CHAPTER 12

C HAPTER 12

“This place is a tomb,” complained Donald, moodily filling his cup once more. “I swear I’ve been in battles that have been more amusing.”

Myles gazed in bewilderment at the empty tables surrounding them. “Why does everyone leave the hall the minute they’re finished eating? Don’t they like to stay and talk?”

“They only dine with us because Roarke ordered them to,” replied Eric irritably. “Once they have obeyed his command, they hurry away to be amongst themselves.”

“Well, I wish you would command them to stop cowering every time one of us walks by,” Donald grumbled to Roarke. “When I try to talk to someone they spend the entire conversation memorizing the details of the floor. Then they look like the devil himself has just delivered them from death when I finally give up and tell them they can go.”

Roarke traced his thumb along the intricately worked stem of his silver goblet. How many MacKillon children would this feed? he wondered, feeling guilty for having such a costly object in his possession. “They’re afraid of you.”

Donald looked at him in astonishment. “Why should they be afraid of me? I can understand that they might be afraid of Eric—just look at him. He looks miserable enough to frighten a goblin.”

“What do you mean by that?” growled Eric.

“I don’t mean to insult you, my friend, but ever since you bid farewell to fair Gillian your mood has been insufferably black. You prowl around this place looking like you’re just waiting for someone to give you an excuse to vent your rage.”

“That’s a bloody lie !” Eric roared, banging down his cup with such force the entire table shook.

“You see?” said Donald, looking at Roarke in exasperation. “I think he’s got them all terrified of us.”

“Eric has always been like that,” remarked Myles. “The MacKillons didn’t seem to be bothered by it.”

“That’s right,” Eric said, pleased to have Myles come to his defense. “The MacKillons weren’t bothered by it—even the very quiet ones.” His chest tightened as he thought of Gillian. “ ’Tis just this groveling lot that scurries away like frightened mice every time they see one of us coming.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” argued Donald. “After all, we haven’t done anything to them.”

“No, we haven’t,” Roarke agreed quietly. “But the MacTiers who came before us and forced these people to give up their freedom did.”

“But now we’ll make them stronger,” pointed out Myles. “They have the whole MacTier army to come to their defense if they need it.”

“Or to crush them if they dare to defy me.” Roarke drained his cup and filled it once again, feeling weary and incomprehensibly melancholy.

Laird MacTier’s gift to him had been generous. The lands were green and fertile, and were ringed by a dense growth of woods and several clear, fast-flowing streams. There was a deep, cold loch that was almost silver with fish. The people here were traditionally industrious, as was evident by the neatly planted fields of grains and vegetables. And he could not find any particular fault with the castle itself, although he would make some improvements to better fortify it. Inside it had been tastefully furnished with exquisitely stitched tapestries and painstakingly carved furniture. Because Laird MacTier had decided to add this holding to his collection, he had chosen not to strip it or cause it any undue damage, the way he had the MacKillon castle. And so Roarke finally had the pleasure of sleeping in a handsome, comfortable bed, and eating his meals at a solid, polished table, and stretching out before the fire in a wide, elegantly carved chair. It was a fine holding of beauty and abundance, and the people who inhabited it were unfailingly dutiful and obeisant. Neither he nor any of his men were permitted to want for anything.

Why then, was he so bloody miserable?

It had been different at the MacKillon holding, he reflected. That decrepit, barren pile of pink rocks had always bustled with cheerful activity. The chambers were invariably drafty, yet he had never felt cold; the meals were simple and spare, yet he had never gone hungry. He and his men had been prisoners, but none of them had felt as isolated as they did here. The MacKillons had laughed with them and drunk ale with them, had even dared to make them the object of raucous jokes. How many times had Magnus goaded him about that arrow in his arse? he wondered, the corners of his mouth twitching at the memory. The MacKillons had not treated them like prisoners. And they had not treated them like enemies, except for their absurd propensity for locking them up at night. They had simply treated them as equals.

