CHAPTER 14

“…it came off when I was strangling MacTier and so I gave it to you. I thought it might bring you luck,” finished Daniel, shrugging his thin shoulders.

Melantha stared in bewilderment at the pendant shimmering in her palm. This was what she had gripped so tightly, thinking it was only a stone. The silver orb felt hot against her skin, and the green jewel in its center seemed paler, almost as if it were glowing from within. She shifted it slightly, and the glow vanished. Obviously it had just been a trick of the light, she realized. Deeply touched by her brother’s gesture, she wrapped the broken chain around her wrist and knotted it, tucking the amulet inside her sleeve. She did not know if it held any mystical powers, but it had certainly been a comfort to hold as she faced her death.

“Thank you, Daniel.” She wrapped her arms tightly around him.

“They’re coming,” announced Lewis from his perch in a tree. “Looks like about twenty riders.”

“Either this lot has bellies of iron,” Magnus quipped, “or they managed to avoid my fair Edwina’s special new recipe.” He furrowed his white brows in bewilderment. “What the devil is that thing flapping about in the wind?”

“That’s Laird MacTier,” said Donald. “It seems he didn’t take time to change out of his fancy robes and jewels.”

“Looks like he brought my fair-haired friend with him,” Colin observed, referring to Derek.

“Good,” said Finlay, withdrawing his sword. “We’ve a score to settle with him.” He spat upon the ground.

“Everyone to their positions,” Roarke commanded, “and wait for my signal.”

Myles leaned over and clasped his hands together in a makeshift stirrup. “Come, lad, let’s get you up into this tree.”

Daniel regarded Roarke stubbornly. “I want to fight.”

“There are different ways of battling an enemy,” Roarke told him. “A warrior should not be afraid of attempting to outwit his opponent before he resorts to his sword and dirk.”

“Fine,” huffed Daniel, clearly unconvinced. He turned to Myles and permitted the burly warrior to hoist him up into the tree.

Fear coursed through Melantha as everyone quickly began scaling trees and burying themselves beneath mounds of branches and leaves.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked Roarke anxiously. “ ’Tis nearly dark—we could easily conceal ourselves within these woods and the MacTiers would never find us. Why are you so determined to fight them?”

“Because we must bring this matter to an end.”

“It will never end,” Melantha countered. “Laird MacTier will not rest until he has killed me—especially now that he has been publicly humiliated.” Her despair was nearly suffocating as she quietly finished. “He will make it his life’s work to see me captured and executed, and to destroy my people as well.”

Roarke reached out and tenderly brushed his fingers against her cheek. “No, Melantha, he will not. I will not allow it.”

“You cannot stop him.” Her fleeting exhilaration at escaping death was now eradicated by the knowledge that she had sentenced her beloved clan to destruction. “He will not listen to you, and my people do not have the strength to fight his army.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she raggedly finished. “You should have left me to die.”

He gripped her chin and tipped her head up, forcing her to look at him.

There was much he wanted to say to her, but he knew he would never find the words. A life of battle had not equipped him with tender words and sweet phrases. Muriel had never expected them from him, and he had not offered them to her. And although he had loved his precious Clementina, he had been away fighting for much of her brief life, and had not learned to speak his heart to the child who expected nothing of him except love.

How could he possibly make Melantha understand what she had come to mean to him?

“I could not let you die, Melantha,” he ventured gruffly, “because I would have died as well.”

Melantha stared at him, her eyes wide and silvered with emotion.

The pounding of hooves was drawing nearer, forcing Roarke to release her. “Now take your position,” he ordered brusquely, “and try not to get shot.”

She hesitated, studying him through the soft blur of her tears.

And then she looped her bow over her shoulder and silently melted into the shadows of the trees.

Laird MacTier and his warriors thundered toward them, their bodies bent low over their mounts. Their pace did not slacken as they approached, making it clear that they were determined to find the Falcon and Roarke, and had overlooked the possibility of a trap. The shoulder of Laird MacTier’s robe was drenched with blood, but he was not permitting his injury to hinder his speed.

A little closer, urged Roarke silently, watching as MacTier rode past the trees where Ninian and Gelfrid were positioned. Utilizing the patience that had been painstakingly honed during twenty years of battle, Roarke waited until the very last MacTier warrior had thundered into the tight parameters of their ambush.

“Now!”

Three enormous nets dropped from the trees, instantly snaring a dozen warriors. Their mounts reared and tossed their startled masters onto their backsides, leaving the MacTiers swearing and scrabbling as they tried to avoid being crushed by churning flanks and hooves.

