CHAPTER 9

C HAPTER 9

Melantha sighed and burrowed deeper beneath the warm haven of her covers.

Only the barest hint of light filtered through her leaden eyelids, so she was certain it could not be not much past dawn. Just another hour, she told herself sleepily, nuzzling the feathery depths of her pillow. No one could possibly have risen yet anyway. Another hour, and she would still be among the first to stir within the castle.

A hideous drone shattered the morning stillness, rousing her as effectively as a stake being driven into her ear. Unable to imagine what Thor could be thinking playing his pipes at such an ungodly hour, she heaved back the covers and stalked angrily to the window.

Roarke, his men, and the MacTier prisoners were assembled in the courtyard below, listening with admirable grace as Thor blasted away on his hopelessly damaged bagpipes. Roarke and his warriors were fully armed and their horses were saddled. The other prisoners were not armed and did not have mounts, but it was clear they were also leaving. Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick were at the forefront of the large group of MacKillons who had assembled to bid them good-bye. Melantha watched in surprise as Matthew stepped forward and tentatively offered a folded square of paper to Roarke. The enormous warrior opened it, then lowered himself onto one knee and gently ruffled Matthew’s hair.

A terrible chill swept through her. Whirling about, she snatched up the plaid from her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, then raced down the corridor, her bare feet flying against the frigid stone floor.

“…and when you look at it, you’ll always remember,” finished Matthew, his earnest little face regarding Roarke with something akin to worship.

Roarke nodded gravely, studying the drawings he held in his hands. Matthew’s artistry was surprisingly skilled for a mere lad of ten. The first sketch showed Roarke being held upside down by Finlay and Myles as he reached for Matthew and dragged him back to safety. In the interest of modesty, Roarke’s plaid stiffly defied the forces of nature and remained squarely covering his backside. But it was the second drawing that moved Roarke beyond the possibility of speech. In it Matthew was standing with his arms wrapped around Roarke, and above it, in simple, childish letters, he had printed a single word.

‘Friends.’

“Do you like it?” prodded Matthew, uncertain of Roarke’s silence.

“Yes,” said Roarke, fearing if he said more his emotions would betray him. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“When I get to be older, will you come back and teach me how to fight?” asked Patrick hopefully.

“He’s not coming back,” interjected Daniel.

“Why not?” asked Patrick.

“Because he’s a MacTier,” explained Daniel. His eyes were intense as he studied Roarke, but they did not seem to harbor the same anger they had reflected from the moment he and his men had arrived. “You’re not coming back, are you?”

Roarke hesitated, uncertain how to respond.

“I packed you some extra food for your journey,” said Gillian, shyly stepping forward to hand Eric a cloth-wrapped bundle. “I thought you might get hungry.”

Eric regarded the carefully arranged package in surprise.

“You didn’t by chance pack us some of your splendid posset, did you?” teased Donald.

“No,” said Gillian, her gaze fast upon Eric. “But I shall always keep some ready—in case you ever return.”

Her blue eyes were glittering like a sun-dappled loch, so beautiful and so filled with regret that it made Eric’s heart ache to look upon her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close, to tell her not to be sad, that if she wanted him to stay he gladly would, if only she would say the words. But duty required him to follow Roarke, and an unfamiliar sense of propriety told him it was not fitting to drag a maid into his arms before her entire clan, especially when he had no formal claim upon her. And so he simply held her gaze, feeling not at all like a fearsome Viking warrior, but strangely powerless and wholly inadequate.

“Well, then, my brave hero, it seems this is farewell,” said Katie, walking boldly up to Myles. “Now, I’ll have your word that you’ll not be turning any other lasses’ heads with your flowery talk about hips and arms,” she scolded with mock severity.

“I’ll not be speaking to any other lasses at all,” Myles swore.

Katie laughed. “That’s just what I wanted to hear, never mind that you won’t be able to keep your word beyond the first lass who smiles your way after me!”

“Lasses never smile at me,” replied Myles. “Only you do.”

She was about to laugh again, but was stopped by the earnestness of his expression. “Well, then, they’re fools,” she said softly. She leaned into him and kissed him soundly upon his cheek.

“Good Lord, what the devil has possessed Melantha?” demanded Magnus in astonishment.

She was hurrying across the grass in her bare feet, her slender form barely covered by the thin chemise floating about her, the plaid under which she and Roarke had lain together clutched hastily around her shoulders. Her hair was a loose tangle of mahogany, and Roarke found himself longing to reach out and touch it, to run his fingers through its impossible softness and gently brush it off her face.

