Authors: Karyn Monk
Gavin emerged from the thick curtain of trees beyond the clearing of the camp, mounted on his horse.
Gregor snorted. “So it’s both of you we have to disembowel, is it? Well, I think we can manage that without too much trouble—”
His bravado faded as Duncan, Andrew, Niall, Ramsay, and Graham appeared. They were followed by others, until finally some thirty mounted and armed men of the MacKendrick clan had formed an impregnable ring around Roderic’s warriors.
“By God, if it’s a battle you want, MacFane, it’s a battle you’ll get,” roared Tavis, raising his sword.
“A somewhat rash decision, I think, given the impossibility of your situation,” remarked Malcolm. “Rashness is not the mark of a good leader,” he pointed out, addressing the rest of Roderic’s men.
“These MacKendricks barely outnumber us,” scoffed Gregor. “And though they fought us off at their castle, they know nothing of the savagery of open battle.” He raised his ax. “We will slaughter them like trapped deer.”
Malcolm swept his gaze over the MacKendricks and frowned. “Are you certain you have counted accurately?”
Gregor, Tavis, and Murdoch regarded the ring of men around them with smug satisfaction.
Malcolm tilted his head slightly, indicating that they should look behind them.
Bewildered, Ariella followed his gaze.
Scores of warriors had silently moved into an endless line that threaded between the trees. Many were mounted, others were on foot, but all wielded a shimmering array of swords, axes, spears, bows, and shields. The plaids arranged around their waists were of different colors, indicating they came from not one, but several different clans. These were the clans with whom Malcolm had forged alliances, Ariella realized. He must have sent riders out before coming here, bearing the urgent message that the MacKendricks were in danger.
And, incredibly, these warriors had come.
“Throw down your weapons and raise your hands to your heads,” commanded Malcolm. “Or I will order these men to attack and not stop until every last one of you lies scattered in pieces upon the ground.”
Gregor, Tavis, and Murdoch regarded each other uncertainly.
And then they reluctantly tossed their weapons onto the ground. The rest of their men instantly followed, many of them bumping elbows in their haste to raise their hands.
“Excellent,” praised Malcolm. “Move forward and take them prisoner,” he ordered, gesturing for the neighboring clans to come forth. “They will be tried as a group for their crimes, and then divided amongst you to serve their sentences. I don’t want any of them lingering here.”
The circle of warriors closed around them and began to herd them away.
“Where are Catherine and Agnes?” demanded Niall, riding forward.
“Here!” cried Catherine, scrambling out from the tent, with Agnes hesitantly following. Catherine grabbed her skirts in her fists and raced toward Malcolm. On seeing Roderic’s body, she froze.
“Come here, Catherine,” ordered Malcolm, wishing she had not witnessed the ghastly sight.
“Is he dead?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
She studied Roderic a moment longer, then raised her eyes to Malcolm. “Did you kill him?”
He nodded.
“I knew you would,” she said, her tone approving. “He was a very bad man.” Her eyes widened. “You’re hurt!”
Malcolm barely glanced at his wounded left arm. Blood was streaming down his hand and dripping off his fingers. “It looks far worse than it is,” he assured her. He was not entirely sure that was true, but he was encouraged by the fact that he felt little pain. “Once we are home, I will clean it and you will see it is nothing.”
“You must have a bandage for it now,” argued Catherine, stooping to tear a piece off the hem of her gown. She awkwardly wrapped the grimy length of fabric around him. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “Much better.”
“Thank you.” He brushed a lock of hair off her face. “Now, go back to the castle with Agnes and the men. Ariella and I will be along shortly.”
“I—I don’t think Ariella wants me to escort Catherine back, my lord,” stammered Agnes. She glanced nervously at Ariella.
Malcolm frowned. “Why not?”
“Agnes is thinking I would like to take Catherine back myself,” interjected Ariella quickly. “But Catherine is tired, and I cannot leave right away. Therefore I am entrusting you to see that she is safely escorted home, Agnes.” She gave her a meaningful look.
Agnes stared at her in surprise. And then a solemn dignity seemed to restore her spirit, visibly lifting her from her shame. “As you wish, milady,” she said quietly. “She will be safe with me.”
Catherine cast a pleading look at Malcolm. “Can’t I stay here with you?”
