Devil in a Kilt (47 page)

Then,
after a quick but wary glance over her shoulder, she removed its stopper and
tipped the entire contents into the sour-smelling wine.

Kenneth
extended his cup at her approach. "You make a comely serving maid. ‘Tis
good, for soon you shall be offering up more than mere wine," he drawled,
his gaze sliding down the length of her.
"Much more."

Linnet
said naught and filled his cup to the brim.

Again
and again until his eyelids drooped and his words slurred.

Then
she returned to her resting place by the tree and waited.

Waited
and watched.

For
what seemed hours, she kept her vigil, her assessing gaze touching lightly on
each slumbering man. Especially the one who, in sleep, looked so much like her
husband, her heart twisted painfully within her chest.

Then...
finally
... a hush settled over the campsite. The fire burned low, the
brigands' restless tossing and turning ceased, and only a few hardy souls
amongst them still snored.

All
slept.

‘Twas
time.

Half-afraid
to breathe, lest she make a noise, Linnet gently nudged Robbie's shoulder. His
eyes fluttered open, the wariness in them giving sad testament to how heavily
the ordeal of the past two days weighed on him.

He
opened his mouth to speak, but Linnet quickly pressed two fingers over his
lips. "Hush," she whispered close to his ear, "‘Tis time for us
to be gone from here. Can you be very quiet? Not make a sound no matter what
happens?"

Robbie
regarded her with rounded eyes and nodded.

Linnet
returned the nod and ran the backs of her fingers down the boy's cheek in what
she hoped to be a reassuring gesture. Then she pushed slowly to her feet,
gathered Robbie into her arms, and stole into the trees.

She
paused beneath the spreading branches of a large yew until her eyes adjusted to
the damp, earthy-smelling darkness of the wood, then strode toward the horses
as fast as she dared. They stood quietly, only one bothering to glance her way
and whicker softly in greeting.

At
the noise, Robbie squirmed in her arms. "Are we going to steal a
horse?" he piped, obviously forgetting his promise to keep quiet.

Linnet
clamped her hand over Robbie's mouth and froze, fear of discovery sending her
heart straight to her throat.

A
great bear of a man slept nearby, his head resting on a saddle, his slack mouth
emitting a sputtering chorus of snores.

Praise
be the saints he slept on.

Unfortunately,
his resting place was but a few steps away from her chosen mount, a
fleet-footed courser she'd had her eye on.

Linnet
eyed the proud-looking horse again, weighing her chances, but when the man
groaned and rolled onto his side, she abandoned any and all designs she'd had
on the courser and lifted Robbie onto the bare back of the nearest beast, a
gentle-eyed palfrey.

The only
horse among the lot who appeared to be long of tooth and swaybacked.

It
scarce mattered. With a last glance at the sleeping giant and a silent warning
to Robbie to keep still, she used the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree as a
mounting block and scrambled up behind him. Sliding an arm about his waist, she
drew him against her. To her immense relief, he appeared calm.

Would
that
she
were calm.

Ne'er
had she ridden without a saddle.

Truth
to tell, she doubted she could, ancient-looking nag or nay.

At
least the beast wore bridle gear. Saving her relief over that particular
blessing for another time, she took the reins in her free hand and urged the
horse forward.

God
willing, the palfrey possessed a stout enough heart to carry them a goodly
distance before Kenneth regained his senses and discovered them gone.

Duncan
reined in his mount as soon as he spied Sir Marmaduke galloping his horse down
the slope of a nearby hill, thundering back from his scouting foray with a
speed greater than if all the hounds of hell were upon his heels.

Such
haste bode ill, and Duncan wasn't wont to ride ahead and hear dire tidings a
moment sooner than necessary.

Then
the Sassunach was upon him, jerking his steed to an abrupt halt before
Duncan's. "They are not among them," he reported, dragging his arm
across his damp brow.

The
words hit Duncan with the ferocity of a well-executed blow to the gut. He
stared hard at Sir Marmaduke, searching for a sign, any evidence his friend
was mistaken.

