CHAPTER 5

Melantha snapped upright and grabbed the sword at her side.

A hint of flat, gray light was filtering through the windows, telling her the curtain of night had barely lifted. She swiftly appraised the surrounding shadows, hunting for the least flicker of movement, preparing to spring from her bed with her sword raised.

The air was still.

She strained to listen beyond the blood pounding in her ears, but all she heard was the gentle breathing of the forms lying curled upon the floor beside her. Still gripping her weapon, she peered over the edge of her bed and counted.

One. Two.

Panic streaked through her.

A sleepy sigh drifted through the air. Slowly expelling the breath frozen in her chest, she turned and saw a thatch of hair peeping out from a small mound of blankets huddled next to her. She gingerly grasped the edge of the covers and peeled them down, then laid her hand with aching tenderness on the freckled velvet of Patrick’s cheek. He nuzzled closer, clutching at the warm plaid that was draped over both of them. Melantha studied the shadows of her chamber once again. Nothing seemed amiss. Gradually permitting herself to believe that all was well for the moment, she eased herself against her pillow, one hand caressing Patrick’s tangled hair, the other still clutching the hilt of her sword.

She could not remember what it was like to sleep without fear.

Of course she realized that she had not always been like this. There had been a time when she had floated into slumber with trusting ease, knowing that when she awoke everything in her world would be just as it had been the day before. But she could not recall the innocent sensation of feeling completely safe, of knowing that everyone she loved was near, and that the days stretching out before her would be filled with nothing but wonderful adventures.

Everything had changed when her mother died.

She had never thought of herself as sheltered—if anything she had always fancied herself more daring and experienced than most girls her age, a fact that had made her feel special and even slightly superior. Her father had hoped for a son to be his firstborn, but when Melantha arrived instead, he philosophically decided to make the best of it. He had cradled her on his horse when she was but a few days old, then seated her astride as soon as she could hold herself upright. Her mother would shake her head with gentle exasperation when she described it, saying that it was all she could do to make sure he kept a firm grip on Melantha’s waist, so certain was he that his little lass would ride before she could walk.

Melantha didn’t know which she could do first, as her father proudly swore she rode first, and her mother assured her she most certainly did not. What her parents did agree upon was the fact that from the moment she could support herself on her wobbly little legs she had traipsed eagerly after her beloved da. He had loved to have his daughter with him, and his daily affairs were of far greater interest to her than the endlessly tedious domestic chores that occupied all of her mother’s time. During the nine years it took for Daniel to finally arrive, Melantha’s father seemed to decide that if she was to be his only child, then he was going to make sure she learned how to do anything a lad could, and he would make no allowances for the fact that she was a lass. Melantha’s mother could scarcely disapprove of her learning to ride well, and she even agreed that fishing was a valuable skill. But the day her da presented his five-year-old daughter with a tiny bow and quiver filled with smooth, slender arrows, her mother seemed less certain. Melantha’s father had just laughed and said any daughter of his should know how to hunt and feed herself, and that seemed so reasonable her mother said nothing more.

Melantha had loved the strong, supple feel of that little bow in her hands, loved the sensation of pinning her gaze upon her target, drawing back the string until it nearly shivered with tautness, then ultimately releasing her arrow to soar through the air. At first the arrows did little actual soaring; instead they darted crazily in every direction except the one she had intended. Undaunted, she would pay rapt attention to her da’s instructions, and then devote the entire day to practicing. Many hours later her mother would finally come searching for her, telling her it was fine and well to learn to shoot, but she still had to come home and eat occasionally.

Once Melantha had mastered sufficient control over the direction her arrows took, her father began to take her hunting. This meant gloriously long days spent tracking all manner of birds and beasts in the fragrant, thick woods on the MacKillon lands. It was more than two years before Melantha actually managed to shoot anything, but in that time she learned much about moving in liquid silence across the ground, listening to the hundreds of voices chirping and whispering around her, and making herself merge with the ever-changing colors and contours of the forest.

