CHAPTER 4

C HAPTER 4

“That’s it, Lewis…ye’ve almost got it…there, now! Bang her in, she’s as straight as can be!”

Roarke watched as Lewis obediently positioned a nail over the damaged shutter, gave it a meek tap with his hammer, then withdrew his supporting hand.

The shutter crashed to the floor.

“For heaven’s sake, lad, ye can’t expect to secure a heavy slab of wood with just one nail!” said Magnus, exasperated. “And ye must strike the nail as if ye mean to kill it, not as if ye’re trying to rouse it from slumber!”

Lewis gazed down apologetically from his precarious perch of stacked benches. “Sorry.”

Magnus sighed. “Never mind, lad. It’s not yer fault ye’ve no gift for fixing things. Climb down from there and let’s see if we can’t find something else for ye to do.”

The great hall was teeming with men balancing on benches, tables, and chairs, their mouths crammed with iron nails as they awkwardly attempted to repair the damaged shutters dangling from the windows.

“Excellent job, lads!” praised Magnus, who was directing the activity from the center of the hall. “A few more hours work here, and those wily MacTier dogs will never be able to breach the windows.”

“Forgive me, Magnus,” said Roarke, “but why are all these men working in the great hall when there are so many repairs to be done to the outside of the castle?”

“I know ’tis a wee bit noisy, lad,” Magnus acknowledged apologetically, “but until we get that storeroom ready for ye, I’m afraid ye’ll just have to put up with us.”

“I’m not complaining about the noise,” Roarke clarified. “I’m wondering why you aren’t securing the curtain wall and the gate instead of fixing a few broken shutters in here.”

“There are plenty of men working outside, make no mistake,” Magnus assured him. “And they’ve got matters well in hand. It may interest ye to know that we MacKillons have a long and splendid history of castle building—”

“For God’s sake, Ninian, can you not tell the difference between a nail and a man’s bloody finger !”

Roarke glanced across the hall to see a short dumpling of a man with blazing cheeks standing on a table, angrily shaking his stubby hand in the air.

“If you’d only watch what you’re doing and keep your fat fingers out of my way, that wouldn’t have happened, Gelfrid!” snapped Ninian testily from his seat atop several unevenly stacked stools. His skin was stretched taut over the bones of his face, giving him a sallow, almost cadaverous appearance that perfectly complemented his shrunken build.

“ ’Tis you who needs to watch what you’re doing,” blustered Gelfrid. “Any damn fool can see this is flesh and bone, not a piece of bloody iron!”

“You’d best let your wife take a look at that for you,” said a fellow with a wild flurry of red hair. “It may need to be splinted.”

“I’ll be lucky if a splint is all that’s needed, Mungo,” Gelfrid complained irritably. “But while I’m at it, I’ll ask my Hilda to make a potion that’ll sharpen Ninian’s sight!”

Ninian whirled around, waving his hammer. “There’s nothing wrong with my sight! You put your great, fat finger right on top of the bloody—” Suddenly his eyes grew round and he began to flap his scrawny arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance.

Roarke winced as the poor fellow crashed to the floor.

“That must have hurt,” reflected Donald, who lay comfortably stretched out upon his pallet watching the MacKillons make their repairs.

“ ’Twas nothing,” Eric scoffed, unimpressed. “I’ve fallen from twice that height and barely felt it.”

“That’s because you landed on your head,” said Myles, lazily polishing his arm bands against his plaid.

Eric scowled. “You’re just jealous of my superior strength.”

“His head may tolerate the odd blow well enough, but I warrant this morning it is throbbing from the vast quantity of ale he drank last night,” Donald teased. “No doubt that accounts for his surly disposition today.”

“Perhaps Gillian should dose him with another cup of her posset,” suggested Myles. “That would really put this superior Viking strength of his to the test.”

“I thought it was poison,” Eric grumbled irritably. “ ’Twas the foulest brew I have ever tasted.”

“I don’t think you need worry about the lass going near you with one of her brews again,” Myles reflected. “Judging by the haste with which she quit the hall, I’d say you’ve terrified the poor maid.”

“Now, that’s a pity.” Donald idly examined the rope around his wrists. “She was a comely little thing.”

“She was weak and afraid,” Eric countered. “She would not make a fit mate for a warrior. A warrior needs a woman who is strong and fearless.”

