Devil in a Kilt (46 page)

"And
my lady? The boy? They are to be ransomed?"

Murdo
gulped, his face paling.

"Speak
or die."

"I
dinna ken," the man blurted, "on my life, I dinna ken what he means
to do with them."

"Your
life is forfeit, but it is not here you will lose it," Duncan said, his
voice flat, toneless. "Take the pouch," he bade the Sassunach,
jerking his thumb toward the leather purse hanging from Murdo's belt.

Marmaduke
handed him the pouch and he peered inside it. John MacLeod's brooch winked up
at him, its red gemstone catching the light from a nearby wall torch.

"This
brooch was stolen," he said, closing the pouch and tossing it to Alec.
"You shall return it. Alec and Malcolm will escort you. What John MacLeod
does with you is none of my affair. If he does not kill you, be warned lest you
e'er set foot on MacKenzie land again, for I will not hesitate to have done with
you myself."

To
Alec and Malcolm, he said, "Be off with him, he's sullied the air in my
hall long enough."

Duncan
stood ramrod straight until they disappeared from view, then he sagged against
the nearest table and closed his eyes. His left arm throbbed and burned and he
didn't need to glance at it to know the wound had started bleeding again.

But
the fire in his arm was naught next to the smoldering flame burning inside
him.

Rage
over the taking of his loved ones and fear for their safety fired his blood,
filling him with a fury so intense the pain of his wounds seemed paltry by
comparison.

"I
vow that whoreson was your lady's two-headed man," Sir Marmaduke said,
resheathing his sword. "The one in the flames."

Duncan
cracked his eyes open and slid a sideways glance at the Sassunach. "Aye,
and for once I didn't need
you
to figure it out for me."

One
corner of Marmaduke's mouth lifted into a twisted smile. "And so I
observed, my friend. Mayhap there is hope for you yet."

Duncan's
brows snapped together. "I am not a dullwit. ‘Twas his use of the word
'brother.' No friend or ally would dare grant Kenneth such status to my
face."

Marmaduke
glanced at Duncan's left arm. "Your arm bleeds."

"
'Your arm bleeds,' " Duncan echoed grouchily. "Think you I am not aware
of that? ‘Tis a wonder my whole body is not bleeding considering all the holes
in it."

"Aye,
laddie, and Elspeth will want to re-dress your wounds, especially your arm. It
doesna look good," Fergus agreed, stepping up to them. He tilted his head
to the side and peered sharply at Duncan's injured arm. "I'm a-thinking we
should cauteri—"

"And
'a-thinking' about it is all you're going to do," Duncan groused, pushing
away from the table's edge and fixing Fergus with his most intimidating glare.

Undaunted,
Fergus affected a look he'd used with much success in Duncan's childhood.

It
didn't impress Duncan the man.

"You
canna walk about with that arm spewing blood all o'er you," his seneschal
pressed.

"I
can and I shall." Duncan stood firm. "Now cease blathering on over a
few wee drops of blood, you grizzled-headed old graybeard. If you desire to be
useful, see our swiftest horses saddled and made ready to ride."

Fergus's
bushy brows shot upward. "Mounting a horse will be the death o' you, boy,
and your men need to rest their bones," he protested. "We'll send out
a party of our most braw men on the morro—"

"On
the morrow is too late. We ride now, through the night," Duncan vowed,
refusing the notion he might not have the strength to carry out his plan.

Searching
the throng for his first squire, Duncan signaled the lad to come closer when
he spied him. "Lachlan, fetch my clothes and weapons," he ordered,
his voice surprisingly strong.

"And
dinna drag your feet," he added, glancing irritably at the irksome yards
of linen wrapped around nigh every inch of his aching body. "I tire of
being swaddled like a newborn babe or a corpse awaiting burial."

