Chapter 61

Three thoughts coursed through Morgan’s head in the space of an instant.

The invaders were English.

They’d come for blood.

And his clan’s forces were badly outnumbered.

It didn’t take long to guess who had led the English to believe that it was he who’d slain their lord. And, curse his honor, he’d let the conniving woman into Creagor.

Now what could he do about it?

If he let war break out, he’d surely lose. With his small army, he couldn’t hold the castle for long.

As hopeless as it was, he’d have to try diplomacy.

“Who is my accuser?” he called down.

“Roger of Firthgate,” he barked. “And I’ll be carving that name into your flesh.”

His men roared in solidarity.

“Roger, ye’ve got the wrong man,” Morgan shouted. “I’ve ne’er set foot in England.”

Their reply was an earth-shaking charge against the doors.

“Hold!” Morgan shouted. “I have no quarrel with ye. Can we not settle this like reasonable men?”

Again they banged against the doors.

Morgan glanced down at the heavy-laden cart blocking the doors from the inside, rocked by the blow. Three of his strongest men were currently managing to hold it in place. But for how long?

“What proof do ye bring o’ this crime?” Morgan tried.

“My brother’s blood is on your hands, you filthy Highlander!” Roger shouted back.

Roger’s soldiers, fueled by bloodthirst and beyond reason, sent up a bellow, rattling their weapons upon the doors.

Beside him, Jenefer was clearly done with diplomacy.

“Amor vincit omnia, my arse,” she muttered. “I’m rounding up the archers.”

He stopped her with a hand. “They’re already posted atop the towers.”

“The towers? We need them all at the front wall.”

He shook his head. “We can’t leave the flanks unprotected.”

“But they’re not at our flanks. Not yet,” she argued. “We need a show of force. Make them think there are more of us.”

He creased his brow. She had a point.

He nodded. “Fine. But I’ll do it. I need ye in the hall with the others.”

“Ballocks,” she scoffed. “You need me up here.”

He leveled a brow at her. “I won’t argue with ye, lass. I’m—”

“Good. Then ’tis settled. You handle the men-at-arms. I’ll command the archers.”

“Jenefer,” he growled as she headed for the stairs. “Jenefer! If ye don’t go straightway to the great hall of your own accord, I’ll have the Campbell brothers toss ye in on your arse.”

“They can try,” she called back.

He shook his head. With the enemy at the door, he didn’t have time to discipline the lass. Nor could he spare the Campbell men to enforce his threat.

“M’laird!” John cried. “They’re fellin’ a tree for a batterin’ ram!”

Morgan ran his hand across his jaw. The hotheaded English commander apparently wasn’t going to waste time with a siege. He wanted blood. And he wanted it now.

Morgan had to save his clan. Even if, in the end, it required a sacrifice.

“Jenefer!” he shouted, loping after her.

He caught her by the shoulder and whipped her around toward him. Her expression was full of fire and determination.

“What?” she snarled.

Her anger disappeared when she saw the genuine concern in his eyes.

“Do as I say,” he pleaded, “I’m beggin’ ye.”

“Damn it, Morgan, I can do this,” she told him. “I can fight.”

“Aye, ye can,” he admitted, “better than most o’ my men. But I need to know ye’re safe, because…”

He looked into her spark-filled green eyes, burning with a passion for justice. And honor. And life.

And he told her the truth.

“Because I love ye.”

Jenefer thought there was nothing he could say that alter her from her course.

She was wrong.

His declaration—fierce and sweet—caught her completely offguard.

She’d been prepared to defend her skills. It was something she did all the time. Men seldom believed a mere lass could hold her own in battle.

But Morgan wasn’t questioning her abilities. He’d just admitted she was an accomplished warrior.

Instead, he’d attacked her with something she’d never had to defend against before.

Love.

Granted, it was a love that could never be. A love full of heartache. A love doomed by honor and circumstance.

But it was a love that was pure and true.

Her throat closed. Her vision blurred with tears. Her heart melted as she was overcome by her own deep, doomed feelings for him.

She wished she could freeze time and let his words wash over her, bathe in the waters of his affection, relish the tender moment they shared.

But she knew it was useless to water a tree that would never bear fruit.

Besides, there was no time for selfish emotions.

This was war.

Right now, she had to consider what was best for the clan. If there was any hope of surviving this attack, Morgan needed her skills, her experience in battle, and her knowledge of the Borders.

She hated to waste precious time arguing, especially when what she truly longed to do was return his words of affection. But she had to convince him she could be of more help atop the wall than locked in the great hall with dozens of helpless…

She knitted her brows.