“I shall settle for a lass who is pleasing upon the eye, and soft and willing in my bed.”

“It is a woman’s duty to be willing,” Eric replied brusquely. “My wife should be proud to take my seed and bear strong children.”

Donald regarded him with amusement. “I really must spend some time educating you on the ways of women, my friend, before these barbaric ideas of yours get you into serious trouble.” He sat up, pleased to have found something to keep himself occupied. “Now, then, your first lesson is how to look at a woman without sending her into fits of hysteria.”

Eric glowered.

“Excellent. That is exactly how you don’t want to look. Now that you’ve mastered that, let’s move on. The next lesson is: when a woman offers you something to drink, which she has obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to make, try to refrain from spitting it out and accusing her of trying to kill you.”

“If you don’t cease this drivel I’m going to kill you,” Eric warned ominously.

“You may think that now, but there is going to be a moment where you will actually want to thank me,” replied Donald, unconcerned. “Women love to be complimented on their appearance, so try to think of something nice to say.”

Myles stopped polishing his arm bands. “Like what?”

“That depends on what stage you are at in your seduction. For instance, if you have only just met, ’tis good to remark on something relatively safe, like comparing her hair to the dark of the night sky, or saying her eyes are the color of sapphires.”

Eric snorted in disgust. “I have never seen a woman with eyes like sapphires.”

“It doesn’t matter whether they are actually that blue or not,” explained Donald patiently, “you flatter her by telling her it is so. She is certainly not about to contradict you when you point out her more comely attributes.”

“What about her arms?” asked Myles.

Donald frowned. “What about them?”

“Is that a good thing to compliment her on?”

“In truth, I can’t recall meeting a woman who particularly wanted to hear about her arms. Besides, there are so many other wonderful things to remark on, like her creamy skin, her rosy lips, her tiny waist, her soft cheek—”

“I like strong arms,” interrupted Eric. “That means she will be able to carry a heavy load of wood without complaining.”

Donald sighed. “Fine. Mention her strong arms if you like, but be sure to add something else, like the delicate shape of her—”

“Broad hips,” suggested Myles.

Donald raised his brow in exasperation. “You actually believe a woman wants to be told she has broad hips?”

“That means she will be able to bear many children with ease,” explained Myles.

“Myles is right,” agreed Eric, nodding with approval. “It is a good thing for a woman to have solid, broad hips.”

“And a good pair of stout legs,” added Myles.

“I don’t think you two are going to get very far in your courting if you remark on the stoutness of a woman’s hips and legs,” reflected Donald doubtfully.

“Well, I’m not marrying any foolish wench who wants to be told some nonsense about her eyes being like blue rocks,” snapped Eric. He heaved himself against his pallet and turned away from Donald, indicating the lesson had come to an end.

Ignoring the bored discourse of his men, Roarke watched in frustration as the MacKillons continued their bumbling repairs of the great hall. He did not know if Laird MacKillon had sent a ransom message to Laird MacTier yet, but one thing was certain. If fixing these broken shutters was the extent of the MacKillons’s preparation for an attack, then the outcome would be both swift and brutal, regardless of which clan assaulted them.

The thought did not please him.

“I’m afraid we need to work down at this end of the hall now,” said Magnus, approaching Roarke. “If ye lads would be so kind to move toward the center of the room, I’m sure we’ll have ye back in yer space in no time.”

“It seems my men and I are just in the way, Magnus,” Roarke remarked, determined to see what other preparations the MacKillons were making. “Perhaps it would be best if we went outside for a while, and left you and your men to finish the repairs.”

Magnus cocked a white brow. “Ye’re not thinking to try to escape, are ye, lad? Because I’ve no time to waste today on chasing after ye, do ye hear?”

“I can hardly see how that would be possible,” returned Roarke. “It is the middle of the day, we are unarmed, our hands are bound, and the courtyard is filled with your people. And my arse still throbs from your arrow, which makes the prospect of a long chase wholly unappealing.”

Magnus chuckled. “ ’Twas a fine shot, there’s no denying it.” He considered a moment, then sighed. “I suppose there’s no harm in ye lads takin’a bit of fresh air. But I’ll have to send someone to watch over ye all the same.” He turned to Lewis, who was kneeling on the floor, completely absorbed in the task of piecing together the fragments of his broken shutter. “Lewis, quit playing with that and take the prisoners outside for some air.”

