CHAPTER 3

C HAPTER 3

“By God, lass, ye’ve got the touch!”

“He’s not fully standing yet, Magnus,” said Colin, watching as Melantha slowly coaxed her horse to his feet. “We don’t know if he can walk.”

“You’ll walk, won’t you, lad?” asked Melantha softly as she rubbed the animal’s injured leg. “You’re just afraid to put your weight on your leg because you remember how terribly it pained you yesterday—but you’re better now, aren’t you?” She eased his heavy foot to the ground. “There, you see? That barely hurts at all.”

Morvyn gingerly shifted some weight on his tightly bandaged limb.

Then he whickered and drew it back up again.

Roarke cursed silently.

“Now, that won’t do,” Melantha admonished, laying her hands firmly upon Morvyn’s leg. “I know it’s sore, but the swelling is down and we’ve got to get moving, so I need you to be a brave lad and endure it until we get home. Come, now, I’ll help you, all right?” She eased the aching limb to the ground once more.

Everyone held their breath as Morvyn tentatively placed his hoof on the ground, keeping all of his weight on his other legs.

“There’s a good fellow,” praised Melantha, stroking his silky nose. “Now let’s try a little step.”

She took hold of his bridle and slowly walked forward. Morvyn stretched his neck as far as he could without actually moving. When Melantha kept walking, he had no choice but to take a faltering step with her.

“Look!” exclaimed Lewis. “He’s walking!”

“Melantha said he would, didn’t she?” demanded Finlay, as if there had never been any doubt.

“Aye, she did!” Magnus slapped Colin heartily on the back. “And when that lass makes up her mind about something, there’s no use tellin’ her she can’t have it!”

Roarke watched with relief as Melantha led her beloved horse in a circle through the trees. The poor beast was slow and limping, but his tightly swathed leg was taking the burden of his weight relatively well, which meant the bone was not broken after all.

“I was sure that horse was finished yesterday,” mused Donald, shaking his head in amazement. “I’d have wagered money on it.”

“As would I,” admitted Myles. “But she was determined he would walk, wasn’t she?”

“Aye,” said Roarke. “She was.”

“That horse is a warrior,” observed Eric with gruff approval. “A warrior forces himself not to think of his pain.”

“That’s a good lad,” murmured Melantha, caressing Morvyn behind the ears. “That’s my good, brave lad.” She gave Colin a triumphant smile. “As long as we move slowly and give him time to rest, he’ll be fine.”

Colin nodded. “Then let’s be off. At this rate it will take us all day to get home.”

“I’ll ride with you,” said Melantha, leading her horse over to him. “Morvyn can follow behind us.”

“All right, then, lads, up ye go,” said Magnus, gesturing to Roarke and his men. “There’s a long ride ahead, but fear not—I’ve plenty more tales to keep ye entertained!”

“Wonderful,” Roarke muttered, awkwardly hoisting himself up onto his horse.

The little party set out, its cumbersome pace dictated entirely by Morvyn. This meant they plodded along at scarcely more than a walk, stopping every couple of miles to enable the limping beast to rest. Not once did any of Melantha’s men complain or question the wisdom of her decision. Instead they seemed genuinely delighted that the hobbling creature was faring as well as it was, and took turns assuring Melantha that once they were home Morvyn would soon be as fit as ever. Whatever weaknesses the Falcon may have had as a leader, it was clear her men respected her enough to abide by her decisions, even when it meant saving a crippled horse that would never be of use to anyone again.

Had the decision been his, Roarke would have cut the limping creature’s throat and left it to die in the cool, fragrant green of the forest.

“They’re back!”

“The Falcon has returned!”

The first excited cries startled Roarke as they reverberated from high within the branches over his head. Melantha’s people had a decided propensity for hiding up in trees, he reflected.

Curiosity to see the Falcon’s holding, coupled with a lack of opportunity to escape, had ultimately made Roarke resign himself to the prospect of being presented to Melantha’s clan as a prisoner. This had the benefit of enabling him to lead a force back to retrieve all of the valuables that had been stolen from his clan. Within minutes the news of their arrival was rippling far beyond the woods, and by the time they emerged from the forest people were racing toward them, their smiling faces flushed with excitement.

“ ’Tis good to be home again.” Magnus sighed happily.

Roarke stared in confusion at the castle rising before him.

He had not wasted any time contemplating the appearance of the Falcon’s holding. Nevertheless, he was completely unprepared for the crumbling pile of stones standing precariously in the middle of a scrubby field. He scanned the rest of the meadow, searching for the keep that was actually being used by these people. There was nothing more except a scattering of small, bleak cottages dotting the dry grasses. At least a half dozen of these had been reduced to roofless walls and blackened rubble, apparently consumed by fire. The other cottages were a patchwork of old stone and new, with fresh thatch covering the rooftops. Evidently these huts had also recently been claimed by fire, but Melantha’s people had managed to salvage them.

“Recognize this place?” demanded Colin sarcastically.

Roarke rode slowly toward the forlorn looking castle, saying nothing.

It seemed the stronghold had once been an attractive structure of salmon-colored stone that was quite different from the bleak gray fortresses to which Roarke was accustomed. Enormous care had been taken to quarry rock of this pleasing color, and the effect was a building that rose warmly against the lavender and slate of the early evening sky. He could easily imagine how handsome the holding had been before it fell into such sad disrepair, especially when the surrounding fields were green and the sun lit the stone to a fiery glow. The rock itself had been neatly cut and artfully pieced together around many large windows, which although attractive, instantly struck Roarke as a weakness. Even the gate was handsomely framed with an intricate arch of beautifully arranged stone, giving the entrance an elegant, welcoming look, as opposed to the forbidding countenance it should have manifested. There were four high, rounded towers of handsome proportions, but like the rest of the fortress they were scarred and decrepit—the result of too many attacks and the unforgiving wear of time. It baffled Roarke that no one here had thought to orchestrate the castle’s repair. Perhaps these people lacked either the skill or the initiative to undertake such a mammoth task.

