Highland Conquest Page 4
Adaira’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that verra much!”
It took longer than Amber expected to cut through her restraints—the hemp was tough and the knife dull—and the lass didn’t have much strength. Finally, the rope gave way.
“There!”
Amber rubbed her wrists to ease the blood flow, and wrapped her arms around her young savior. “Thank you, Adaira. You’re a brave lass.” She pushed away and rose to her feet “Can you tell me how many guards are outside?”
“Just one. Earc. He watches me often at the castle.” Adaira tossed the knife in the air and caught it. “Are you sure I canna come with you? I fight with the men all the time.”
“’Tis different to wrestle with your laird’s warriors than to fight his enemy.”
“But I want to battle the MacPhersons too.”
“I’m not going to battle the MacPhersons, love. I’m a healer. I’m going to help anyone who’s hurt.”
A stunned expression crossed Adaira’s face. Amber moved away from her to a small pool of water that had collected in a corner of the cave. She crouched down and splashed water on her skin to wash away the mud and dirt. If she could surprise the guard, she should be able to incapacitate him long enough for her to get away.
Adaira followed, hands on her hips. “You canna help the MacPhersons!”
“I can, and I will. I’ll help the MacKays too. I would even help Machar Murray just so I could see him hang afterward.” Amber wet her hair and dragged her fingers through it to try and smooth out the strands as best she could.
Adaira nodded, looking serious. “I’d like to see that too. Lachlan says ’tis our duty to seek justice for Donald.”
“As long as it’s justice and not vengeance.”
“What’s the difference?”
She sighed and shook her head. “Sometimes, I doona know.” Finishing with her hair, she looked at Adaira. “Does that look better?”
“Nay. Parts of it are longer than others. Do you want a brush? Lachlan has one in his bag.”
“A brush will help, but it canna fix the length. I did a…that is, the lad did a terrible job cutting it.”
When Adaira ran out of the small cavern to get Lachlan’s brush, Amber tugged open her plaid and shirt to loosen the band around her breasts. It had helped surprisingly well. She was pulling it free when Adaira came back.
“Why’d you do that?” she asked, handing her the brush, so she could help unwind the material from Amber’s body.
Amber tucked the brush between her knees. “’Tis easier to ride a horse, especially if you’re going fast.”
“Then why take it off? You’ll have to ride back to the castle.”
“Well, um, my breasts have been bound too long and are starting to hurt. Doesn’t your mother e’er bind her breasts when she’s working?”
The material finally pulled free and Amber’s breasts released to push against her linen shirt, still damp and cold from the water. Adaira’s eyes widened. “Nay, I doona think so. But my mother doesn’t have breasts as big as those.”
“They’re not that big.” Amber couldn’t help feeling a wee bit miffed.
“Aye, they are. I hope mine are wee like my ma’s.”
Amber brushed her hair and had just finished tucking it behind her ears and adjusting her shirt and plaid, when she heard Earc yell, “Adaira! Lass, are you in there?”
“Aye! I’m in here with—”
Amber clamped her hand over Adaira’s mouth. “Shhh. Let me surprise him. Stay here.” The last was an order and she stared directly at Adaira until the young girl nodded.
With one last adjustment to her plaid so it fell to her ankles like a woman’s skirt, Amber dropped the brush in her pocket and left the small chamber. She tried to put a sway in her walk like she’d seen many other women in her clan do, but she just felt awkward. With her luck, she’d either fall or twist her other ankle.
The bigger cavern was lit by a torch, and Adaira clearly saw Earc, the guard who had tied her up earlier, near the waterfall entrance, searching through his sporran for something. He was large, even larger than Lachlan, but she’d noticed he moved slowly and with a limp. She’d also noticed how strong he was.
So…catch him by surprise and move quickly out of his way.
She was halfway toward him when he looked up with a smile on his bushy face. He was missing a few teeth and wore his red hair tied into several braids. His mouth dropped open when he saw her and he stared at her like a man besotted, not saying anything as he looked her over.
She smiled slowly, in what she thought was a seductive manner, and tried again for that sway of her hips.
“Lord have mercy,” he said under his breath, his gaze on her face, then her breasts, then back to her face, as if he couldn’t decide where to look.
“Earc. Laird MacKay has a message for you,” she said softly.
He allowed her to get close, looking down at her cleavage as she rose on her toes to whisper in his ear. When she was in position, she slammed her knee sharply into his groin and pressed down hard with both thumbs on the nerves above his elbows. He toppled over with a painful squeal at odds with his size and maleness, and rolled onto his side, knees and arms tucked into his body.
