CHAPTER 8

“And so we thank you for coming here to put past wrongs to right by reimbursing us for our losses, in return for which we are delighted to return your great and valiant warriors,” finished Laird MacKillon, squinting as he struggled to read his speech by the flickering torchlight.

The MacTier warriors stared up at the wall head, apparently speechless.

“They certainly are a polite lot,” commented Hagar. “Not so much as a peep out of any of them.”

“Much better behaved than the last group,” Magnus agreed. “Perhaps there’s hope for these MacTiers after all.”

“And now,” continued Laird MacKillon, “we shall mark this momentous occasion in our history with a wee tune upon the pipes.” He gestured toward Thor, who was struggling to hoist his unwieldy instrument into his arms.

“I came up here to slay MacTiers, not to play music to them,” Thor grumbled irritably.

“I really don’t see how we can slay them when they are being so agreeable,” remarked Laird MacKillon. “It wouldn’t be courteous.”

“After listening to Thor play they’ll wish we had slain them,” Magnus predicted.

Thor glowered at him, then inhaled a deep, rasping breath and proceeded to play with murderous conviction.

The deafening drone that choked the air caused some MacKillons to press their hands to their ears, while the MacTier warriors looked on in complete bafflement. By the time Thor finished his first piece he appeared to have forgotten who his audience was, and he enthusiastically embarked upon another equally torturous strain.

At that point the MacTiers had heard enough and sent a volley of arrows flying over the battlements.

“God’s teeth!” swore Thor, looking down at the arrow protruding from the bag of his deflated instrument. “Those scoundrels have ruined my pipes!”

“Here, now, lads,” Laird MacKillon chided, wagging his finger at the warriors below, “that’s no way to behave on such a momentous occasion as—”

His words were cut short as he ducked to avoid the second volley of arrows.

“ ’Tis war, then, by God!” roared Thor, casting aside his murdered pipes and reaching for his beloved sword.

Roarke arrived just in time to see the wall head erupt in complete chaos.

“Take that, ye foul wretches!” Magnus bellowed, releasing an arrow into the darkness below. “There’ll be shafts buried in every one of ye before I’m through!”

“You can’t be here, Finlay,” objected Ninian as he blocked Finlay’s access to one of the hoardings. “I told Gelfrid I would only work with him.”

“Gelfrid isn’t here,” Finlay protested.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be along in just a moment,” countered Ninian, “and when he gets here I don’t want to listen to him whine about how I let you take his place. You know how he goes on about things—”

“Ninian!” shouted Roarke, “stand aside and let Finlay start hurling those rocks over now!!”

“But I promised Gelfrid—”

“Now, Ninian!”

“There’s no need to shout,” Ninian grumbled, reluctantly moving aside.

“Here, now, Roarke, what the devil is the matter with these clansmen of yours?” demanded Laird MacKillon, his white brows furrowed in agitation. “One minute we’re all getting along and enjoying a pleasant bit of pipes, and the next they’re shooting arrows at us and trying to scale the wall.”

“Perhaps they didn’t like Thor’s playing,” Magnus joked, releasing another arrow. “Did I kill anybody?” he asked Lewis, who was standing beside him.

“No, but with every shot you’re getting closer,” Lewis assured him encouragingly.

“Takes me a few minutes to get going,” Magnus said, undaunted. “Watch me, lad, and see how I become one with the arrow.” He sent another shaft sailing into the air, which landed a good three yards from the nearest MacTier. “That’s got them worried!” cackled Magnus cheerfully.

“They’re preparing to scale the wall!” Laird MacKillon fretted as a tightly formed line of MacTiers moved forward bearing ladders.

“I’ll take care of them!” announced Mungo. He heaved two enormous stones off the hoarding on which he was perched. The rocks dropped heavily to the ground, cleanly missing any MacTiers.

“Hold back!” Roarke shouted.

Laird MacKillon looked at him in bewilderment. “Your pardon, Roarke, but we’re at war here. ’Tis hardly the time for exercising restraint.”

Colin raised his sword to Roarke’s chest. “Do you really believe we are such fools that we will listen to you?”

“You are wasting precious arrows and rocks by releasing them too early,” explained Roarke quickly. “Let the MacTiers advance into the pits, which will reduce their numbers and create confusion. Then shower them with everything you have.”

“That’s a sensible suggestion,” remarked Hagar.

Colin regarded Roarke suspiciously. “Why would you act against the interests of your own clan?” he demanded, his sword still trained upon him.

“I don’t want to see any MacKillons harmed.”

Colin gave a scornful laugh. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe, Colin,” Roarke snapped. “But if you let your people exhaust their weaponry before the MacTiers are close enough to be damaged by it, how will you fight them?”

Colin considered this barely an instant before shouting, “Hold back!”

“Look how nice and neat they keep their line as they approach,” marveled Hagar, scratching his shiny head with the tip of an arrow. “It looks almost like a dance.”

“Each man has been given a position and must maintain it until the ladders are up and the warriors are climbing,” Roarke explained, watching as the MacTiers performed their familiar maneuver. “They are trained to approach even in the most heated of battles, because it is vital to get the walls scaled.”

“Hello, there, lads,” called Magnus, waving amiably to them. “Just a few more steps and we’ll begin again.”

The ladder-bearing MacTiers looked up in confusion as they marched, unaccustomed to approaching a castle without being fired upon.

And then the line disintegrated as over two dozen of them suddenly dropped into the pits.

“Now, that was simply splendid!” burst out Laird MacKillon, watching as the remaining MacTiers froze in their tracks, wondering what other surprises were in store for them. “Why, we must have captured at least thirty men in those pits—maybe more!”

“Shoot at the rest of them!” Roarke commanded. “Now!”

The MacKillons obligingly pelted the remaining MacTiers with stones and arrows.

“Take that, ye great, ugly brute!” shouted Finlay, dropping an enormous stone off his platform.

He peered over the edge and watched as it landed squarely in the arms of a powerfully built MacTier who had managed to ascend much of a ladder. Laughing triumphantly, the mighty warrior hoisted the rock over his head and showed it to Finlay.

“Aye, you’re a strong one,” Finlay agreed, nodding. “But shouldn’t you be holding on to the ladder?”

