CHAPTER 7

“A quick release and my arrow drove clean into the target, showing that with a sharp eye and uncommon skill, ’twas a shot that could be made,” boasted Magnus proudly.

“Excellent work, Magnus,” praised Laird MacKillon.

Hagar bobbed his balding head in agreement. “No wonder Melantha insists you be part of her band.”

“A pity you were aiming for the bale of hay far to the left of the bucket at the time,” muttered Thor sourly.

Magnus’s white brow shot up in indignation. “I most certainly was not!”

“Then why had you told your men that was the target?” challenged Thor.

“That was their target,” Magnus qualified. “But when ye’ve such keenly honed skills as mine, ye must challenge yerself, or else ye lose yer touch.”

“And I suppose you were challenging yourself that day you nearly speared my foot to the ground?” Thor’s voice was quivering with anger.

“Now, Thor, I’ve told ye time and again ye were in no danger,” said Magnus. “I was aiming for a wee stone beside ye, and that’s what I hit.”

Thor gasped in outrage. “You said it was a leaf!”

Magnus shrugged. “The details aren’t important.”

“You can’t remember because there was no leaf!” roared Thor. “And no one in their right mind would want to put a hole in a slops bucket!”

“Bea did complain about the mess it made,” reflected Hagar.

“If Magnus says he was aiming for the slops bucket, then I’m sure he was,” intervened Laird MacKillon. “After all, his exemplary skills as an archer have been proven time and again during his raids with the Falcon.”

“In case ye’ve forgotten, I was the one who felled Roarke just as he was about to slay Melantha,” Magnus reminded Thor. “Now, there’s a shot to make ye choke on yer unsavory accusations!”

“Who in their right mind aims for a man’s backside?” scoffed Thor. “You should have shot him through his greedy, shriveled MacTier heart, then plunged your dirk deep into his gut and hacked out his stinking bowels—”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Magnus challenged.

“It certainly did,” agreed Laird MacKillon, “and Roarke seems to be none the worse for it. Thor, why don’t you tell us how your training is going with the MacTier Viking?” he suggested, changing the subject.

“I never met a more objectionable, impatient, arrogant know-it-all in my entire life,” huffed Thor irritably.

“I have,” Magnus muttered.

Thor’s dark little eyes bulged in fury as he reached for his sword. “By God, Magnus, if it’s a fight you’re wanting—”

“Your pardon, gentlemen, but we’ve no time for this,” objected Laird MacKillon. “We still haven’t heard from Laird MacTier regarding our ransom demands, and the MacKenzies have refused to agree to an alliance until they receive payment in gold. As we don’t know what the MacTiers plan to do next, it is essential that we be prepared for an attack. Are we?”

“Almost,” said Magnus evasively.

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” added Thor.

Hagar looked at them in confusion. “How much longer?”

Magnus scratched his snowy head, considering. “A week,” he decided. “Two at the very most.”

“Two weeks may be fine for teaching a lad to pitch an arrow at a slops bucket,” snorted Thor, “but to train him to wield a sword takes longer.”

“Any bumbling lout with an arm can wield a sword,” Magnus challenged heatedly, “but to shoot well ye must learn to be one with the arrow—”

“And of course you were one with the arrow that nearly broke my bloody foot—”

“How much longer?” interrupted Laird MacKillon.

Thor thought for a moment, stroking the hilt of his weapon. “It takes a lifetime,” he finally decided.

“I’m afraid we don’t have that much time,” fretted Hagar.

“Strange Laird MacTier hasn’t answered our ransom message yet,” mused Magnus. “Ye’d think he would have arranged to pay for the lads’return by now.”

Hagar regarded him worriedly. “Do you think it’s possible he doesn’t want them back?”

“Of course he wants them back!” barked Thor. “Do you think great big chaps like that are easy to come by? Why, he must have spent a fortune just growing them to that size!”

“Then why doesn’t he send a message saying he plans to pay the ransom?” wondered Laird MacKillon.

“Could be he’s not botherin’with any missives, but is just sending the ransom to us directly,” suggested Magnus.

“It would take time to organize all that food and clothing,” reflected Hagar. “And don’t forget, there are livestock and weapons involved as well, not to mention the gold.”

“That would take some effort to arrange,” agreed Laird MacKillon, steepling his aged fingers together. His wrinkled brow furrowed with concern. “But what if he decides he simply doesn’t want the lads back?”

