MacLean's Passion: A Highland Pride Novel (25 page)

Colin led the way toward the great hall and stopped to assess the situation. They were working on the assumption that Abbott would take the laird’s bedchambers—which would now be Colin’s bedchambers. And they were working on the assumption that he would be asleep in the wee hours of the morning.

Everyone had a part to play. Some were to go to the front of the keep. Colin was to go to the upper chambers, where Abbott was most likely sleeping. The majority of them were to stay in the great hall, where they suspected most of the soldiers were bunked for the night.

There were no guards awake here. The men assigned to the front of the keep slipped out the front door. Colin and his handpicked men silently ascended the steps toward the bedchambers. Maggie followed them, leaving the others behind in the great hall. Her job, along with a few others, was to make sure that anyone who left the bedchambers was taken care of.

The attack would begin with a signal from Duff, who would be in the great hall.

Maggie’s heart was pounding, but she found her mind was centered, focused, and sharp. She stopped in the hallway, and Colin passed her with a nod. He was all warrior tonight, and she couldn’t have been prouder of him. She nodded back and scratched at her neck where the red coat was irritating her skin.

The wait began. Frankly, Maggie was surprised they’d come this far without being noticed. They’d all been prepared to fight at a moment’s notice, but the English seemed to sleep well in their stolen home with their bellies full of stolen food in a stolen country.

Duff was to wait until Sutherland’s men were in place before sounding the cry.

Maggie was nearly jumping out of her skin while she waited for it. She was so full of anticipation that she was literally hopping from foot to foot. Colin shot her a small smile as he stood in front of Abbott’s door.

Maggie could have sworn they stood there for an hour, but in reality they’d been in place only a few minutes.

Duff yelled, and an immediate uproar ensued as the English soldiers began to awaken and scramble to the defensive. The sound was deafening even up here in the hallway.

Colin moved swiftly, throwing open the door to the room they assumed Abbott was in, and charging through. Maggie had to restrain herself from going with him and protecting his back. It was amazing how much she worried about him now, less than a week after their wedding.

One of the doors to the other bedchamber opened and a soldier came stumbling out, pulling up his breeches, his confused gaze landing on her. “What’s happening?” he asked.

For a moment she was surprised he’d spoken to her, then she realized that he thought she was an English soldier, dressed as she was in her red coat and white breeches. And the
ijit
wasn’t even carrying a sword. What kind of soldier woke to an uproar like this and didn’t grab his sword?

No kind of soldier, that was who.

Maggie pointed to the stairwell leading to the great hall. “Bloody Scots,” she said. “They’re all over.”

The blood drained from his face and he stumbled, tripping over the legs of his trousers that he hadn’t yet pulled all the way up. “The hell you say.”

“You better get down there. I’m off to fetch the captain.”

He nodded and turned to head down the stairs. Only there were four large Scotsmen standing in his way with their swords raised. The soldier looked over his shoulder at Maggie. She smiled and shrugged.

Maggie swept into the room the solider had vacated, sword raised, to find a young girl—far younger than she should be—sitting up in the bed, holding a blanket to her naked bosom, her pale face an expression of terror.

Maggie stopped short. “Scottish or English?” she asked.

The girl started sobbing and Maggie had her answer. There were few, if any, English lasses this far up in the Highlands. The English preferred to keep their women from the dirty Scots and to use the female Scots for their needs.

“Get dressed,” Maggie said, pushing aside the horror at what this young girl had probably endured. “And if ye can make it to the cellar, get down there.” She explained where the entrance to the tunnel was hidden. “Run as fast as ye can. And God be with ye,” she added under her breath.

The girl was pulling her shift over her head as Maggie left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

It was chaos in the small hallway. English soldiers were leaving their bedchambers only to be cut down by furious Scots as soon as they stepped into the hallway. Maggie went from room to room to see if she could find more lasses. There were two more. All far too young to be doing what they were doing. It seemed the English not only had no qualms taking the Scottish women, they liked them young as well.

It infuriated Maggie to the point that she was shaking. She peeked in on Colin, but Abbott’s chamber was empty. She could only hope that Colin had taken care of Abbott as quickly as the men in the hall were taking care of the other soldiers.

She made her way to the great hall, her sword raised. Men were locked in battle, their faces twisted in deadly grimaces. The hall was large, but the battle raging inside confined the men’s movements.

English soldiers lay on the floor, some moaning, some dead. There were no Scotsmen lying about, much to her relief.