When her father presented her with a tiny wooden sword, her mother really was bewildered. Melantha was all of six, and she was absolutely delighted with her new toy. Her da taught her the most basic skills of swordplay, and since none of the girls her age were permitted to play with swords, she quickly began to challenge the boys, including Colin and Finlay. At first they were near equally matched, but as the boys grew bigger and stronger, Melantha was forced to work harder to maintain her worthiness as an opponent. One day when she was about twelve Colin bested her in every one of their matches, and Melantha went home and angrily tossed her sword into the hearth. That evening she bitterly informed her father that she was never going to play with swords again, because it was unfair that Colin could win simply because he had grown taller and stronger than she. Her father responded with no sympathy whatsoever. Instead he made her another wooden sword, and began to train her in the elements of speed and surprise, which he assured her she could develop as well as any man.

“You can kill a man just as dead with a light sword as a heavy one,” he would say, “and the same principle applies to the swordsman. ’Tis skill, sweet Mellie, not size, that is going to win the day.”

Of course, he had never believed that Melantha would ever actually need to kill anyone.

She closed her eyes, her fingers tightening protectively on Patrick’s thin little shoulder.

Darkness blew into Melantha’s life on a swift, cold wind. At least that was how she remembered it, for her mother had never been ill before, and then suddenly it was winter and her mother could barely draw a steady breath, so painful was the cough that plagued her. At first Melantha took little notice. Her mother seemed tired, but still managed to perform the dozens of daily tasks needed to maintain their home and care for her three younger brothers. Of course Melantha was required to help with these chores, but she did so hastily, anxious to flee the drudgery of domestic work and join her father with whatever task he had engaged upon. Her mother did not complain, for she had long understood that Melantha was not a typical lass. As for Melantha’s father, he could not be blamed for not recognizing the severity of his wife’s condition. Somehow her mother always managed to look stronger in his presence, and if she coughed, she assured him it was nothing.

But one day Melantha and her father returned home to find her mother lying amid a litter of shattered crockery, and they realized something was seriously amiss.

Her illness quickened then, racing through her body like fire devouring an arid twig. Melantha desperately tried to assume all the household tasks her mother normally performed, only to find herself ill equipped and overwhelmed. When her mother died, Melantha experienced a shock and an emptiness she had not imagined possible. All her life she had loved her mother from a distance, never taking the time to be close to her the way she was with her da. Yet once her mother’s gentle, reassuring presence was gone, Melantha found herself nearly paralyzed with grief. But there wasn’t time to indulge in such weakness, because suddenly she had Daniel, Matthew, Patrick, and her da to care for, and their suffering and needs far outweighed her own.

Gone forever were the days spent innocently practicing swordplay or dreamily wandering the forest. There were five mouths to feed, and clothes to wash, and food to be prepared for today and tomorrow and next month. Never in her life had she imagined how much hard work it was to keep five people clean and fed and clothed, to say nothing of making sure her brothers didn’t jump out of a tree and smash their skulls open, or wander down to the loch and drown themselves, or toss pebbles at the cows and end up trampled to death. Life became utterly exhausting and endlessly worrisome, and each night when she collapsed onto her bed she would weep silently into her pillow, tears of weariness and worry and loss. She thought that God had been unspeakably cruel to steal her mother from all of them, leaving a bleeding gash in their lives that would surely never heal.

How could she have known the worst was yet to come?

“Melantha,” called Gillian, rapping softly against the door, “are you awake?”

“Aye,” said Melantha, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the boys. “Come in.”

The heavy wooden door opened slightly and Gillian crept inside. The light from the windows had advanced to a pearly haze, etching her friend’s delicate form in ghostly luminosity against the dark stone wall.

“Is everything all right?” asked Melantha.

“Everything is fine,” Gillian whispered. “But Laird MacKillon has ordered everyone to gather in the courtyard for an important announcement.”

Frowning, Melantha glanced at the window. “It’s barely dawn.”

“It is peculiar,” Gillian agreed. “Obviously whatever he wants to tell us is of great importance.”

Melantha tossed back her covers and scrambled out of the bed, taking care not to stumble over the sleeping forms of Daniel and Matthew. If Laird MacKillon was summoning his people at this time of the morning, it could only mean that something terrible had happened. She heard no sounds of battle, so she didn’t think they were under attack.