“Then we hack them to pieces where they stand!” declared Thor happily. “We take those mangled pieces and chop them into wee bits, and boil them over a fire to make a nice, thick stew!”

Hagar looked somewhat sickened by the prospect. “I really don’t think I’m up to eating them.”

“We can’t kill them,” protested Magnus.

“Why not?” demanded Thor.

“For one thing, it would start a war between us and the MacTiers, and that’s a battle we’ve no chance of winning,” Magnus pointed out.

“Of course we could!” Thor argued. “A few more weeks of training and our lads will be able to face any army in Scotland!”

Laird MacKillon’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Really?”

“No,” returned Magnus flatly.

“You’re forgetting about our secret weapons,” Thor said.

Hagar regarded him curiously. “What secret weapons?”

“The traps! Those MacTier chaps and Lewis have come up with some dandy ones!”

“The traps won’t hold off an entire army,” protested Magnus.

“Maybe not, but they can whittle it down to a size we can easily slay,” Thor argued.

“It would have to be a very small army,” retorted Magnus.

“But what if no one comes at all?” Hagar wondered. “Then what do we do with our prisoners?”

Thor huffed with impatience. “Are you not hearing well these days, Hagar? We’ve already agreed to make them into stew!”

“Your pardon, Thor, but we cannot kill them,” said Laird MacKillon. “Not after they have been such pleasant, helpful company.”

“I don’t find that Viking pleasant at all,” Thor objected.

“He didn’t seem agreeable at first,” allowed Hagar. “But I must say, after watching the poor fellow bravely down an entire jug of my daughter’s posset without so much as wincing, I find I have had to reconsider my opinion of him.”

Magnus slapped his thigh. “Now, that was a feat, to be sure,” he said, chuckling. “Over the years I’ve developed a belly that can withstand the stuff, but I’d never want to drain an entire jug!”

“If we can’t chop them up for stewing meat, then what are we to do with them?” demanded Thor.

Laird MacKillon sighed. “I suppose we would have to let them go.”

“But we can’t,” objected Hagar. “They know who the Falcon is and where she and her band of outlaws hide. If we let them go they could lead an army back here and kill them.”

“Roarke and his men seem like good, decent fellows, even though they are MacTier warriors,” said Laird MacKillon. “I cannot believe they would ever do anything so cowardly.”

“Perhaps not willingly,” Hagar allowed. “But every man must obey the orders of his laird. If MacTier told them to return here, what choice would they have?”

“Hagar makes a good point,” Magnus reluctantly conceded.

Laird MacKillon considered this a moment. “Then there is only one thing to do,” he finally said.

The other council members regarded him expectantly.

“If the Laird MacTier does not fulfill the demands of our ransom, then we must keep the prisoners here.”

“Forever?” asked Magnus.

He nodded.

“It would be a lot easier just to carve them up and make a stew out of them,” Thor grumbled. “Do you have any idea how much those brutes will eat over the years?”

“I don’t believe it will come to that,” said Magnus. “As ye’ve already pointed out, these are four fine big lads, and I’m willin’ to wager MacTier is not about to just let his warriors go. He’ll either pay the ransom and be done with it, or he’ll come for a visit and try to take them back by force.”

“Then let’s hope he chooses to simply pay the ransom,” Laird MacKillon responded, “and save us the trouble of having to put Lewis’s contraptions to the test.”

Eric watched with swiftly eroding patience as Mungo clumsily ascended the stone stairs backward.

“Stop looking behind you,” he commanded, the rusted steel of the dull sword he had been allocated for training cracking hard against Mungo’s only marginally sharper blade. “I could have killed you ten times by now, with all your stumbling and looking over your shoulder. The steps are there—now forget about them and concentrate on killing me.”

“But I could fall,” protested Mungo, stealing an anxious glance behind him at the stairs leading from the courtyard to the second level of the castle.

“You won’t fall because your opponent will have his sword buried in your belly long before you make it up the first step,” complained Eric. “If you fear falling so much, then use it to drive me back—don’t let me make you retreat.”

Mungo dutifully jabbed at the warrior, only to have his blow squarely deflected by Eric’s pitiful weapon.

“Again!” commanded Eric, still forcing Mungo up the stairs. “Don’t just stand there—thrust at me again!”

Mungo flailed his sword once more, and the blow was promptly countered.