The warrior’s expression dissolved. He waggled back and forth for one desperate moment, then fell backward, taking the rock and the two warriors on the rungs below with him.

“Three MacTiers downed with just one stone!” marveled Magnus, impressed. “Let’s see if anyone can top that!”

“Let a few of them get up here so I can chop them into wee bits with my sword,” ordered Thor, struggling to raise his weapon. “I want to make those villains pay for ruining my pipes!”

“Keep them down for as long as possible!” Roarke countered firmly. “The whole idea is to stop them from climbing the wall!” He looked down to see a group of MacTiers preparing to ram the gate with a heavy timber. “Get ready to pour boiling oil on those men at the gate!”

The men standing by the enormous black cauldron positioned over the gate obligingly began to ease it onto its side.

“Wait for my order!” commanded Roarke, pausing until the rammers were in the optimum position to be hit by the scalding oil. “Now!!”

A torrent of liquid cascaded over the wall, drenching the startled MacTiers below, who instantly dropped their timber and began to beat wildly at their sodden clothes.

After a moment they stopped their frenzied palpitations and looked at each other in confusion.

“Bloody hell, I’m soaked to the bone!” complained one.

“Lewis, what the hell was in that cauldron?” demanded Roarke, watching as the dripping wet MacTiers gamely picked up their battering ram once more.

“We didn’t have that much oil to spare, so we had to use plain water,” Lewis explained apologetically.

“And just exactly how hot was it?” demanded Roarke.

“Actually, it was cold,” Lewis admitted. “We didn’t want to waste too much wood keeping it hot, so the fires were only lit a short while ago.”

Roarke struggled for patience as the MacTiers began to pound the gate. “Myles, Eric, start dropping stones on the rammers!” he shouted, seeing his men appear on the wall head. “Donald, make sure the archers are actually aiming for MacTiers and not just shooting arrows into the darkness!”

“Who is leading them?” asked Eric, scanning the attacking warriors below as he hoisted up an enormous rock.

“No one we know, otherwise I would have tried to talk to him,” Roarke answered. “That big blond warrior off to the right is giving the orders.”

Donald regarded him seriously. “What are we going to do?”

“For the moment we have little choice but to try to hold them off,” said Roarke. “If I try to talk to them, I’m more likely to get shot than command their polite attention.”

“But how long can the MacKillons withstand an attack like this?” wondered Myles, watching with satisfaction as his stone struck one of the rammers below.

“Long enough to let the MacTiers know this is not the same pathetically unprepared holding they attacked last year,” Roarke replied. “Their numbers have already been reduced by the pits, and we’ll hope that if any make their way into the castle they will be caught in the nets. Once they realize this holding is not going to be easy to capture, they will stop and listen to reason.”

Eric hoisted another rock over the battlements. “And then what?”

“And then the MacKillons can tell them that we will be released in exchange for their withdrawal,” Roarke answered. “That will give the MacTiers the sense that they have won a victory without having to completely destroy—Colin, get down!!”

Colin dropped to the ground just as the MacTier warrior who had scaled the wall behind him delivered a deadly blow with his sword.

Roarke hurled his dirk at the MacTier, burying the blade deep into the assailant’s shoulder. The man’s weapon clattered to the ground as he was grabbed by Myles and Finlay.

“Bloody hell, that was a wee bit close!” swore Magnus.

“Are you all right?” Roarke asked Colin.

Colin nodded, but Roarke could see the muscles of his jaw contract as he rose to his feet.

“Now, that’s as fine a cut as any man could hope to have and live to tell about it,” said Magnus, admiring Colin’s back. “It goes clean from one side of yer ribs to the other. I’d be happy to stitch it for ye later, lad, if ye think ye can wait until I’m finished dealin’ with these MacTier rascals.”

Hagar’s face blanched at the crimson stain quickly spreading on his son’s shirt. “Perhaps you should go in and have your mother look at your wound, lad,” he suggested, refraining from actually inspecting the injury himself. “She’ll know what to do.”

“It’s nothing,” said Colin.

“Of course it’s nothing,” scoffed Thor, barely glancing at it. “Why, I have scars all over my body that go twice as deep as that, and you don’t see me running in to my mother.”

“A good thing, since yer poor mother’s been buried for well over fifty years,” observed Magnus. “And the only scars I’ve ever seen on ye are the ones ye got the day those bees chased ye into a bramble bush, and ye were cryin’ for yer ma so loud I was tempted to stuff a rag in yer mouth—”

“Are you certain you’re all right, Colin?” demanded Roarke, ignoring the elders’ bickering.

“It’s just a scratch,” Colin assured him brusquely. “I’m fine.”

Roarke tilted his head in acknowledgment and began to turn away.

“Roarke.”

He paused.

“Thank you.”

Roarke nodded, knowing full well how much it had cost Colin to say those words.

Melantha appeared on the wall head just in time to see a volley of burning arrows rain down upon her people.

“Great God in heaven, it’s raining fire!” said Laird MacKillon, looking about in awe.

Magnus promptly picked up one of the burning arrows and sent it flying right back at the MacTiers. “Take that, ye foul wretches!” he shouted gleefully. “Ye can’t burn good Scottish stone, so all ye’re doin’ is helpin’ us to see ye better in the dark, ye stinkin’ clods of cow dung—”

“Magnus, your plaid’s afire!” shouted Melantha.

Magnus yelped in surprise and began to dance wildly about, unraveling his plaid as he struggled to stamp out the flames consuming the ragged wool.

Thinking fast, Lewis dipped a wooden bucket into one of the cauldrons and hurled its contents onto Magnus.

“God’s ballocks, that water’s freezing!” shouted Magnus, instantly forgetting his previous problem.

“Sorry,” Lewis apologized.

“That’s all right, lad, ye couldn’t have known. Where have ye been, Melantha?” Magnus asked, adjusting his sodden plaid as best he could before picking up his bow once more.

“I was in the castle helping with one of the nets,” Melantha replied, moving over to the parapet so she could see what was happening below.

“Was it working well?” asked Lewis hopefully.

“Your design was brilliant, Lewis,” Melantha told him. “It comes down with barely a whisper, and can be hoisted again so fast it’s ready for the next intruders within minutes. Already we’ve captured over fifteen men.”

“What are ye doin’ with the prisoners?” wondered Magnus.