Leaning on his sword, he bent down until he was almost her height. “I am embarrassed to confess I have misplaced the drawing you gave me the other day,” he admitted softly. “If you go home now, you may have time to make another one before I return. Would you do that for me?”
Catherine smiled. “Of course.” She gave him a quick, hard hug, then picked up her ragged skirts and ran toward Agnes.
Roderic’s band and the warriors from the neighboring clans were gone, but the ground shuddered as an army of some fifty mounted warriors began to appear through the trees. Their horses were splendidly draped in cloth of scarlet and gold, and the MacFane crest was emblazoned on the heavy shields the men carried. A tall red-haired man was leading the impressive force. Harold raised his hand, signaling for his men to halt, then regarded Malcolm.
“The storm of which you spoke never happened.”
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. “You know I have never put any faith in the visions of seers, Harold. If I did, I would have expected ours to have forewarned me about Roderic’s attack.”
Harold frowned at the blood-soaked body on the ground. “Is that Roderic?”
“Yes,” said Malcolm, gesturing for Bryce and Ramsay to take the body away.
Harold looked at Malcolm in surprise. “Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
A flash of respect, and perhaps even relief, crossed his handsome, weary features. For the first time Malcolm caught a glimpse of the heavy burden Harold had been forced to carry since he’d assumed lairdship of his clan. It had not been a position he had sought, or even wanted. He had accepted it out of duty, after the blackest chapter of the clan’s history, in which his own adored sister had been slaughtered and he had been forced to banish his dear cousin and friend.
Malcolm had never acknowledged just how arduous that responsibility had been.
Harold’s gaze fell upon Ariella. “Is this Ariella MacKendrick?” He directed the question to Malcolm, as if he believed Ariella incapable of speaking for herself.
Malcolm nodded.
Harold studied her a long moment before quietly asking, “Will she be my wife, Malcolm?”
“No,” he replied, his voice hard. He did not bother even to glance at her as he finished. “She is already wed.”
Ariella knew she must object to his lie. She had formally offered herself to Harold. It was her duty to honor that contract. And yet she said nothing. She stood there and numbly stared at Malcolm, transfixed by the incredible power and authority emanating from him.
Harold regarded Ariella intently, perhaps giving her the opportunity to dispute Malcolm’s claim. “My congratulations, milady,” he offered finally, his tone void of either bitterness or rancor. “I wish you many years of happiness.”
“You have traveled a long way, Laird MacFane,” observed Duncan, addressing Harold. “We invite you to stay with us a few days, to eat and rest. A feast is being prepared for tonight, which I’m sure your men will enjoy.”
“You will find the MacKendricks are not lacking in unmarried, feminine company,” added Gavin, sympathizing with Harold’s disappointment in not obtaining a bride. “And many of them have a taste for adventure. Your men may find a wife or two among them. Just stay away from the fair-haired one called Elizabeth,” he warned, shifting his gaze to Gordon. “She is already spoken for.” His intentions made clear, he turned his horse and galloped toward the castle, leaving Harold and his warriors to follow.
“The rest of you return to the castle,” commanded Malcolm. “Roderic’s men must be guarded, and preparations should be made to feed and entertain all those who came to our aid today.”
“Aye, MacKendrick,” said Gordon, dismounting from his horse. His sword positioned before him, he lowered himself onto one knee and bowed his head in a gesture of loyalty. “It shall be as you wish.”
Malcolm looked at him in surprise. “Rise, Gordon,” he protested. “You know I am not MacKendrick—”
He stopped, overwhelmed by the sight before him. All the MacKendrick warriors were dismounting and falling to their knees, their heads respectfully lowered.
“Hail MacKendrick,”
they said, their voices a solemn pledge in the stillness of the cool morning air.
“Hail our brave laird, wielder of the sword.”
He stared at them in silence, too moved to speak. And then he looked away, fighting to affect the hard, emotionless mien he had once known so well, yet in this moment was unable to summon.
By the time he turned back, the MacKendricks had mounted their horses and were disappearing through the thick tapestry of trees.