“Faster!” ordered Eric, advancing yet another step. “I could slay an army in the time it takes you to return a thrust! Keep your blade moving!”

Once again Mungo stabbed at Eric, and once again his weapon was deflected as Mungo glanced over his shoulder and nervously ascended yet another step.

“You are leading your opponent right into the castle,” observed Eric in disgust. “Why don’t you just step aside and invite me in?”

“I’m trying to keep you out!” protested Mungo.

“Then keep your eyes locked on mine,” Eric instructed, engaging him with his sword once more. “Drive me back with the sheer force of your hatred, and whatever you do, don’t look behind for so much as—look out!!”

Mungo gasped in surprise as his body collided with another. He threw his arms up in the air in a frantic attempt to regain his balance, and might have succeeded had Eric not shoved him out of the way in his race to catch Gillian.

“Help!” cried Mungo as he toppled awkwardly over the side of the stairs and landed solidly on the grass below.

“Are you all right?” Eric demanded.

“I think I bruised myself,” replied Mungo, rubbing his backside.

“Not you!” snapped Eric. Realizing she might find his harsh tone unsettling, he lowered his voice as he asked Gillian, “Are you hurt?”

Shocked to find herself suddenly caught in the hard crush of Eric’s arms, Gillian shook her head. “I—I’m fine,” she stammered, mortified by the thought that he could probably feel the pounding of her heart against his chest. “I’m just finding it a little difficult to breathe.”

Eric instantly eased his hold on her, but he kept one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, as if he feared she might stumble again. “You’re certain?”

Gillian tilted her head up. His face was a forbidding mask of hard lines and unforgiving angles, but it was his eyes that drew her attention. Their icy blue gaze was far too intense to be characterized as gentle, but there was a ray of concern within them that touched her nonetheless.

“I’m certain,” she assured him softly.

“I’m sorry I bumped into you, Gillian,” apologized Mungo, ruefully rubbing his posterior. “I didn’t know you were there.”

Gillian smiled. “ ’Twas my fault entirely, Mungo.”

“It was both your faults,” Eric informed them brusquely as he escorted Gillian down the staircase. “You must learn to sense what is around you and react swiftly to it,” he informed Mungo. “And you must learn to watch where you are going,” he admonished Gillian. Satisfied that she was not injured, he directed his attention to the men he was training. “Divide yourselves into groups and line up at the bottom of the exterior staircases. Each of you will ascend and descend the stairs twenty times—backwards.”

“That will take us until nightfall!” protested Gelfrid, leaning against his sword as he mopped his sweating brow.

“By the end of the day you will have either overcome your fear of stepping back, or you will be too exhausted to worry about it,” Eric predicted. “Either way, you will learn to fight on the steps without stopping long enough to be split open every time you shift your feet.”

“By all the saints, I swear he’s going to kill us,” muttered Mungo, dragging his damp sleeve across his face. “He’s going to train us to bloody death.”

“I’m thinking he’ll just exhaust us so that we haven’t the strength to lift so much as a finger in the event of an attack,” Ninian complained grumpily. “Then the MacTiers will come and finish us off where we lie.”

“I wish they’d come soon,” said Gelfrid. “I’d like to be dead before I have to climb up and down those bloody stairs twenty times.”

Reluctantly they began to assemble themselves.

“I must be going,” said Gillian, suddenly feeling shy in Eric’s presence.

“No,” he snapped.

Her eyes widened with startled apprehension.

Frustration swept through Eric. Why was it that every sentence that escaped his mouth sounded so harsh? He raked his hand through his blond hair, struggling to find the right thing to say next.

“You will stay a moment,” he elaborated, then realized it still sounded as though he were giving her an order. “If it pleases you,” he finished awkwardly.

Gillian hesitated. “Are you inviting me to stay with you?”

He frowned. He was accustomed to commanding, not inviting. But as Donald had frequently pointed out, his behavior around women often had the effect of frightening them away, and he didn’t want to frighten Gillian. If she would prefer to think he was inviting her, so be it.

“Yes,” he decided, nodding. “I’m inviting you to stay.”

“Very well.” She stood there a moment, waiting for him to say something more. When he didn’t, she screwed up her courage and meekly inquired, “Are you angry with me?”

He looked at her in confusion. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s just…the way you are looking at me,” she explained hesitantly.

Her comment completely baffled him. “What do you mean?”