“What else did he say?” she demanded, hastily pulling on her leggings. A dreadful thought occurred to her. “Did the MacTiers escape?”

Gillian shook her head. “I passed through the great hall on my way up here, and they were seated at a table.”

“Eating, no doubt,” said Melantha contemptuously. She had never seen men consume as much food as those four. Granted, they were huge warriors and there was little in the way of meat to fill their bellies, but even so it made her furious to think of how much they were ingesting. Every morsel in their mouths meant someone else in the clan had to be satisfied with less. She would have to be sure to add the food they ate to the price of their ransom.

“Actually, they were discussing some drawings with Laird MacKillon.”

Melantha squeezed her foot into a boot. “What drawings?”

“I’m not sure, but they seemed to have something to do with the defense of the castle. The dark one, Roarke, was saying something about the curtain wall, and the short, brawny one named Myles was shaking his head and arguing that it was impossible. Then the comely one got angry and said that they should just forget all this and go home.”

“You mean Donald,” supplied Melantha, pulling her leather jerkin over her head. It irritated her enormously that they talked about going home as if it were up to them. When would they understand that they were prisoners there, not guests?

“No,” said Gillian, shaking her head. “I meant the Viking.”

Melantha looked at her in surprise. “Eric?”

She nodded.

“You think he’s comely?” Melantha demanded, her disbelief apparent.

The light was muted, but it was enough for her to see a faint cast of embarrassment rise to Gillian’s cheeks. “I don’t think he’s…unsightly,” she ventured shyly.

“Sweet saints, Gillian, the man hurled your posset all over your gown,” Melantha reminded her impatiently. “He glowers at everyone who goes near him and has the manners of an oaf. How could you possibly find him attractive?”

“ ’Twas his features I was commenting on, not his manners,” Gillian responded, sounding mildly defensive.

Melantha stared in surprise at her friend, unable to comprehend what had come over her. Gillian was so shy she nearly started at the sight of her own shadow. How could she possibly be attracted to that scowling Viking?

“He is a MacTier, Gillian,” she reminded her sternly.

“Roarke said he and his men were not part of the raid on our home.”

“It doesn’t matter if they were or not,” Melantha argued, although she had secretly been relieved to learn that they were not. “He is our sworn enemy. You must not let yourself think foolish thoughts about him.”

Gillian bit her lip and studied her feet, causing the coppery gold cape of her hair to fall forward. It was a gesture she had adopted as a little girl, and she did it when she felt embarrassed and no longer wanted to participate in a conversation. Melantha instantly regretted her adamant tone. Gillian rarely adopted this defeated stance when the two of them were together. She did not like to think that she had caused her gentle friend any distress.

“Forgive me, Gillian,” she said, putting her arm around her. “I did not mean to berate you. It’s just that the MacTiers are our prisoners, and as soon as their ransom is paid, they will be returning to their clan. I just want you to remember that.”

“I know,” Gillian said softly. “And I would never dream of actually speaking to the Viking—he frightens me. But I didn’t think there was anything wrong with noticing that he has a strong, handsome face, even if his eyes are always burning with fury.”

“Of course there isn’t,” Melantha conceded.

How could she say there was, when she had often thought the same thing about Roarke? She despised him and everything he and his men represented—of that there was no doubt. Yet each time she found herself in his presence it was more difficult to look upon him and not notice his powerful form and uncommonly fine features. His was the face of a warrior—hard, fearless, and on the day she had battled him in the forest, he had even looked cruel. His bronzed skin told of a life spent outdoors, his body heated by the sun and cleansed by the clean, sweet winds that blew across the Highlands. Deep lines creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes, a testament to his advancing age, and an existence that had exposed him to sights most people only feared in their most hideous dreams. And yet there was an unaffected elegance to him, a straightness of carriage and a calmness of bearing that seemed almost reassuring. His body was granite hard, and she had matched swords with enough men to know that he was every bit as powerful as his size suggested. But there was a gentleness to him as well, and even compassion, although he was loath to let anyone see it. Melantha had felt it the day she had fallen from her horse. He had cradled her head in his lap and called her name, the low timbre of his voice drawing her from the swirling clouds of pain and into the exquisitely rough heat of his kiss.