Sadly,
he found no such indication.

Sir
Marmaduke sat straight in his saddle, the expression on his scarred face,
stony ...
grim.
Further, his mount's heaving sides and sweat-lathered
coat bespoke the truth of his words, gave proof of the urgency with which he'd
hastened back with his grave news.

Duncan's
heart—the selfsame one he nigh wished he'd ne'er rediscovered for the suffering
it now brought him—lurched cruelly within his chest.

"You
are certain?"

The
Sassunach nodded, and Duncan knew what it was like to die.

Anger,
rage, and stark terror—a darker fear than he'd ever known—consumed him. Dread
welled up inside him until he almost gagged, and a red haze of fury clouded
his vision, near blinding him.

When
the haze cleared, he felt naught. Not the agony of his still-fresh and aching
wounds, nor the jagged shards of fierce pain lancing through his very soul.

"How
far?" he asked, his tone flat... cold.

"A
short ride. The whoresons yet sleep, with but a few seasoned men, I can
dispatch them with ease."

"'
I
'?"
Duncan pushed up in his stirrups and leaned towards his friend. "Think you
I would allow other men to avenge the taking of my wife, my child? Whilst I
stand peaceably aside? God's blood, ‘tis dead they may be, now, as we
speak!"

Clamping
his mouth shut, Marmaduke wheeled his horse to face the line of grim-faced
MacKenzie warriors. "‘Tis by the good Lord's grace, your laird has ridden
thus far without sliding from his saddle." He shot a reproachful look at
Duncan. "His wounds bleed anew, and his anger, justified though it may be,
dulls his senses. Should he continue, should he fight, we may lose him."

Duncan
eyed his men and waited.

Not
a one spoke.

"I
was asked to ride ahead and locate Kenneth's camp," Marmaduke went on
undaunted, his tone compelling. "I have done so. The lady Linnet and
Robbie are not there."

He
raised a hand for silence when angry words rose from the gathered men.
"That does not mean aught has befallen them. I propose some of you
accompany me to exact our revenge. The remainder, including Duncan, shall stay
behind and search for them."

Again,
thick silence met his words.

"Fergus,"
he called, "‘Tis a wise man you are. What say you?"

Once
more, Duncan waited. Only this time he held his breath. Fergus was e'er fond of
gainsaying him. But the old goat sat firm, his bony shoulders thrust back, the
glint in his hawklike eyes, fierce.

"Well?"
Sir Marmaduke prodded.

Fergus
edged his mount a few steps forward, then spat on the ground. "I say you
have a bonnie way with words, and yer a good man, but Scotsman ye ain't."

To a
man, the clansmen roared their approval, and Duncan let out his pent-up breath.

"So
be it," the Sassunach conceded. Duncan thought he heard him mutter
something about a "band of stubborn fools" before he grudgingly bid
all follow, spurred his horse, then tore off in the direction whence he'd come.

They'd
covered but a few leagues before Sir Marmaduke signaled a halt. "They are
there." He indicated a thick wood in the distance. "Their camp
is—"

Duncan
dug his knees into his horse's sides, not waiting to hear more. He gave his
mount its head, allowing the swift courser to charge unrestrained toward the
enemy camp.

His
men chased after him in fast pursuit while he pressed onward, not even slowing
as his horse plunged into the trees. Branches slapped into him, one almost unseating
him, but he rode on, spurring his mount until the great beast burst into a
clearing.

Kenneth
sprawled near the smoldering fire. Roaring his fury, Duncan kicked his horse in
the sides, driving the courser straight at the bastard. He reined in at the
last possible moment, and so sharply, the animal reared, its powerful front
legs cleaving the air.

Now
fully awake, Kenneth scrambled wildly to the side, barely avoiding the horse's
hooves as they slammed into the earth where he'd lain a mere heartbeat before.

Heedless
of the screaming agony of his reopened wounds, Duncan flung himself from his
saddle. "Here's a foretaste of hell, you bastard," he swore, kicking
hot ash into Kenneth's face.