“I’ve nearly got it,” murmured Lewis, completely absorbed by his task. “All I need is to find one more piece—”

“Leave it, lad,” said Magnus impatiently. “We’re better off building a new one anyway.”

“But we don’t need to,” replied Lewis, sliding the last piece of his wooden puzzle into place. “See?”

Roarke looked down in amazement. In mere minutes Lewis had managed to completely reconstruct the badly broken shutter.

“Yes, yes, I see,” Magnus said. “And in the time it takes to have a man put all those wee bits together, he can build two new shutters from good, strong wood and have them hung. Can ye not see how that makes all yer fussin’ about with things a waste of time?”

Embarrassed to be chastised in front of Roarke and his men, Lewis nodded meekly.

“Be a good lad, then, and take these MacTiers out into the courtyard for some air. I’m not thinkin’ they’ll be giving ye any trouble. If they do, just shoot one of them in the arse,” he instructed, chuckling. “That’ll bring them around quick enough.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Roarke assured him. “My men and I merely wish to get some fresh air and a little exercise, nothing more.”

“Off ye go, then,” said Magnus. “Just see that ye don’t get in anyone’s way while ye’re out there—here, now, Mungo, what in the name of St. Andrew are ye doin’ with that—watch out!”

Roarke winced as the tower of benches supporting Mungo crashed to the floor, with poor Mungo following.

The courtyard was roiling with activity as Roarke and his men stepped into the damp morning air. Men, women, and children were scrambling in all directions carrying rocks of varying sizes, which they were arranging with great care along the walls of the keep. Others were toting heavy buckets of water from the well and dumping them into enormous troughs and barrels in which a gray, claylike compound was being mixed.

“That’s it, Finlay,” said Laird MacKillon. He watched from his seat in the center of the courtyard as the stocky warrior gathered an armful of heavy stones from a cart and dropped them on the ground. “Fifty or so more cartloads, and we’ll have more than enough stones to restore these magnificent walls to their former glory!”

“This one won’t do,” declared Thor, his forehead furrowed with disapproval as he examined one of the rocks. “Won’t do at all.”

Finlay wiped the sweat from his brow. “Not big enough?”

Thor shook his head. “It’s big enough, all right.”

“Not heavy enough?” suggested Laird MacKillon.

Thor grunted as he attempted to lift the stone from the cart, then abandoned his efforts and shook his head again. “That’s a sound, heavy stone. Can’t fault it for that.”

“Is its shape uneven?” wondered Hagar, coming over to inspect the offending rock.

Thor ran a gnarled hand over the stone. “Smooth as a bairn’s backside,” he announced, patting it with approval. “Nothing wrong with its shape.”

“What’s wrong with it then?” wondered Laird MacKillon.

By this time the entire clan had halted their work and curiously focused their attention on Thor.

There was a moment of cryptic silence as he eyed his audience, immensely pleased to have so much attention directed at him.

“It’s not pink enough,” he finally announced gravely.

The clan stared at the stone in shock.

“By all the saints, you’re right,” said Hagar, bobbing his balding head in agreement. “It’s not nearly pink enough!”

“Now, Finlay, I don’t mean to criticize, but you are taking care to pick only stones of the rosiest color, are you not?” queried Laird MacKillon.

“Aye,” grunted Finlay, carelessly depositing another armload of rocks onto the ground. “I am.”

“Then how do you explain this one?” demanded Thor.

Finlay shrugged. “Must have looked pink when I picked it up.”

The council members contemplated this explanation a moment.

“A perfectly reasonable answer,” decided Laird MacKillon, nodding.

“Things often look pink to me one minute, and then an entirely different color the next,” added Hagar. “It’s a common problem.”

“That’s because your eyes are weak,” scoffed Thor. “I can certainly tell the difference between something that is pink, and something that is decidedly not pink.”

“But if you look closely at this stone, you can see that there are actually shades of pink running through it,” pointed out Hagar. “ ’Tis merely the intensity of the color that makes it unacceptable.”

“The intensity of color is everything!” argued Thor. “That’s the very attribute for which the MacKillon castle has been famous these past hundred years—its remarkable color! If we allow our keep to be repaired with just any shade of stone, we will have lost our proud heritage!”