“Gelfrid is locking them up in the storeroom,” Melantha replied. “And then he’s scaring them with some tale about a big rat.”

“A pity we can’t just drop a giant net on the lot of them,” observed Magnus, firing another arrow into the air. He sighed as his shaft landed several feet to the right of the warrior he had intended to hit. “That would put an end to all of this.”

“Magnus, aim to the left of your target,” suggested Donald.

“Now, why would I want to do a foolish thing like that?” wondered Magnus. “ ’Tis hard enough to hit these MacTier curs in the dark as it is, without purposely aimin’ away from them. An’if yer thinkin’ to comment on my bein’ a wee bit off tonight, well, I’m sure I don’t need to remind ye about that time I hit yer fearless leader right square in the—”

“Just try it,” interrupted Donald. “Once.”

“Most idiotic thing I ever heard,” grumbled Magnus, nocking another arrow against the string of his bow. “Fine, then, I’m aimin’ to hit that big beast of a MacTier standing by the well, the one who is about to shoot another one of those bloody flaming shafts at me.”

“Aim to the left of him, Magnus,” Donald instructed, moving beside him. “By about one yard.”

“Pure idiocy,” muttered Magnus, reluctantly adjusting his aim, “as if I can’t see clear enough to know which way the bloody arrow is going to fly—”

“You got him, Magnus!” burst out Lewis in amazement. “Right in the thigh!”

“That’ll teach ye to try to shoot yer elders!” Magnus shouted, shaking his fist in triumph. “Now, drop yer weapon and run on home, before I fix it so that ye’re the last of yer line!”

The terrified MacTier instantly threw down his bow and scurried away as fast as his injury would permit.

“Your pardon, Roarke, but are we winning?” asked Laird MacKillon, clearly confused by the progress of the battle. “With all these flaming arrows and rocks flying about, ’tis rather difficult to tell what’s what.”

Roarke watched in frustration as the MacTier rammers continued to methodically bash at the wooden gate with their timber. Several of them had been knocked out by the falling stones, but these men were simply dragged out of the way and replaced by others. The gate was solid and was reinforced by a heavy bar, and if they broke through they would still have to haul up the iron portcullis. Even so, no castle was impenetrable. If the MacTiers didn’t succeed in forcing their way through the entrance, they would eventually find another way in.

He had to orchestrate a bargain with them before that happened.

“All we’re doing for the moment is holding our own,” he told Laird MacKillon.

“I’d say we’re doin a wee bit more than that, laddie,” countered Magnus. “Looks to me like these filchers are goin’ to pay yer ransom—they’re bringin’ forth an enormous cart piled high with goods!”

Roarke glanced down to see two horses pulling a heavy wagon that was draped in rough blankets.

Uneasiness seeped through him.

“ ’Twould appear these MacTiers are wise enough to accept that they cannot win,” declared Laird MacKillon approvingly. “And a good thing, too—we’ve almost completely exhausted our store of rocks.” He clapped his hands to capture his clan’s attention. “We will release our prisoners in exchange for this ransom, and that will put an end to any further unpleasantness.”

“They had better have another set of pipes in there for me,” grumbled Thor, “or else I shall be forced to demand the life of one of them as payment!”

“They couldn’t possibly have packed everything we demanded into one wagon,” reflected Melantha, straining to see if there was another cart hidden somewhere in the shadows. “Where is all the livestock they were supposed to replace?”

“Perhaps it will be delivered at a later time,” Hagar suggested.

“I’m sure they’ve at least got some fowl in cages on that wagon,” mused Mungo. “Just look at how high it is stacked.”

“That leader of theirs really ought to tell those chaps to stop banging on the bloody gate,” complained Ninian. “In another minute they’re going to crack the wood!”

“Look, they’re taking off the blankets!” Lewis said excitedly.

The entire clan watched in rapt silence as the MacTier warriors severed the ropes holding the shroud of blankets in place.

“That’s not what we asked for,” protested Laird MacKillon in confusion. “What in the name of St. Columba are we supposed to do with a contraption like that?”

“Here, they’re going to demonstrate how it works for us,” said Hagar.

“Get down!!” roared Roarke, raising his arms to attract the attention of all the MacKillons who had lined up in a fascinated row on the wall head. “Everyone get down, now!!”

Before he could issue any further warning Melantha plowed into him, knocking him to the ground with such force he could almost feel his ribs crack.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded, roughly shoving her aside. “Your people are in danger and I have to let them—”

His words died in his throat.

Melantha stared at him in ashen silence. She was shivering slightly, but that was the only concession she made to the arrow buried deep within her arm.

“Oh, God, Melantha, I’m sorry—”

At that point the first boulder was vaulted from the stone-throwing machine below. It crashed heavily into the battlements, shattering one of the merlons before smashing with brutal power against the floor.

“Great God in heaven, they’re going to destroy the castle!” Laird MacKillon realized, appalled.

Every MacKillon on the wall head immediately retreated a step, fearful of being crushed by the next missile.

“Bring the men in from the hoardings!” shouted Lewis, helping Finlay scramble onto the wall head from his precarious little platform. “They aren’t designed to withstand this kind of assault!”

Just then a huge boulder crashed into the small wooden gallery, tearing away its wall and more than half of its flooring. The powerful impact knocked Ninian down, leaving him dangling helplessly from one of the few remaining timbers.

“Help!” he cried, desperately trying to hold on as a flurry of arrows sailed toward him.

“Stand aside, Lewis!” roared Eric, racing forward. Ignoring the shafts flying all around him, the Viking warrior squeezed through the crenel, grabbed Ninian by both his shoulders, and hauled him to the relative safety of the wall head.

“Did you see what they did?” demanded Ninian incredulously. “They blasted away the very floor I was standing on! I could have been killed! Killed, I tell you!”

At that point another boulder crashed into the parapet close to Ninian’s head, shattering yet another of the merlons.

“I don’t think we can fight this kind of attack,” said Laird MacKillon, his aged frame stooped with defeat. “I believe we must surrender.”

“We will never surrender!” shouted Thor fiercely over the wall. “We would rather be smashed to pieces and die mangled and bleeding, but with honor—do you hear, you vile, filthy MacTier scum!”