Maggie went to the front doors and saw that Scots had taken over the guard tower. There was a group of English soldiers in a huddle in the middle of the bailey, surrounded by Scottish warriors with fierce expressions. The defeated soldiers made no attempt to fight back. It was a complete victory out here. She wanted to raise her fists in a cheer, but she still hadn’t found Colin or Abbott, and that was worrying her.

Colin was face-to-face with his enemy. Abbott was proving difficult to kill. Colin had found him in the bedchamber, as they’d suspected. Abbott had been surprised but quickly rallied. Somehow the fight had spilled into the hallway and out to the parapet.

There was little doubt that it was a battle to the death. There could be no other outcome.

They’d been fighting for what seemed like hours. Sweat was running down Colin’s face, blinding him. For every one of Colin’s lunges, Abbott had a block. Colin couldn’t get the upper hand and he was tiring.

His arms burned and his legs were weakening. He swore he felt blood trickling down his leg but couldn’t take his eyes from Abbott to look.

“You really don’t think you, a Scottish heathen, can beat a well-trained English soldier, do you, MacLean?” Abbott taunted in his crisp English accent.

Colin growled, knowing the soldier’s tactic but succumbing to it anyway.

“Do you not think that we were prepared for you?” Abbott thrust and Colin parried. “We knew you would come once you heard that your castle was taken.” Abbott stepped to the side to avoid Colin’s lunge. Colin was pleased to see that Abbott was breathing hard, though not hard enough, because the man was still speaking. Colin wanted to shut him up for good.

“England does not take kindly to prisoners who escape.”

Colin’s anger was getting the better of him. Anger would make him sloppy. “Did I embarrass ye when I escaped, Abbott? Did yer commander punish ye?’

Abbott’s face, already flushed with exertion, turned an alarming shade of puce and Colin knew he’d hit upon the truth. “Ah. So that’s it, isn’t it? What happened to ye after I escaped?”

Abbott faltered, his foot slipping as he stepped back, but he quickly righted himself.

“Come now,” Colin said. “Surely it could’na have been that bad.”

Abbott bared his teeth and growled.

“Were ye demoted?” Colin lunged and nicked Abbott’s arm. Blood welled and spread on the sleeve of the red coat.

“No,” Abbott breathed, but Colin wasn’t sure if Abbott was answering his question or reacting to the fact that Colin now had the upper hand. Colin’s anger had returned some of his energy, and he tasted victory upon his tongue.

Abbott might have seen that victory in Colin’s eyes, because he rushed Colin and, with a howl, thrust his sword forward, but Colin easily sidestepped him and Abbott stumbled forward to twist around.

Colin took the opportunity to look below and saw that his men had taken all of the soldiers in the front of the keep and were now guarding the entrance.

But that quick look was his undoing. Abbott took advantage of his distraction and knocked Colin’s sword from his hand. He charged forward and pinned Colin against the parapet, bending him backward until the upper half of his body was dangling over the edge. One more push and Colin would fall to his death.

He gritted his teeth and tried to grab for Abbott’s neck, but his arms simply were not long enough. His toes were barely touching the ground, but not for long. He was scrabbling for a handhold so he could propel his legs up and shove Abbott away.

How had he been so stupid as to take his attention from his enemy? He knew better. He’d been trained better. He could practically see his father and his brothers rolling their eyes at a mistake that only a lad would make.

Good God, he’d lost it all in that small second. His home, his land, his life.

Abbott leaned close. “You Scots. You have no idea that you’ve already been defeated and that fighting is useless. You are under English rule now. And you, MacLean, are again a prisoner of the English.”

“Like hell,” Colin ground out. He’d rather die than be a prisoner of Abbott’s again. He’d rather die than sit in a cell and know that he’d done all he could and yet it wasn’t enough to save everyone who depended on him.

He’d rather die than have Maggie see him imprisoned once more.

Abbott’s hands came around Colin’s throat and slowly squeezed the air out of him. Colin struggled, fighting to pull Abbott’s hands away. His vision blurred and his lungs ached to breathe. He could hear himself wheezing and choking.

And then he heard something else. He heard his father’s voice and his brother’s voices, taunting him:
“Ye’ll never amount to anything.”

“Ye’re a ne’er-do-well, Colin.”

“What a disappointment.”

And then he saw Maggie’s face, those large dark eyes and high cheekbones. He saw her laughing with him. He saw her beneath him as they made love, and he saw her face as it would be when she discovered that all was lost.

“No,” Colin cried through what little air was left inside him.

He pushed upward with the last of his strength, taking Abbott off guard. The man’s laughing, leering expression turned to surprise and then fear when Colin gained his feet and dragged in a deep breath from a tight throat.