She jumped back and raced around him to the path leading out from behind the waterfall. A gasp sounded behind her, and she turned to see Adaira standing at the entrance to the smaller cavern, eyes wide, hands covering her mouth in shock and fear.
Amber hesitated for just a second. “I’m sorry, lass. ’Twill all be all right. I promise.” She ducked beneath the water and ran for the only horse still tethered to one of the wagons.
Three
Lachlan squeezed under the MacPhersons’ curtain wall through the ditch he and his men had spent the last fifteen minutes quietly digging out. His heart beat steadily in his ears like a drum that marched him into battle. One of his warriors crawled beside him, their shoulders rubbing, their breath loud in the confined space of the tunnel.
No sounds of battle had erupted yet, so he assumed the other forces—one at the gate and two over the walls on opposite sides—hadn’t been spotted. Or if they had, no one had been able to give the alarm. The plan had been to proceed with stealth for as long as possible, converging on the keep in the center of the bailey and incapacitating as many MacPhersons as they could before the real fighting erupted.
After five years, Lachlan was finally on his way to kill the man who’d murdered his brother and tried to murder him—putting the lives of several hundred men at risk—yet all he could think about was the lad with the violet eyes and soft, amber-colored hair he’d left tied up back in the cave.
Something niggled at him, and he couldn’t figure out what. The lad had somehow gotten under his skin. But how? And why?
Arriving on the other side of the ditch, he raised his head from the hole to see several of his men crouched in the shadows—along with an unconscious MacPherson who’d been bound and gagged. The moon was covered with clouds, and the night was lit with only a few torches. He could hear men on the stone walkway above.
The MacKay warrior beside him exited at the same time he did, and they crawled silently to the shadows.
Once there, Lachlan scanned the wall and saw three men on top. They could shoot them with arrows, but that might kill them, and what if one of them was the lad’s family? Or if the men cried out when they fell and alerted Machar Murray? No, the MacKays needed to go up and bring the men down.
Quietly.
A hay wagon missing a wheel leaned against the stone wall, a rope pooled on the ground beside it. From Lachlan’s calculations, ’twas the same place the lad had crawled over earlier in his bid for freedom. Someone must have either pulled the rope back down from below or kicked it over the top from above.
He signaled Hamish, his second-in-command, to meet him at t
he cart, then he darted between the shadows and crawled up the hay bales. Three men stood talking and laughing on the curtain wall while another sat propped against the crumbling battlements. Only one of the watch occasionally glanced over the trees and scrubby field below, but he never looked down to where the remainder of Lachlan’s force crouched in the shadows.
Crawling back down, Lachlan met up with Hamish, who waited for him beneath the wagon.
“There’s another guard on top. I’ll need three men,” Lachlan whispered.
“You’ll want a distraction, then?”
“Aye. A quiet one.”
Hamish rubbed his hands together and smiled. “’Tis time for a wee song.” He returned to the other warriors, three of whom joined Lachlan at the wagon, before he disappeared from sight. The men quietly helped Lachlan pile up more hay bales as they waited, high enough so they could jump to the top of the wall together.
From the opposite direction along the walkway came the sound of a bawdy tune, softly sung, the singer a wee bit worse for drink. Lachlan shared a quick smile with his men.
When the guards looked away from them to see who was singing, Lachlan quietly sprang forward, his men beside him. They’d had their knives secured in their mouths during the climb to keep their hands free—but not longer. The farthest Macpherson was Lachlan’s target—a big man with a bushy beard and a hearty laugh. For the first time, he was glad his options were limited—just in case the lad knew this man.
Lachlan dragged him down, one hand over his mouth, the other holding a knife against his throat. “Not a sound, or I swear I’ll cut through your neck to your spine. Do you understand?” The man barely nodded, just enough so Lachlan knew he agreed. “I’m Lachlan MacKay. I’ve no quarrel with the MacPhersons unless they get between me and Machar Murray. When he’s dead, you can go home to your family and help choose a better leader for your clan. One who willna hurt a lad for stealing bread to feed his sister.”
The man relaxed, and Lachlan easily gagged and bound him with the other men who had capitulated. “Someone will come back for you when we’re done.”
After slipping back down the wall, they spread out. The group made their way toward the castle’s interior, incapacitating several more MacPhersons along the way. He’d been hoping to get to the keep before sounds of their invasion erupted, but they were just coming up on the stable when shouts of alarm and clashing swords broke through the quiet night.
Lachlan cursed. “Pick up the pace,” he ordered.
They moved quickly through the stables, opening up the horse stalls just in case a fire erupted. ’Twas something Gregor, who had a love of horses, had taught Lachlan and his foster brothers long ago.