Shame whipped through her, making her feel small and sullied.

“Are you going to rouse the lads?” asked Gillian.

Melantha fumbled clumsily with her belt, then finally succeeded in strapping on her sword. Her cheeks sufficiently cooled, she lifted her gaze to her three brothers. Part of her wanted to let them sleep, because she knew they were growing and needed their rest. But the possibility that something was wrong dictated that they should be with her. She could not protect them if they were separated from her.

“Wake up, lads,” she called softly, kneeling down to stroke Matthew’s cheek.

Daniel groaned and pulled the covers over his head. Matthew rubbed his eyes with his knuckles before opening them to smile at her. And little Patrick continued to slumber peacefully in her bed.

“Come, now, ’tis a wonderful new day and we’ve lots to do.” Melantha moved to the bed to rouse Patrick. “After breakfast you can all practice your swordplay, and later you can help the men with the repairs to the keep.”

Daniel reluctantly pushed down the covers. “Will you give me a lesson in shooting today?”

“We shall have to see. Right now you must get dressed and come down to the courtyard with me. Laird MacKillon wishes to address the clan, and we have to hurry.”

Patrick sat up and smiled at her with sleepy eyes. His hair was a charming mop of red tangles, and Melantha wondered if she had time to take a comb to it. “Why does he want to talk to us so early?” he wondered.

“Have the MacTiers escaped?” demanded Daniel, sitting upright suddenly. His hands balled into angry fists and his rail-thin body tensed for action, as if he meant to spring from his bed and find them.

Melantha tossed Daniel his tattered plaid. “No,” she replied, not surprised that his first thought had been the same as hers. She and Daniel had long been alike in countless ways, and as the eldest male in their family, he saw himself as far more of a man than his thirteen years would permit.

“Then what does Laird MacKillon want?” wondered Matthew, his little brow puckering.

“The sooner you’re dressed, the sooner we shall find out,” said Melantha airily, trying to soothe his fear. She sat beside Patrick and began to attack the nest of tangles with a comb. “Splash some water on your faces and get your plaids on. Gillian, please help Matthew, he has trouble with his.”

A few minutes later the little party stepped into the cool early morning light of the courtyard. Despite Melantha’s and Gillian’s best efforts, the boys looked rather disheveled. Their plaids were untidily arranged with their shirts rising out of them, and all of their hair had stubbornly resisted the efforts of her comb, until finally Melantha had seriously contemplated taking the scissors to them.

Fortunately, most of the clan had not fared much better in their haste to get dressed at such an untimely hour. Most were yawning and making only perfunctory attempts to improve their appearance—a quick rake of fingers through sleep-tousled hair, a minor adjustment to a loosely draped plaid that threatened to drop to the wearer’s ankles at any moment, a smoothing of a gown that had accidentally been donned backward. The entire assemblage looked tired and grumpy, and could probably have done with a little ale and bread to fill the emptiness in their stomachs before being summoned out there.

Laird MacKillon, Hagar, and Thor were seated on a platform at the end of the courtyard, waiting for the MacKillons to assemble. Thor had his sword placed upon his lap and was lovingly running his fingers along its edges, testing its sharpness. Laird MacKillon and Hagar were intently studying a diagram on a piece of paper. They frowned at it for a long moment, then turned it on its side. After some animated discussion, they turned it on its other side. This did not appear to improve matters at all. Finally Laird MacKillon called to Roarke, who was discussing some problem with the curtain wall with his men. At Laird MacKillon’s bidding he abandoned his discussion and mounted the platform to study the unintelligible piece of paper. He looked at it barely an instant before turning it upside down. Comprehension crept slowly across the elders’ faces. They began to nod their heads and congratulate each other, pleased that they had sorted it out.

Melantha watched as Roarke strode from the platform and resumed his conversation with Eric, Donald, and Myles. His limp was gone, and he walked with easy, confident purpose. Unlike the rest of her clan, he did not appear to be the least bit weary. His saffron shirt and red-and-black plaid were immaculately arranged, and his dark leather jerkin was tightly laced across the solid expanse of his chest. He gazed up at the battlements and pointed out something to Eric, who was adamantly shaking his head. But Roarke did not agree with his warrior. He continued to gesture at the parapet, and then to the towers, until finally Eric seemed to be swayed by whatever argument he was making. Roarke nodded with satisfaction and turned to regard the crowd.