“Of course I’m not suggesting we actually use this stone,” Hagar assured him. “I’m only saying that the lad should not be overly criticized for thinking it was pink when he picked it up. Why, just look at all the other fine stones he has brought to us today!”

“Never mind, Finlay,” said Laird MacKillon. “Everyone makes mistakes. Just see that you’re more careful with the next load. Everyone back to work,” he instructed, waving at all the MacKillons. “Everything is fine now. All sorted out.”

“Great God in heaven!” burst out Thor, suddenly noticing Roarke and his men. “Those MacTier scoundrels have escaped!” He fumbled awkwardly for his sword and charged toward them. “Back, vile miscreants!” he raged, flailing his blade in front of him. “Back to your rat-infested prison, before I carve you into a thousand bloody pieces and mash your steaming entrails into the ground!”

Roarke calmly waited for Lewis to inform Thor that in fact they were not trying to escape. But poor Lewis was so startled by Thor’s sudden attack, he actually stepped backward, bumping into Roarke.

“We aren’t trying to escape,” Roarke assured Thor, trying to steady Lewis as best he could with his bound hands.

Thor’s eyes rounded with horror. “My God, they’ve taken Lewis hostage! I’ll not stand by and let them get away with it! Prepare to die, you depraved curs!”

Roarke instantly pushed Lewis behind him, afraid the lad might actually get injured in Thor’s misguided attack. “We aren’t trying to escape, Thor,” he repeated loudly, thinking perhaps the elder was hard of hearing.

“Back, foul pillagers of castles and ravishers of women!” raged Thor, poking the air just in front of Roarke’s belly with his sword. “Back to your damp, dark hole, where you will rot in misery until the devil himself claims your wretched, stinking souls to burn for all eternity!”

“Here, now, what’s all this fuss about?” demanded Magnus, appearing at the castle entrance. “A man can scarcely think straight with all this shouting.”

“I’ve just saved the clan from another MacTier attack,” boasted Thor, “and now I’m going to chop these MacTier villains into wee bits and feed them to the fish in the loch!”

“Attack?” repeated Magnus, confused. “What attack?”

“Thor seems to think we were trying to escape,” Roarke explained mildly.

“That’s ridiculous,” scoffed Magnus. “The lad gave me his word that escape was the furthest thing from his mind—all he and his men wanted was a wee bit of air.”

Thor kept his weapon trembling menacingly before Roarke. “If they aren’t trying to escape, then what were they doing racing across the courtyard?”

“Actually, we weren’t moving,” pointed out Roarke. “We were watching you debate the matter of Finlay’s stone.”

“You were deciding how to steal our weapons and mounts and slay us all before you returned to your clan!” thundered Thor.

“Now, that would be quite a feat,” Roarke agreed, “considering there are only four of us against hundreds of MacKillons.”

“The lad’s got a point, Thor,” said Magnus. “Besides, can ye not see that I’ve got young Lewis guarding them?”

Thor blinked. “Lewis is guarding them?”

“Aye,” said Lewis, sheepishly stepping out from the protective shield of Roarke’s body. He cleared his throat and groped at his side for his sword. “I am.”

“No offense, lad,” said Thor, “but I scarcely think a skinny stripling like you is capable of guarding four savage brutes like these. Why, just look at the size of them compared to you! They’d eat you in the blink of an eye if they thought you had any meat on your bones!”

A stain of humiliation rose to Lewis’s freckled cheeks.

“Don’t be deceived by Lewis’s slender build,” interjected Roarke, disliking the way Thor was embarrassing the lad before his own clan. “When we were captured, he nearly hacked one of my men in two with that sword of his.”

A gasp of awe rose from the clan.

“He did?” exclaimed Hagar, clearly impressed.

Roarke nodded. “Of course, Donald was weakened by the heavy blow Lewis delivered to the back of his head first. The lad has a powerful right arm.”

Laird MacKillon regarded Lewis in amazement. “He does?”

“He most certainly does,” agreed Donald, rubbing his head for effect. “Left a lump on my skull the size of a goose egg. I expect I’ll be feeling it for days yet.”

“Are you trying to tell me that our Lewis here actually attacked this savage warrior of yours?” demanded Thor, gazing at Roarke in bewilderment.

Roarke nodded.

“ ’Twould seem I’ve misjudged ye, laddie,” acknowledged Thor, shaking his head. “I’d have never thought you capable of such a deed.”