They rode through the black jaws of the gate and entered the courtyard, where Melantha’s people were excitedly scrambling to assemble themselves. Their ruddy faces were bright with pleasure, making it clear that the return of the Falcon and her band was cause for celebration. Some of them had raised cups of ale into the air, while a bent, white-haired fellow who looked even more ancient than Magnus had balanced himself precariously on a small platform and was now awkwardly struggling to hoist his bagpipes onto his bony shoulder. There was a palpable energy to the people as they poured from the castle, hastily adjusting their gowns and plaids in a valiant attempt to improve their rather peculiar appearance.

They were clad in gowns, shirts, tunics, and plaids of every quality and description, from the absolutely threadbare to the costliest and finest. Men were dressed in tattered brown and green plaids that had been paired with intricately embroidered, ill-fitting shirts, or handsome plaids of varying colors were draped over tunics that seemed little better than rags. The women were predominantly garbed in drab gowns of worn wool, over which many of them had tied colorful sashes and shawls of rare silk. Several older women even wore elegantly stitched gowns of exquisite beauty, but it was eminently clear from their poor fit that these dresses had not been created with the present wearer in mind. Roarke noticed that most of the clan’s footwear was cracked and worn, but there were a number of men sporting heavy deerskin boots that seemed a size or two too large, and some women garbed in tattered dresses had squeezed their feet into richly ornamented slippers. All the men had dirks strapped to their waists and handsomely crafted swords gleaming at their sides. But a closer inspection revealed that the hilts were pocked with gaping, empty sockets where jewels had once nested.

The children also wore ragged plaids and gowns, and had either bare feet or rough scraps of leather bound to their soles with thin cord. It was the children’s faces, however, that most disturbed Roarke. Although well scrubbed and lit with anticipation, they invariably bore the same hollowed cheeks and sharply defined jaws that Roarke had noticed in Melantha. These children also knew the cruel ache of hunger, at a time in their life when they needed wholesome food in abundance.

A few members of the clan suddenly noticed the bound wrists of Roarke and his men. Their expressions grew wary, and some of the women grabbed their children and moved protectively in front of them. Roarke wondered at the obvious alarm. Certainly in their current position, stripped of their weapons and with their hands bound, he and his men posed little threat to them.

“Good Lord, Melantha,” sputtered a tiny, shriveled-looking man who shuffled forward from the crowd, “what in the name of St. Columba have you brought home this time?”

“I bring you two sacks of hares and birds, Laird MacKillon,” replied Melantha, climbing down from Colin’s horse and tossing the sacks onto the ground. “And four pairs of boots, eight dirks, eight leather satchels, five pounds of oats, two good blankets, two wooden cups, and four good swords.” She retrieved two more sacks from Finlay and Lewis and threw them down. “Magnus will see to it that it is divided as fairly as possible.”

Roarke recalled how Melantha had refused to sample even a small portion of the meat she and Colin had killed. As he looked at the thin faces of the children staring hungrily at the bags filled with game, the reason for her restraint was amply clear.

Everything the Falcon’s band either killed or stole was brought here and divided among the members of their clan.

“Well, now, that’s splendid,” praised Laird MacKillon, bobbing his white head happily. “Simply splendid.” He turned to his people. “Let’s raise a cheer to the Falcon and her men, who have once again brought us wonderful gifts.”

A restrained cheer rose into the air, tempered by the crowd’s concern over Roarke and his warriors.

“Splendid!” praised Laird MacKillon, apparently oblivious to his people’s lack of enthusiasm. “Thor, are you ready?”

“Aye.” The old man on the platform took his mouthpiece between his lips and inhaled a wheezy breath.

An unbearable whining blasted through the air. Mercifully, the piece was cut short when the elder suddenly broke into a phlegmy fit of coughing. While this was infinitely better than the screech of the pipes, Roarke grew concerned that the ancient musician was going to expire from lack of air, topple off the platform and smash his head open.

“Here, Thor,” called a scrawny young boy who rushed toward him with a cup.

The old man grabbed the goblet and greedily downed its contents. Then he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and released an impressive belch.

“Thank you,” he said, cheerfully waving up at the sky. “You know I’ll not mind going when my time has come, but t’would be a wretched shame for it to end in the middle of such a glorious piece of music.” He belched loudly again. “That ale has nearly done the trick, Keith,” he said to the lad, “but I’d best have another cup just to be safe.”

The boy took his goblet and ran off to fill it again.

“You must be tired after such a long and perilous journey,” said Laird MacKillon. He began to shuffle toward the main entrance of the castle. “Come inside and have something to eat.”

“Forgive me, MacKillon,” apologized a balding man whose tailored shirt of fine linen strained so tautly across his chest and belly Roarke was certain it was about to burst. “Don’t you think we should inquire about the prisoners?”

Laird MacKillon stopped and scratched his head. “Prisoners, Hagar? What prisoners?”

“The men Melantha has brought with her,” Hagar explained, pointing.

Laird MacKillon squinted at Roarke and his men. Suddenly his white brows shot up. “God’s bonnet,” he said, shocked. “Melantha, why do our guests have their hands bound?”

“Unfortunately, Laird MacKillon,” she began, “we ran into a little trouble—”

“A little trouble?” interrupted MacKillon. “I think not. These big brutes look as though they could give you a great deal of trouble.” He waved a gnarled hand at Roarke, beckoning him to approach.

Roarke obligingly eased himself off his horse, trying to minimize his limp as he approached the aged laird.

“Tell me, lad, are you from the Sutherlands, then?”

“No,” said Roarke.

“I thought not,” MacKillon hastily assured him. “Not even the Sutherlands grow them as big and ferocious looking as you young wolves.” He scratched his nose thoughtfully, considering. “You’re from the Murrays, aren’t you?” he exclaimed suddenly, pleased that he had sorted it out.

“No.”

“No, no, of course you aren’t,” MacKillon agreed, waving his hand dismissively in the air. “Melantha would never be so foolish as to take a Murray prisoner—why, to do so would be seen by Laird Murray as an act of war.” He shuffled over to Eric, who glowered down at him. Laird MacKillon’s crinkled eyes widened like two great cups.

“Sweet saints, Melantha,” he squawked, hastily stepping back, “this fellow looks like a Viking. You haven’t gone and kidnapped some of MacLeod’s warriors, have you?”

“They are not MacLeods,” Melantha assured him.