“They won’t withdraw even if we release you, will they?” Melantha asked, her gaze upon Roarke intense. “That’s why they brought that machine. They intend to destroy us completely, regardless of what we do or say.”

Roarke knotted the rag he had wrapped around her upper arm above the arrow, his expression grim. The MacTier warriors were merely following the orders of their laird, just as he had done for so many years. The fact that they had taken the trouble to haul this deadly machine all these miles meant that they had been instructed to put it to use, regardless of whether or not it was actually necessary. The rescue of Roarke and his men was secondary to this mission, he realized furiously.

The MacKillons had dared to lash back at their oppressors. For that, they would be destroyed.

“Stay down,” he ordered tautly.

Melantha immediately rose to her feet, ignoring the pain gripping her left arm. “What are you going to do?”

He did not waste time answering her, but strode purposefully over to Colin. “Grab hold of me and put your sword to my throat,” he ordered. “Finlay, you take Myles, Lewis take Eric, and Magnus take Donald. Tell these bastards you will slay us before their eyes if they don’t retreat at once. Do it now!” he snarled, seeing the MacKillons hesitate in confusion.

Colin immediately grabbed Roarke and pressed the blade of his sword against his throat.

“Cease your attack or this MacTier is dead!” he bellowed, moving closer to a torch so he and Roarke could be seen by the MacTiers below.

“Halt!” commanded the golden-haired leader, raising his hand into the air.

The MacTier warriors froze. The stone-throwing machine was poised to launch another boulder, the battering ram was inches from the gate, arrows were positioned against quivering bows, and men were dangerously exposed upon the ladders, yet no one dared move without the permission of their commanding warrior.

“Tell them they must withdraw if they hope to keep us alive,” Roarke directed Laird MacKillon in a low voice. “Tell them if they return to their lands at once, you give them your word that we will be released unharmed in three days’ time.”

Laird MacKillon nodded and moved to the parapet to address the MacTiers below. “I’m afraid this is a most unfortunate situation,” he began apologetically.

“For God’s sake, try to sound angry!” hissed Roarke.

Laird MacKillon looked a bit startled by Roarke’s curt directive, but then he nodded, apparently understanding that this was not the time for civilized deliberation.

“Return to your lands at once or we will slay the hostages,” he said briskly.

The fair-haired warrior urged his horse forward. “We cannot leave without our fellow clansmen,” he informed him. “We have been ordered to bring them home with us.”

“And I suppose you were also ordered to ravage our castle and butcher every last one of us, weren’t you, you depraved demons from hell!” railed Thor, angrily shaking his gnarled fist at them. “One more arrow from any of you, and that big Viking chap of yours will be chopped up and ground into bread!” His wrinkled face was twisted with fury and his white hair was blowing crazily around his head, making him look truly macabre in the flickering torchlight.

“Tell them three days,” Roarke prompted Laird MacKillon.

“If you leave at once, we will release these hostages in three days,” Laird MacKillon told the MacTiers.

“But if you don’t, we shall begin hacking off their heads and tossing them over the wall!” shrieked Thor, who was obviously enjoying the attention he was commanding.

The MacTier leader hesitated, reluctant to retreat from a battle without the prize he had been ordered to procure.

“Tell him to withdraw immediately, or you’ll slay one of us just to help him make up his mind,” said Roarke, not wanting to give the commanding warrior too much time to consider his situation.

“Leave now, or the Viking loses his head!” shouted Thor gleefully, not caring that it was Laird MacKillon who was supposed to be handling the matter. He raised his sword and lovingly caressed its shimmering edge, effectively giving the impression that he was more than a little mad, and capable of the most hideous acts.

Apparently he made an impression upon the leader. “Will you also release the prisoners you have captured tonight?” he demanded.

“Aye,” said Laird MacKillon. “In three days.”

“Very well.” Believing he had little choice, the warrior turned his horse and motioned for his men to withdraw.

A deafening cheer rose from the wall head.

“Stay here and keep enough men guarding the wall to make certain they don’t return,” directed Roarke to Eric. “Donald, go with Lewis and assess the damage sustained by the castle. Post guards anywhere that looks vulnerable. Myles, organize a group of men to guard the prisoners caught by the nets in the castle. The ones in the pits can stay where they are for the night.”

“Does this mean I can’t carve up any MacTiers?” demanded Thor.

“I’m afraid we agreed to release them unharmed,” Laird MacKillon said apologetically.

“That’s outrageous!” blazed Thor. “Just look what those wretches have done to my pipes!” He pointed a bent finger at the ruined instrument lying in a heap upon the ground.

“Why don’t you go with Myles and threaten some of the prisoners?” Roarke suggested. “Tell them all about how you’re going to grind them up for haggis.”

“It won’t be the same as actually doing it,” he grumbled.

“Now, Thor, I’m sure you can make those MacTiers quiver in their skins so hard it will be better than actually chopping them up,” said Donald, trying to console him. “I know you had me worried when I first came here.”

Thor’s expression brightened. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” Donald assured him. “Poor Eric couldn’t sleep for days, he was so afraid you might hack him to pieces where he lay and turn him into a batch of bannocks.”

“I might still do it.” Thor gave Eric a menacing look.

“Ye should let my Edwina take a look at that arm of yours, lass,” said Magnus, moving over to Melantha. “I’d take the shaft out myself, but I’m thinkin’ she’d probably do a fairer job of it.”

“I want to see my brothers,” protested Melantha.

“Of course ye do,” said Magnus soothingly. “Let’s just take care of this wee arrow first, and then they can visit ye in yer chamber.”

Melantha shook her head. “I need to see them now. I have to make certain they are safe.”

“I’m sure they’re fine, Melantha,” Colin assured her.

“How can they possibly be fine?” Melantha challenged, her voice ragged with despair. “Their father has just been murdered.”

Thor frowned. “What’s she talking about?”

Roarke moved toward her. “All is well, Melantha.” His tone was low and soothing. “You have nothing to fear.”

Melantha stared at him a moment, her eyes wide and haunted. “No,” she whispered, the word barely audible amid the orders being shouted to the remaining men on the wall head. “No.”

Roarke reached out, capturing her in the protective cradle of his arms just as a sea of black obliterated her anguish.