“Of course Lewis is capable of such a deed,” declared a hard voice. “As part of the Falcon’s band he performs acts of great courage and daring all the time.”

Roarke turned to see Melantha and Colin standing behind him, with young Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick lined up between them. Melantha was dressed in a coarsely woven brown shirt, a dark leather jerkin, earth-colored leggings and deerskin boots, with her cumbersome sword weighing heavily at her side. Evidently she preferred the unfettered movement this attire afforded her to the awkward constraints of a gown, mused Roarke. Either that, or her exploits as the Falcon had stripped her of any desire to appear even remotely feminine, at least where her garments were concerned. Her shapeless clothes could not mask the delicate beauty of her face, although her rigid expression did little to suggest that there might be a softer side to her.

For a moment Roarke feared she had learned of her brothers’ clandestine visit to the great hall the previous night. It was impossible to tell from Daniel’s expression, for the boy glared at him with the same disdain as his sister, which had the unsettling effect of making their resemblance even more profound. Roarke shifted his attention to Matthew. The youth uneasily latched his attention to the ground, but Roarke sensed Matthew was always uneasy, so there was no help there. Only red-haired little Patrick regarded him with a sunny, untroubled look, complete with a crooked smile. A peculiar sensation of warmth seeped over Roarke. Feeling somewhat fortified, he returned his gaze to Melantha.

The coolness was still there, but he detected something else in the depths of her eyes. Frowning, he tried to discern what it was.

She abruptly tore her gaze away, as if he did not merit further scrutiny.

“Well, then, it’s all sorted out,” declared Laird MacKillon happily. “Everyone back to work,” he instructed once more, shooing at his people. “There is still much work to do on these mighty walls.”

“Forgive me, Laird MacKillon,” said Roarke, “but why are you spending so much time and effort repairing the walls of your keep?”

“Why, to keep the MacTiers out, of course,” Laird MacKillon replied, as if the answer were obvious.

“You don’t think we’re so naive as to believe your greedy, black-hearted laird won’t be tempted to attack us again, are you?” asked Thor. “But this time we’ll hack his army to bits as it stands, strip the flesh from its bones, and feed it to the wolves!” he threatened grandly. “And then we’ll grind it’s bones for bread!”

“Well, now, I don’t know about that,” fretted Laird MacTier. “No offense, Thor, but I can’t help but think that to grind the bones of an entire army would take an inordinate amount of time and effort.”

“Besides, who wants to eat bread made out of MacTiers?” wondered Magnus. “It’s bound to be tough.”

“If it’s tough, we can feed it to the fish,” Thor suggested. “They won’t care.”

Hagar scratched the shiny top of his head. “That seems like an awful lot of work to go to, just to feed fish. Couldn’t we just bury their bones?”

“The whole idea is to destroy them without a trace!” argued Thor. “If we’re just going to bury them, then there’s no point in stripping their flesh off either!”

Roarke struggled for patience. “What I am trying to say is, if Laird MacTier sends an army to retrieve us, you really don’t have a hope of holding them off.”

“Do you think we should just sit and placidly wait for your clan to arrive?” demanded Colin sardonically.

“Don’t forget, we’re going to enlist the assistance of the MacKenzies’ army,” said Hagar, “and they’re as strong and nasty a group of warriors as one could ever hope not to meet.”

“But we must do what we can to keep your warriors at bay, at least until Laird MacKenzie arrives with his army and makes your laird realize he should just pay your ransom and take you home,” Laird MacKillon added.

“It is good that you are making preparations for the event of an attack,” acknowledged Roarke, ignoring Colin’s hostility. “Your clan should be better prepared to defend itself regardless of whether MacTier sends an army or not. But the preparations you are making will ultimately have little effect. You cannot stop an army by replacing a few shutters and repairing the holes in your keep with pink stones.”

“Your concern for my people’s welfare is touching,” Melantha observed icily. “No doubt you think we should just release you and your men to prevent further bloodshed.”

“That would be the most prudent course of action,” agreed Roarke. “But since you are so stubbornly committed to this notion of ransoming us, at least let me make a few suggestions for strengthening your holding.”

“We’re not interested in your suggestions.”

“Actually, Melantha, it might be interesting to hear them,” Laird MacKillon interjected. “After all, Roarke here is an experienced warrior, and has probably raided dozens of castles—haven’t you, lad?”

