Ransom (55 page)

Liam put his hand on Proster's shoulder. “You did well protecting our mistress,” he said. “And we are thankful, but until you are properly trained, you are a hindrance to your laird, forcing him to protect you. Patience, boy. Do as my commander orders. Watch and learn.”

Gideon boldly stepped forward to confront Ramsey. “I challenge you now, Ramsey, for the right to rule the Sinclairs,” he shouted.

Ramsey laughed, the sound harsh in the sudden stillness. “You challenged me once before, you son of a bitch. I should have killed you then.”

“You dared to come back here and steal what belonged
to me. Me!” Gideon shrieked. “I should have been laird, not you. I am worthy.”

“Worthy?” Ramsey roared. “You think you're worthy? You prey on children and women to get what you want, and you believe that makes you worthy? Only a coward would strike a bargain with the English devils to steal my brother and kill him. When Alec Maitland was taken by mistake, you thought you could rectify that blunder by going back to England and ordering the death of a five-year-old boy. No, you aren't worthy. You're a coward and a traitor, you bastard.”

“I did what needed to be done to gain the loyalty of all the Sinclairs. You and Michael will both die. I'm strong, Ramsey, not weak like you. You allowed Bridgid KirkConnell to deny me,” he shouted. “And you listened to the whining of old men and let them foul our land with the MacPherson scum. How dare you believe they are equal to us. When I'm laird, I'm going to rid my land of their plague.”

With the crook of his finger, Ramsey motioned for Gideon to attack. “Come and kill me,” he taunted. “Show me your strength.”

Screaming, Gideon raised his sword and charged. His friends advanced at the same time, their plan to overwhelm the laird with their sheer number, but Brodick and Dylan moved forward, their swords swift as they cut down two of the enemy before they could swing their weapons. A weathered Sinclair soldier, flanked by two MacPhersons, joined the fight then, thinking to even the odds.

Brodick never took his gaze off Anthony and moved with deadly intent toward his prey. Seeing the look in his eyes, Anthony tried to run, but Dylan blocked his retreat. Brodick wasted little time fencing with the soldier and killed him with one quick thrust across his throat. He died
standing, then crashed to the ground. Brodick spit on him as a final insult before turning to watch Ramsey.

A loud piercing squeal issued from Gideon's throat as Ramsey's sword sliced down through his shoulder to his waist, nearly cutting him in half. The commander fell to his knees, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. As he was drawing his last breath, Ramsey kicked him onto his back and lifted his sword with both hands as he muttered, “You lose.” And with all his might he thrust his sword into Gideon's black heart.

Ramsey stood over his enemy while he sought to control his anger. The silence was heavy; the only sound, that of his heavy breathing. The scent of blood hung in the air and filled his nostrils. He shuddered once, like a dog shaking his coat to rid it of water, then straightened and jerked his sword from Gideon's body.

“Does anyone else want to challenge me?” he roared.

“Nay,” a man shouted from deep within the crowd. “Our loyalty is to you, Laird.”

A resounding cheer went up then, but Ramsey paid it little attention. The ground around him was littered with the dead, the dirt and grass blackened with their spilled blood. Turning to the three soldiers who had stepped forward to fight the battle with him, he said, “Drag their bodies outside my walls and leave them to rot.”

He noticed then that he, like Brodick, had splatters of blood on his arms and legs, “I want to wash their stench from my body.”

Without a backward glance, Brodick followed his friend to the lake.

When they were well away from the others, Ramsey turned to him, “We leave for England tomorrow.”

Brodick nodded. “At first light.”

P
roster told Gillian and Bridgid what had happened. In his enthusiasm, he went into excruciating and sickening detail as he described the fight, blow by bloody blow, and told them far more than either one of them wanted or needed to hear. By the time he was finished, Bridgid's face was gray and Gillian was sick to her stomach.

“You're certain Brodick and Ramsey were unharmed?” Gillian asked.

“Neither suffered so much as a nick,” Proster replied. “They were both covered with blood, but it wasn't theirs, and they went to the lake to wash it off. Ramsey's going to let the bodies of the dead rot.”

“I don't wish to hear another word,” Bridgid said. She dismissed the soldier then and opened the door for him. “Gillian, I'll fetch some salve to put on your leg to help with the healing.”

“You might want to wait,” Proster advised. “Or take the back way. The grass in the courtyard is black from blood spilled, and I'm not certain all the dead have been dragged away yet.”

“I'll go to my mother's, then, and get some salve from
her. Proster, men died today and you should not be smiling.”

“But they weren't good men,” he countered. “They deserved to die.”

They continued their argument as Proster closed the door.

Gillian sat down to wait for Brodick. She expected him to walk through the door at any moment. An hour later she was still waiting. By midafternoon she went searching for him and was told by one of the MacPhersons that her husband had left with Ramsey. It was speculated that the two lairds had gone to Iain Maitland to tell him the news.

She tried to wait up for her husband, but because she'd had so little rest the night before, she couldn't keep her eyes open. She finally fell into a fitful sleep.

Brodick woke her up in the middle of the night when he pulled her into his arms and made love to her. His hands were rough and demanding, and she felt a desperation in him, a violence barely controlled, but she didn't fight or reject him. Nay, she stroked and caressed him and tried to soothe the beast within. Their lovemaking was wild and frantic, and when he climaxed deep inside her, she came apart in his arms.