Voices were floating around her, wisps of sound on the cool night air. She struggled to make them out, but they were low and hushed, swirling around her in languid circles, just escaping her grasp. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore. There was a terrible emptiness inside her, a tattered, aching hole that had torn her apart, and although she couldn’t recall what was causing her such unbearable grief, she was certain it could never be overcome. She sank further into the warm folds of darkness, vaguely wondering if she were dying. She hoped that she was. Surely in death there would be respite from this suffocating sorrow.

A soft whimper escaped her throat, stripping away some of the layers of blackness. She shook her head, fighting her ascent to wakefulness. But a slow, sure awareness crept cruelly through her flesh, causing her to feel the throbbing in her arm, the rising of her chest, the softness of the plaid lying over her like a fragile shield against the world. I am not dying, she realized, and she was overcome with disappointment. In death she might have shared a fleeting moment with her father. In life, she would have to go on without him.

She opened her eyes, feeling utterly lost.

The chamber was washed in honeyed light, which emanated from a small cluster of dripping candles on the table beside her bed. The windows were open to the silky night air, filling the room with the sweet scent of pine, grass, and the acrid tinge of the torches still burning on the wall head and in the courtyard below. Melantha shifted slightly and was surprised by the lash of pain that whipped up her arm. She studied the neatly arranged bandage on her upper arm with complete detachment, as if it were someone else’s limb affixed to her body. After a moment she turned her gaze to the other side of the chamber, searching for the sleeping forms of her brothers.

Instead she found Roarke stretched out in a chair beside her bed, sound asleep.

He did not look as though he could be overly comfortable, for his massive frame made the chair appear almost ridiculously small. Nevertheless he was slumbering deeply, which told Melantha he must have been exhausted. She studied him through the soft haze of candlelight, noting the deep lines etched across his forehead, the taut set of his jaw, the dark growth of beard shadowing his handsomely sculpted cheeks. He looked older to her in that moment, older and far wearier, revealing a vulnerability she had never imagined to see in him.

She had always known he was not a young man, for the lines of his face betrayed the experiences of a life lived close to forty years. And yet she had never sensed the slightest hint of weakness in him, either in spirit or in his physical abilities. Of course he had demonstrated some discomfort during their journey here, but she had attributed that to the fresh wound in his backside, and given it no further thought. She thought of him on the wall head earlier that evening, racing back and forth as he directed the battle from every angle, anticipating each move of his opponents, and shouting orders to men who had no reason to obey him. And yet her clan had obeyed him, willingly and completely, despite the fact that he was their enemy, and the warriors they fought were his own.

Roarke had done everything within his power that night to protect her people from the very men who had come to grant him his freedom, risking his own life in the process.

It was this that had caused her to throw herself at him when she saw one of the MacTier warriors training an arrow upon his chest. She had tried to tell herself that she hated him, for he was a MacTier warrior, and represented greed and brutality and savage force. But somehow Roarke had chiseled away at her loathing, until finally it was but a thin veneer of the dark, cold force that had sustained her so well these past ten months.

She swallowed the sob threatening to escape from her throat.

Roarke’s eyes flew open as his hand shot to the dirk at his waist. He swiftly scanned the dimly lit room before finally studying Melantha.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he told her, releasing the hilt of his weapon. He rose and went to the table to pour her a cup of ale.

“I’m not tired.”

He raised a skeptical brow as he handed her the wooden goblet. “All is quiet now, Melantha,” he assured her. “The MacTier army has retreated, and the wall is heavily guarded to alert us should they return. Your brothers are safe, and are spending the night under Beatrice’s care. As for your clan, there were a few injuries, but they were relatively minor, and they have been treated. Everyone who is able to is sleeping, including the MacTier prisoners. Except,” he qualified, “for those who are too frightened to close their eyes after Thor’s ranting about turning them into meals for the next year, and Gelfrid’s talk of giant rats lurking in the shadows.”

“I must see for myself,” she murmured, although she made no effort to move. Just holding the goblet steady in her hand seemed to require an enormous amount of energy. She could not imagine where she would find the strength to actually rise from her bed.

Roarke regarded her sternly. “You have been injured, Melantha, and although the wound is not serious, you did lose a fair amount of blood before Gillian managed to stitch you closed. It is essential that you rest, or you will be of absolutely no use to anyone tomorrow.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Gillian took the arrow out?” She could not imagine her gentle friend accomplishing such a feat without dissolving into a fit of weeping.

“I removed the arrow,” Roarke told her. “I have had more experience in these matters than Gillian, and I believe she was very relieved when I offered to do it. Fortunately for you,” he added dryly as he took the cup away from her, “Magnus was not available.”

She leaned back against her pillow, feeling immeasurably tired. She was dressed in a simple linen chemise, which left her arms bare but for the bandage, and the pale skin of her chest naked except for the slender silver chain and pendant she always wore. She frowned, thinking the green stone looked far paler than it had before. Telling herself it was just the light, she lifted it to shimmer in the amber glow of the candles. The orb was unusually warm against her fingertips, almost as if it were radiating its own heat.

“ ’Tis a pretty piece,” Roarke commented. “Was it your mother’s?”

She shook her head. “The only jewelry my mother ever owned was a plain silver ring my father gave to her when they were wed. When the MacTiers came, they made everyone bring their valuables into the courtyard and drop them into a pile. I hid the ring in my shoe. But then they made us take off our shoes and boots and place them in another pile, and one of the warriors found the ring before I could hide it.” Her tone was flat as she recited the story, but her fingers had tightened around the pendant, bleaching the skin of her knuckles.

Roarke cursed silently. It was obvious Melantha’s ring had meant a great deal to her, and it filled him with rage to know his own clan had stolen it from her. “Was this pendant something you took during one of your raids?”

She nodded. “One day we captured a coach that was traveling to your holding. Inside we found a half dozen crates bearing silver chalices, crosses, and trays, and one well-fed priest who seemed a little too eager to hand over everything to us. I thought it odd the way he kept patting at the bloat of his waist, and ordered Magnus to search him. A small box was belted to his girth, and in it lay this pendant.” She released her grip to let it glitter once again in the candlelight. “I wanted to sell it with everything else, but Magnus said ’twas by luck that we had found it, and so it would bring us further luck if I wore it.” She dropped the orb against her skin. “I think he just liked the idea of me having something from the MacTiers, even though he knew it could never replace my mother’s ring.”