The
bastard yelped and scooted backward. "You've blinded me, you son of
whore!" he bellowed, grinding his fists into his eyes.

"Nay,
he has not, but I shall," Sir Marmaduke corrected, swinging down from his
own steed and drawing his sword. "‘Twill be a fitting revenge. For myself
and for my lady wife, whose blood stains your foul hands."

"Awaken,
you fools! Seize them!" Kenneth called frantically to his men. Still
scooting backward, he clawed at his eyes. "Kill them! My whoreson brother
before his bawd's very eyes!"

Several
of the men stirred and groped for their weapons, but the thundering sound of
approaching horses stilled them.
"Cuidich' N' Righ!"
Duncan's
men cried as their horses crashed through the underbrush. "Save the
king!" they repeated, their swords drawn and ready.

"Cowards!"
Kenneth cursed his men, squinting furiously at them, fumbling wildly for the
dagger tucked beneath his belt. "Can you not see the bastards mean to
kill me?"

Duncan
slammed down his foot on Kenneth's left arm. "‘Tis you who are the
bastard, and ‘tis blinded you are to be, not killed. Your fate is Sir
Marmaduke's call, not mine. I will not soil my hands by taking the life of my
own father's seed, much as you deserve to die."

"E'er
the noble," Kenneth sneered, his voice dripping contempt. "Yet you'd
have my eyes put out whilst you pin me down?"

Duncan
ground his foot into the bastard's arm. "Tell me what you've done with my
wife and child, and you'll be allowed to stand and fight like a man."

"I've
done naught with them," Kenneth rasped. "Take the prickly wench and
the snot-nosed brat. ‘Tis more trouble they make than they're worth."

Duncan
dug his heel into Kenneth's arm until the bone cracked with a sickening
snapping noise. "Where are they?"

"You've
broke my arm!" Kenneth howled, writhing on the ground.

"Cease
shrieking like a fishwife and answer me," Duncan roared.
"Where—are—they?"

"Have
you grown as blind as the one-eyed worm you call friend? The sharp-tongued
ogress and the whelp yet sleep by yon tree," he sputtered, nodding toward
a tall birch at the edge of the clearing.

A
tattered and soiled blanket lay on the ground at the base of the tree ...
nothing else.

Kenneth's
jaw dropped and his eyes widened. "What witchery is this? They were
there," he stammered. "I vow they we—"

Duncan's
anger surged. "Do not insult me with the worthlessness of your word. If my
lady or the child bear one mark, I shall forget my honor and slice you to
ribbons."

Barely
keeping his temper in check, Duncan withdrew his foot and stepped back.
Glancing at Sir Marmaduke, he said, "Give him a sword and do with him what
you will. But make haste. I would that we scour every hillock and vale for my
wife and son."

One
of Duncan's men stepped forward with a spare blade, but Kenneth sprang to his
feet, shoved the man aside, and lunged at Duncan just as he turned away.
"‘Tis you who'll die this day," he cried, raising his dirk.

His
face contorted in rage, he made to plunge the dagger into Duncan, but the blade
slipped from his hand, tumbling to the ground as Kenneth doubled over, a
bloodied sword protruding from his gut.

His
eyes bulged, already glazing, as he gaped, disbelieving, at Duncan. "I'll
wait for you in hell," he wheezed, then fell silent.

Behind
him, Sir Marmaduke withdrew his blade, allowing Kenneth's body to topple to the
ground. "I would've much preferred taking his sight," he said simply,
wiping the blood from his sword with the edge of his tunic.

To
Duncan's great surprise, he felt a flicker of remorse, a twinge of sadness, if
only for the youthful companion his half brother had once been. But the
feeling was gone as soon as it had come, replaced by the more urgent need to
find Linnet and Robbie.

An
uncomfortable silence descended upon the clearing, and Duncan's hand went
instinctively to the hilt of his sword. He scanned the faces of Kenneth's men.
Some appeared stunned, others showed no emotion at all. None seemed bent on
avenging their leader's death.