The remaining seven riders and Laird MacTier withdrew their swords and wheeled about, vainly searching the darkness for their enemy.

“Now!” commanded Roarke.

A shower of arrows rained down upon them from the branches overhead, piercing them in their shoulders, backs, and arms, and reducing their numbers again by more than half.

“Damn you!” raged MacTier, jerking his horse round in an agitated circle as he impotently shook his sword at the tangled canopy above. “Come down and fight me on the ground!”

The earth exploded in response to his invitation, with mounds of branches and leaves suddenly bursting all around him. At the same time men began to drop from the trees. By the time he, Derek, and Neill had managed to regain control of their terrified horses, they were completely surrounded. The remaining MacTier warriors were either nursing their injuries or cursing in frustration as they crashed into each other ensnared in the nets.

“Drop yer weapons,” ordered Magnus, aiming a quivering arrow straight at Laird MacTier’s jeweled chest, “or I’ll make a big, bloody hole in yer fancy gown.”

Laird MacTier nodded at Derek. “Kill him.”

The blond warrior looked at his laird in surprise. “We’re surrounded and he has an arrow trained upon you.”

“He cannot kill me,” Laird MacTier informed his warrior calmly. “Kill him.”

“I’m just as happy to put a shaft in you, laddie,” said Magnus cheerfully, shifting his aim to Derek. “I’ve more than enough arrows for the lot of ye.”

Melantha pointed her weapon at Derek. “If you’re thinking he’s likely to miss, I promise you I won’t,” she stated coldly.

“Nor will I,” added Ninian, adjusting the string of his bow.

Gelfrid’s face contorted with effort as he struggled to keep his shaking arrow from releasing prematurely. “Nor I.”

“If they only succeed in wounding you, I shall be happy to hack you into bloody chunks for the wolves to feed upon,” offered Eric, his sword gleaming through the darkness.

“And I’ll take this stick and gouge your eyes out,” threatened Daniel.

“I’ll help,” offered Donald gallantly.

Myles waved his blade at Neill. “And I’ll take care of your shivering friend over there.”

Derek needed no further convincing. He hastily tossed his sword onto the ground, then threw down his dirk for good measure, inspiring Neill to do the same.

“You cowardly fools!” raged Laird MacTier. “I’ll have you both executed for disobeying me!”

Roarke moved into the lacy veil of moonlight now filtering through the branches. “I advise you to follow their example and relinquish your weapons, Laird MacTier.”

“My God, Roarke,” MacTier breathed, his face twisted with fury. “No man could have trusted his own brother more than I trusted you.”

“Your weapons, Laird MacTier.”

Laird MacTier maintained his grip upon his heavily jeweled sword. “How could you betray me and your clan, and sacrifice everything I gave you to help this ragged, filthy band of thieves?”

“ ’Tis interesting,” mused Roarke, “that in all the years we have stolen from others we have felt it was our right to do so. Yet when others stole from us, we branded them thieves and demanded retribution.”

“It’s not the same!” snapped Laird MacTier. “You and I have spent our entire lives leading the MacTier clan to ever greater power. We did it for the good of our people and for the generations of MacTiers who will come after us.”

“But the prosperity of our clan has come at the suffering of others,” pointed out Roarke. “No matter how much we take from others—their land, their homes, the very chairs upon which they sit and cups from which they drink, it’s never enough. There is always another holding waiting to be conquered.”

“Of course it is never enough,” agreed Laird MacTier. “That is how a great clan is built—by constantly expanding its borders and increasing its wealth. It is the most basic law of nature that the strong will prey upon the weak.”

“We are men,” argued Roarke, “not animals. We have the ability to temper our actions with morality, compassion, and honor. It is wrong to prey upon the weak simply because they are weak.”

“We are warriors,” scoffed Laird MacTier. “ ’Tis rooted in our very nature to conquer. It is what makes us great leaders.”

Roarke shook his head. “You were in a position to help others build something, to make them stronger and ally them with your army so that everyone could benefit. Instead you chose to brutalize them and steal from them. Then when they, in turn, stole from you, only because you had reduced them to a state of near starvation, you became enraged and demanded vengeance. But vengeance was not your right to demand,” he finished. “It was theirs.”

“Enough of this foolish talk!” snarled Laird MacTier. “You have betrayed me, and for that you must die!”

He dug his heels into his horse and raised his sword, preparing to cut Roarke down where he stood.

Roarke’s men sprinted forward with raised blades. The flurry of arrows released by Melantha, Magnus, Ninian, and Gelfrid arrived first. Ninian and Gelfrid’s arrows sailed past their target and struck a perfectly innocent tree, while Magnus’s shaft accidentally pierced Derek’s shoulder, which was to the right of Laird MacTier.