“Excellent,” said Laird MacKillon, clearly relieved. He winked at Eric, as if the two of them shared some private joke. “Forgive me, big fellow—didn’t mean to insult you—’tis just that blond hair of yours—quite shocking, really. No doubt you’ve some Viking blood roaring through those veins of yours, eh? Reminds me of a lass I knew in my youth—a comely little thing she was. Then she married and grew to the size of a cow, with hands and feet like fat loaves of bread. Of course you wouldn’t take a MacLeod prisoner, Melantha,” he finished, smiling fondly at her. “Now that that’s all settled, let us go inside.”

“But who are these men?” persisted Hagar.

Laird MacKillon regarded him in confusion. “Didn’t we find out?”

“They’re from the clan MacTier,” supplied Colin.

The crowd gasped.

“MacTiers?” repeated Laird MacKillon blankly. “You’ve brought MacTiers back to our holding?”

Melantha hesitated, wishing they could discuss the matter elsewhere. “Unfortunately, Laird MacKillon, I had no—”

“By God, let me at them !” roared Thor with murderous fury. “I’ll strip their flesh from their miserable, thieving bones and grind them up for haggis! Here, Keith, help me off this platform, take my pipes, then run inside and fetch my sword so I can get started.”

“They cannot be harmed,” Melantha protested. “They are to be ransomed.”

Laird MacKillon blinked. “Ransomed?”

“That is our suggestion,” qualified Colin, giving Melantha a warning look. “Perhaps we should go inside to discuss this matter.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Laird MacKillon, nodding sagely. “Inside is a much better place to attend to a matter of such grave importance. All right, everyone, back to whatever you were doing.” He flitted his hands in the air, shooing away his people. “The council and I will consider this important situation and tell you what is happening—as soon as we know ourselves.”

“Lewis, take Morvyn to the stable and douse his bandage with cold water,” Melantha instructed, handing him her horse’s reins. “See that he is given ample fresh water and hay, and that his stall is thick with clean straw. I’ll be along to tend to him later,” she added, gently stroking Morvyn’s nose. “Finlay, you take care of the other horses, and then both of you join us in the great hall.”

“Do you think Laird MacKillon will be angry with us for bringing these MacTiers home?” asked Lewis worriedly.

“I will make Laird MacKillon and the council see that we have much to gain from these prisoners. Now go.”

Laird MacKillon’s order had not caused the crowd to disperse, but it did part to permit Melantha’s prisoners entrance into the castle. As Roarke limped forward he was aware of everyone staring anxiously at him. It was clear the MacKillons feared him and his men. He glowered as he passed them, causing some of the women to gasp and step back.

“Here, now, lad, that’s no way to act amongst women and children,” admonished Magnus sternly. “Shame on ye.”

Roarke said nothing. It was not his custom to intimidate women and children, but when the time came for escape, their fear would be a powerful weapon.

The interior of the MacKillon castle was little better than the exterior. Huge chunks of stone were missing from the walls of the great hall, and the holes had been only crudely patched with mud and straw to keep out the wind and rain. The wooden shutters over the windows were smashed, and pitiful shreds of embroidered cloth hung limply from nails embedded in the walls, the sad remnants of rich tapestries that had once decorated the salmon stones. The room was furnished with dark oak tables and benches, most of which were broken and somewhat haphazardly repaired.

Despite its dilapidated state, there was a remarkable aura of cheer in the room. Fires blazed in the massive hearths at both ends of the hall, and coppery flames fluttered from handsomely wrought torches, banishing the grayness of the day’s fading light. The tables were neatly set for dining, and although the wooden platters upon them were only sparsely filled with bread, oatcakes, cheese, fish and fruit, massive pink and purple bouquets of heather bloomed everywhere, giving the hall a gay, festive air.

“So here you are, home at last.” A short, amply proportioned woman bustled across the hall, impatiently drying her hands on her apron. Her dark hair was liberally striped with gray, and her plain but pleasant face bore the creases of many sleepless nights.

She went straight to Colin and grabbed his beard, handily pulling him down to her level so she could examine him.

“You’re thinner than when you left,” she observed critically. “Are you hungry? I’ve a nice broth simmering on the fire if you can’t wait for dinner—”

“For God’s sake, Beatrice,” growled Hagar, “he’s a full-grown man, not a squalling bairn. He scarcely needs you coddling him as if he were barely weaned.”

“You needn’t tell me when he was weaned, Hagar,” returned Beatrice, her hand clamped protectively on Colin’s shoulder. “I all but gave my life to bring him into this world and I’ll do no less than see that he’s well looked after while he’s in it, and if you don’t like it you can just—”

“I’m fine, Mother,” Colin interjected, uncomfortably aware that Roarke and his men were watching him with amusement.

“You look terrible,” she countered, pinching his cheek. “Scrawny as a starved rat, with dark circles under your eyes that I could see from across the hall. And you, my lass,” she railed on, turning to Melantha, “are even skinnier than before, if such a thing is possible. If your dear, sweet mother could see you now, she’d lock you in a chamber and not let you out until you’d put some flesh on those bones, and I warn you I’m strongly tempted to take such a measure. Strongly tempted.”

Melantha gazed at Beatrice fondly. She had been subjected to her fretful mothering from the time she was seventeen, when her own mother died. Although Colin found Beatrice’s fussing tiresome, Melantha secretly enjoyed it. The burden upon Melantha’s young shoulders had grown even heavier when her father was killed the previous autumn, and she often felt impossibly overwhelmed. It was nice to come home and have Beatrice worry about whether she had eaten enough or felt tired.

“ ’Tis just these shapeless garments that make me look thin,” Melantha protested.

“ ’Tis your face I was looking at,” objected Beatrice, impatiently dismissing her explanation. She planted her work-reddened hands on her hips and stared at Melantha and Colin with maternal disapproval. “Obviously you two children cannot be trusted to feed yourselves once you’re out of my sight.”

“I have just the thing for them,” announced an attractive, silver-haired woman who appeared from behind the wooden screen leading to the kitchen. “A nice warm cup of my special posset.” She smiled, then looked expectantly back at the screen. “Come, now, Gillian, don’t be shy.”