Rather
than dashing off to do Duncan's bidding, Lachlan remained rooted to the floor,
worriedly seeking out Marmaduke with his eyes. Scowling, Duncan planted his
balled fists on his bandaged-wrapped hips.
"I
am laird, not Sir
Marmaduke," he said, the harshness of his tone smothering the gasp of pain
he'd almost let loose. "Do as I say, or would you have me ride out garbed in
naught but rags?"

Two
spots of color appeared on Lachlan's pale cheeks, but he inclined his head and
took off at a run.

Duncan
watched him go, then blew out a shaky breath, releasing some of the tension
coiled within him. Turning back to Fergus, he said, "Send a party of men
to my bedchamber. Behind the largest tapestry, they'll find the door to a
hidden passage. It leads to the base of the tower. Be sure they seal it at both
ends.
Permanently
seal it."

Beside
him, Marmaduke drew a quick breath. Duncan couldn't resist flashing the
all-knowing lout a triumphant smile. "Aye, my good friend, it would appear
there were a few things you didn't know."

To
the rest of his men, he said, "Lads, I know you are weary, some of you
wounded. I will not ask those too fatigued to join me. Nor can I vouchsafe you
will return whole if you ride with me. Kenneth is a daring and able warrior.
His men are no less adept as we've seen. Any of you who choose to stay behind,
I bid you seek your pallets now so you are well rested and can best protect
these walls in our absence."

He
paused, waiting.

No
one moved.

Then,
from the back of the hall, someone called,
"Cuidich' N' Righ!
Save
the king!"

Others
joined in, and soon the MacKenzie war cry filled the air until the walls fair
shook. Duncan clasped his hands behind his back and nodded in approval.

The
saints knew he couldn't do much more. Not with his throat painfully tight and
the backs of his eyes afire, so moved was he by his men's stout showing of
support.

When
the ruckus died down, a firm hand grasped his elbow. "Let me lead the
patrol," Sir Marmaduke offered, leaning close to Duncan's ear. "No
one will look askance if you stay behind. ‘Twould be madness for you to sally
forth. Fergus is right, you are in no condi—"

"My
lady and
my
son have been taken," Duncan said, his voice as
cold and unyielding as steel. "I mean to fetch them."

Sharp
intakes of breath issued from those gathered near, then low mumbles spread
throughout the entire hall, followed almost immediately by stunned silence.

To a
man, his kinsmen stared gog-eyed at him, their fool mouths hanging open as if
they sought to catch flies.

And
Duncan knew exactly why they gawked.

What
he didn't know was why the words had slipped so easily from his tongue. He
hadn't meant to say them, still doubted Robbie had sprung from his loins.

But
of a sudden, now that the wee lad was gone, his true parentage mattered naught.

Only
his safe return.

Then
the silence was broken ... someone sniffled.

A
loud and sloppy wet sound, made louder by the awkward silence hanging over the
hall.

The
noise came again and to Duncan's amazement, he saw it was old Fergus. The
bandy-legged seneschal rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve and turned
quickly away.

But
not before Duncan caught sight of the telltale moisture glistening in the old
man's eyes.

Heat
crept up his neck and he swept the lot of them with a furious glare.
"Cease gaping like witless varlets and make ready to ride," he chided
them. "And dinna think to start telling tales about me going soft. Naught
has changed."

To
his great annoyance, his men didn't look like they believed him.

Her
legs stretched before her on the chill, damp ground, Linnet leaned against the
trunk of a tree and rested her weary bones. Ever since Kenneth had unbound
her, she'd been forced to wait upon her captors, coerced by threats upon Robbie
to heed their constant demands and tend those wounded in the siege.

Seeing
no choice ... for the moment... but to acquiesce, she'd bowed to their will,
catering to their every whim until her back ached so fiercely she'd begun to
walk like a crone, one hand pressed to her hip, her shoulders hunched in pain.

‘Twas
sometime in the mist-hung gray hours before dawn on the second day since they'd
been taken and for the first time, she'd been allowed to sit with Robbie.
Sleeping peacefully, praise the saints, the boy curled next to her, covered
with a threadbare blanket one of Kenneth's men had deigned to toss over him.

