Devil in a Kilt (39 page)

Only,
this time, a thousandfold more frightening.

"Alec!
Malcolm!" he thundered, stopping two of his most stalwart men before they
could charge up the turret stairs. "Go at once to my lady's chamber. Make
certain her windows are shuttered and barred. Kill any who would dare attempt
entry. And tell young Thomas to keep his post at the door and to guard it with
his life."

Both
men nodded, then bounded toward the circular stairway leading to the tower
chamber Duncan shared with his wife. Duncan's fists clenched as he watched them
take the stairs two at a time.

Hellfire
and damnation, but he wanted to race past them; ‘Twas
his
task to see to
his lady's safety.

And
the child's, the thought coming as one with his concern for Linnet.

Seeing
naught but their beloved faces before him, Duncan barreled his way through the
hall. He made straight for the tower stairs, roughly shoving aside any who had
the misfortune to happen across his path.

But
the weight of duty halted him on the fifth step.

God's
blood, what had come over him? He was laird and as such, was honorbound to see
to the safety of his clan.

His
entire clan.

Every
man, woman, and child, under his roof.

Yet
here he was hightailing himself to his lady wife's side, forgetting his
responsibilities, and turning a blind eye to his duties as clan chief.

Duncan
heaved a great, calming breath and dragged his hands through his sweat-dampened
hair. Never would he have thought mere lust, simple physical need and mayhap a
spot of affection, would drive him to act so rashly.

Truth
tell, and ‘twas well he knew, only in commanding his men, in fighting at their
sides, could he ensure the safety of all within his walls.

Including
Linnet and Robbie.

Knowing
what he must do, he cast one more glance up the darkened stairwell. He could
still hear Alec and Malcolm's hurrying footfalls. Both would defend his lady
and the child with their last breath if need be.

As
he, too, would do ... from the battlements.

Next
his men.

His
resolve clear, he turned to face the hall. With his hands planted firmly on his
hips, he surveyed the chaos unfolding around him.

Praise
the saints, it was an orderly chaos.

Fergus
still dashed about brandishing his mace and ranting at Duncan's men, barking
orders, and doing his best to spur them into action.

Not
that any amongst them could be called a laggard.

Nay,
far from it.

To a
man, they'd roused and armed themselves. With pride, Duncan noted even his
youngest squires had heeded what they'd been taught and disposed of their
scabbards. Their naked swords gleamed at their sides, unsheathed and
battle-ready, thrust through naught but a simple ring attached to their belts.

Not
a one would be hindered by an unwieldy scabbard dangling empty at his side.

And
none would fall without a fight.

His
men were feared as bold and courageous warriors. They ranked as some of the fiercest
e'er known to walk the Highlands.

Whoever
was foolhardy enough to attack Eilean Creag would pay dearly for their daring.

With
pride, Duncan watched his best archers race to man the walls. Others equally
skilled, hurried toward umanned wall embrasures whilst those already in place
raised their bows, aiming them with deadly intent through arrow loops cut
deeply into the thick stone walls.

Duncan
curled his fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. A trusty
weapon, light and perfectly balanced, it's double-edged blade was sharp enough
to slice off a man's arm without even taking a notch in its steel if wielded
properly.

And
Duncan wielded it well.

Better
than most.

His
hand tightened around the leather grip. ‘Twas soft and smooth, growing warm
beneath his touch, welcoming him almost as seductively as a woman would her
lover's caress.

Duncan's
lips curved upward in a bitter travesty of a smile. His intent wasn't that of a
lover's. His purpose was earnest.

Deadly
earnest and meant to be dealt swiftly and without mercy.

With
the strength of mind he'd mastered through years of battle, Duncan pushed all
thought from his mind. All thought but protecting his own and driving the enemy
from his castle walls. Quickly, he descended the few steps he'd climbed, then
crossed the hall with great strides, eager to join his men on the battlements.