“Of course he has,” Melantha agreed caustically. “And our home counts among his many foul, depraved victories.”

An uneasy hush fell upon the courtyard.

Roarke regarded her intently. “My men and I were not a part of the raid on this holding, Melantha. I swear it.”

A bitter, half-choked laugh escaped her throat. “Even if that were true, it doesn’t matter. You’re still a MacTier.”

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “There is nothing I can do to change that. But just because I’m a MacTier doesn’t mean I can’t offer your people a few suggestions on how you can fortify your holding.”

“He’s right, ye know, lass,” said Magnus. “There’s no harm in listening to what he has to say.”

“Quite so,” agreed Laird MacKillon.

“This is absurd!” snapped Colin. “He has no reason to want to help us. He’ll try to trick us into doing something that will actually help his army when it comes.”

“You don’t have to actually do anything that I suggest,” Roarke pointed out. “Unless you think it makes sense.”

“Now, that sounds fair enough,” said Hagar. “What suggestions did you have in mind?”

“The walls of your keep will eventually have to be repaired, but for now you should be devoting your energy to preventing an attacker from ever reaching the keep.” Roarke studied the gate a moment. The heavy iron portcullis appeared to be structurally sound, and the thick wooden gate beyond it had not been damaged by a battering ram. “How did the MacTiers breach the castle?”

“They crawled up the curtain wall on ladders, like bugs on a tree,” Laird MacKillon explained. “Then they came down here and opened the gate for the others.”

“Didn’t you have men on the wall defending it?”

“We had a few,” supplied Hagar, “but only enough to keep watch.”

“The cowardly scum attacked in the middle of the night, and we weren’t expecting it,” Magnus added. “They just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Like foul, murdering demons,” growled Thor, “sent by the very devil himself!”

Laird MacKillon shook his head, his eyes shadowed with sorrow. “The lads on the wall head fought them as best they could, but they were no match for such a dreadful attack.”

“By the time we realized we were being invaded,” Hagar continued, “the men on watch were dead and the MacTiers were already swarming the castle.”

Roarke absorbed this information in grim silence. It was a long-favored method among his clan: to attack an unsuspecting castle in the dead of night, quietly disposing of the guards and then entering the castle unchecked. Few strongholds could resist for long once the gate was open and the rest of the army surged inside. It was a technique he had used himself countless times.

Guilt gnawed uncomfortably at his conscience.

“If the warriors were able to take control of the castle with such ease, then how was all this damage done?” He gestured at the crumbling keep, the badly pocked curtain wall, and the charred remnants of the cottages beyond.

“Surely you recognize the handiwork of your own clan?” Melantha’s query was laden with bitterness. “No? Then permit me to enlighten you. After slaughtering any man who dared stand in their way, the MacTiers occupied themselves by terrorizing everyone and stealing all they could lay their hands on before attempting to reduce our home to a pile of rubble. They slew every cow, goat, and chicken they couldn’t take with them, destroyed our fields of grains and vegetables, then burned the cottages of those who had the courage to plead with them to at least leave something for the children to eat.” Her voice was flat and void of emotion as she finished, “At the end of it twenty-six brave men lay dead or dying, our homes were stripped bare, and we were left to starve through the winter.”

Her expression was composed, except for the loathing with which Roarke was becoming well acquainted every time she looked at him. But her hand was gripping the hilt of her sword and the skin of her knuckles was drawn so taut Roarke thought it might split and expose the bone. A terrible fury flailed within her, fury and pain and overwhelming hatred. Roarke could see it was taking every shred of her self-control not to lash out and kill him or simply sink to the ground and weep.

She had failed to mention that her father had been one of those brave men who had been slain that night, but Roarke could see by the wash of pain filling her eyes that she was thinking about him. Perhaps she did not want to ascribe more importance to her loss than to those suffered by the rest of her clan. Or perhaps she did not want to reveal this personal detail to Roarke and his men, for fear she might be exposing a weakness that could later be used against her. Daniel moved protectively to her side, as if he were trying to shield her from Roarke and his men. Roarke understood the lad was really trying to protect her from the agony of her own suffering.

“Come, Melantha,” Daniel said, casting an accusing look at Roarke. “We don’t need to stay here and listen to the lies of these thieving MacTiers. It’s time to go, Matthew and Patrick.” He gestured to his younger brothers.