Most
of the brigands slept. To Linnet's dismay, Kenneth was amongst the few who did
not. He lounged near the low-burning fire, nursing a cup of wine and conversing
in low tones with one of his men, a shifty-eyed weasel of a lout who suddenly
held his cup aloft and motioned for her to refill it.

Rather
than scramble to her feet as the miscreant surely expected, Linnet sent him an
icy glare.

Truth
to tell, she was too fatigued to stand.

"‘Twould
seem the lady's grown tired of serving her lessers," the weasel taunted.

Kenneth
made a coarse huffing noise. "Mayhap her attitude will change once we've
all had a turn at showing her how pleasurable servicing the lowborn can be.
Once we've covered a bit more ground, we shall enlighten her."

"Och!"
The other man slapped his thigh. "Wait'll she's seen the size o'
yer—"

"Enough,"
Kenneth admonished. "I wouldna want her to suffer from yearning. There
will be time aplenty for her to explore my maleness, and yours, later."

He
glanced at her then and the raw lust in his gaze nigh curdled Linnet's flesh.
"She may find herself so taken with our charms, she'll prefer us to my
loathsome brother."

His
gaze still on her, and in a most disconcerting way, Kenneth pushed to his feet.
Linnet willed her fear not to show as he came toward her. Beneath the folds of
her cloak, her cold fingers found and closed around a small, leather-covered
flagon.

A
flagon she'd almost forgotten she had with her, secured as it was in a small
linen pouch beneath the many layers of her clothes.

A
flagon filled with pure essence of valerian.

Filled,
too, with her only hope of escape.

Kenneth
loomed over her then, saying not a word, but prodding her hip with his foot.
When the foot caught and lifted the hem of her cloak, exposing her ankles and
calves to the brisk night air, and any leering eyes that might be gawking at
her, Linnet forgot all pretense of appearing calm and frowned up at him.

"Leave
me be, you swine," she hissed, her hand curling tighter around the flagon.
"Dare touch me, and I shall unman you at the first opportunity."

Snickers
and ribald comments issued from those men still awake. Kenneth's face suffused
a dark red. "You need the sharpness stolen from your tongue. I vow my
brother did not break you well enough!" he fumed, barely restrained anger
heavy in his every word.

He
leaned close. "‘Tis an oversight I shall enjoy rectifying. And in
his
bed...
once I've ousted him from what would have been mine had his whorish mother not
stolen our father's affection."

Linnet
pressed her lips together and glowered at him.

Her
silence seemed to fuel his anger, for he grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly
to her feet. His fingers digging deep into her flesh, he jerked his head toward
the unwashed cur who'd waved his cup at her.

"Replenish
our wine." The words were curt, his gaze, thunderous.

Linnet
returned his glare. "I canna fetch aught lest you release my arm."

He
did, but not before narrowing his eyes at her. "Watch your manners,
lady.
I've had done with less bothersome bawds than you."

Linnet
made a deliberate show of dusting off her sleeve. Then, her chin high, she made
for the messy heap of supplies just beyond the circle of mostly sleeping men.
‘Twas where her captors kept their store of near-rancid wine, and not far from
where their horses were tethered.

Horses
too noble-looking to be aught but stolen. Not that she cared ... she meant to
steal one, too.

As
soon as she tainted the wine with valerian and Kenneth imbibed enough of the
sleep-inducing brew to fall into a deep slumber.

"Make
haste," he called to her. "Our thirst is great."

Linnet
smiled.

A
hearty craving for the soon-to-be potent brew would suit her well.

Her
back to the men, she plucked an earthen jug from the untidy pile. The moment
her fingers touched the vessel, cold waves of ill ease crept up her spine, but
she forced herself to remain calm as she withdrew the flagon from its hiding
place beneath her cloak.