A pretty girl of about nineteen tentatively emerged, carefully carrying a heavy tray. She kept her gaze fastened on her burden, as if she feared she might spill a precious drop from one of the many cups balanced upon it, but even with this limited view it was obvious to Roarke that the girl was exceptionally lovely. Her skin was as pale as fresh milk, and her features were small and delicate. Her hair was neatly combed and woven into a soft, loose braid, which shone of copper and coral in the flickering torchlight.

“I—I helped Edwina make it,” she stammered shyly.

“Did you, now?” said Hagar. “Well, daughter, that’s a fine accomplishment indeed. ’Tis not every day a man gets to enjoy a tasty cup of warm posset, now, is it, Colin?”

“No,” Colin agreed, smiling at his sister.

“Bless my eyes, Edwina,” burst out Magnus, “I swear ye’re more beautiful than when I left!”

A rosy flush colored Edwina’s wrinkled cheeks. “Foolish talk from a foolish man,” she chided, giving Magnus an exasperated look.

“Here, now, I want ye to meet our prisoners,” said Magnus, taking no mind of her embarrassment. “This is Donald, that’s Myles, and that tall, scowling fellow with the pretty hair is called Eric. And this great big chap is Roarke, who was unlucky enough to receive one of my arrows in his backside. I did a fine job of stitching him closed, though,” he boasted, slapping Roarke amiably on the back. “Lift his plaid and look for yerself.”

“You’ve no business stitching with those feeble old eyes of yours,” scolded Edwina. “You’ll ruin what little sight you have left. Come, lad,” she said, sighing. “Let’s have a look and see if I need to fix it.” She reached for Roarke’s plaid.

“Perhaps later,” said Roarke, dodging her grasp.

Edwina chuckled. “Ye needn’t be shy with me, my lad. I’m too old for such nonsense. Try my posset,” she invited, offering him a cup from Gillian’s tray. “It will slay your hunger and heal whatever ails you in the bargain.”

Roarke obligingly accepted the goblet with his bound hands. “Thank you.” He tilted his head politely at Gillian.

Gillian blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Ye’re best to toss it down in one gulp,” advised Magnus surreptitiously as Edwina offered her posset to Roarke’s men.

Roarke frowned at the foamy brew. “Isn’t it just warm milk curdled with ale?”

“ ’Tis my own special recipe,” boasted Edwina, smiling as she distributed the milky concoction among the rest of the group. “I’m teaching Gillian how to make it, so the secret is not lost after I’m gone.”

Laird MacKillon raised his cup. “To our brave Melantha and her clever band, safely home once again.” He drained the contents of his goblet.

Satisfied that the drink was harmless, Roarke and his men all took a hearty draft.

“By God!” roared Eric, spewing his mouthful onto the floor. “It’s poison!” He threw down his goblet, splattering its contents all over Gillian’s gown in the process.

Gillian stared in horror at her hopelessly ruined gown. Slowly she raised her shimmering eyes to Eric, who glared at her as if she were the deadliest of foes. She cried out in wounded dismay and fled the hall, dropping her tray in the process.

“There, now, swallow and you’ll be fine,” instructed Edwina to Roarke and his men, who were still choking on the vile mixture. “Perhaps the lass was a wee bit generous with the fish bile in this batch,” she acknowledged, sniffing Magnus’s cup, “but you’ll be glad of its effects later.”

Myles wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he manfully tried to keep from retching. “What effects?” he demanded.

“ ’Tis marvelous for cleansing the bowels,” Edwina reported gaily. “Just the thing a man needs after a long journey and irregular, poorly cooked meals.”

Donald looked utterly revolted. “No doubt.”

“You will apologize to my sister at the first opportunity,” ordered Colin, glaring furiously at Eric. “Although I should have expected such brutish behavior from a swine like you.”

“I thought it was poison,” Eric said sheepishly. He looked with regret at the screen Gillian had disappeared behind. “I didn’t mean to frighten her.”

“I’m afraid the lass’s feelings are rather tender,” explained Hagar. “We all try to be extra gentle with her.”

“Well, now, Melantha,” said Laird MacKillon, who was digesting his posset without apparent difficulty, “tell us about these prisoners of yours.”

“By God, they’re evil, thieving, cursed MacTiers!” raged Thor, entering the hall with his sword dragging behind him. “What more do you need to know?” His arms quaking, he struggled to lift his weapon.

“Well, I should like to know why Melantha has brought them here,” said Laird MacKillon reasonably.

Thor’s eyes crinkled with anticipation. “She brought them here so we can hack them to pieces and feed their foul, mangled bodies to the wolves.”

“Actually, I brought them here so we could ransom them back to Laird MacTier,” Melantha clarified.

“Ransom them?” repeated Laird MacKillon, looking astonished. “Oh, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Absolutely not.”

“Have you completely lost your senses, lass?” demanded Hagar. “To ransom them would make MacTier fearfully angry.”

“So I’ll chop them up like stewing meat!” offered Thor, hacking at the floor with his weapon. “Then we’ll grind their bones to dust, bake it into bread and eat them, so there’s no trace of them ever to be found.”

“If we just kill them, what will we have gained?” asked Melantha.

“Honor,” supplied Laird MacKillon.

“Vengeance,” added Hagar.

“Bread,” finished Thor.

“I don’t know how you can speak so in front of our guests,” scolded Edwina, casting the three men a disapproving look. “These look like pleasant enough lads. Have they tried to harm you?”

Magnus shrugged. “Roarke tried to chop off Melantha’s head, but I stopped him with an arrow in his arse. Other than that, they haven’t been too much trouble.”

“I should like to point out that Melantha was trying to kill me at the time,” interjected Roarke, sensing that an explanation was needed.

Laird MacKillon raised his white brows in shock. “And that’s how you treat a wisp of a lass who is only trying to defend herself?”

“I didn’t realize she was a woman—she was dressed in that ridiculous outfit and her face was completely hidden by her helmet. And besides,” he finished, “she attacked me first.”

“Good gracious, Melantha, were you trying to kill this nice young man?” asked Beatrice, appalled.

“We were robbing them,” explained Melantha, “and he had managed to avoid the nets.”

“He’s a slippery one, all right,” agreed Magnus. He winked at Roarke.

“But why have you brought them here?” wondered Hagar. “You never bring prisoners home with you.”