Until coming here, Roarke had not realized what an honor that had been.

Melantha had tried to warn him, he realized bleakly. She had told him the people here would have been terrorized into submission, and so they had. Whatever happened here had either shattered their spirit or beaten it into a badly broken resignation, which they only dared free on occasion, when they were certain no MacTier could witness it. That was why they all hurried away the instant they felt he would tolerate their absence. That was why they spoke to him with their eyes downcast, their shoulders hunched with the heavy burden of their fear and oppression. Nothing he could say or do would ever eradicate how he had come to rule them. Although he did not think anyone here would ever dare defy him, neither would they ever come to like him.

He drank deeply from his silver cup, wondering why the prospect was so completely dispiriting.

Then, of course, there was Melantha. He spent most of his time desperately trying not to think of her. This was a considerable challenge, when there was so damn little here to keep him otherwise occupied. The fields were planted and the larders were full. The castle was in excellent shape, and any improvements could be initiated tomorrow or next month or even next year—with the strength of the entire MacTier army at his disposal, it scarcely mattered. As for beginning a training program, Laird MacTier had been most adamant that Roarke not attempt to turn these people into a fighting force. They had only recently been conquered, and MacTier wisely did not want to run the risk of training and arming a force of angry young men, only to have them wield their weapons against their new masters. And so the holding hummed along on its own, with everyone mindful of their place and what they had to do to keep themselves fed and clothed and otherwise occupied.

Which left Roarke with ample time to reflect on Melantha, and the ragged, gaping hole her absence was tearing in his heart.

“These jugs are all empty,” complained Eric, surveying the half dozen pitchers strewn across their table. “I’m going to fetch some more.”

“I’ll go with you,” offered Donald, pleased to have a mission of some sort. He rose from the table, then paused and scratched his head. “Where do you suppose they keep the ale?”

“I’ll find it,” said Myles, pushing his chair out from the table.

“The two of you are incapable of finding anything,” Eric noted scornfully. “I’ll find it.”

“More ale, milords?” asked a drab little figure of a man who suddenly appeared out of the shadows bearing two sloshing pitchers.

“I wish he wouldn’t do that,” grumbled Eric. “It’s as if he’s always listening.”

“Thank you, Gowrie,” said Roarke.

“Not at all, milord,” said Gowrie, keeping his eyes respectfully low as he filled Roarke’s cup.

“Is everything quiet?” Roarke asked him conversationally.

Gowrie kept his gaze fixed upon the goblets as he moved around the table to fill them. “Aye.”

“Has everyone gone to bed?” Roarke pressed.

“Aye.”

“Including the guards on the wall head?” joked Donald.

“No,” said Gowrie, his expression utterly serious. “Not the guards.”

“Do you wish to retire for the evening, Gowrie?” Roarke asked.

“Only if you wish me to, milord.”

“Are you tired?”

Wariness flashed across his face, as if he feared that the question might be some sort of trick. “No, milord. I’m happy to stay and serve you.”

Roarke gave up trying to engage the man in conversation. “You may retire, Gowrie.”

“Thank you, milord.” He was careful to avoid Roarke’s gaze as he bowed and quit the hall.

Eric snorted in disgust. “I don’t trust him.”

“I don’t trust any of them,” added Myles.

“You don’t trust them because ’tis clear that they do not trust us,” Roarke said wearily. “Somehow we must overcome their fear of us.”

“ ’Tis strange,” mused Donald, studying his brimming cup. “After so many years of battle, I had thought I’d enjoy a life of leisure. But now that I’ve tasted it, I find ’tis not as sweet as I’d imagined.”

No, thought Roarke in gloomy silence. It’s not sweet at all.

“You can’t go in there!” Gowrie shouted suddenly from just beyond the doorway. “Come back here—stop, I say!”

Despite their ale-sodden state, all four warriors were up and had their swords drawn just as the intruders burst into the hall.