“You look like you are displeased with me.”

“I am looking at you the same way I look at everyone.” But that wasn’t quite true, he realized. Not everyone had hair like a roaring fire, and skin that glowed like fresh cream tinged with berry juices.

“Oh,” said Gillian, clearly relieved. “Then I imagine that scowl of yours comes in very handy during battle. ’Tis truly fearsome.”

Eric raised his brow. “I’m scowling?”

“It doesn’t make your face unpleasant to look at,” she assured him.

“It doesn’t?”

“Of course not. It just makes you look rather severe.”

Eric stared at her in disbelief. His experience with women was extremely limited, but he was almost certain she was complimenting him. He hesitated, wondering if he was supposed to pay her some sort of tribute in return. He tried to recall his conversations with Donald, but no suitable comment came to mind. Besides, Gillian did not have any of the attributes he had thought he desired in a woman. Her arms did not look like they could carry a heavy load of wood, but with their slender grace they should not have to manage anything more cumbersome than a basket of flowers. As for her hips, they were narrow and sweetly shaped, not the kind that would bear a brood of children with sturdy indifference, but the type that would drive a man to the edge of madness as he cupped them in his hands and pulled her tight against him.

Heat stirred his loins.

Gillian regarded him uncertainly, unable to comprehend the strained silence that had fallen between them. “Forgive me—I meant no insult,” she apologized, thinking she had offended him. “I should be going.”

“No.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the right thing to say.

She paused, wondering why he wanted her to stay when he wasn’t saying anything to her. She was usually the one who had trouble making conversation with people, yet here it was the Viking who seemed to be painfully ill at ease. “Was there something you wanted to tell me?” she ventured shyly.

There was much he suddenly wanted to tell her, but he knew he would never find the right words to express himself. Should he tell her that her eyes were like sapphires? he wondered. But that was wrong—sapphires were dark, and Gillian’s eyes were the deep, clear blue of a winter sky, or a clean strip of ocean seen from atop a mountain on a crisp day. Would she understand if he described them as such? Or would she laugh and think his words were ridiculous? Feeling desperate, he tried to think of something else. The groans and shouts of the MacKillons stumbling up and down the stairs permeated the air, distracting him. What else had Donald said women liked to hear? They didn’t want to be told about their hips—he’d had a pitcher of ale poured over him to illustrate that point. What about their hair, he wondered? If he told her it was like a fire, would she think that was good? Or would she think that fires were smoky and filled with ashes, and be offended?

“I like your gown,” he said, deciding apparel was a safer subject.

Gillian looked down in complete bemusement at the shapeless, faded, generously stained gown she wore. She had soaked it and scrubbed it to a point where the fabric could scarcely endure another washing, and although she knew the cloth was clean, many of the stains had resisted her efforts—including the dark splash of posset this warrior had thrown at her feet.

Eric could see he had made a mistake, it was etched all over the confused expression on her face. He had absolutely no knowledge of women’s gowns, but even he had the wit to recognize that what Gillian wore was little better than a rag. Did she think he was mocking her? he wondered miserably. Anxious to make amends, he quickly added, “What I mean is, I like it on you.”

A hesitant smile crept across her face. “Thank you.”

Her smile eased his agitation considerably.

“I’m afraid I never did quite get your posset out of it.” She tossed him a teasing look.

Her ability to make light of that terrible moment surprised him. And pleased him immensely. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“I know you didn’t mean to throw it on me. In truth, I don’t know how anyone stomachs the taste of that wretched stuff.”

Surprise chipped away some of his discomfiture. “You don’t like it?”

“I think it’s absolutely vile,” she confessed. “The only reason I make it is because Edwina has decided that I must be the guardian of her recipe. But I never sample it as I make it, which is probably why that batch you had when you first arrived was so strong.”

“It had a rather powerful effect on me,” he conceded. “The posset I drank the other night in the great hall was better.”

Gillian nodded. “That’s because it was just fresh milk and ale—I didn’t put in any of Edwina’s other foul ingredients.”

“Why not?”

She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. “I didn’t want you to suffer as you drank it. Not with the entire clan watching.”

He didn’t know what to make of that. Why should she care if he suffered?

“I really should be going.”

He wanted to tell her to stay, but he could hear the MacKillons loudly complaining about their weariness and their broken bones, and how his training was going to kill them long before anyone else could. He sighed inwardly. He supposed he should resume leading them in training. “Very well.”