Melantha’s aim, however, was perfect.

Laird MacTier howled in pain and dropped his sword. His eyes round with horror, he stared at the shaft protruding grotesquely from his wrist.

“You cannot kill me!” he raged, clawing at the golden swath of fabric at his throat. “I have the amulet!”

One by one he cast his heavily jeweled chains upon the ground with his uninjured hand, desperately searching for the pendant. When the last necklace lay shimmering upon the earth and his throat was exposed and naked, his eyes widened with alarm.

“Did you lose something?” drawled Colin sarcastically.

“You’re a MacTier, Roarke, by birth and blood,” Laird MacTier blurted out, suddenly afraid. “Your sworn loyalty is to me and your clan. It is therefore your duty to protect me from these murdering outlaws.”

“You did not earn my loyalty,” Roarke countered. “ ’Twas given blindly, merely by the fact of being born a MacTier. But I can no longer follow you blindly—not when compassion and honor have finally opened my eyes.”

“Only a madman or an idiot would forfeit the holding I gave to you over such nonsense,” argued Laird MacTier, cradling his bleeding arm against his side. His eyes narrowed. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it.”

“Now, there’s a tempting offer,” chortled Magnus, vastly amused.

Roarke shook his head. “There is nothing you could give me that would change this.”

“Eric—Myles—Donald,” called Laird MacTier. “You owe your loyalty to me before Roarke. Help me now, and you will each receive a fortune in gold.”

“My allegiance has always been to Roarke first,” Eric told him bluntly. “And no amount of gold could compare to the jewel that awaits me at the MacKillon holding.”

“By all the saints, I knew it!” burst out Magnus, nearly releasing his next arrow in his excitement. “Ye may have fooled some with all that savage Viking business, but I knew our sweet Gillian would see through it!”

Colin regarded Eric incredulously. “Are you referring to my sister?”

Eric nodded.

“But she is terrified of you,” Colin protested.

“No.” A peculiar warmth flooded through Eric as he realized he was declaring his intentions before Gillian’s brother and clan. “She isn’t.”

“Myles,” pleaded Laird MacTier, dismissing Eric, “think of what you could do with all that gold!”

Myles shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I don’t need any gold. If you gave me some I would just give it to the MacKillons.”

“I’m afraid our Myles has been struck by the arrow of love as well,” Donald observed, smiling. “Her name is Katie,” he added, as if he genuinely thought Laird MacTier might find this information interesting.

“What about you, Donald?” demanded Laird MacTier, growing frantic.

“Alas, I haven’t met the woman who will be my wife yet,” Donald told him. “But thank you for asking.”

Laird MacTier’s eyes narrowed on Roarke. “By turning against your clan, you spit upon the graves of your own wife and child.”

“My wife was devoted to both her clan and to me,” Roarke replied, infuriated that MacTier would attempt to use their precious memory against him. “And my daughter was devoted to her mother. Were they alive today, I have no doubt that they would respect me for my actions.”

“You cannot kill me.” His tone was almost pleading.

“I have no intention of killing you,” Roarke assured him. “As long as you agree to my terms.”

Laird MacTier regarded him warily. “Which are?”

“I will have your word that you and your allies will leave the MacKillons in peace, and that you will cease your pursuit of the Falcon and her outlaws.”

“She tried to kill me!” objected Laird MacTier. “Twice!”

“If I had wanted to kill you that last arrow would have punctured your heart instead of your wrist,” pointed out Melantha. “I was merely trying to stop you from killing Roarke.”

“Let us say you will both refrain from trying to murder each other,” said Roarke. “In return for your assurance of peace, the Falcon will cease to prey upon the MacTiers and their allies, and I will spare your life and the lives of your men.”

Laird MacTier hesitated, considering.

“If you do not agree, I shall permit my men and these outlaws to cut you and your warriors to pieces,” said Roarke. “I know that Derek here has managed to raise the ire of at least several members of the Falcon’s band. They would take great pleasure in seeing scraps of him scattered throughout these woods.”

Derek paled.

His face contorted with pain and defeat, Laird MacTier nodded. “Very well.”

“You will also renounce any claim upon the holding you gave me—”

“I knew that was too sweet a gift for you to surrender.” His tone was laden with scorn.

“—and you will grant complete freedom to its inhabitants and refrain from ever attempting to conquer it again.”

Laird MacTier regarded him in astonishment. “You’re not keeping it?”

“It is not mine to keep,” Roarke informed him, “just as it was not yours to give.”