Instead he forced his hands to his sides and regarded her with deliberate calm, giving no intimation of the passion that had raged between them the previous night.

“Here, now, lass, what in the name of St. Cuthbert do ye think ye’re doin’ flyin’ about half-naked when ye should be lyin’in yer bed restin’?” demanded Magnus sternly.

“I—I came to say good-bye,” stammered Melantha, staring at Roarke.

“Of course you did, dear,” said Beatrice, “and now that you’ve done so, let’s get you back inside where it’s warm.”

“Let her stay,” objected Thor, wrestling his pipes back up onto his bony shoulder. “I’ve another tune to play.”

“Your pardon, Thor, but unfortunately there’s no time for another of your tunes,” Laird MacKillon said apologetically. “I do believe the weather is about to turn, and these lads must be on their way.”

The early morning sky was choked with clouds and a sharp wind was rising, whipping Melantha’s hair against her cheek as she clutched her makeshift cloak even tighter.

“I thought you told your clan three days,” she said to Roarke, wondering if she sounded nearly as desperate as she felt.

“ ’Tis best we go now,” Roarke told her. “The longer we wait, the more time my clan has to grow angry and demand vengeance. The moment I return I will speak to Laird MacTier and stop him from sending any further forces.”

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. He was leaving to protect the welfare of her people.

Why then did she feel as if he were abandoning her?

“You are not safe until my men and I are gone, Melantha,” Roarke added gently, sensing her distress. “You know that.”

She inhaled a steadying breath, fighting to maintain some semblance of control as she stood before him. “You were supposed to deliver the Falcon to your laird,” she pointed out. “How will you explain your failure to do so?”

Roarke shrugged. “Unfortunately, I never found him.” He lowered his voice so that the MacTier prisoners could not hear him. “My people only know that the MacKillons captured us—they have no idea that the Falcon is one of them. I don’t intend to enlighten them.”

“But what if your laird sends you out once again to capture the Falcon?” she persisted.

“My days of leading such missions are over,” he replied. “I intend to retire to the holding I have been promised as payment for a lifetime of service.”

She could not contain her surprise. “Laird MacTier has built you a holding of your own?”

“He has not built it,” Roarke corrected. “He has a number of properties subject to his control which require someone to protect and manage them. I am to be granted one of those estates.”

Her expression hardened. “You mean homes that have been taken by force.”

“It isn’t what you think,” Roarke countered. “These holdings have been acquired over many years, and they are stronger and more bountiful for being in our possession. The people who live there go about their lives just as they did before, secure in the knowledge that they are now protected by the entire force of the MacTier army.”

“How very comforting,” observed Melantha, her voice dripping scorn. “To be guarded by those who attacked you and stripped you of your freedom and possessions. I suppose the only reason your benevolent clan did not see fit to make such an arrangement with us was because they believed there was nothing of value left to protect.”

“I cannot change what my clan did to your people, Melantha,” he said, knowing it was beyond her ability to ever forgive him for that. “However, I am going to try to convince Laird MacTier to send your clan aid, to help replace that which you have lost.”

A bitter laugh erupted from her chest. “Why would he want to help us?”

“Because I will tell him he should,” Roarke replied. “If he refuses, then I give you my word that once I am settled, I will send your people provisions myself. All I ask of you is that you cease your raids on the MacTiers and their allies.”

“Can you possibly believe that I will accept stolen provisions from an oppressed people?” she demanded, incredulous.

“Any estate I oversee will not be oppressed,” Roarke said impatiently.

“They will have been terrorized into submission long before your arrival,” she countered. “You will just continue to hold a sword over their heads, forcing them to obey you out of fear.”

“Your pardon, Melantha, but are you almost finished bidding our guests farewell?” wondered Laird MacKillon. “I do believe the weather is about to turn for the worse.”

Heavy drops of rain began to splat against them.

“Make way for my pipes!” shouted Thor, cuddling his beloved instrument in his arms as he headed back toward the castle. “Stand aside, I say!”

“I am trying to help your people, Melantha,” persisted Roarke, disliking the way things were ending between them. “Why can you not accept that?”

“I don’t want provisions that have been stolen from others,” Melantha informed him coldly. “If my people are in need, then we will take directly from those who have stolen from us—not from their victims.”