She told him she loved him, and he cherished her words because he knew that her love was going to be sorely tested in the days ahead. By tomorrow night, she could very well hate him.

*   *   *

Brisbane and Otis knocked on her door early the following morning. Gillian was dressed for the day and had just finished her morning meal.

“We have been instructed to take you to your sister,” Brisbane announced.

“Did she finally agree to see me, then?” she asked as she stepped outside.

Otis shook his head. “She has been ordered to see you.”

Gillian tried not to let them see how disappointed she was that her sister had once again refused her. They walked together to the stables, where their horses were saddled and waiting. Brisbane took the lead, and neither he nor Otis said another word until they reached a cluster of cottages near the border that once separated the MacPhersons from the Sinclairs.

Gillian was suddenly nervous and scared. Christen had already rejected her, and as painful and humiliating as that was, she had accepted it, but if her sister didn't know where the king's treasure was or had forgotten all that had happened, then everything was lost and Uncle Morgan was doomed.

“Please, God, let her remember,” she whispered as she dismounted and walked toward the cottage Brisbane had pointed out.

“We'll wait here for you,” Brisbane said.

“You needn't wait. I know the way back.”

The door opened then, and a woman Gillian never would have recognized as her sister stepped into the sunlight. Her husband, tall and gaunt, followed her. His hostility was evident as he hovered protectively over his wife.

Christen was a good head taller than Gillian. Her hair was much darker too, and Liese had told Gillian that Christen had golden curls, but she didn't remember them. There wasn't a glimmer of recognition, and though Gillian knew this woman was her sister, she was a stranger to her.

She was heavy with child. No one had bothered to mention that fact to Gillian.

Had Christen not looked so sullen, Gillian would have embraced her and told her how happy she was to see her again. They stared at one another for a long minute before Gillian finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Are you Christen?”

“I am,” she answered. “I used to be anyway. My parents changed my name. I'm called Kate now.”

A burst of anger took Gillian by surprise, and she spoke before she could stop herself. “Your parents are dead and buried in England.”

“I don't remember them.”

Gillian cocked her head to the side and stared at her sister. “I think you do remember our father.”

“What is it you want from me?” she asked, a note of defiance creeping into her voice.

Gillian suddenly felt like weeping. “You're my sister. I wanted to see you again.”

“But you want more than that, don't you?”

Her husband asked the question. Christen remembered her manners and quickly introduced him. His name was Manus.

Gillian lied when she told him she was pleased to meet him. Then she answered his question. “Yes, I do want something more.”

Christen stiffened. “I cannot and will not go back to England. My life is here, Gillian.”

“Is that what you're so afraid of? That I'll force you to go home with me? Oh, Christen, I would never ask that of you.”

The sincerity in her voice must have gotten through to Christen. She nodded to her husband and whispered something in his ear. Manus reluctantly agreed, and after bowing, he went inside and then carried out two chairs.
Christen sat down and motioned for Gillian to do the same. Manus went back inside, and they were suddenly alone, two sisters who were strangers.

“Are you happy?” she asked, hoping to put Christen at ease by urging her to talk about her life with the MacPhersons.

“Yes, I'm very happy,” she answered. “Manus and I have been married five years now, and soon we will welcome our first child.”

Gillian decided to get to the heart of the matter before her sister decided to end the reunion. Twice she'd glanced at the door.

“I only want to talk to you,” Gillian said.

“How did you find me?”

“One of the Sinclairs found out who you were and told Baron Alford. Do you remember him?”

She nodded. “He's sent others in the past to try to find me and drag me back to England. So did the king. How did this soldier find out?”

“I don't know,” she replied.

“It seems strange to talk of this. My parents urged me to forget.”

“I need you to remember.”

“Why?”

“Our Uncle Morgan's life is at stake. Do you remember him?”

“No.”

“Christen, I swear to you that when I return to England, I will convince the baron and the king that you are dead. I give you my word. They won't hound you any longer.”

Christen's eyes widened. “How will you make them believe you?”

“I'll find a way,” she assured her. “But now I need you to try to remember that night our father died.”

“What makes you think I would remember what happened? I was very young.”

“You're three years older than I am,” Gillian pointed out. “Even I remember being terrified.”

“I don't want to talk about that night. I've spent years trying to forget.”

Gillian tried everything she could think of to convince her sister to help her. She pleaded and begged, but it didn't matter, for Christen continued to refuse. When Manus came outside and announced that his wife needed to rest and that it was time for Gillian to leave, Christen looked relieved, as though she'd just been given a stay of execution, and that broke Gillian's heart.

Overwhelmed with disappointment, she stood up and slowly walked down the path. Tears streamed down her face as she thought about her uncle. What a fool she had been to believe that she could save him.

Suddenly enraged by her sister's attitude, she whirled around and shouted, “Christen, when did you become such a coward? You shame our father, and I thank God he's not alive to see what you've become.”

Gillian's disdain slashed through Christen like a knife. Bursting into tears, she called out, “Wait. Don't leave.” Pulling away from her husband, she hurried toward Gillian. “Please forgive me,” she sobbed.

And suddenly her sister was there and not a stranger, and they embraced and wept for what they had lost. “I never forgot you,” Christen whispered. “I never forgot my baby sister. Do you forgive me?” Christen asked as she mopped at her eyes with the backs of her hands. “For so
many years I've lived with the guilt, and I knew it wasn't my fault, but I couldn't—”

“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” Gillian said. “None of it was your doing.”