“Fine.”

“Swear it,” insisted Roarke. “Upon your honor.”

“I swear it!” he snapped. “Upon my bloody honor!”

“Well, now, I’m not sure what good an oath like that is,” scoffed Magnus, “when ’tis a well known fact that ye have no honor.”

Laird MacTier’s face turned scarlet with rage. “How dare you!”

“How can we be sure that he will keep his word?” demanded Colin.

“He has no choice,” Roarke told him. “He has made a vow in front of his own men. Were he to break his word, his army would never trust him. Knowledge of his deceit would quickly spread, until all his allies would sever their ties with him, and he would be left isolated and powerless.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Magnus conceded. “But mind my words, ye’ll be feelin’ more than a shaft through yer wrist if ye try any more foolishness, do ye hear?”

“If you’ve all finished with your threats, would you kindly let me go before I bleed to death?” asked Laird MacTier.

“I’ll remove that arrow if ye like,” offered Magnus, suddenly feeling generous. “Ye’d not be the first MacTier to benefit from my touch.” He winked at Roarke.

“I’d recommend trying to live with the arrow,” Roarke advised dryly. “Your men will be stripped of their weapons and their mounts before being released. As you are injured, you may retain your horse.”

“Thank you,” drawled Laird MacTier, still cradling his dripping arm.

Roarke gestured for his men and Melantha’s band to relieve the MacTiers of their weapons.

“I suggest you leave these woods quickly,” he said, picking up Laird MacTier’s sword and examining the heavily jeweled hilt. “ ’Tis a known fact that they are filled with outlaws.”

He tossed the sword onto a pile and turned away.

Melantha wove her way through the columns of trees in silence, leaving behind the low rumble of snoring and the smoky scent of dying fires. She had found a small stream to bathe in, and the night air washed over her damp skin as she followed the liquid path through the darkness. Finally the woods came to an end, and she stepped out beneath the crystal-flecked sky.

Roarke sat before an endless expanse of loch, contemplating its shimmering surface. He wore only his plaid, and his black hair was wet and curling against his damp skin, indicating that he had been swimming. He did not turn as she approached, but continued to study the rippling water. Melantha seated herself beside him and wrapped her arms around her knees. For a moment they sat together in silence, neither willing to break the stillness.

“How did they die?” Melantha finally ventured softly.

Roarke kept his gaze upon the ribbon of moonlight dancing upon the loch’s surface. “My daughter succumbed to a fever at the age of three, and I was not there to help my wife endure it. She poisoned herself.”

Melantha had always known he had endured a terrible loss. She had seen it shadowed in his eyes the first time she had looked upon him. Even so, she had never imagined his wounds to have been so deep. She had always believed her own suffering to be far greater than anything he could comprehend.

She had been wrong, she realized, feeling selfish and ashamed. The deaths of a wife and child were an agony of which she could scarcely conceive.

“Is that why you wanted a holding of your own? Because you couldn’t bear to return to the place where they died?”

“In part,” he admitted. “It was also why I stayed away for so many years. I had failed miserably as a husband and a father. But I never failed as a warrior. As long as there was a battle to fight, then I had somewhere to go.”

She could understand that. Love and responsibility for her brothers had tied her to her clan, but she had sought refuge in the forest. Whether hunting for meat or stealing under the guise of the Falcon, the woods were a place where she could almost escape the pain of her past.

“Magnus told me the holding Laird MacTier gave you was very beautiful,” she said after a while. “He said the hall in which he found you was filled with fine tapestries, and that you drank from silver cups.”

Roarke’s mouth tightened with contempt. “We drank from cups the price of which could have fed a child for a month, and slept on soft feather mattresses that made my back ache. And I hated it.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t really mine. Everyone there knew it, and I knew it, and yet we played this idiotic game of their bowing before me and acting as though they respected me, when in fact they utterly despised me.”

“They would have learned to respect you, Roarke—just as my people did. All you had to do was give them time.”

“I didn’t give a damn if they learned to respect me or not.”

Melantha studied him in silence. Despite his efforts to denigrate the holding Laird MacTier had given to him, it had been his long awaited reward for a lifetime of dedicated service. The lands had been fertile, the castle solid and handsome. And regardless of what he said, Melantha was certain that eventually Roarke would have been able to win the trust and devotion of the people who lived there. He could have lived a comfortable life of stature and affluence, while maintaining his position in his clan.

Because of her, he had nothing.

“It was everything you have ever wanted,” she whispered, unable to conceal her regret.