Roarke watched helplessly as the boy took Melantha’s hand and led her away, powerless to protect her from what had already happened, or change the fact that he was a kinsmen of her tormentors.

“If you ever do that again, I’ll kill you,” vowed Eric.

“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” objected Donald, languidly stretching back against his pallet. “I thought she was perfect for you. After all, she had the broad hips and stout legs with which you and Myles are so enamored. I’m quite sure she could birth a brood of little Vikings with no trouble whatsoever.”

“She had the face of a sow.”

“You never mentioned the face as being important,” he protested. “You just went on about strength. There’s no denying she was strong—no weak-armed woman could carry six heavy pitchers of ale at once.”

“She was a shrew,” objected Myles. “And she should have dumped the ale on you, not Eric. You were the one who insulted her by commenting on her girth.”

“I was merely trying to let her know that Eric found her attractive,” Donald explained innocently. “And she poured the ale on Eric because she likes him. Women always abuse the men they are attracted to—that’s how they get their attention.”

“I’ve no desire for her to like me,” Eric snapped. “Now my shirt and plaid are sodden with ale and my hair reeks!”

“Lewis offered to bring you a change of clothes and you stubbornly refused,” said Donald. “I can’t imagine why he keeps trying to see to your comfort. Every time you glare at him he trembles so hard I think he will shatter into a thousand pieces.”

“I will not wear the clothes of my enemies.”

“I don’t know why not, since they’re all wearing clothes that have been stolen from others. I’ll wager they probably could have found a MacTier plaid and shirt for you to wear.”

“How much longer are we staying here?” demanded Eric, turning suddenly to Roarke.

Roarke sighed. It was clear his men were getting restless. “I’m not sure.”

“You know we could leave at any time,” Eric pointed out, wondering if perhaps Roarke had somehow overlooked this fact. “Since Laird MacKillon ordered that we no longer be kept bound, it would be easy to grab a few swords and fight our way out.”

“I doubt it would be as easy as that,” objected Donald. “After all, these MacKillons are rather annoyed with our clan. I don’t think they would hesitate to shoot us if we tried to escape.”

“Then we take a hostage,” Myles suggested. “They won’t shoot us if they think we’re about to cut one of their throats.”

“True enough.” Donald sat up and briskly rubbed his hands together, filled with sudden energy. “What about it, then, Roarke? Are we leaving, or do we stay and endure the supreme humiliation of MacTier sending out a party of warriors to rescue us?” He laughed.

“We stay.”

His men looked at him in astonishment.

“A few days,” Roarke elaborated. “No longer. Just enough time to help these MacKillons organize their repairs and work on a defense strategy that will help them fend off an assault.”

“You want to help them against our own clan?” asked Donald, confounded.

“I want to help them defend themselves from any clan,” Roarke responded. “MacTier will never pay a ransom for us, so they can’t hope to buy an alliance. Which means they must learn to protect themselves. Once the preparations for their defense are under way, we will escape and intercept the MacTiers before they arrive.” He leaned back against his pallet and wearily closed his eyes. “Then we can go home.”

“What about the Falcon?” Eric demanded.

Roarke said nothing.

It was a matter of great pride to him that he had never failed in his duty to Laird MacTier. Not once in over twenty years of dedicated service. If he chose, he could keep that stellar history of achievement unblemished. Laird MacTier had long promised to reward Roarke, his most accomplished and favored warrior, with his own holding when his days as a warrior were finished. It was his payment for a lifetime spent aggressively expanding his clan’s power and influence, and enriching MacTier’s coffers at the same time. When this reward was first offered, Roarke had been unable to imagine any life beyond the one he had chosen, and had imperiously assured MacTier that he would die in battle with a sword in his hand.

But during these past few years it had become harder to rise each morning from the damp, hard ground and ignore the stiffness and aches plaguing his battered body. The thought of being comfortably ensconced in his own home began to beckon to him. At first Roarke had rejected his musings in disgust, telling himself he had many long years of journeying and battle left in him.

That was before he had been wounded.