But
before he could mount the turret stairs, Sir Marmaduke came barreling down
them. Breathing hard, his scarred face glistening with beads of sweat, the
Sassunach came to an abrupt halt beneath the arched entrance to the hall.

Duncan
didn't wait for his friend to catch his breath.

"Who?"
was all he asked, though deep inside, he already knew. It could be no other.
Still, he repeated the single word. "Who?"

"‘Tis
Kenneth, the bloody whoreson," Marmaduke panted, dragging the back of his
arm across his damp brow. "With the devil's own stealth, they've left
their galley anchored out of firing range and used one-man coracles to sneak
ashore. It would seem they're trying to undermine the walls."

"And
our defenses?"

"We're
prepared," Sir Marmaduke reported, breathing hard. "We've been
letting loose a steady barrage of arrows upon them, but they're using their
boats like shields, holding the upturned coracles over the sappers whilst they
pick at our walls."

"And
fired arrows?" Duncan asked, stepping aside as two laundresses hurried
past, clutching baskets of linen, obviously come to tend poor Iain's body.

"It
wouldn't be worth the effort to set the arrows aflame. They've covered the
coracles with wet hides. I
did
set fire to a few of the vessels before
they could toss hides over them," Marmaduke boasted, his lips twitching
in an attempt at a wicked grin. "But I didn't do it with flaming
arrows."

Duncan
quirked a brow at the Englishman, a sudden suspicion stealing into his mind.
"Pray then, what did you use?"

Marmaduke
clamped a large hand on Duncan's shoulder. "Something much better, my
friend," he said, his voice smooth, fair oozing contentment.
"Something we should have consigned to the fires of hell long ago."

"You
didn't," Duncan said, his suspicion confirmed by the look of satisfaction
on Marmaduke's ravaged face.

"Indeed
I did," Marmaduke acknowledged, a twinkle in his good eye. "Now lets
hurry her nithling lover and his pack of misbegotten buffoons on their bloody
way to join her. As I recall, she could get quite cross when left waiting
overlong."

"Aye,"
Duncan agreed, a smile spreading across his own face. "‘Tis a journey long
overdue."

Marmaduke
gave a hearty laugh and thwacked Duncan on the back, then both men began the
circular climb to the turret wall walk. "Have they gained the gatehouses?"
Duncan wanted to know, as they ascended the curving stone steps.

"Nay.
Our guards are keeping a hail of arrows and stones raining upon them; they
won't venture near either gatehouse or the causeway."

"How
many scaling ladders have you seen?"

"Only
a few, and they aren't setting them up where they'd do the most good,"
Marmaduke puzzled. "So far there have been no tries to reach the lady
Linnet's window, and Kenneth must know its her chamber."

"Yet
they attempt to sap our walls?" Duncan frowned. Something wasn't right.
"Kenneth knows this castle cannot be assailed. It's built on solid rock.
‘Tis a fool's errand he's on." He stopped in his tracks, turning around to
face his brother-in-law. "Or else he means to distract us. But why?"

The
Sassunach rubbed his chin. "Hmmmmm ..."

"Hmmmmm
is not an answer."

Marmaduke
began tapping his cheek with his forefinger. Finally, he said, "Iain was
struck down."

The
man was going daft on him. Heat shot into Duncan's cheeks and his pulse leapt
with aggravation. "I know that," he snapped. "His body's not yet
gone cold, rest his soul. Now, think and dinna tell me what I already
ken."

"Iain
was one of our best archers."

Now
he
was
angry. "So?"

Marmaduke
drew a deep breath before speaking. "I would swear upon my beloved
Arabella's bones they
chose
to slay Iain. Kenneth had laid his hand
above his eyes and appeared to study the men lining the wall walk, then said
something to the crossbowman standing beside him. The man took aim, and Iain
went down."