“Unfortunately, we learned that these men have been sent by MacTier to crush the Falcon and ‘his’ band,” explained Colin. “As they intended to kill us, that made releasing them somewhat problematic.”

“Then it’s a bloody, agonizing death to the lot of them!” concluded Thor, ecstatic. “Stand still, you MacTier wretch!” He grunted with effort as he hoisted his sword and took a faltering step toward Roarke.

“Here, now, there’ll be no killing without my consent, Thor,” said Laird MacKillon, frowning at the elder. “Cease your nonsense and let’s hear what Melantha has to say about this ransom business.”

Thor huffed with irritation and lowered his weapon.

“As I see it,” began Melantha, “we gain far more by ransoming these warriors than we would by killing them—”

“I don’t know why you would think that.” Thor eyed Eric speculatively. “A big chap like that would make a lot of bread.”

“I propose that we use them to regain some of what MacTier has stolen from us,” she continued, “and show him we are a force to be reckoned with at the same time.”

“But we’re not a force to be reckoned with,” objected Laird MacKillon. “MacTier already knows that well enough.”

“Perhaps we haven’t the strength to face MacTier in battle,” allowed Melantha, “but it is clear that the Falcon’s band has troubled him enough these past few months to make him feel our sting. That is why he sent these warriors to capture us.”

“But he doesn’t know the Falcon is from this clan,” pointed out Hagar. “If we ransom these nasty-looking fellows, he’ll have to know that it is we MacKillons who have captured them.”

“And he’ll be terribly angry with us,” added Beatrice worriedly. “I’m afraid I cannot see how that will benefit us at all.”

“It will benefit us to regain that which he has stolen from us,” explained Melantha. “We will exchange these warriors for food, livestock, clothing, weapons, and gold—all things that were taken from us by the MacTiers when they attacked us last autumn.”

Hagar regarded her doubtfully. “What if MacTier agrees to pay us this ransom, and once he has these warriors he turns around and attacks us with his army?”

“The gold must be paid in advance of the release of these prisoners,” Melantha explained. “We will use it to buy the alliance of the MacKenzies and the protection of their army.”

“Not even MacTier will dare attack us again if he knows that we have such a powerful force ready to come to our aid,” said Colin.

Laird MacKillon looked intrigued by the possibility. “An army, you say?”

Hagar stroked his chin. “That would come to our aid whenever we need it?”

Magnus smiled fondly at Melantha. “The lass is just like her father—always thinking.”

“Does this mean I don’t get to kill these chaps?” grumbled Thor.

“If we ask enough for these warriors, and we secure an alliance with the MacKenzies, then we need never worry about being vulnerable to attack again,” said Colin.

“Not only from the MacTiers,” finished Melantha, “but from anyone else.”

“There is just one small problem.”

The little group regarded Roarke in surprise.

“Laird MacTier will never agree to your demands,” he informed them seriously. “Other than the issue of his pride, which is considerable, the man is exceptionally fond of his possessions—especially his gold. And as I have already explained to you,” he continued, regarding Melantha intently, “to pay a fee for our return would put all his warriors at risk of being ransomed.”

Laird MacKillon looked troubled. “Have you considered this, Melantha?”

“These warriors were sent to capture the Falcon’s band and are most anxious that their laird not learn that they failed miserably in their mission and are suffering the indignity of being ransomed as well. This is why they would have us believe that there is no point in holding them prisoner.” She tossed Roarke a look of contempt. “Besides, how will it appear if MacTier fails to intervene on behalf of his own clansmen?”

“The lass is right,” Hagar concurred. “MacTier may be a greedy bastard, but he’s not likely to let four of his own be killed just to save a few coins. I say we keep these big chaps for a while and see what MacTier says when he gets our message.”

“Very well,” said Laird MacKillon. “But what are we to do with them while we wait to hear from MacTier?”

“Throw them in the dungeon and let the rats gnaw on their hot, stinking entrails!” blazed Thor. “A few weeks in the dark with nothing but mossy bread and dank water, and we’ll have them telling us what we want to know!”

“Your pardon, Thor, but what is it we want to know?” wondered Laird MacKillon.

“All enemies have secrets,” Thor assured him. His face lit up. “If they won’t tell us, we shall have to torture them!”

“We don’t have a dungeon,” Beatrice objected firmly. “And we certainly don’t have rats.”

Thor’s expression fell. “Couldn’t we get some?”

“All we have are the storage chambers,” reflected Edwina, “and they are a terrible mess. It will take several days to clear one of them out.”

“Are there any spare chambers available?” Laird MacKillon asked.

Beatrice shook her head. “Every room in the keep is occupied, I’m afraid, and many of the cottages are already housing two families. Someone will have to move out to make room for these gentlemen, or agree to share their chamber.”

“Share a chamber with these thieving MacTier cutthroats?” Thor looked outraged by the suggestion. “Never, I say, never!”

“If we don’t have a dungeon for them and there aren’t any spare chambers, where are we to keep them?” Hagar wondered.

“Why don’t we just keep them here?” suggested Magnus.

Hagar regarded him in confusion. “In the great hall?”

“Seems to me ye couldn’t find a better place to keep a steady eye on them,” Magnus reasoned. “After all, there’s always someone in here. Should they try to escape, the place would be swarming with men in no time.”

Laird MacKillon’s expression brightened. “We can set up an area for them down at that end, with beds and a table and a washbasin—”

“—of course we’ll need to put up a screen, so they can have a little privacy when they need it—” added Hagar.

“—and a few chairs for sitting upon—” Magnus suggested.

“—they’ll be close to the kitchen, so it will be easy to bring them food—” pointed out Edwina.

“—and the fires will keep them warm at night—you know that storage room is rather chilly—” Beatrice added.

Roarke listened in bemused silence as the MacKillons made plans for imprisoning him and his men. It was clear the MacKillons despised the MacTiers, and apparently they had good reason. Yet here were the laird and his closest advisors fussing over Roarke and his men’s comfort. It would be most convenient to be held in the main room of this dilapidated castle, where Roarke could witness the activities of the clan and overhear their conversations. Not that these MacKillons seemed the least bit concerned about their prisoners knowing exactly what their plans were. Roarke had no doubt he and his men would be able to escape with little difficulty. The sight of the MacKillon children in their ragged clothes, their faces hollowed by hunger, had given him pause, however. He decided he would delay his departure until he learned more about what exactly had happened here.