The rain was falling harder now, soaking her hair and chemise. She pulled her plaid tighter and continued to face him, like some magnificent forest creature who was accustomed to the elements and wholly untroubled by the storm rising around her.

“If you don’t mind, lads, I’ll be saying farewell now,” said Laird MacKillon, waving as he shuffled toward the keep. “Safe journey.”

“It is gettin’ a wee bit damp,” Magnus agreed. “Are ye lads sure ye don’t want to wait until the rain is past?”

As he stared down at Melantha, Roarke was sorely tempted to use the rain as an excuse to stay. He had silently bid her farewell when he stole from her chamber early that morning—knowing as he did that if he lingered even a moment longer, he would take her into his arms and never leave her side again. He had hoped she would not waken until after he was gone. Yet he would not have relinquished for anything this moment of seeing her standing before him, rain drenched, angry, and filled with fire.

“We must leave now,” he said.

“Well, then, I wish ye a fine journey,” said Magnus. His blue eyes were twinkling with merriment as he warned, “Keep a sharp eye for outlaws—I hear the forest is filled with them!”

The rest of the clan quickly followed his example, waving at Roarke and his men as they hurriedly escaped the torrent now lashing against them.

“I cannot tell you what to do, Melantha,” said Roarke quietly. “But remember this—if you continue to wage war against the MacTiers, you will only be punished in return.”

“What would you have me do?” she demanded. “Do you believe I should stand by and watch my people starve?”

“All I ask is that you give me a little time, Melantha. Whatever happens, I swear to you, I will not let you or your people suffer anymore.”

He regarded her with piercing intensity, as if he were trying to reach into her soul, to delve beneath the protective layers she had so carefully forged around herself and etch his vow on her heart. In that moment she almost believed he could protect her from suffering, so strong and sure did he seem as he stood before her in the rain. Crystal drops were falling off his black hair, and his shirt and plaid were clinging to his muscular frame, emphasizing his powerful masculine beauty. She remembered lying within his embrace, wrapped within his heat and his strength, feeling almost safe. But she was not safe, she reminded herself fiercely. Her holding was still vulnerable, there was insufficient food and clothing to sustain her people through the coming winter, and even if Roarke refused to hunt down the Falcon himself, it was unlikely that Laird MacTier would abandon his pursuit of her. As for his offer to send aid, she did not believe MacTier could be persuaded to help his enemies, and she would never accept anything from Roarke’s conquered holding.

“I do not believe your laird will help us,” she told him. “And I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that my people have enough for the coming winter. It is no less than what you would do, Roarke, if it were your people who were threatened with starvation and cold because of the savagery and greed of another.”

Her expression was resigned, as if she took no pleasure from her pronouncement. She looked at him a final long moment, her pale face glistening with rain, her hands gripping the soaking wet plaid that could no longer offer her even the slightest protection.

Then she turned and disappeared into the castle.

“…and so I managed to convince Laird MacKillon to release us the next day, rather than keeping us for the three days he had originally proposed,” Roarke finished.

Laird MacTier stared out the window, considering in pensive silence the explanation Roarke had offered him. He was not a man accustomed to defeat. Over the course of his thirty-two years as chief of the MacTiers he had learned a few basic rules of war, and he adhered to these with near religious fervor. He never attacked an enemy unless he was absolutely sure he had dispatched the power and the resources to vanquish it completely. Therefore he was having difficulty understanding why an army of over two hundred of his best warriors, equipped with the very latest design of siege machine, had been bested by the ragged remains of a clan he had all but annihilated some months earlier.

What was even more mystifying was the inconceivable assertion by his most favored and accomplished warrior that he should not bother to retaliate.

“Am I to understand that you do not seek vengeance for your own abduction?” demanded Laird MacTier, turning from the window.

“None of us were harmed,” Roarke explained. “In fact, we were treated well.”

“Until they put dirks to your throats and threatened to cut your heads off rather than release you,” countered Laird MacTier dryly.

“Laird MacKillon was trying to stop your forces from using their siege machine.”

Laird MacTier arched a querying brow. “My forces?”

“Our forces,” Roarke quickly corrected.

“You cannot suggest that I should ignore the fact that four of my warriors were taken hostage by this ridiculous little clan. They chose to attempt to extract a ransom from me. They must be taught that I do not take such matters lightly.”