Power emanated from his very core as he surveyed the group, and the lines of his face were set with rigid determination. Melantha stared at him in fascination. She had told herself that Roarke was her prisoner—a dangerous warrior who had been captured in the woods and was now completely at the mercy of her and her clan. But as he stood with his muscled legs braced apart and his powerful arms folded across his chest, she could not imagine him being at anyone’s mercy. A faint breeze was blowing through the long black strands of his hair, causing them to brush lightly against the bronzed plane of his freshly shaven jaw. Melantha found herself recalling what it was like to lay her hand against his cheek, how it had felt warm and strong and rough all at once, like a fine layer of sunwashed sand. When Roarke had bent his head and tasted her with his lips, she had longed for the masculine roughness of his skin next to hers, setting her flesh afire as he flushed her senses with heat and pleasure.

“What’s the matter with you, Melantha?” asked Daniel, frowning. “You look kind of funny.”

“Nothing,” she replied, tearing her gaze off Roarke.

Gillian looked at her with concern. “You do look a little flushed. Perhaps you should sit down.”

“I’m fine,” Melantha insisted, feeling as if her face were in flames.

“You’re all red,” observed Matthew.

“Do you feel like throwing up?” chirped Patrick, sounding excited by the possibility.

“No—I’m fine,” Melantha insisted, wishing they would all just leave her alone. “I probably just need to eat something.”

Gillian and the boys looked at her in astonishment. Too late Melantha realized that she had just succeeded in making them more concerned, for she almost never felt hungry anymore.

“Shall I run inside and fetch you something?” asked Gillian, eager to feed her.

“I could go,” Patrick offered.

“I can run faster,” argued Daniel.

“That’s just because you’re bigger,” Patrick informed him. “It doesn’t make him better than me, does it, Melantha?”

“I never said I was better,” objected Daniel, “but I can run faster. That’s just a fact.”

“But I want to go!” insisted Patrick.

“I’m really not hungry,” interjected Melantha.

“Oh.” Gillian’s disappointment was obvious.

“I am,” said Patrick, trying to cheer Gillian up.

She put her arm around him. “Then we shall find you something to eat right after Laird MacKillon’s announcement.”

“When is he going to speak, anyway?” wondered Daniel impatiently. “I have to go practice my swordplay so I’ll be able to fight the MacTiers when they come back.”

Matthew regarded him with alarm. “The MacTiers are coming back?”

“Of course not,” soothed Melantha, casting Daniel a warning look.

“In case they come back,” Daniel amended, understanding that Matthew and Patrick were just babies and could not be expected to understand such grown-up matters.

Laird MacKillon rose slowly from his chair to address his people. “I know ’tis a terrible thing to rouse a body at this ungodly hour of the morning—”

“ ’Tis still night as far as I’m concerned,” grumbled Thor.

“—but it is very important that everyone hears what Roarke has to say.”

“Then let’s hear it so we can go back to bed!” suggested Ninian.

The clan laughed.

“As you know, the attack by the MacTiers some months ago has left our holding in rather a bad way,” continued Laird MacKillon. “And Roarke has brought it to my attention that we might not be able to defend ourselves should we be attacked again.”

“Who would want to attack us?” wondered Gelfrid. “We’ve nothing left since the MacTiers stripped us of everything.”

“I’ve got this worn pair of boots.” Mungo raised his foot to wiggle his naked big toe. “Perhaps the greedy filchers will be back for them!”

Laughter rose once again from the clan.

“A vulnerable holding will draw an attacker,” Roarke said with flat certitude. “There is always something to be gained, even if it is just a night of revelry and some food.”

Uneasy silence fell over the courtyard.

“When the MacTiers attacked you the first time, they could not be sure if there were riches within these walls, or nothing more than a few rusted swords and some barrels of ale,” he continued, regarding them seriously. “It didn’t matter. Whatever they found was theirs for the taking, and it cost them virtually nothing. By now the tale of your effortless defeat has reached other clans, who one day may decide to ride over here and see what remains for them to acquire.”