“It’s all settled then, lads,” said Magnus, interrupting his thoughts. “Ye’ll stay in the hall for now, and as soon as we can make arrangements for yer comfort downstairs, ye’ll have a chamber all to yerselves.”

“Do let us know if there is anything else you need,” invited Laird MacKillon graciously.

Eric glowered. “I need nothing from the hands of my enemies,” he said savagely. “Not food, nor water, nor even—”

“Your concern for our comfort is most appreciated,” interjected Donald. “Now that you mention it, a hot bath might be rather pleasant—”

“What time is dinner?” wondered Myles, hungrily eyeing the food on the table.

“They aren’t guests,” objected Melantha, “they’re prisoners.”

“Even worse, they’re MacTiers!” bellowed Thor.

“Nevertheless, they deserve to be treated with decency,” Laird MacKillon said. “I’ll not have them being mistreated while they are in our custody—is that clear?”

Thor scowled.

“Thank you, Laird MacKillon,” said Roarke, unable to resist casting an amused look at Melantha. “You are a most gracious captor.”

“Not at all, lad.” He smiled, clearly pleased by the compliment. “Now that that’s settled, let’s sit down and eat, shall we? Colin, invite the others in. We will tell them of our plans to ransom these fine fellows and gain an army in the process, over dinner.”

“You’re not suggesting the prisoners should eat with us?” Melantha demanded, appalled.

Laird MacKillon regarded her in confusion. “Have they already dined?”

“As a matter of fact, we haven’t,” said Roarke cheerfully.

Melantha sent him a glare that could have frozen fire. “As prisoners, they should be fed somewhere else. Perhaps in the kitchen.”

“Absolutely not,” Beatrice objected. “It’s crowded enough in there without these four big brutes getting in everyone’s way.”

Hagar scratched his balding head. “I don’t see why they should have to go somewhere else, Melantha. After all, the great hall is already set up for dining.”

“Come then, lads,” invited Edwina, ending the debate. “Sit down and have something to eat.”

“Thank you.” Roarke gave Melantha an infuriating grin as he made his way to the table.

“You must sit at the laird’s table, Melantha,” said Beatrice, “so you can tell the clan all about the Falcon’s latest adventures.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, ye are,” countered Magnus. “Ye’ve scarce eaten a bite in more than three days, so sit yerself down and eat.”

“No,” she managed, feeling bile rise in her throat.

With that she wheeled about and fled the great hall, unable to bear the sight of MacTier warriors comfortably dining in the chamber where but a few months earlier they had wrought such terror and destruction.

Roarke lay on his side, contemplating the languid flicker of the dying torches.

His buttock was throbbing, as was much of his body, but the pain had been dulled somewhat by the enormous quantity of ale he had consumed during dinner. His men had also imbibed heavily, which accounted for the swiftness with which their snoring had rumbled through the hall, even though they were bound hand and foot. Unfortunately, the sanctuary of slumber had long been elusive for Roarke, and despite his profound weariness, tonight was no exception. The relentless ache of his battered bones and muscles, coupled with the melancholy wanderings of his mind, made it difficult to release himself to that quiet refuge. And so he lay in silence, staring at the fading light of the torches, wearily aware that he was only tormenting himself further as he studied their red-gold hue, which in that ale-clouded moment exactly matched the color of his beloved daughter Clementina’s hair.

It had been several days since the memory of either his little daughter or his wife had permeated his thoughts. The realization filled him with guilt, for it demonstrated that he had abandoned them in death the same way he had abandoned them in life. He had not meant to, but there it was. He was a cold, unfeeling bastard—salubrious traits in a warrior, but utterly despicable in a husband and father.

I am sorry.

He knew his apology was pathetically insufficient. Not that they could hear him, anyway. They lay cold and stiff under the ground, forever sealed in a simple pine coffin, with Muriel holding their tiny daughter in her arms, their faces pale but serene. At least that was what Laird MacTier had told Roarke on that terrible day he returned from his raiding to find his small family dead and buried. They are at peace, his laird had assured him. They are with God.

Roarke had failed to see how his wife could be at peace. Despondent after the loss of her beloved three-year-old child to a fever, she had taken her own life by eating poisoned berries. But at the time he had not questioned MacTier’s description. There had been a modicum of comfort in imagining sweet Muriel at peace, with little Clementina safely wrapped in the loving hold of her mother’s arms. He still tried to imagine them lying so, as if they were merely sleeping, and would open their eyes and smile at him if he but chose to wake them. It was ridiculous, of course. A life of raiding and battle had left him intimately acquainted with death, and he knew its foul stench and rotting ugliness too well to believe such a fanciful tale. But during those first few months the image of his wife and daughter lying in gentle slumber had soothed him, and helped to alleviate the unbearable guilt that had threatened to crush him from within.

He swallowed thickly, watching as the torchlight blurred to a watery wash of gold.

All his life he had longed for nothing other than to be a warrior. And that was exactly what he had become, God help him. As a lad it had seemed a life of unparalleled wonder, filled with adventure, daring, and exotic travel. From the time he had first swung the crude wooden sword his father crafted for him, he had known that he was destined for greater things than staying caged within the boundaries of his clan’s land. Farming held no appeal for him, and the idea of living his life trapped in a dark, smoky cottage with a shrewish wife and squalling babes had terrified him. And so he had pursued his training with relentless determination, excelling at every exercise, until finally Laird MacTier realized there was nothing to be done except send him off to fight. Over the years Roarke had grown from a green, arrogant lad with more strength than brains into an experienced, arrogant warrior, who loved battle and thought no further than the next conquest. His sworn duty was to his laird and clan. All who knew him understood that. Even Muriel, who had fallen in love with him at the tender age of seventeen and begged him to marry her. Roarke had been all of twenty-nine, and had just been given command of a small army of a hundred men, which at the time was heady stuff indeed. He had informed Muriel that life as a warrior left him no time for the burden of a wife and family, and that he could not possibly be expected to stay at home to tend to them. Muriel assured him that it did not matter, for she loved him and wanted to be his wife.