“But ultimately no ransom was paid, therefore you did not lose anything,” argued Roarke. “My men and I are well, and all of the prisoners taken on the eve of the attack have been returned to you. It seems to me the matter has been resolved—what more is there to be gained by attacking the MacKillons once again?”

Laird MacTier frowned, unable to believe that Roarke could not see what was patently obvious. “I cannot tolerate having members of my clan taken hostage. To do so only invites further abductions.”

“You refused to meet their demands. That made it clear that the MacTiers will not yield to those who attempt to extort from them. And you sent your army, demonstrating that you are willing to use force if necessary.”

“I am willing to use force,” Laird MacTier agreed. “And that is why I intend to crush those damn MacKillons. ’Tis bad enough I have the Falcon’s band stealing from me and sending my men home stark naked. No doubt that is what made the MacKillons think you were easy prey. I must make an example of them, to dissuade others from attempting further attacks.”

“The MacKillons never would have ransomed us if they hadn’t been in desperate need of the items they requested.”

“I cannot think of any clan that isn’t in desperate need of gold,” retorted Laird MacTier.

“The gold was of far less import to them than their requests for food and clothing,” Roarke objected. “After our assault upon them, they were left nearly destitute. Their stores for winter were stolen, and every one of their animals was either dragged off or slain and left to rot.”

“They had an entire forest of food waiting for them,” said Laird MacTier dismissively. “All they had to do was go out and hunt for it.”

“That might have been true if they had been attacked in the spring,” conceded Roarke. “But they were raided in the autumn and then they suffered one of the worst winters in their clan’s history. Most of the animals either starved to death or left the woods in search of food themselves. There was not nearly enough meat to sustain the clan, and scarcely any grains or vegetables left to make up the difference.”

Laird MacTier looked at Roarke in astonishment. “What the devil is the matter with you, Roarke? You’ve raided scores of clans just like the MacKillons, and not once have you ever expressed any concern about their welfare.”

He was right, Roarke realized, taking no pride in the observation.

“I never spent any time with any of the clans I raided. With the MacKillons I was forced to witness the consequences of our assault.”

“That is the nature of war,” said Laird MacTier impatiently, unmoved by Roarke’s apparent enlightenment. “There is a victor, and there are the vanquished. We must constantly work to increase our strength and resources, and that comes at a cost to others. Ultimately, all that matters is that we have fortified the power of our own clan. We are not responsible for the vulnerability of those who cannot defend themselves against us.”

“We may not be responsible for their inability to defeat us,” conceded Roarke, “but we are certainly responsible if we reduce them to a state in which they are left to starve.”

Laird MacTier regarded him with irritation. “You cannot make me believe that every last one of them would starve. Somehow, a few strong members of the clan would find a way to survive. These ones might even try to help the others.”

“You’re right,” agreed Roarke. “And if surviving meant ransoming a few MacTier warriors in exchange for food and clothing, how can you fault them for that?”

“Your capacity for absolution in this matter is most unlike you, Roarke,” Laird MacTier observed.

“I would like to believe that I am not so hardened a warrior that I cannot learn to empathize with the plight of others. All I’m asking is that you consider the circumstances which forced the MacKillons to ransom us—circumstances which we inflicted upon them. All the MacTier prisoners were treated well and released unharmed. I cannot see the merit in punishing the MacKillons further.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Laird MacTier allowed. “What of your hunt for the Falcon?” he asked, changing the subject. “Did you find anything that might prove valuable in leading us to him?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Laird MacTier’s disappointment was obvious. “I suppose you were abducted early in your search. I have every faith that you will deliver this miserable outlaw to me shortly.”

Roarke did not respond.

“You do intend to complete your mission?” It was a statement, not a question.

“I will resume my hunt for the Falcon if you wish it. However, I am not certain that I am the best warrior to find this elusive thief.”

Laird MacTier regarded him in surprise. “Why not?”

“It is difficult for any warrior to recognize, much less admit, that he is reaching the end of his days as a fighter,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “But when he lies upon the ground and dreams only of a soft bed beneath him and a solid roof over his head, he begins to realize that he is not the young man he used to be.”

Laird MacTier raised his hand, stopping him. “You need explain no further, my friend. When you first returned from your long years away I told you that you would soon be rewarded for your outstanding loyalty. I am well aware that you have devoted your entire life to expanding the wealth and influence of this clan. Your countless successes over the years have been unmatched by any of my other warriors—yet your remarkable talents and devotion have denied you the comfort of a wife and a home.”