“God’s ballocks, would ye tell these squawking geese that we’re friends, not foes!” complained Magnus in exasperation. “I’m thinkin’ ’tis easier to gain an audience with King Alexander!”

“I’m so sorry, milord,” apologized Gowrie, wringing his hands as he bowed low before Roarke. “I don’t know how they got in—I tried to stop them—”

“It’s all right, Gowrie,” Roarke interrupted, sheathing his sword. “These men are friends. Now leave us.”

The servant obediently dropped his gaze and escaped the hall without another word.

“Milord, is it?” said Magnus, raising a brow as he quickly appraised the rich adornments of the hall. “Ye’ve done well for yerself, lad.”

“What has happened?” demanded Roarke. Magnus’s hair was a wild tangle of white, and both he and Lewis bore the smudges and scratches of a fast, desperate ride.

Magnus eyed him speculatively. “Ye told us that ye’d speak to your laird and tell him to leave us MacKillons alone. I thought ye to be a man of yer word.”

“You know that I am, Magnus,” Roarke told him impatiently, “otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Now, what has happened?”

“They took Matthew and Daniel,” burst out Lewis. “And then they attacked the holding and burned the cottages and fields. They wanted us to reveal the identity of the Falcon.”

Cold fury surged through Roarke. Bastards. He had known his clan was ruthless, but he had never imagined them to be so vile that they would resort to using children as hostages. “Was anyone hurt?” he demanded tautly.

“No.”

“Then let’s get them back.” He signaled to his men to follow as he strode across the hall.

“I’m afraid we already tried to free them, lad,” said Magnus, any mistrust he may have felt toward Roarke shattered in the wake of his apparent concern. “But we weren’t entirely successful.”

Roarke stopped, struggling to appear calm as fear began to twist in his gut. “What happened?”

“Things didn’t go quite as well as we’d hoped when we were leaving,” began Magnus. “We got the lads, and Melantha was supposed to join us at the gate but—”

“Sweet Jesus,” he swore. “You left her there?”

“We had no choice,” said Magnus, his aged face lined with regret. “We thought we’d escape, then form a plan to retrieve her later. But when Daniel realized she wasn’t coming, the hotheaded lad decided to turn around and go back for her.”

“Colin rode after him to try to stop him,” continued Lewis. “And they were both captured. But then Colin was released.”

“Why?”

“Laird MacTier is looking for a pendant that we stole some months ago,” explained Lewis. “Colin was set free so that he could retrieve it and bring it to Laird MacTier. He found us on his journey home, and told us what had happened. Once Colin has returned the pendant, Laird MacTier has promised to let Daniel go.”

“What about Melantha?”

Magnus shook his head mournfully. “It seems Laird MacTier believed that Colin was the Falcon, and he decided to make an example of him before his men.”

“And so Melantha convinced him he was beating the wrong outlaw,” finished Roarke.

Magnus and Lewis regarded him grimly.

Roarke closed his eyes. Of course that is what she would have done. Melantha would never have stood by and let one of her men be tortured. “What is her punishment?” he asked softly.

Magnus cleared his throat, forcing himself to say the words. “She is to be executed before the clan in four days. Daniel will be made to watch. Once she is dead, the lad will be set free.”

Roarke inhaled a slow, steadying breath, fighting the helpless rage roiling through him. No, he thought, trying hard to focus on what Magnus had said. No, no, no.

“What about this pendant?” asked Donald urgently. “Does anyone know where it is?”

“Apparently Melantha gave it to Gillian for safekeeping,” said Lewis. “Laird MacTier believes ’tis an amulet—that is why he is so anxious to have it returned to him.”

Roarke recalled the shimmer of silver against Melantha’s pale skin. “Is it the silver-and-emerald bauble you stole from the priest that he seeks?”

“Aye,” said Magnus. “Melantha told Colin that MacTier believes it has unnatural powers.”

So that was it, thought Roarke. MacTier had been clear that Roarke was not to kill the Falcon—he had directed him to bring the outlaw to their holding for punishment. What MacTier had really wanted was to learn the whereabouts of his precious charm before he executed the Falcon. Not even Roarke, his most trusted warrior, had been told of the missing amulet.