He reached out and brushed a dark strand of hair off her temple, then laid his hand possessively along the paleness of her cheek. “No, Melantha,” he murmured quietly, “it was not.”

He lowered his head, his eyes never leaving hers. His lips were barely a breath away from her own when he finished in a rough whisper, “I want you. You and Daniel and Matthew and Patrick, and the wonderful children we are going to create together. That means more to me than all the holdings and tapestries and silver cups in Scotland. Do you understand?”

She stared at him a long, anguished moment, trying to absorb what he was telling her.

And then she threw her arms around him and crushed her lips to his.

Roarke plunged his tongue into the wet heat of her mouth, tasting her deeply, absolutely, while his hands roamed the thick silk of her hair, the delicate span of her ribs, the lush swell of her breasts. He wanted her with a desire that was staggering, to bury himself inside her and make her his, until there was nothing but the clear cape of sky above them and the glorious heat of love between them. He pulled her into his lap, feeling himself harden beneath the coarse wool of his plaid as he began to ease up the fabric of her gown. Melantha pressed herself eagerly against him, splaying her hands across his back to steady herself.

Roarke winced.

“You’re hurt!”

“It’s nothing,” he assured her, trying to bring her back into his arms.

Unconvinced, she wriggled out of his grasp and moved behind him. A long, dark cut marred the bronzed flesh across his shoulder blade. The wound had stopped bleeding and his dip in the loch had washed it clean, but it would have to be closed nonetheless.

“You need to be stitched,” she announced.

“If you dare turn me over to Magnus, I swear I shall go after MacTier and beg him to take me back.”

“I suppose Lewis could do it,” she speculated. “He’s very good at fixing things.”

“Does he knew how to close a wound?”

She hesitated. “I’m certain he could figure it out.”

“Well, he can figure it out on a scrap of cloth, not on my back.” A nagging suspicion began to form in his mind. “Why don’t you do it?”

She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the moonlight on the loch.

“Melantha?”

“I never actually learned to sew,” she confessed.

“I see.”

“I was too busy learning how to fight and hunt,” she told him defensively.

“Those are valuable skills,” Roarke agreed. “Unfortunately, it means I am going to have a wife who is adept at slaying beasts and enemies, but not at keeping her family’s wounds tended and their clothes from falling apart.” He sighed. “I suppose I shall have to teach you how to sew myself.”

Her eyes widened. “You can sew?”

“ ’Tis a skill every self-respecting warrior needs to have. You would be amazed at what gets slashed on a battlefield.” He pulled her down before him. “Since you lack the ability to close my wound, perhaps you could do something to distract me from the pain and raise my spirits.” He began to press slow, lingering kisses down her neck.

Melantha’s hand grazed across his lap. “I would say your spirits have been raised already.”

“You’re a saucy lass,” he chided, lowering her against the grass. “I can see that life with you is going to be exhausting.”

She pulled away the rumpled length of his plaid. “You may be right,” she conceded, wrapping her hand around his hardness.

She kissed him as she caressed the length of him with slow, teasing promise, alternating her rhythm and her touch until his entire body was rigid and straining with pleasure. Finally Roarke could bear no more. Pulling himself away, he quickly pushed up the skirts of her gown and nuzzled the creamy skin of her thighs.

“I like this gown,” he murmured, “far better than your breeches.”

It was much later that they lay twined together beneath the soft warmth of Roarke’s plaid, listening to the gentle caress of the loch against the rocks.

“Do you think the amulet really possesses the power to protect its wearer?” Melantha asked, studying the silver sphere dangling against her wrist.

Roarke lifted the chain so that the emerald sparkled in the moonlight. “If you had asked me before, I would have said no. However, it cannot be denied that you have had uncommonly good fortune while it has been in your possession.”

“You nearly cut off my head, I suffered an arrow in my shoulder, and was almost executed by six archers,” she pointed out aridly. “That scarcely seems like good fortune to me.”

“Yet here you are, safe and well in the arms of the warrior who tried to slay you, and instead has come to love you above all else.” He dropped the pendant and began to nuzzle the valley between her breasts. “You should know that it is not my custom to marry the outlaws I have been sent to capture. In the case of the Falcon, however, I am willing to make an exception.”

He took the peak of her breast into his mouth and began to suckle.

“That is most chivalrous of you,” observed Melantha. She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. “I shall give your proposal my utmost consideration, and will offer you my response in the morning.”

Roarke paused in his ministrations to regard her with amusement. “In that case, my little outlaw, I shall do everything within my power to influence your decision.” He began to press a lingering path of heated kisses down the soft flat of her belly.

It was not much later that Melantha whispered her answer into the velvet night.