No, thought Roarke, not even the rarest of jewels could hope to ease the loss of that simple, worn band.

“Do you believe they will return?” she asked quietly.

“They will not return tonight,” he assured her, lowering himself into the chair. “Thor did a fine job of making them believe that my men and I would be slain if they did, and that is not what they want. Although they have been ordered to subdue your people, it cannot be at the cost of my life or the lives of my men. That would not be a good victory.”

“I see.” Her tone was flagrantly bitter.

“This was not my doing, Melantha,” Roarke reminded her. “You knew the risk of attack when you decided to take me and my men prisoner. I tried to warn you, but you refused to listen.”

“You were coming to crush my band and capture me,” she retorted coldly. “If I had let you go, would you and your men have simply walked home and left us alone?”

Roarke hesitated. “No.” He wished he could have said otherwise.

“And if you had managed to capture us, what would our fate have been?”

He shook his head impatiently. “It doesn’t matter—”

“It does matter, Roarke,” she interrupted fiercely. “You had been given orders by your laird, and it was your duty to carry them out or face the consequences of failure. What would you have done to me and my men?”

He stared at her in frustration. “We had orders to crush the Falcon’s band and return with the Falcon himself as our prisoner.”

“And that is what you would have done, isn’t it? You would have butchered Colin, and Magnus, and Finlay, and Lewis. And you would have captured me and dragged me back to your holding, where I would have been tried before your laird and executed.”

“I would never have allowed anything to happen to you, Melantha.”

“You nearly cut my head off the first time you saw me.”

“Only because you were trying to kill me.”

“I was trying to kill you because you were going to slay my men!”

Roarke closed his eyes, suddenly weary. He did not want to talk about killing and duty any more. A sharp blade of guilt was twisting in his gut, making him feel tense and defeated. He had betrayed his own clan tonight, he realized bleakly. Those men down there were his own people, linked to him by history, loyalty, and blood. Some of them he had recognized, although he did not believe any of them were men who had ever fought under his command.

Even so, the magnitude of his treachery was appalling.

Never, in over twenty years of service, had he ever acted against the welfare of his laird or his people. His life had been far from perfect—the lonely deaths of his wife and daughter were an agonizing testament on that point—but he had prided himself on his clear, unquestioning loyalty to his clan. He had always carried out his duties with single-minded purpose, leaving no room for contemplating the devastating effect his actions might have had on others. It had been his lifelong mission to strengthen his clan, to expand its borders, and to constantly enrich its coffers by bringing home the bounty of war. This was not some barbaric doctrine of oppression; it was merely a fact of life in the Highlands. Those holdings he captured then fell under the MacTier influence. He had abated any guilt by assuring himself that the conquered clans were now better off, because they would be protected from others who might dare to attack them.

The MacKillons had made him realize that his perception of his clan’s aggression was horribly distorted. An assault on a people exacted a terrible price, and forcing a clan to bend to another could only breed loathing and discord.

He swallowed thickly, wondering if his entire life as a warrior had been nothing but an infliction of misery on others.

“Why did you do it?” queried Melantha softly.

He opened his eyes and regarded her in confusion.

“Your clan was here to rescue you,” she elaborated. “All you had to do was go out and join them, and you would have been free.” She shook her head, struggling to comprehend his actions. “Why did you choose to stay with us and fight your own people?”

“Why did you threaten to kill me this evening, and then fly through the air to shield me with your body?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, but even as she said it she knew it was a lie.

Roarke raised his hand to gently trace his finger along the white fabric of her bandage. Had she moved a second earlier or later, had she twisted her body slightly or stumbled, the arrow would have burrowed into her chest and she would have been killed. He could not imagine what had inspired such an act of selflessness. He had come here seeking to capture the Falcon, and yes, loath as he was to admit it, to escort the outlaw to his death.

Instead, the Falcon had thrown herself in front of an arrow meant for Roarke.

He took her palm and kissed it gently before pressing it hard against his chest.

“There are no absolutes for us anymore, Melantha,” he said, his voice low and rough. “No absolute hatred, no absolute loyalty or trust. We can only go moment to moment, making our choices from the deepest part of our soul, instead of letting others make them for us.”

“I never let anyone make my choices for me,” Melantha whispered, lost in the silvery depths of his eyes as she felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her trembling hand.

“I know,” he said solemnly.

He leaned forward and lowered his head until his lips were almost touching hers, still holding her palm against his heart. She had saved his life tonight, just as he had tried to save the lives of her people. They were both trapped in the vortex of a battle that neither wanted to fight, and that was something in which neither of them had any choice whatsoever. Tomorrow he would leave her to return to his clan and convince his laird to abandon his campaign against the MacKillons. After that he would retire to the holding he had been promised, and try to make some kind of life for himself that went beyond the constant infliction of misery and death. It was what he wanted, he told himself fiercely.

And so after tonight Melantha would be lost to him forever.

He groaned and captured her lips with his, crushing her against him with bruising force. A cry escaped her throat as she desperately returned his kiss, her tongue sweeping into his mouth as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down against her. Roarke tasted her deeply as his hands roamed over her, tearing away the light woolen blanket so he could feel the contours of her body through the maddeningly thin veil of her linen chemise. Melantha pulled in frustration at his plaid and jerkin, and Roarke appeased her by rising quickly to shed the offending garments.

Melantha stared in fascination at the naked warrior standing before her, his bronzed body chiseled into a thousand hard angles and sinewy curves illuminated by the flickering candlelight. There were scars etched across the powerful planes of his chest and stomach and arms, each one a testament to a life spent in battle. How many times had he faced death, and somehow managed to elude its grasp? It was impossible to think that his injuries had not affected him, or that his advancing age had not begun to stiffen muscles that were once fluid with youth. And yet he exuded a commanding power she had never known in any other man. The light of the candles was soft, but in that moment she could see him with absolute clarity, every weakness, and every strength.

And she wanted him with an intensity that was terrifying.