To have you with me some of the time is far better than not sharing my life with you at all, she had said.

And so he married her, planted a child in her belly, and left, foolishly believing that all was well and she would be content.

Instead he had destroyed her.

“Be quiet, Patrick, or they’ll hear you and cut off your head with a giant sword!” whispered an agitated voice.

Suddenly alert, Roarke shoved aside his thoughts and quickly scanned the dimness of the hall.

Three small shadows of varying height were tentatively creeping toward him. It was clear by their careful, if not entirely graceful, movements, that they were trying to make as little noise as possible.

“Why would they do a mean thing like that?” asked the smallest figure. “I haven’t done anything.”

“They’re thieving, bloodthirsty MacTiers, aren’t they?” demanded the tallest of the three shadows. “That’s what they do for sport—chop the heads off small boys and take them home and eat them!”

Both the middle and small shadows halted.

“H-how small?” stammered the middle shadow.

“You needn’t worry, Matthew,” the tallest shadow said. “You’re too quiet for them to take any notice of you. It’s Patrick here who had better watch out!”

“You said it would be safe to look at them, Daniel,” the small shadow protested accusingly. “Now you’re saying they’re going to eat me!”

“I didn’t say that,” snapped the tall shadow. “I just said you have to be quiet!”

The midsized figure banged into a table, sending a pitcher crashing to the floor.

All three shadows froze.

The racket was enough to rouse the dead, but miraculously, Roarke’s men continued to snore. Evidently the ale had impaired their hearing along with all their other senses.

Stricken with terror, the three small shadows remained rooted to the spot. Finally, unable to detect any movement from either Roarke or his men, they exhaled the breaths they had been holding.

“That was close,” breathed the tallest shadow. “Do that again, Matthew, and we’ll all be dead!”

“We shouldn’t have come, Daniel,” Matthew whimpered. “Melantha told us not to go near the prisoners!”

“Melantha never lets us do anything,” complained Daniel. “If she had her way we’d be locked in our chamber until we were old men!”

“She just wants us to be safe,” Matthew countered loyally.

“Fine,” said Daniel, exasperated. “You two stay here and be safe. I’m going to look at these MacTier murderers.”

“I want to see them as well,” chirped Patrick, which struck Roarke as remarkably courageous, given that this little one believed he was in danger of being eaten.

“I—I do too,” stammered Matthew, although he didn’t sound entirely sure.

Daniel sighed. “Very well—but don’t make a sound!”

A little late for that, thought Roarke, watching with amusement as the three shadows began to creep toward him and his men once again.

“Are you sure they’re asleep?” whispered Matthew worriedly.

“Of course they’re asleep,” said Daniel. “You don’t think they snore like that when they’re awake, do you?”

“They sound just like Thor does when he’s sleeping,” Patrick observed. “I thought he made that disgusting noise because he’s so old.”

“All men snore when they sleep,” Daniel declared authoritatively. “Even our da used to.”

Matthew giggled. “It sounds like they’ve got something stuck up their noses.”

“Why doesn’t the noise wake them up?” wondered Patrick.

Daniel shrugged. “I expect they’re used to it.”

They crept a little closer. Roarke lay perfectly still, watching them through a barely cracked eyelid. Patrick emerged from the darkness into the wavering torchlight first. He looked to be about seven years of age and sported a wildly disheveled bush of bright red hair.

“Which one do you suppose is the leader?”

“It must be that fair-haired one,” decided Matthew, inching hesitantly beside him. “Just look at what a great giant he is!”

This light-brown-haired lad seemed a little older than Patrick, although his frame was slight and his legs were painfully thin, making it difficult to assess his age. Nine, Roarke decided—certainly no more than ten.

“That isn’t the leader,” scoffed Daniel, joining the other two.

He was lean and long limbed, with sable hair and elegantly arched brows that struck Roarke as oddly familiar. Roarke guessed his age to be about thirteen, though it was possible he was older and a lack of food had arrested his development. Given sufficient quantities of meat and exercise, the boy might grow to an impressive size.

“Melantha said the leader’s name is Roarke, and he has hair as black as night, with horrible eyes as cold and lifeless as two frozen stones. And she said when he looks at you he can make your heart stop,” he warned direly, “so hideous is his face.”

Now, that was a bit insulting, Roarke decided. Although he had never wasted much time considering his appearance, he certainly didn’t think he resembled a gargoyle.

“I’m leaving,” said Matthew, afraid. “I don’t want to see him.”

“Stay where you are, Matthew,” ordered Daniel. “If you knock into something else you’ll get us all into trouble.”

“I don’t want my heart to stop,” he squeaked.

“Melantha just said that so we wouldn’t come down here and try to get a look at them,” Daniel assured him impatiently.

“How do you know?”

“Because Melantha is always making things sound much more dangerous than they really are, so we won’t do them. Remember when she told us we couldn’t try archery because we were likely to shoot each other?”

“But when she finally said you could, you did almost shoot me,” pointed out Matthew.

“That was an accident,” Daniel scoffed. “It never would have happened if Melantha hadn’t kept yelling at me to be careful. She ruined my concentration.”

“But then you shot Ninian’s cart and startled his horse, so it ran off and the cart turned over with Ninian still in it,” Patrick added. “He was sorely mad.”

“Ninian shouldn’t have driven his cart in front of me.”

“The cart wasn’t moving,” countered Matthew.

“Do you two want to see these murdering MacTiers or not?” huffed Daniel, irritated at having his past transgressions recounted.

“I do,” Patrick chirped.

“Then keep quiet!”

The two smaller boys obediently fell silent.

Roarke shut his eyes and lay motionless as the three lads cautiously approached.

“Look at the size of this one,” Daniel whispered.

“Do you suppose he’s the leader?” asked Matthew.

“His face is mean enough,” Daniel decided.

“If he’s the leader, then this is the one Magnus shot in the bum,” said Patrick.

“That must have hurt,” reflected Matthew sympathetically.

“He deserved to be shot in the heart.” Daniel’s voice was tight and savage. “And he’s lucky he’s sleeping, or I would take Da’s sword and spear it through his evil, murdering—”

Roarke’s eyes snapped open.