“I had Muriel and Clementina,” Roarke reminded him, unwilling to let their memory be so casually discarded.

“Of course,” Laird MacTier hastily agreed. “And I know it was most painful for you to lose them while you were away fighting for your clan. At the time there was nothing I could do except send you off to fight again, in the hopes that the demands of battle and the glory of conquest would somehow ease the burden of their loss.”

Roarke stiffened at his analysis. Laird MacTier made it sound as though inflicting misery and death on others had been a balm for his own suffering.

“There is a handsome estate about two days’ ride from here that I recently acquired,” Laird MacTier continued, seating himself at his ornately carved desk. “The lands are not extensive, but they are comely and fertile, and the people there should prove easily manageable under the right master. I am sure you will find it most agreeable. You may leave tomorrow.”

A streak of trepidation shot through Roarke. He had assumed he would be given an established holding that had long been under MacTier influence. A newly won estate would still be recovering from its invasion, and its inhabitants would be both fearful and contemptuous of any MacTier who came to rule them.

“You don’t seem very pleased,” observed Laird MacTier, frowning.

“Forgive me,” said Roarke, realizing he had already worn his relationship with his laird dangerously thin. “It is a fine bequest, MacTier. Thank you.”

“You may take Eric, Donald, and Myles with you if you wish,” Laird MacTier offered. “And whatever supplies you deem necessary. If after your arrival you find that you need more men, just get word to me and I will send them to you. I shall see you before you depart tomorrow.” He lowered his gaze to his papers, indicating that their meeting was at an end.

“Thank you.” Roarke gave his laird a small bow and quit the chamber.

He had just been given everything he had wanted.

But any pleasure he might have felt was obliterated by the gnawing realization that his laird had not unequivocally agreed to spare the MacKillons any further harassment.

“Enter.”

The heavy door swung open and a powerfully built, keen-eyed warrior stepped into the laird’s solar. His manner bore the easy arrogance of youth, for at five-and-twenty years he was entering the zenith of his physical abilities, and he had not yet suffered sufficient defeats to temper his conviction of his own invincibility. He wisely affected an appropriate contriteness as he met his laird’s hard gaze. MacTier’s mood was dark, and his own latest failure was the most likely cause.

“You disappoint me, Derek.”

The young warrior said nothing, believing silence would be better received than a bevy of weak excuses.

“You were given a simple task,” continued Laird MacTier, drumming his fingers upon his desk. “You were to crush the MacKillons and ensure the safe return of four MacTier warriors. Instead, you permit nearly one-third of your army to be captured, and allow the remainder to be chased away with hollow threats and posturing.”

“You wanted Roarke and his men returned alive,” Derek pointed out. “I could not secure their safe release if I proceeded with my attack on the MacKillon holding.”

Laird MacTier slammed his fist upon the oiled wood of his desk. “You should have penetrated their pitiful defenses within minutes, leaving them no time to retrieve their hostages and use them for bargaining! The force that attacked them previously was inside and opening the gate before the MacKillons had stumbled drunkenly from their beds!”

“Their defenses have been improved upon since then,” Derek replied stiffly. “They were able to hold us off longer than we had anticipated.”

“Keep your sniveling excuses to yourself,” snapped Laird MacTier. “They are of no interest to me.” He rose from his desk and went to the window, pondering his next move. “I should have you relegated to shoveling filth for the next year. Instead I am going to give you the opportunity to redeem yourself from your pathetic failure.” He paused, studying the magnificent expanse of land stretching before him. “I am most displeased by the fact that the Falcon continues to prey upon both my people and my possessions. As I have just assigned new duties to Roarke, I find I am in need of a warrior who will be able to swiftly find this troublesome outlaw and bring him to me for reckoning.” He turned to face him. “Do you think you can manage that?”

“Yes,” said Derek without hesitation.

“We shall see,” said Laird MacTier, unimpressed by his assurance. “As my patience has grown severely strained in this matter, I expect you to use whatever means necessary to capture this thief. Do you have any ideas?”

“I will set a trap for him.”

“How?”

“Several of my men who were taken prisoner by the MacKillons noticed something strange about their captors,” explained Derek. “It seems a number of the MacKillons were wearing plaids of MacTier colors. There were others who swore that they recognized a particular sword or dirk. And all thought it strange that amongst the ragged attire of the clan, one could find an occasional gown or shirt of exceptional quality and workmanship.”

“What are you saying?” demanded Laird MacTier impatiently. “That the Falcon is a MacKillon?”