“You mean steal,” corrected Ninian angrily.

Roarke shrugged. “Call it what you will.”

“By God, if anyone dares attack us again, they’ll feel the cold steel of my sword slit their belly!” shouted Thor. He braced his hand on the back of his chair and struggled to rise while lifting his heavy sword. Ultimately the effort proved too much, and he collapsed into the chair, dropped his sword, and dissolved into a fit of phlegmy coughing. “Ale,” he gasped, motioning to young Keith.

The lad obligingly went running to fetch him his drink.

“Better bring a jug of it,” Thor advised, thumping himself on his chest. “If this is my time, by God, I shall not go out in need of a drink!”

“If we’re in danger of attack, what are we supposed to do about it?” demanded Gelfrid.

“The MacTiers slew some twenty-six of our bravest men, and tried to destroy our homes and reduce our castle to rubble,” said Ninian. “We’re less able to defend ourselves now than we were when they attacked the first time.”

“But we won’t be once we get the ransom for these prisoners and secure an alliance with the MacKenzies,” Colin reminded them. He looked pointedly at Roarke. “That’s why they’re here.”

“It is good that you plan to make alliances with other clans,” said Roarke, ignoring the issue of his ransom. “But it is not enough. No invader is going to send you a missive detailing the day and time of his attack. You must be prepared to fend off an assault yourself, at least until you can get word to your allies and they are able to get here.”

“That’s a grand idea, laddie,” said Magnus, smiling with approval.

“It’s impossible,” argued Ninian impatiently.

“Once an army gets in, we’ve no hope of defeating them,” added Gelfrid.

“Of course we do!” roared Thor, much restored by the cup of ale he had just drained. “All we need do is hack off their heads, and toss them in a pile to be ground into bread!”

Laird MacKillon regarded him curiously. “Your pardon, Thor, but have you ever hacked off a man’s head before?”

“Dozens of times,” Thor boasted, patting his sword.

Laird MacKillon looked skeptical. “Didn’t you find it rather a lot of work?”

“Not at all,” Thor assured him. “Just like cutting a dumpling.”

“You must focus your energies on preventing an attacking force from breaching the wall,” continued Roarke, struggling for patience.

“But how?” asked Hagar. “The MacTiers appeared in the middle of the night, and were up the wall and waving their swords in our faces before we even knew what we were about.”

“We had some fine, brave men keeping watch,” Magnus added, “but it was dark and they couldn’t see them until it was too late.”

Roarke nodded. “Many clans prefer to attack a stronghold at night, knowing that the inhabitants are sleeping and they can use the cover of darkness to their advantage. What you need to do is establish a warning system, so that you are apprised when an aggressor is near and you can quickly prepare yourselves for defense.”

Laird MacKillon looked at him blankly. “A warning system?”

Roarke nodded. “First, you must increase the number of guards you keep posted on the wall head to watch for anything unusual. Every pair of eyes helps. But in the dead of night it is difficult to see what is happening below. That is why you must set traps.”

Magnus’s brows knitted into a single white pelt. “Ye mean like for an animal?”

“Exactly,” replied Roarke. “You will dig a series of pits around the base of the curtain wall. Each pit must be no less than twelve feet deep and ten feet across, with a covering of branches to hold the sod you will place over it. Eventually you should have a pit every twenty paces, but begin by placing one at each corner of the wall, adjacent to the towers. Most attackers will approach a castle wall at the sides rather than attempting to climb straight up the center. As they make their way toward the wall, a number of warriors will step on the covering for the pit and fall in, bellowing in fury as they go.”

“And that’s our warning!” said Magnus happily.

“It’s very clever,” Hagar admitted, “as it has the added benefit of reducing their numbers at the same time!”

“Even if we dig ten pits, we can’t expect an entire army to fall into them,” objected Colin, regarding Roarke with contempt. “That’s not going to be enough to win a battle.”

“No, it isn’t,” Roarke agreed, ignoring Colin’s hostility. “And since your numbers are limited, you must employ more imaginative methods of retaliation. Methods that the notorious Falcon might use as she preys upon unsuspecting targets in the woods.”