She kept her gaze locked upon his as she slowly skimmed the gossamer veil of her chemise up the paleness of her body, enjoying a dark pleasure as his eyes smoldered with desire. The gauzy fabric whispered over her head before she tossed it onto the cool stone floor in a crumpled pool. For an instant she was suddenly shy, but Roarke’s searing study of her kept her from crossing her arms over her breasts with maidenly modesty. She had known him once before, had felt the hard pressure of his body wrapped around her own and the exquisite glory of holding him deep within herself as he caressed her to the brink of madness. She wanted that again, that feeling of him moving against her, and with her, and the sublime knowledge that for one ethereal moment, he belonged to her alone.

She held out her arms.

Roarke stretched out over her, plundering her mouth with his tongue as he reveled in the feel of her slender form pressing against his hard body. He wanted her with a need that was staggering, a hunger so consuming he was certain it could never be abated. And so he tore away his mouth to ravenously kiss the softness of her cheek, the fine hollow at the base of her throat, the sweet pink shell of her ear. He did not linger long anywhere, but continued his journey along the delicate structure of her shoulder while his hands captured the lush mounds of her breasts. He buried his face into their softness before taking a claret peak into his mouth, and then he suckled hard and long, groaning with pleasure as Melantha plunged her hands into the thickness of his hair and held him tight against her.

Quickly he moved down the creamy flat of her stomach, until finally he came to the silky darkness between her thighs. He drew his tongue lightly up the downy cleft, barely grazing the hidden petals beneath, and felt a hot stab of masculine pleasure as a small, carnal moan escaped Melantha’s throat. He continued to flicker his tongue over her, tormenting her with the veiled promise of more, until finally she opened her legs wider in wanton desperation. He stroked her fully then, tasting the hot, wet folds of her with slow, sure laps, up and down, in and out, teasing her and torturing her as he flicked at every little hidden pleat. He burrowed his tongue deep inside her as his hands moved possessively over her legs and thighs and hips, drinking in the scent and taste and touch of her, and then he was swirling against the rosy slickness of her once again, until shallow little pants began to rise from her throat and her body grew restless with need.

Melantha felt as if she were being consumed by fire, so intense were the sensations pouring through her. Her body was all liquid heat and softness, while at the same time she felt as if every muscle and bone were locked so tight she would surely shatter. She opened herself farther to Roarke’s exquisite caresses and watched him as he lapped at her, feeling a dark, forbidden thrill at the sight of him devouring her so ravenously. An aching hollow was building within her, and she moaned in frustration, then sank back against the pillow as she felt him press his finger deep into her, filling her as he continued his hot, wet kisses. In and out his finger slid as his lips and tongue licked and suckled at her, igniting every fiber of her being into a raging fire, making her writhe and stretch against the cool linen sheets as her body burned for more. She could not bear this exquisite torment a moment longer, she was certain of it, but instead of stopping him she raised herself against him, taking quick, desperate little sips of air as her body grew rigid and her blood began to pound through her veins. And then suddenly everything stopped, and she was unable to move or think or breathe; all she could do was reach and reach for the incredible ecstasy dangling before her, and when she grasped it she cried out, a cry of wonder and utter joy. Roarke instantly rose up and buried himself deep inside her, filling her emptiness and covering her with the warm, hard shield of his powerful body, holding her safe as she exploded into a glorious shower of stars.

Roarke kissed Melantha tenderly as she locked her body to his, holding him tight within the deepest recesses of her as her fingers bit into the muscles of his back. And then she sighed into his mouth and eased her hold on him, the stiffness of her body flowing away like warm sand. A low growl unfurled from his chest as he began to move within her. He wanted her to the point of madness, and now that he was inside her he only wanted her more. In and out he thrust, feeling as if he were dying with each aching penetration, a slow, glorious death in which he ceased to be whoever the hell he had wasted most of his life being and instead became a part of her. She twined her legs with his and drew him deeper while her hands roamed the rigid planes of his shoulders and back and buttocks, scorching his flesh with her hungry touch, binding him to her body and heart and soul, until he thought he would weep from the impossible magnificence of it. He wanted to be lost within her forever, to feel her softness wrapped around him, the whisper of her breath gusting against his neck, and the sweet, clean scent of sunlit forests forever permeating the air. She was his, but only for this brief, stolen moment, and the knowledge was so agonizing his heart began to break. In and out he moved, desperately fighting his intensifying pleasure as he fought to chain her to him, feeling if he could just hold her longer, touch her more, bury himself ever deeper inside her, then surely he could cleave her to his soul. But there was no more time, for suddenly his body began to thrust faster and harder despite his efforts to restrain it. And then he was shattering, pouring himself into her as he called her name, filling her with his strength and his need as he covered her mouth with his and kissed her savagely.

They lay together a long while, their bodies still joined, their flesh burning between them. But the night air swirled around them in cool currents, eventually chilling their skin. Roarke gathered Melantha into his arms and held her close as he pulled the sheet and plaid over them, unwilling to accept that their time together was almost at an end. They clasped each other in uneasy silence, each unwilling to speak and break the fragile bonds that were already disintegrating between them.

After a while warm droplets began to fall against Roarke’s chest. Grasping Melantha’s chin, he tilted her head up and regarded her with concern.

“What is it, Melantha?”

Her eyes were glittering with anguish. “Nothing,” she whispered.

“Tell me,” he urged, brushing a damp lock of hair off her forehead.

She swallowed thickly and stared at him, obviously torn. And then she inhaled a ragged breath and whispered in a voice so faint he could barely make out the words, “I was thinking of my father.”

He drew her closer and began to stroke her hair, caressing her with a soothing touch as he held her even tighter against him.

She lay against him in silence, afraid. She did not know why she had even admitted that much to him. The memory of her father was as precious as it was painful, and not something she chose to share with anyone. Instead she kept it locked within her, buried deep within the ice-cold depths of anguish and remorse.

“When the battle was over this evening, you thought your father had just been killed,” Roarke ventured, wondering if she were still in a kind of shock instigated by what she had seen. “You realize that he was actually killed months ago, don’t you, Melantha?” he enquired gently.

She laid her cheek against the granite heat of his chest and nodded.

“But the assault tonight caused you to think about him?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated a long moment, debating whether or not to ask her more. The silvery drip of tears continued to wet his skin, until finally he decided that there was something she needed to tell him, whether she understood it completely or not. Keeping her cradled against him, he laid his hand against the hot stream trailing down her cheek and quietly asked, “How did he die, Melantha?”