“Perhaps,” allowed Derek. “Or it’s possible that the Falcon is giving away what he steals to struggling clans like the MacKillons.”

Laird MacTier’s eyes widened in dismay. “You think he gives it away?”

“He could also be selling it to them. But it couldn’t be for much, given how little the MacKillons retained after our previous assault. Whichever it is, it appears the Falcon is concerned about the plight of the less fortunate. That will prove to be his undoing. I will harass the MacKillons until one of them reveals the identity of the Falcon, or the Falcon delivers himself to me in the name of protecting those he apparently cares for.”

“You had best be right,” warned Laird MacTier ominously, “or you will be up to your knees in excrement for the next year. Is that understood?”

“I will deliver the Falcon to you,” Derek vowed.

“See that you do. Now get the hell out.”

Laird MacTier watched with impatience as the conceited young warrior left his chamber. When he was alone, he rose from his desk and went to the window to study the meadows and woods spilling out beyond the walls of his castle in a glorious tapestry of texture and color.

When he first inherited the title of laird from his father, the MacTiers had been a sizable clan, but its lands had not nearly matched the needs of its people. He had set out to extend its borders, enabling his people to build homes and hunt and fish in woods and streams far beyond their traditional boundaries. The clan grew as conquered people were absorbed into its fold, and therefore the need for land continued unabated.

He had not initiated this campaign of expanding his borders with anything in mind other than providing for those who depended upon him, but over the years it had gradually evolved into more than that. He had discovered there was an intense, almost sexual pleasure to be found in conquest. Although his clan’s holdings and riches now far exceeded his youthful expectations, he found he constantly hungered for more. Roarke had been crucial in establishing the MacTiers as a powerful and feared clan, and MacTier prided himself on having cultivated the warrior’s extraordinary abilities from the time he was a mere lad. But it seemed Roarke had lost his zest for battle, and the callow young idiots who surrounded him now were good for little more than ramming or charging—there was not a decent military leader among them. If the expansion and prosperity of the MacTiers were to continue, he would have to assume control of the military campaigns himself.

And for that, he needed the amulet.

Fury streaked through him at the thought of the precious relic having fallen so easily into the Falcon’s grasp. The fool priest who had been delivering it to him had blathered on incessantly about how he had very nearly been disemboweled in his attempts to guard it from the Falcon. MacTier had coldly informed him that having his guts smeared upon the ground would have been preferable to the fate that now awaited him. Ultimately, however, his threats had proven hollow. He was a pragmatic man, and had no desire to risk God’s wrath by hacking open one of His precious servants unnecessarily. Instead he had given the priest ample time to consider his failure in one of the dark pits below the west tower.

He frowned, wondering if he had ever given anyone the order to release him.

No matter.

All that was of import now was capturing the Falcon and forcing him to return the amulet. Within its silver sphere lay a fragment of bone from St. Columba himself, the shrewdly powerful abbot who had established a monastery on the isle of Iona some six hundred years earlier. Columba had been a man of remarkable foresight and abilities. Not only had he helped to replace the pitifully weak heir to the throne with Aidan the False, a bold monarch who led the Scots to countless victories against the Picts, Columba had also single-handedly vanquished a hideous monster on the shores of Loch Ness. The emerald at the center of the amulet was said to have been found upon the shore by the saint just before that extraordinary altercation. In the centuries since, there were countless tales of how the amulet had faithfully protected its wearer from sudden death in battle.

With that precious relic hanging round his neck, there were no limits to what he could achieve.

He chafed at suggestions that he was growing old. Although he could not wield a sword with the supple ease of his youth, he could still direct the movements of a battle with more wit and skill than any of the dung-brained clods surrounding him. Nevertheless, it was only judicious to secure for himself the finest protection possible. His wife had finally managed to produce a son for him, but the lad was barely ten and worse, he struck MacTier as a weak and cowering brat, who needed many years of rigorous training and education to prepare him for the role to which he had been born. MacTier could not permit himself to be killed, or the clan would select another to assume his lairdship until his son was deemed of age to take his place. In the meantime, a lifetime of brilliant work could be destroyed. No, he could not go into battle without the protection of the amulet. He didn’t give a damn if he had to slaughter every last bloody MacKillon in his quest to force the Falcon to bring it to him.

As for the elusive Falcon, the outlaw would pay dearly for daring to steal from him, and for interfering with his rightful destiny.