Obviously MacTier had not had sufficient faith in him to believe Roarke wouldn’t take it for himself.

“Assuming Colin rides fast and hard, he has barely enough time to retrieve the amulet and present it to Laird MacTier within the remaining four days,” reflected Donald.

“But we can be at the MacTier holding within two days,” pointed out Eric. “I say we leave now.”

“And do what when we get there?” wondered Myles. “ ’Tis just the four of us against an entire army.”

“There’s six of us,” corrected Lewis. “Magnus and I may not be highly trained warriors, but we are still able to fight.” He gripped the hilt of his sword, looking considerably older and more confident than the nervous youth who had dropped from the trees the day Roarke and his men had been caught.

“No offense, lads, but I was hoping there would be a few more than that,” said Magnus. He regarded Roarke expectantly. “Now that ye’ve got yer own holding, don’t ye have an army at yer disposal?”

“Unfortunately, the army at my disposal is the one we’re going to fight,” said Roarke.

Magnus’s crinkled eyes widened in bafflement. “What about all the lads ye’ve got right here? They seem a wee bit fidgety, but I’m sure they could wield a sword fair enough if they had to.”

Eric snorted in disgust. “We don’t trust them.”

“These people were conquered by the MacTiers,” explained Roarke, “and they see us as their conquerors. I cannot ask them to join me against those who have already reduced them to the cowering servants you saw when you came in.”

“Colin is going to return with Finlay and more men, but it’ll only be twenty or so at best,” said Magnus, looking troubled. “Do ye think that’ll do us?”

“Even if he brought every single MacKillon fit to ride, it wouldn’t be enough to defeat the MacTier army,” said Donald. “We’re talking about a deadly fighting force of some nine hundred warriors, each equipped with the finest weaponry available.”

“They’ll crush us like bugs the instant they see us coming,” predicted Eric.

An idea began to unfurl in Roarke’s mind. “Did you say Laird MacTier is planning to execute Melantha before the clan?”

“Aye,” said Magnus. “Seems the wretch wants to make an example of her to any who are vile enough to watch.”

Roarke considered this barely a moment. “Gowrie!”

The servant appeared so fast he nearly collided with him. “Yes, milord?”

“Rouse everyone in the castle and the cottages at once. Tell them to start packing.”

Gowrie looked at him in confusion. “Now, milord?”

“Yes, now,” said Roarke impatiently. “We must be on the road within the hour. Only the main detachment of guards may stay to guard the holding.”

“Your pardon, milord, but may I be so bold as to ask where we are going?”

“We’re going to see the mighty Falcon’s execution,” Roarke told him. “Now make haste!”

“Well, lad, I’m not sure what ye’re about,” remarked Magnus, watching in bemusement as Gowrie scurried out of the hall. “Did ye not just tell me that these people were not fit to fight?”

“They will not have to.”

“What exactly are you planning?” wondered Donald.

Roarke reached for his silver goblet, then paused to study its elaborate artistry against the coppery flicker of torchlight. He had lived his life as Laird MacTier’s devoted warrior, conquering holdings in an endless quest to expand his clan’s power and riches. And ultimately he had been paid well for his service. This castle was everything he had ever longed for, he reflected, deriving no pleasure from the realization.

Except Melantha.

After a life of unfailing loyalty, he was about to lead a ragged band of outlaws against the powerful clan he himself had helped to create. He was betraying his laird and his people, and renouncing both his blood ties and the magnificent prize of this holding in the process. Once it was finished, assuming he survived, he would be left with absolutely nothing. It did not matter.

If Melantha died, then so would he.

“Laird MacTier has decided to make a show of Melantha’s death by executing her before an audience.” Roarke drained the silver goblet and hurled it against the hearth before finishing in a hard, flat voice, “I intend to make certain it is an event he will never forget.”