She remained silent, fighting for the courage to speak. And just when he thought she would not open this painful memory to him, the words slowly began to come.

“I was asleep when the MacTiers attacked the first time,” she murmured, her voice strangely hollow. “The night was cool and there was a heavy cover of clouds blocking the light of the moon, making it difficult to see anything. When he realized we were under attack, my father told me to take my brothers to the lower level of the castle and hide with them. But I did not want to hide. My father had trained me from the time I was five in archery and swordplay, and I saw no reason why I should not help protect our home. And so I disobeyed him. I left Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick hiding with the other women and children, and I fetched my weapons and ran into the courtyard to fight the invaders.”

She paused.

Roarke’s voice was gentle as he softly prodded, “What happened, Melantha?”

“The MacTiers were everywhere,” she whispered helplessly. “Our men were doing their best to fight them, but they were no match for such highly trained savagery. I couldn’t see my father anywhere, and I was glad, because I knew if he saw me he would order me to return to my brothers. I climbed up the outer stairs leading to the second level of the castle, thinking I could kill more MacTiers with my bow than I could with my sword, and I began to shoot.”

She stopped again.

“Did you kill anyone?”

“I hit five of them, but I only managed to wound them,” she reported, her voice steeped in bitterness. “And then one of the MacTiers shouted an order to shoot the woman with the bow on the stairs. And that’s when my father discovered I had defied him.”

“He saw you?”

“He was fighting with a warrior down by the well. But when he heard about a woman archer, he was distracted.”

A terrible dread began to seep through Roarke.

“He—he only turned his head for an instant,” Melantha said, forcing herself to continue. “Just long enough to see me, and to call out my name.” She swallowed, fighting the sob rising in her throat. “That was all the warrior he was battling needed to plunge his sword deep into his belly.”

“Oh, God,” murmured Roarke, feeling her anguish as surely as if it were his own.

“His eyes never left mine as he sank to his knees,” she whispered, the words raw and halting. “He looked absolutely terrified. But not for himself,” she qualified. “His gaze stayed upon me, and all I could see was this awful fear—for what the MacTiers were going to do to me.” A ragged sob began to choke her.

Roarke drew her even tighter into his arms, trying to absorb some of her pain.

“Two warriors grabbed me then, and instead of killing me they decided to just drag me away from the battle. I screamed and struggled against them—not because I cared what they were going to do to me, but because I could see my da was dying and—” She inhaled a shuddering breath. “I wanted to be with him. I pleaded with them to let me go to him, so I could hold him…be with him…I didn’t want him to be alone.” Her words were drowning in tears. “But they just laughed and took me away. And my beautiful, brave da was left to bleed to death on the ground, watching his only daughter be dragged off by two warriors. And he was in agony, because he was terrified of what they were going to do to me and—he was helpless to stop them.”

She ground her face against Roarke’s chest. Deep, racking sobs shook her body while her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. Roarke did not know what to do except to hold her. His embrace was so tight he thought he might bruise her tender flesh or even crush a bone, but he did not ease his grip.

He thought about the excruciating burden of guilt, and how it could eat away at a soul until there was nothing but a frail shell left where once there had been a whole person. It was an affliction he knew well, for he believed that if he had only been at Muriel’s side to help her endure the shocking pain of their daughter’s death, he would have helped his gentle wife to find the strength to go on. Melantha was weeping for the loss of her father, but that was not what was destroying her soul.

What was truly torturous was the belief that she had caused his horrible death.

“It wasn’t your fault, Melantha,” he told her firmly, pulling her up so he could look into her eyes.

“I killed him,” she protested brokenly. “I defied his orders, and distracted him when he was fighting for his very life. Had I obeyed him and stayed with my brothers, he never would have been killed.”

“Your clan was under attack, Melantha,” Roarke pointed out. “Your father could have been killed at any moment—if not by that warrior, then by the next one who challenged him. And if he had been slain while you hid with your brothers, you would be punishing yourself now for not having fought at his side.”

She stared at him uncertainly, weighing the validity of his argument. And then she shook her head, dismissing it. “He died believing I was about to be beaten and raped,” she whispered. “I wasn’t, but that was his last thought as his life drained into the ground.”

“Perhaps,” Roarke allowed, tracing the shimmering path of her tears with his fingers. “But do you truly believe that was all that filled his mind in those last moments, Melantha?” he asked, his voice low and gentle. “Your father was not a man who made war, but he understood the importance of knowing how to defend those he loved. That is why he trained you from a tender age in the art of using a bow and a sword. And in those last moments, he was filled with an overwhelming love and pride at the sight of his beautiful daughter standing on the stairs above him, bravely helping her clan to ward off its enemies.”

She bit her quivering lip, considering his words.

“ ’Tis clear to me your father knew from the time you were a bairn that you were no ordinary lass, and he was determined to see that you were trained to realize the best of your abilities,” Roarke continued, his hand caressing the dark silk of her hair. “Imagine the pride he must have felt seeing you shooting arrows into the enemy, showing not the slightest hint of fear as you fought to protect your home. In his last moments he was overwhelmed with the vision of your courage and your love. It is never easy to die, Melantha, but that is as fine an image as any man could hope to take with him as he leaves his mortal body.”

Melantha regarded him with anxious uncertainty, wanting to believe him, but reluctant to release the guilt she had so painfully endured for so long. “Do you really think so?”

Her tears had stopped, but her eyes were still glittering, making them large and hauntingly luminous. She was unfathomably beautiful to him in that moment, as all the elements of her melded into one gloriously courageous yet achingly vulnerable woman. She was not his and she never would be, and the knowledge filled him with unbearable loss. But in this hushed moment, as she lay cradled against him studying him hopefully, she was as close to being his as she ever would be.

“Yes, Melantha,” he whispered, turning her onto her back and stretching his hard body over her exquisite softness once more.

She rose to meet his kiss, wrapping her slender arms around the chiseled marble of his shoulders. He buried himself inside her and began to move, kissing her tenderly as he quickly roused her once again. He sought to wash away the last vestiges of her guilt, to free her from the torment that slashed at her heart, and in doing so, perhaps assuage some of his own guilt as well.

And so they pulsed together in the flickering candlelight, lost to the splendid fire burning within them, and the aching need that bound their souls into one.