Duncan
thought a moment. It made no sense. "Mayhap Kenneth had a quarrel with
Iain? I know of naught ever falling betwixt them, but I canna conceive any other
reason Iain would've been sought out to die."

"Red
James was attacked as well."

"Red
James?" Duncan fixed Marmaduke with a penetrating stare. "Do not
tell me he, too, is dead."

"Nay,
he lives. The man is stronger than ten oxen." Marmaduke cast a quick glance
up the stairwell before continuing. "One of the miscreants climbed a
scaling ladder and slashed open his right arm. The bastard nigh cut him to the
bone."

Anger
welled in Duncan's chest. Red James was one of his best warriors. "By the
Rood," he swore. "Will he lose use of the arm?"

"That
hardy knave?" Marmaduke arched his good brow. "It would take more
than a mere cut, deep though it be, to slow Red. He hardly blinked! He cast
aside his crossbow, drew his sword, and skewered the mangy whoreson. Ran him
clear through, then sent his foul carcass and the ladder flying."

Of a
sudden, the noise increased. The sound of running feet and the furious clatter
of steel against steel warned them the fighting had taken on a new fervor.
Men's shouts rose above the din.

Shouts
and sharp screams.

Screams
of pain.

The
kind a man only emits when a blade bites deep.

Deep,
sure, and deadly.

"Come,
English," Duncan said, yanking his sword from its ring. "We've
tarried too long."

With
speed born of anger, Duncan charged up the stairs, the Sassunach close on his
heels. From behind, Duncan heard the hiss and zing of cold steel as Marmaduke,
too, freed his great broadsword.

At
the top of the stairs, Marmaduke's hand closed over Duncan's elbow, preventing
him from bursting onto the battlements. "Hugh's been hit, too," he
said, raising his voice above the clamor.

Duncan
swore. "Saints preserve us. Is he down?"

"Nay,
only wounded. The arrow passed cleanly through his shoulder."

"Damnation,"
Duncan swore again. "We have no finer archer than Hugh."

Marmaduke
nodded. "True, and ‘tis his
right
shoulder—like Red James."

The
nagging suspicion that had been dancing so elusively on the edge of Duncan's
mind flared and took form. "Iain, Red James, then Hugh," he said, his
fury curling into a tight, black knot deep in his gut. "The whoresons are
picking off our best warriors apurpose!"

"So
it would seem."

"Then
let us return the favor."

"With
the greatest pleasure, my friend," Marmaduke said raising his sword.

"Cuidich'
N' Righ!"
Duncan shouted, brandishing his own blade. Then
he stepped onto the battlements and into complete chaos.

In
her tower chamber, Linnet paced like a caged animal. "You canna mean to
keep me locked in here," she railed at the two brawny warriors who blocked
the room's only exit. They stood unsmiling before the locked door, their
muscular arms crossed forbiddingly over their massive chests. "There will
be injuries, mayhap deaths. My husband would want me in the hall to tend his
men."

"‘Twas
the laird himself who declared you shall not leave this chamber, my lady,"
the taller one, Malcolm told her, his voice so calm and courteous Linnet wished
to hurl something at him.

"Please,
lady, you must becalm yourself," Alec, the other one tried to coax, a
pleading note underlying his deep voice. "We canna go against the Black
Stag's orders. ‘Tis for your own good."

Linnet
bristled. Angrily, she cast a glance at Elspeth, who sat by the fire, holding
the sleeping Robbie against her ample girth. The boy's old mongrel, Mauger,
slept, too, curled on the floor at Elspeth's feet.

‘Twas
apparent from the way Elspeth pointedly avoided her gaze that her old nurse
sided with the two giants sent to keep her from her duties.

"‘Tis
well and good to keep my lady and Robbie safe behind barred and guarded doors,
but I am lady of this castle. ‘Tis my place to tend the injured." She
paused, then aimed her next words at Elspeth. "Your betrothed is likely
in the middle of the fray as well. Would you not that I be there to tend him
should be struck down?"