She smiled at him, a small, hesitant lifting of her perfect lips, and he felt as if he had been warmed by a sudden burst of sunlight.

Then she turned and hurried away, leaving him alone with the griping MacKillons.

Roarke paced the length of his cell like a caged beast, unable to quell the unease gnawing deep with him.

Nothing had been the same since that magnificent night he had lost himself to Melantha. He had not seen her since then, although he had walked nearly every inch of this castle as he inspected the progress on its fortifications. She made no appearances in the great hall, nor did she cross his path in the courtyard, or on the wall head, or in any of the castle’s chambers or passages. At first he had wondered if she had gone with her men to procure goods for her clan, but Magnus assured him that Melantha was around somewhere, although the old warrior could not precisely recall the last time he had seen her. It was clear to Roarke that she was profoundly disturbed by what had happened between them, and could not bear to face him.

He tried to focus his thoughts on the far simpler subject of battle. It had been nearly a week since the MacKillons had delivered their demands to his clan, and according to the elders, they still had received no reply. Roarke knew MacTier well enough to know that his laird would never ignore such a humiliating affront. To have four of his finest warriors taken prisoner by a clan as insignificant as the MacKillons was an offense MacTier would not endure lightly. If MacTier had not yet sent a missive telling the MacKillons to go to hell, it could only mean one thing.

An army was on its way to deliver the message in person.

“We’re leaving,” he announced suddenly.

Donald groaned and barely opened a sleepy eye. “Now?”

“Now,” said Roarke. He adjusted his belt, cursing silently as his hand reached out of habit for the dirk that wasn’t there. No matter. He would take Gelfrid’s dirk and sword after they lured him in here.

“It’s the middle of the night,” protested Myles, his words slurred by the quantity of the ale he had consumed at dinner. “Couldn’t we leave tomorrow?”

“We leave now,” said Roarke.

Eric sat up, but looked decidedly reluctant to move. “We haven’t finished our work here,” he pointed out. “I still have much training to do with these MacKillons.”

“You could train them for the next twenty years and they still wouldn’t be ready to face an army of MacTiers,” Roarke retorted. “If MacTier has not answered their missive by now, it means they are on their way. We must intercept them before they attack.”

The threat of the MacKillons being attacked had them off their beds and ready for action in barely a second. The irony was not lost on Roarke. Any animosity they might once have felt for their captors had long since disintegrated. All that was left was this nagging sense of responsibility for their plight and a genuine desire to help them.

“Gelfrid,” called Roarke, rapping on the storeroom door.

Deep, contented snoring filtered through the heavy wood.

“Gelfrid!” barked Roarke, banging harder. “Open this door at once!”

There was much snuffling and coughing before Gelfrid sleepily demanded, “What is it?”

“There is an enormous rat in here,” Roarke told him. “We need you to come in and kill it.”

“A rat?” Gelfrid sounded thoroughly unnerved. “Why don’t you just kill it yourselves?”

“We haven’t any weapons,” explained Donald.

The door to their cell remained stubbornly closed. “I don’t know anything about killing rats,” Gelfrid objected, sounding rather overwhelmed by the idea. “Maybe I should go and fetch Mungo and Ninian.”

“By the time you wake them and drag them down here, this foul rodent will have bitten us all,” argued Roarke, not relishing the idea of having to overcome more MacKillons than necessary. “All we have to do is capture it in a blanket, and then you can dispose of it as you see fit.”

There was another long pause. “You’ll help me to catch it?”

“Of course.”

The lock turned.

“Where is it?” Gelfrid demanded, peering cautiously around the door.

Roarke pointed into the shadows. “In that corner.”

Gelfrid stepped into the chamber with his sword drawn, but remained steadfastly by the door. “I don’t see it.”

“Of course you can’t see it from over there,” said Roarke, “you’ve got to move in closer.” He put his hand on Gelfrid’s shoulder and guided him across the room. “There, now—do you see it?”

Gelfrid hunched a little lower as he squinted into the darkness. “I think so—what in the name of St.—”

Whichever saint Gelfrid chose to call upon was lost in the rag Donald used to bind his mouth, while Eric and Myles made short work of immobilizing his wrists and ankles. Once he was adequately trussed and stripped of both his sword and dirk, he was laid upon one of the trestle beds and a blanket was draped over him.