Except for the terror clenching their white faces, one might have thought the three lads were about to burst into song, so wide did their mouths gape. Roarke waited for them to flee. Instead they remained frozen to the spot, apparently paralyzed with fear.

“Well? Any of your hearts stop?”

Confusion marginally eased their terrorized expressions.

“Since you remain standing, I shall assume that your hearts are still beating,” Roarke continued, amused. “It’s a relief to learn that I am not quite so hideous as you were led to believe.”

Daniel found his voice first. “Don’t try anything, MacTier, or I’ll skewer you with my sword!”

Roarke raised a quizzical brow. “What sword?”

The boy groped vainly at his side. Realizing he carried no sword, he clenched his small hands into bony fists. “The sword I’m going to get and drive through your foul, rotting heart!”

“Now, that hardly seems a fair encounter,” mused Roarke, “since I am lying here bound hand and foot, and could not so much as lift a finger to defend myself.”

At the mention of his helplessness, the three boys visibly relaxed.

“It’s a lucky thing for you that you’re bound,” Daniel told him, “because if you weren’t, you’d be dead by now.”

Little Patrick eyed Roarke nervously. “Are you going to cut off my head and eat it?”

“Of course not,” replied Roarke, sounding offended by the suggestion. “I’m a warrior, not a wild animal. Whoever told you such a ridiculous thing?”

Patrick cast an accusing look at Daniel.

“Don’t try to make us think you aren’t evil,” said Daniel. “You MacTiers attacked us last autumn and tried to butcher every last one of us, so we know exactly what kind of vile savages you are! You deserve to have your eyes burned into steaming black holes with a hot shaft, and then be slowly flayed until you’re begging for death!”

Laird MacKillon had forbidden anyone to discuss the subject of the MacTier attack during dinner, deeming it too unpleasant for dining. This had prevented Roarke from learning any further details. But it had been clear from the animosity he had encountered since meeting Melantha and her band that the attack had been brutal. The dilapidated state of the castle and the near-starving condition of most of the people here further demonstrated that the MacKillons had suffered greatly, and continued to suffer. He endured Daniel’s glare with something akin to shame, as if he were somehow responsible for the lad’s misery. That was ridiculous, he told himself impatiently. He and his men had been far to the south at the time of this attack. He was guilty in that he shared responsibility for the actions of his clan, but he could not be held personally accountable for what had transpired here.

He had been too busy raiding other holdings on behalf of his laird and clan.

“You’re lucky Melantha didn’t slay you, because that’s what she has sworn to do to all MacTiers, until every last one of you lies drowning in your own blood, and our brave da’s murder has been avenged!” hissed Daniel fiercely.

Our brave da.

Of course, Roarke thought, studying the boy’s finely chiseled face, his elegantly winged brows, and the dark fury smoldering in his eyes. Standing before him was a smaller, younger version of Melantha. He shifted his attention to the other lads. Matthew’s features were softer, but his eyes were the same, although they lacked the bitter hatred that burned in his brother’s. Little Patrick, however, was a mystery. His hair grew in a thick, wild tangle, and although it was dark Roarke could see that his skin was generously splattered with freckles, which bore no resemblance to the milky clear faces of the other two.

“Are you all Melantha’s brothers?”

“Aye.” Daniel’s bony fists remained balled menacingly at his sides. “And if I ever hear of you trying to harm her again, MacTier, I swear I’ll kill you.”

His voice was deadly soft, his boyish face twisted with raw hatred. He was only a child, yet Roarke knew loathing and anguish simmered just beneath his skin, making him capable of almost anything. In all his years as a warrior, he had never seen a lad so completely stripped of every remnant of innocence, and the sight cut him to the bone. Roarke had fought in countless battles, and had led massive assaults on scores of holdings in the name of his laird and his king, but somehow he had always thought of it as a fight against other warriors, not women and children. Of course he had never tarried long once a holding had surrendered. After all, his skills were best utilized where there was another battle to be fought. And so he had always moved on, never permitting himself to dwell upon the terrible suffering he left behind.

“Does your mother know you’re down here threatening the prisoners?” he enquired with uncustomary gentleness.

Little Patrick shook his head. “She died a long time ago.”

“Only two and a half years ago,” Daniel corrected tautly. “That’s not so long.”

No, Roarke agreed, that was not so long. Muriel and Clementina had been dead five years, and their absence still carved a deep abyss in his soul. He could well imagine the terrible pain experienced by these boys at losing both their mother and father in such a brief span of time. And so Melantha had been forced to assume responsibility for her younger brothers. Roarke had never been home enough to play a significant role in his daughter’s upbringing, but he knew it would require enormous energy and patience to be both mother and father to these three lads. Melantha had strictly forbidden them to come here tonight, and they had recklessly defied her, just as he would have done at their age.

If she rose during the night to find the three of them missing, she would be overcome with fear.

“You lads shouldn’t be here. If Melantha finds you with me, she will be very angry with you for disobeying her.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear they had completely forgotten about this possibility.

“H-he’s right,” Matthew stammered nervously. “Melantha will be awfully mad when she finds out.”

“Melantha won’t find out.” Daniel hurled a contemptuous look at Roarke. “Unless you tell her.”

“I see no reason to tell anyone of your little visit,” said Roarke. “Other than your threats to drive a sword through my foul, rotting heart and burn my eyes into steaming holes, I found your company quite pleasant.”

Daniel eyed Roarke doubtfully, debating whether or not to trust him. “Come, then, lads,” he finally said. “We’ve seen enough of these butchering MacTiers for one night.”

Matthew eagerly turned, but young Patrick lingered a moment longer, his little red brows scrunched together.

“Did Magnus really shoot you in the bum?”

Roarke nodded.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“A little.”

“Once I fell and cut my forehead, and Melantha made me lie in bed while she pressed cold cloths on it, and she even let me drink some wine. You should ask her if she will do the same for you.”

“Somehow I doubt your sister is overly concerned about my pain,” said Roarke dryly, “but thank you for the suggestion.”

“We have to go, Patrick!” snapped Daniel.

“I have to go now,” Patrick informed Roarke, “but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I shall look forward to that.”

The lad gifted him with a smile.

And then he turned and scampered toward his eldest brother, who cast one last look of utter loathing at Roarke before melting into the shadows.