
“No.”
Even as she said it, she knew her denial was futile. No one in that moment could mistake the striking resemblance between the two of them, especially given the cold hatred that glittered so fiercely in Daniel’s green-and-amber eyes.
“A pity.” Laird MacTier sighed. “A lad who burns with such loathing must be taught the consequences of defying those in power. It is only by teaching these lessons to the young that we can avoid having to punish them even more harshly in the future.”
“If you dare so much as touch him,” Melantha warned, her voice ice cold, “you will never see it again.”
Laird MacTier arched his brows with mock surprise. “Do you really believe me to be such a monster, that you think I would harm a mere lad? Your brother cannot be held responsible for your actions. Therefore once your bleeding friend here returns with the items I seek, both he and the lad will be free to go—”
Relief poured through Melantha. Her own life did not matter so long as Colin and Daniel would be spared.
“—right after they have witnessed your execution.”
The hall froze in shocked silence. It was clear even the MacTiers were appalled by the cruelty of their laird’s gesture.
“Bastard!” screamed Daniel, flailing wildly within the strong grip of his captors. “I’ll kill you, do you hear! I’ll kill you! ”
“Lock him up,” commanded Laird MacTier.
Melantha felt her heart break as the warriors dragged her screaming, weeping brother away.
“Sometimes a leader must make difficult decisions,” reflected Laird MacTier philosophically. “Your brother must be shown what fate awaits him should he ever decide to follow in your path, my pretty Falcon. It will be a hard lesson, but one that he will not forget easily. And neither will anyone else who dares to contemplate the idea of stealing from me.” He frowned. “Why are you smiling?”
“I was just thinking, MacTier, about the day when someone will teach you the consequences of stealing from others.”
“If that day ever comes, you will not be alive to see it.”
“Whether I see it or not is of no consequence,” she told him calmly. “All that matters is that it is inevitable.”
“Go and tell your friend where to find what I seek,” he snapped. “And do not try to trick me, or I shall be forced to execute your precious brother along with you.”
Melantha went over and whispered in Colin’s ear. When she was finished, she studied him a moment, the corners of her mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile. It was little more than a brief, quick gesture of reassurance that revealed nothing of the incredible devotion she felt toward this fine man who had been a lifelong friend. There was much she wanted to say, but she dared not, for fear Laird MacTier would use her feelings toward Colin against her. And so she simply held his gaze, feeling a profound tenderness fill her soul.
“Enough!” snapped Laird MacTier impatiently. “I give you six days,” he said to Colin. “If you do not return within that time with what I have asked for, I will execute her.”
“You will have it,” Colin replied tersely.
“Take him outside and give him his horse,” ordered Laird MacTier. “And take her to the dungeon where her brother is. I see no reason why they should be denied the pleasure of each other’s company.”
Melantha held her head high as she was surrounded by a ring of warriors, each no doubt anxious to prove to their laird that they were of some use this evening after all. The MacTiers regarded her with a mixture of awe and pity as she walked past them. She kept her gaze frozen steadfastly in front of her, refusing to even glance at the faces of those who had brought her and her clan so much suffering and misery.
Whatever happened, Colin would not fail her. He would retrieve the pendant and return here within six days.
Beyond that, she could not bear to contemplate.