“Forgive us, Gelfrid, but we find ourselves unable to enjoy your clan’s hospitality any longer,” apologized Roarke. “Tell Laird MacKillon we have enjoyed our stay, and will do what we can to keep any other MacTiers from visiting.” He went to the door to check the corridor, followed by Myles and Donald.

Eric lingered a moment. “I would ask a favor, Gelfrid,” he began hesitantly. He paused, desperately searching for the right words. “When you see Gillian, tell her I said…thank you.” It wasn’t right, that wasn’t at all what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else except good-bye, and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to leave that as his final message to her. “Will you tell her?” he demanded.

His eyes wide with fear, Gelfrid nodded.

Eric went to leave, wondering why Gelfrid seemed so anxious. Surely he must realize they had no intention of harming him? He was all but through the door when he suddenly understood the source of his alarm.

“There is no rat, Gelfrid.”

The light was dim, but Eric could see relief pour over Gelfrid’s face. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to die of fright, Eric closed the door.

They moved silently through the castle, pausing only to relieve the sleeping forms of Mungo and Finlay of their weapons before making their way to the door leading off the kitchen. The moon was buried beneath a thick mantle of charcoal cloud, effectively dousing any light that might have revealed their forms to those posted to watch on the wall head.

“Here,” said Roarke, passing his sword to Eric. “You and Myles open the gate while Donald and I fetch our horses.”

Eric nodded and moved toward the iron portcullis with Myles.

The stables were dark and quiet but for the shifting of hooves and the gentle snorting of the horses. During his inspection of the castle Roarke had made a point of finding out exactly where his and his men’s mounts were kept. He moved through the blackness with his dirk gripped firmly in his palm, while Donald followed with his sword drawn. Neither had any intention of actually using their weapons on any MacKillon they might encounter, but both knew it was vital to appear prepared to employ deadly force if necessary.

Roarke’s horse sensed his presence long before he could see his master’s shadow. The beast whickered loudly and tossed his head.

“Hello, my friend,” whispered Roarke, running his hand gently over the animal’s neck. “Feel like going for a ride?”

His horse pressed his nose roughly into Roarke’s side, then snorted impatiently. Roarke turned to fetch the bridle hanging on a nail on the wall.

And froze.

Melantha’s face was a pale oval against the shadowy darkness, her skin so luminous he could make out every bitter line in her taut expression.

“Drop your dirk,” she ordered in a hard voice.

Roarke stood utterly still, his dirk firmly encased in his hand. He had not wanted it to be like this, he reflected desperately.

Every night for the past four days he had tormented himself by lying awake thinking about her. He had recreated every glorious detail of her in his mind: her sunwashed scent, her silky softness, the hot, lush feel of her lying beneath him as he buried himself deep inside her and lost himself to her exquisite sensuality. And he had indulged in the most ridiculous of fantasies by trying to imagine how it would be when they saw each other again; how she would look at him with shy tenderness, what impossibly clever and charming things he would say to her to make her laugh and put her at ease. Of course he had known that in reality it would be awkward, possibly even painful. But never in his most haunted reflections had he ever imagined her looking so utterly betrayed. Her body was rigid as she stood facing him, her sword raised and ready to drive through him on the least provocation, but it was her eyes that commanded his complete attention. They were shimmering with a terrible anger and an agonizing sorrow, and the combination was so appalling he very nearly dropped his dirk and begged her to forgive him for hurting her so.

Then he remembered that if she or her beloved clan had any hope of surviving, he must leave immediately and stop the MacTiers from attacking.

“I am leaving, Melantha,” he informed her, his voice betraying none of the emotions churning within him.

“What did you do to Gelfrid?” she demanded.

He nearly smiled. Even in a moment like this, her first thought was not for herself or her own safety but only for the welfare of another of her clan.

“Gelfrid is unharmed,” he assured her. “He is merely resting in the storage room.”

If she experienced any relief from this knowledge, she refused to show it. “Where are the others?”

“Listen to me, Melantha,” he said, his voice achingly gentle. “We cannot stay any longer, because our very presence here is putting you and your people at risk. Do you understand? MacTier has not answered your people’s ransom missive, and that is because an army is on its way here to collect us. But they won’t be coming just to free us. They will be under orders to make you pay for attempting to ransom us, and to ensure that you never try anything so foolish again.”