He remembered the day with perfect clarity, although already a year had elapsed. It had been a glorious summer morning, and the air was hot and thick with the promise of rain. Roarke preferred cooler days for battle, because the heat made it difficult to maintain a solid grip on the hilt of his sword. He was leading a force of some four hundred men against an insurrection in Moray, in the name of King Alexander. The battle had begun well enough. After disabling or killing at least a dozen men, Roarke found himself surrounded by three warriors on horseback. He disposed of two of them without an inordinate amount of difficulty, enabling him to focus his attention on the third. His remaining opponent was a steely-muscled young warrior with a powerful arm, who looked to be some ten years Roarke’s junior. Amazingly, the lad managed to deflect every slice and thrust of Roarke’s sword, until finally Roarke’s weapon grew heavy and his breathing became labored. The need for absolute concentration to fight this arrogant pup prevented Roarke from sensing the attacker behind him.

The first blow only slit the muscles of his back.

It was the heavy chop of the ax into his right shoulder that rendered him helpless.

As he fell from his horse Roarke knew a moment of perfect, almost dreamy astonishment, unable to believe that he could have failed so completely in this final conflict. That he was about to be disemboweled by his young opponent seemed less disturbing than the incomprehensible fact that he had actually been overcome. The warrior gave him a triumphant smile as he raised his blade, not disdainful or malicious, but merely an acknowledgment that it had been a challenging contest between two able warriors, and he was genuinely pleased to have emerged the victor.

Then the point of Eric’s sword burst through the warrior’s chest.

It took months for Roarke’s back and shoulder to recover adequately enough for him to wield his weapon once again. Even when he impatiently declared himself recovered, he knew in fact he was not. When Roarke finally summoned the humility he needed to speak to MacTier about his long-promised reward, his laird listened to his request with a vaguely disappointed expression, as if he had not actually believed the day would come when Roarke would accept his offer. Ultimately MacTier had said he would honor his word, but first Roarke had to complete one final mission.

He was to seek out the notorious Falcon’s band and destroy it, and bring the Falcon himself back to MacTier for execution.

It was unthinkable.

“We never found the Falcon.” He regarded his men with steady calm.

“MacTier won’t like that,” ventured Myles.

“I know.”

“You realize that even if we leave her here, MacTier will immediately dispatch another group to find the Falcon,” said Donald. “Eventually she will be caught.”

“She won’t be caught if she stops this foolishness of dressing up like some wandering horseman in a rusty helmet and robbing every stranger who crosses her path.”

“Maybe not,” allowed Donald. “But I don’t think she is about to abandon her pursuits as an outlaw. Despite their weaknesses individually, she and her men are actually quite good at their game, and therefore have no reason to stop.”

“The only reason they haven’t been caught or killed yet is because they have been extremely lucky,” argued Roarke. “And that luck is bound to run out.”

Donald shrugged. “You could say the same thing about us.”

“We are skilled, deadly warriors,” Eric objected. “Luck has nothing to do with our survival.”

“If we’re so skilled, then why did we stumble blindly into the trap the Falcon set for us?” challenged Donald.

“Because we’re accustomed to fighting our battles in the open, against an enemy who is not afraid to show himself,” Eric replied, “not old men and children who drop from the trees like acorns.”

“It doesn’t seem that our clan was being overly conspicuous on the night the MacKillons were attacked,” reflected Donald. “Scaling the walls in the dead of night and attacking these people as they slept.”

Roarke shifted uneasily on his pallet. Only a few days earlier he and his men had been contemptuous about the Falcon’s band attacking a group of MacTiers as they slept, dismissing it as a cowardly way of overcoming one’s enemy.

Melantha had only been subjecting the MacTiers to their own methods.

“Attacks on holdings are different,” Eric argued. “Surprise is a necessary tactic.”

Donald was unconvinced. “So you think the Falcon’s band should have given us some kind of warning before they trapped us?”

“They should have let themselves be seen and fought like warriors.”

“Then they would have lost.”

“It would have been a nobler battle.”

“I fail to see what’s so noble about the smaller, weaker group being carved to pieces,” Donald said. “By using the weapon of surprise and those nets, there was virtually no battle at all. Except for Roarke’s swordplay with the Falcon, which resulted in his becoming intimately acquainted with an arrow.” He grinned at Roarke. “How is that healing, anyway? Do you need fair Edwina to take a look at it?”

Ignoring his gibe, Roarke rose and began to slowly pace the width of the hall, thinking. The MacKillons needed to be able to defend themselves, but it would take months to complete the repairs to their castle. These repairs were absolutely crucial to fend off an attack.

Unless they tried to repel an assault in a totally unexpected way.

He turned to his men and smiled.