Helpless? They weren’t helpless. Every one of those Highland lasses had faced hardship with a backbone of iron.

Bethac. Cicilia. Feiyan.

How could she have forgotten Feiyan?

They could help defend Creagor.

Morgan would wring her neck when he discovered what she planned. But in the end, it just might win the war.

“Fine,” she said, lowering her shoulders. “I’ll go to the great hall.” Then she pounded his chest with the back of her fist, piercing him with her gaze. “But you promise me…”

“Aye?”

“You survive, Highlander.”

Without waiting for his reply, she wheeled and fled down the stairs and across the courtyard, gathering her weapons on the way.

In the great hall, Lady Alicia ambled through the gathering crowd. The women were flitting around the room like agitated hens.

At first, she’d been horrified to be trapped on the wrong side of the castle wall, with Morgan instead of Roger. But now she saw it might have its advantages. Like a lucky chunk of bread, she’d landed butter-side-up once again.

Without a doubt, Roger’s army would win. They far outnumbered Morgan’s forces at Creagor. And they had more provisions. Whether they chose to lay siege or attack—and knowing Roger’s temper, she would wager on the latter—they would triumph.

Since Morgan had no idea that Alicia was allied with the English invaders, she’d be perfectly safe until Roger declared victory and came to rescue her.

To ensure Morgan’s trust, she created a new tale for herself. And naturally, once she confided in a few maids, the myth spread like fire in a hayfield among the gossipmongers of the mac Giric clan.

Within half an hour, everyone had heard that poor Alicia, wrongly accused of murder, had been pursued by the English and followed here to Creagor. She’d been fortunate to elude them. And terribly grateful to Morgan for rescuing her from the avenging horde.

But there was still a problem. She hadn’t confronted Morgan himself.

He might accept her story as the truth. He might be convinced of her innocence.

But what if Roger’s knights disclosed the tale she’d told to them—that Morgan himself had committed the murder of Lord Edward?

She chewed on her nail.

She needed a safeguard.

Across the hall, beside the fire, young Danald sat, balancing Morgan’s son on one knee. As he jostled the chuckling infant up and down, Danald was grinning like a fool.

With a calculating smirk, Alicia sauntered over to the hearth, keeping a watch out for that intrusive maidservant, Bethac. Warming her hands over the low flames, she glanced at Danald.

Forcing her lips into an indulgent smile, she sat beside him. “Isn’t he the most beautiful child?”

Danald’s grin froze at once.

Shite. He must have been warned about her. The lad gave her a polite nod and cradled the babe against his chest.

She made another attempt. “’Twas so kind of Morgan to take me back,” she said softly, running her finger fondly down the babe’s spine. “After all, a babe should be with his real mother. Don’t you agree?”

Danald’s face clouded.

Alicia silently cursed again. How could he agree? Danald was an orphan, raised by a milkmaid.

“Or at least,” she added diplomatically, “someone who loves him like a real mother.” She twisted a finger in the curls at the back of the babe’s neck. “And that I do.”

Danald still looked guarded.

She lowered her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap, asking gently, “You don’t believe what they’re accusing me of, do you? The English?”

Danald cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “I only know the laird entrusted me to keep his bairn safe, m’lady.”

“And you’re doing a fine job of it,” she said with a watery smile, “for which both of us are grateful. I only wish…” She broke off with a sob, then murmured under her breath, “I’m not a murderer. I swear to you, Danald. I wouldn’t hurt a soul. I wish he’d believe me.”

Danald, extremely ill-at-ease now, gulped and glanced around the hall. “I’m sure… I’m sure the laird will do what’s right.”

She smiled through her tears. “I’m sure you’re right.” She placed a tender hand on the lad’s shoulder. “At least you believe me, don’t you, Danald?”

What else could the lad say? “Sure, m’lady.”

She reached out to stroke the full length of the babe’s back with her knuckles. “I’ll confess,” she whispered. “I miss holding the wee babe.”

He said nothing. When her hand slipped farther down to contact Danald’s forearm, she let her touch linger.

“You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t let me hold him? Just for a moment? I promise I won’t move from this spot.”

Danald’s brows came together with worry. “I don’t know, m’lady. The laird—”

“I won’t tell him. It can be our secret.” She bit her lip, letting the tears well in her eyes. “It may be the last time I can hold my son.”

Before he could answer, the doors to the great hall crashed inward, slamming against the walls and bringing the room to silence. In strode that infuriating, bow-wielding wench to waylay Alicia’s plans.

Grinding her teeth in frustration, she withdrew from Danald and the infant. She’d have to adjust her strategy. She sank into the shadows to wait.