“Then we will fight them,” Melantha informed him coolly, raising her sword.

“Your people tried to fight the MacTiers once before, and you were hopelessly defeated.”

“We have been working on the castle’s defenses, and our men are now better trained,” she pointed out.

“You are more prepared than you were before,” he acknowledged. “Even so, you cannot possibly hold off an army of MacTiers.”

Her gaze was contemptuous. “You’re just saying that so I’ll let you go free.”

“No, Melantha. I’m saying it because I don’t want to see either you or any of your people hurt.”

Melantha kept her sword pointed at Roarke’s chest, contemplating what he was telling her. She wanted to believe that he was wrong, that if an army of the clan she most despised were coming, she and her people had the power to fight it. After all, she, Magnus, Colin, Finlay, and Lewis had been waging their own private war on small groups of MacTiers for months, and they had always emerged victorious. But that was in the protected arbor of the woods, where they were the aggressors, not the defenders. They always had the element of surprise in their favor, their extensive knowledge of the forest, and their ability to lure their prey into carefully laid traps. Fending off an assault on their home was not the same. An attacking army could lay siege to their holding for days or even months, slowly eroding their resistance until finally they were too weak to continue to defend themselves. Of course Melantha had always known this—that was why she had proposed ransoming Roarke and his men in the first place. She had wanted to strike back at the MacTiers by bleeding their coffers, but she had also hoped to restore her holding and buy the alliance of the MacKenzies so that her people could better defend themselves in the future.

She had not anticipated that Laird MacTier would care so little about his own warriors that he would rather risk their lives than pay their ransom.

“There’s a problem,” said Eric, appearing suddenly at the entrance to the stables with Myles.

“What is it?” Roarke demanded.

“A force of about two hundred MacTiers has positioned itself outside the castle wall. They are preparing to attack.”

“Sweet Jesus,” swore Roarke. “Is the gate open?”

“No.”

“Who is leading them?”

“I don’t know—’tis too dark to see clearly.”

Donald emerged through the black. “What are we going to do?”

Roarke hesitated. Even if he and his men rode out of here unharmed, it was going to be bloody difficult to convince an army of MacTiers poised to attack that they should simply turn around and go home—especially if they had been given orders by their laird to crush the MacKillons.

“We’ll go up to the wall head and show them we haven’t been harmed, then make it seem like we’re being released in exchange for them holding off their assault,” he decided quickly.

“You’re not going anywhere except back to your cell,” Melantha informed him. “My clan will handle this matter.”

“Rouse everyone in the castle and see that they are armed and put into their positions,” Roarke instructed his men, ignoring her. “We must be ready in case whoever is leading this force is not prepared to listen to reason. See that the women and children are taken to the lower level of the castle, and assign four men to guard them. Once you are certain all areas are manned, join me on the wall head.”

“Wait!” cried Melantha as Donald, Eric, and Myles hastily departed.

“What is it?” Roarke demanded.

“You and your men cannot participate in this battle.”

“What would you have me do, Melantha? Do you think I should just stand by and watch while your people are destroyed?”

Shouts could be heard coming from the wall head, and people were rushing to and fro outside. She swallowed thickly, fighting the fear rising in her chest as she desperately tried to comprehend Roarke’s motives.

“It is your clan waiting outside our walls and they have come to rescue you. How can I believe you will not undermine our efforts to fight them?”

Her eyes were shimmering against the paleness of her face. He could see she was frightened, and well she should be, given the brutality his clan had inflicted upon her people once before. Her father had been killed in that battle, along with many other friends and loved ones, and her people had been left virtually destitute. It agonized him to think how much she had suffered, and how much she was suffering in this moment. Had there been time, he would have taken her into the comfort of his arms and soothed her with soft words, making gentle assurances to ease her fear. But there was no time. Every second he wasted here was keeping him from getting on the wall head and ending this battle before it began.

“Listen to me, Melantha. Regardless of who or what I am, I swear to you that I would never do anything to hurt either you or your people. You can trust me in this, or take that sword and run me through. The choice is yours.”

Melantha stared up at him, completely and utterly torn. “I can never trust you.” Her voice was ragged with despair.

“You can tonight,” he insisted. “That is all I ask.”

She hesitated a long moment, the silver blade of her sword flashing in the dark abyss between them.

And then she lowered her eyes and let the weapon fall, knowing that when she looked up again he would be gone.