Ariella stared at Malcolm in shock. Her perception of him was suddenly so clear, she could barely look upon him without fear of being blinded by the brilliant aura that seemed to radiate from both him and the magnificent sword flashing at his side. He stood tall and powerful before her, one arm roughly bandaged and dripping blood, his weight shifting slightly to favor his injured leg. His physical weaknesses remained, she realized, for it was not within the sword’s powers to cure the frailties of the body. And yet, even with these limitations he was without exception the strongest, bravest, most honorable man she had ever known.
He was the next MacKendrick.
“I was wrong,” she whispered, the words small and ragged. She swallowed, struggling to maintain her composure as she tried to make him understand. “I thought the warrior who would bear the sword must be perfect in body and spirit. Alpin spoke of indomitable strength, and I could see only your weaknesses. But he meant a strength of integrity and soul, not of body. He also spoke of honor and courage. I could not forget how you refused to come when my father wrote you. But he was referring to the courage needed to overcome one’s fears and failures, and to stand and fight again. I didn’t understand,” she admitted, appalled by the narrow, childish simplicity of her vision. “I thought the next laird of my clan must be flawless, as I believed my own father to be. Of course he wasn’t.” Her voice began to break as she conceded, “He was just a man, and men make mistakes. You once told me that, but I couldn’t accept it.”
She brushed helplessly at the tears leaking from her eyes, wanting to be dignified in her apology, and failing miserably. “To accept it meant I would have to blame my father for the horror Roderic inflicted on my people. My father allowed us to be weak, and did not have the wisdom to keep the sword at his side, because he did not believe in war. And so he and others of my clan were killed. But I couldn’t bear to blame him for that,” she choked, losing her battle against the hot streams running down her cheeks. Unable to face him, she bowed her head and finished in a tiny, rough whisper, “And so I blamed you.”
She sank to her knees, drowning in shame as she steeled herself for the lash of his rage.
Malcolm moved toward her and, using the sword for support, stiffly eased himself onto his knee. Then he grasped her chin and raised her head, forcing her to look at him.
“Can you not feel it, Ariella?” he murmured, his tone achingly gentle.
She inhaled a shuddering breath and regarded him uncertainly.
He released her chin to graze his knuckles across the silvery trail of tears wetting her cheek. “I was dying,” he stated gruffly. “And I didn’t give a damn, because I knew I would rather be dead than endure one more hour of pain, and guilt, and failure. It was so much easier not to feel,” he confessed, “and not to be responsible for anyone. But then you came along.” He traced his fingers reverently along the contour of her jaw. “So filled with life and burning with hatred. And suddenly I couldn’t escape who I was. With all your anger and contempt, you roused a fragment of the warrior buried deep within this battered body. And once you had roused him, you refused to let him succumb to his weaknesses again. You wrenched me from a hopeless existence and brought me to a place where I could be of use. By doing so, you helped me to heal. Not my body,” he qualified, “which is damaged beyond repair, but my soul—until I could conquer my fears and was ready to accept the enormous responsibility of leading a people once again.”
“But then I sent you away,” she protested miserably. “You had changed, yet I still could not see beyond your weaknesses.”
“You would not permit yourself to believe I was fit to be laird of your clan. At least not openly. But sometimes,” he reflected quietly, “one’s deepest feelings are revealed only through the purest actions of the heart.”
Ariella followed his gaze to the sword lying on the ground beside them. And suddenly she understood. Anger and the tight fetters of duty had kept her from admitting that Malcolm was the rightful bearer of the sword.
Except in her heart.
“I love you more than life, Ariella,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “And if you will permit me, I will lead your clan to the best of my abilities, and proudly bear the name MacKendrick as my own. I will wield this sword with honor, justice, and compassion, and I will gladly lay down my life for any member of the MacKendrick clan. All this I will do, and more, despite my many weaknesses and failings.” He gently kissed the palm of her hand, then pressed it hard to his chest. “For you.”
His heart beat strong and sure against the coolness of her palm. Joy flooded through her, eradicating her anguish and guilt. She threw her arms around him and crushed her lips to his, tasting him deeply, desperately, wanting to drink in his power and his tenderness, and in turn, to share with him the love she could no longer deny. She began to hungrily touch his back, his shoulders, his chest, needing the steely warmth of his flesh against hers. Her fingers inadvertently caressed his wounded arm, and he inhaled sharply.