Colin drew back his fist and punched Abbott in the face. Blood spurted from his nose and he staggered backward. Colin punched again. Then again. Not giving Abbott time to collect himself, Colin continued to land punches on his face and chest. Abbott could do nothing but throw up his hands to block the blows as he staggered back toward the other side of the parapet.

Colin, possessed by something he’d never felt before—pride of his heritage and fury that his father and brothers were so close to being right, coupled with his determination not to lose everything for his new bride—couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d wanted to.

Abbott fell against the parapet wall and yet Colin continued to punch him. Abbott’s face was a bloody mess, his cheek and nose bleeding all over his red coat and dripping onto his white trousers.

Abbott’s legs were giving out beneath him and he started to slump to the ground. Colin grabbed him by the collar of that damn red coat that had come to represent oppression and fear to his people. He dragged Abbott up and held him there.

“Did ye really believe ye would leave here alive?” he asked, mimicking Abbott’s words to him on the day of his last beating. “Did ye honestly think I would let ye live?”

Abbott’s eyes widened. His mouth went slack and comprehension dawned in his expression. Colin felt a shiver of victory race up his spine, but then he felt weary. Tired of it all—the war, the battles, the hatred between two countries who should have been allies instead of enemies.

But he knew that letting Abbott live would make his own life a constant hell. This fight had been destined from the moment Abbott tied Colin up and had him beaten.

Colin suddenly let him go. Abbott’s knees gave out and he grabbed the parapet behind him to keep from falling. They stared at each other for a long moment, their positions reversed.

“Being a captive does no’ feel so good, does it?” Colin asked.

Abbott sneered through swollen lips, “I’ll never be your captive. England rules your land and always will.”

Colin shook his head. “We may be under yer law, but we are our own people. The English can take our lands and our homes, but they can never take our heritage.”

Abbott spat a bloody glob at Colin’s feet and tried to push away from the wall but stumbled and had to grab hold of it again.

“Soon there won’t be enough of you to hand down your heritage to.” There was a gleam in the folds of Abbott’s swelling eyes. “We’ll take your women and make them ours.” He laughed. “I hear you’ve wed since I last saw you.”

Colin grabbed Abbott’s throat and lifted him up. The man gurgled and grabbed at Colin’s hands, but anger was pulsing through him.

“Ye touch my wife and I will kill ye,” Colin said through clenched teeth. He’d thought he might be able to talk some sense into Abbott, but the man was beyond that; his hatred ran too deep.

Abbott struggled in Colin’s hold, kicking out at him, squirming. Suddenly, he pulled a dagger from his boot and pressed it against Colin’s throat. Both men froze.

“Who will kill whom?” Abbott said, and then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Your wife…Maggie is her name? She will make an excellent whore to me and my men.”

With a roar of rage, Colin pushed, and Abbott went over the side of the parapet. His eyes widened and he yelled out. His arms windmilled and the knife dropped from his fingers.

The jagged rocks broke his fall and broke his body as the sea nipped at his heels.

Colin stood there for what seemed like forever and stared at Abbott’s body, not fully believing that it was over. The man was dead at his hands, and while that was a relief, it created a whole new set of problems. He was a Scotsman who had just killed a high-ranking English soldier. By defeating Abbott, he could have lost everything as easily as if Abbott had killed him and he’d not saved Maggie from the brutality of the English at all.

Sutherland, Alan, and Adair appeared at his side. They peered over the parapet at Abbott’s broken body, his unseeing eyes looking up to the heavens.

“I killed him,” Colin said.

Sutherland clapped him on the back. “Good on ye,
bràthair
.”

“A Scotsman killing an English soldier means death,” Colin said woodenly, the repercussions of his actions making him immobile.

“I do no’ know what ye saw,” Sutherland said. “But I saw Abbott jump to his death. I believe he was distraught over being defeated by the Scottish and feared facing his superiors.”

“The Campbell will back that story,” Adair said. “I will see to it.”

Colin looked at Adair and Sutherland skeptically. Surely it wasn’t that easy. There would be questions from the English, an inquiry at the least.

Adair nodded to him. “Trust me. Campbell will come through for us. Because we are all in trouble if the English think we killed Abbott.”

“But do we trust Campbell?” Alan asked with a twist to his lips.

“Aye,” Adair said seriously. “Ye can trust him in this.”

Maggie rushed up the stairs and looked over the parapet at the body. There was a smear of blood on her chin and a red mark on her cheek, but otherwise she looked alive and well. Abbott couldn’t hurt her like he’d promised, and Colin was relieved that he’d protected his wife from that, at least.