Melantha kept her expression contained. Was Roarke actually complimenting her technique?

“The Falcon’s band is able to surprise its targets because they are the ones planning the ambush,” Mungo pointed out. “It isn’t the same as being attacked.”

“Not the same at all,” agreed Ninian.

“The principle of surprise remains the same,” Roarke argued, “and that is what you are trying to do—surprise them and reduce their numbers. At worst you are eroding their confidence and shrinking their size. At best, you may cause them to reconsider their assault and retreat.”

“The lad’s right,” said Magnus. “Many’s the time the Falcon’s band has attacked a group much larger than us. By the time we’re through, we’ve stripped them of their possessions and have them quivering in their skins, wonderin’ if we’re goin’to let them live to see another day.”

“You swore to me that you’d never slain anyone,” objected Edwina.

“We haven’t,” Magnus admitted, “but our victims don’t know that.”

“I wanted to kill these MacTiers,” said Finlay. He gave Roarke and his men a menacing look and spat on the ground.

“Good for you!” burst out Thor.

“Why didn’t you?” Hagar wondered.

Finlay looked sheepish. “Melantha wouldn’t let me.”

The clan laughed.

“And it’s a good thing she didn’t,” interjected Laird MacKillon, “or else we wouldn’t have Roarke here today giving us these fine ideas. Tell us, lad, what other tricks did you have in mind?”

“My men and I have learned firsthand about the effectiveness of dropping nets,” Roarke continued. “If you place nets above those chambers with easily accessible windows, you will be able to capture your intruders as they steal across the floor—quickly, quietly, and without bloodshed.”

“A net is only good for capturing a few men,” Mungo objected. “Our time would be better spent practicing our fighting rather than making nets.”

“If they are used properly, the nets will do the work of twenty men,” argued Roarke. “Lewis, I’m sure, can develop an effective system for quickly raising the net after the prisoners have been removed, so that it can be used again.”

Lewis stared at him in shock.

“Does he mean our Lewis?” demanded Thor.

“I have some other ideas on which I would like to confer with Lewis,” Roarke continued. “As you all know, he has an exceptionally quick mind when it comes to solving problems.”

Lewis looked around uncertainly, as if he expected someone might laugh.

“I think he’s talking about one of his own men,” Ninian decided. “Probably that fancy one who keeps staring at the lasses.” He pointed to Donald.

“It is essential that everyone be assigned a duty, and that you are thoroughly drilled in performing that duty,” continued Roarke. “If you are attacked, each man, woman, and child must know exactly where they have to go and what they are to do. Practice curtails panic. You will be divided into groups, and your groups will rotate between training and other duties. One will train, one will work on the castle’s defenses, one will produce an ample supply of weapons, and one will prepare food in case of a siege. Your battle with the MacTiers only lasted a day, but if your next attackers don’t defeat you with similar alacrity, they may decide to linger awhile. You must make sure you have enough arrows and bread to maintain your defense.”

“We’d have a lot more bread if MacKillon here would just let me slay you lot,” grumbled Thor.

“I have some suggestions as to who might lead the training sessions,” continued Roarke, consulting his notes.

“I’m happy to sharpen the men’s skills with a bow,” Magnus volunteered. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind ye that I’m a wee bit more than a fair shot,” he added, giving Roarke a sly wink.

“No, of course not.” Roarke thought of Magnus’s trembling hands as they fought to restrain his arrows. “But since you will have a large group to train, perhaps Donald could assist you.”

“An apprentice, ye say?” Magnus doubtfully scratched his white head. “Very well. If ye keep yer eyes more on me and less on the lasses,” he said, regarding Donald sternly, “maybe I’ll be able to teach ye a thing or two.”

Donald gave him a graceful bow. “I shall forever be in your debt.”

“Now, then,” continued Roarke, “for the training with swords—”

“All right then, I’ll do it,” interrupted Thor grumpily, as if he had just relented to Roarke’s lengthy beseeching. “But I warn you, I don’t tolerate laggards.”

Roarke cast an inquiring glance at Eric.

“Never,” growled the fair-haired warrior. “I would sooner have my bowels dragged slowly from my body and be left to rot in their hot, stinking—”

“Eric will help you, Thor,” said Roarke amiably.

Thor glared ominously at Eric. “If you give me so much as a whit of trouble, Viking, I shall have no choice but to kill you.”

“Only if I don’t kill myself first,” muttered Eric, glowering at Roarke.

“I propose that Lewis be in charge of designing the traps,” Roarke continued, “and he should oversee the men as they build them, to ensure that his instructions are carried out accurately.”

Lewis shook his head. “I can design them,” he said, not sounding terribly confident even on that point, “but I can’t supervise the men.”

“Of course you can,” Roarke insisted.

Lewis shook his head more adamantly.

“The lad’s right,” said Gelfrid.

“He’s too timid to make a crew of men do his bidding,” Ninian scoffed.

“Why don’t you believe you can, Lewis?” asked Roarke, irritated by the way everyone constantly contributed to the youth’s lack of confidence.

Lewis stared at the ground. “Because no one will listen to me.” His face was nearly crimson with embarrassment.

“Of course they will listen to you,” Roarke objected, “or they will have to deal with—” He stopped suddenly, realizing he had been about to say himself. But he had no authority here—he was a prisoner, for God’s sake.

“They will have to deal with me.”

Everyone looked in surprise at Laird MacKillon.

“According to Roarke, our Lewis has a special talent. If this is true, then we should ensure that he is able to put this talent to work for the good of the clan, should we not?”

The clan regarded him in uncomfortable silence.

“Splendid. I’m sure I can count on everyone assigned to implement Lewis’s designs to pay close attention, and to carry out his instructions to the best of their abilities.”

Mortified at being the center of this discussion, Lewis continued to study his feet.

Roarke swept his gaze over the courtyard. It was clear the MacKillons were unconvinced, but knew better than to contest a direct order from their laird. He sighed inwardly, hoping Lewis would be able to overcome his lack of confidence, thereby earning the respect of the clan.

“Well, I’m happy that’s all sorted out,” said Laird MacKillon, rising slowly from his chair. “And now, I suggest that everyone go back to bed and get a bit more sleep—there’s plenty of time to address all of these things.”

“We must begin immediately,” Roarke objected.

“Now, lad, I know you’re anxious to get things started,” Laird MacKillon returned, “but I’m sure you’ll find everyone can apply themselves far better once they’ve had a little more rest.”

“There is no time to be wasted,” persisted Roarke, watching in frustration as the clan gratefully began to disperse. “We should be dividing the clan into groups—”

“We will take care of it,” said Colin emphatically. “I must confess, I do find your sudden concern for our welfare somewhat perplexing. Just what, exactly, are you planning?” His gaze bored into Roarke. “Do you believe that if you keep everyone occupied with training and building, you and your warriors will be able to escape unnoticed?”

“No.” Roarke was acutely aware that Melantha and her brothers were listening to their discussion.

“Then why are you pretending to want to help us?”

He curled the paper he was holding into his hand. “I have my reasons.”

“And no doubt they are eminently noble,” drawled Colin. “You are here as a prisoner, and now that you have seen the state we are in, you wish to help us, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“Such valor. Tell me, Roarke, if your clan’s army was climbing our walls tonight in a bid to free you and your men, what would you do? Would you grab a weapon and help us fight them off, knowing the devastation we face should they defeat us once again? Or would you slaughter all who got in your way as you fought to reach the gate and let them in?”

Roarke said nothing.

“Don’t bother pretending it’s a decision over which you would agonize,” Colin snarled. “We both know which choice you would make.”

Roarke kept his expression impassive, refusing to confirm or deny Colin’s allegations. Colin thoroughly despised him, and nothing Roarke said or did could possibly change that.

“Finlay, take these prisoners back into the great hall,” commanded Colin, “and don’t let them out of your sight.”

He went to Melantha, laid his hand at the small of her back, and placed his arm protectively around Daniel, as if he were gathering his family.

Then he shepherded her and the boys back toward the castle, leaving Roarke to stand and wonder at the powerful emotions stabbing his chest.