In a back room, they found the stable master snoring noisily in his bed. He woke with a start as he was hauled from his covers wearing only his linen shift. Two frightened groomsmen crouched in an empty pen, and the MacKays dragged all three outside before tying them to the wooden corral post.
Lachlan raised his voice to be heard above the growing din. “I’m Lachlan MacKay, laird of Clan MacKay. If you see any of your people, warrior or not, spread the word that we do not want them harmed. We’re here for Machar Murray only. If they lay down their arms, they willna be hurt.”
The stable master stretched out his fingers to Lachlan. “I’m Osgar, the stable master. Please, doona let them burn the keep. There’s a woman and a young lad in there who need help. They may be in the dungeon.”
“You speak of Ian?”
“Aye, and Amber. The laird may have her in his bedchamber. She couldnae hold her tongue and made him verra angry.”
“Ian is safe. He made it o’er the wall earlier. I promise to look for the woman. Where is the laird’s bedchamber?”
“On the third floor facing west toward the mountains.”
Lachlan gripped the man’s hand. “I’ll do what I can.”
They took off at a steady run toward the keep, which loomed four stories high in the distance. Clearing the area as best they could from the south end of the bailey, they were more focused now on getting to the battle and trapping Machar Murray within the keep. Still, it slowed things down when they had to fight without seriously injuring anyone. But the lad had been right. The MacPhersons laid down their arms once it became clear the attack was on their laird, not the clan in general.
In the bailey, groups of men fought in tight clusters, while many others kneeled in submission. Torches had been lit, and long shadows danced over the stone walls of the kitchens and barracks and stretched across the open, grassy area.
Lachlan saw an old man holding a ring of keys hobble up the stairs to the front entrance of the keep. The steward, most likely. What had Ian called him?
“Niall MacPherson! Hold right there!” Lachlan shouted.
The steward stopped and looked around. He met Lachlan’s gaze as Lachlan marched toward him, ready to do damage, his sword clenched tight in his fist. The old man jumped with alarm and hurried through the door, which banged shut behind him.
“I want a perimeter around the keep,” Lachlan yelled to Hamish as he ran to catch up to Niall, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Lachlan!”
He turned to see his foster brother racing toward him, and though he chafed to get inside, he waited at the door, glad to see Callum was unhurt.
“The west side is taken,” Callum said, gripping Lachlan’s arm in greeting. “We had little resistance and none were wounded. The men hold the quadrant.”
“Aye, ’twas the same from the south. The steward just ran in here. He’ll have information on Murray. The laird is probably inside.”
“Do not rush in. Wait while I arrange for more men. We need to be cautious—sweep through the keep, so we doona miss anything.”
“He’s getting away!”
“Maybe, but you canna go alone. ’Tis too dangerous. And he could easily slip past you.”
Lachlan gritted his teeth, trying to rein in his temper even though he knew Callum was right. He was still too damn hot and making mistakes. Emotion had no place on the battlefield. “Get on, then, you old woman. I promise to wait.”
Callum dashed back down the stairs to the bailey and rounded up several warriors—a mix of MacKays and MacLeans. Once they were at his back, Lachlan yanked open the heavy, wooden door, surprised it hadn’t been barred from the inside. Men went in with their shields raised, followed by archers in case MacPherson archers had been set in place to repel an invasion from above—as Lachlan and Callum would have done.
They moved with care into a large hall, lit only by a dwindling fire in a hearth at the far end—and no guards. Stairs to the upper levels rose against the wall opposite the door. At the top, a balcony circled the hall, an ideal perch for archers, with murder holes cut into the stones that looked out onto the bailey—but it was also empty.
“We need candles,” Lachlan yelled. “I want every corner of the keep lit!”
Several men ran to build up the fire, while others brought candles and placed them in the sconces on the wall. Minutes later, the hall blazed with light. Clean rushes covered the floor, and four worn, but well-cared-for chairs surrounded the hearth.
It was obvious somebody still saw to the keep, even though no thought had gone into its defenses.
“Search behind the tables,” Lachlan said, pointing to the pile of tables and chairs that had been stacked in a corner.
“Clear,” one of his warriors said a moment later.
Lachlan turned to Hamish, who stood beside him. “Hold this room. No one goes in or out without permission. I want two men at the door, three on the balcony, and two more at the top of the stairs while we search this level. Also, send men to search the storerooms below, and keep an eye out for a dungeon of some kind. There may be a woman or other prisoners inside. And reinforce our perimeter. We’ll not be losing Murray again!”
Lachlan pointed to two of his men. “Guard the passageway while we check the room.”
The men did as asked, and Callum tried the door. “’Tis barred from the inside.”
Lachlan leaned close to the wood. He rapped it with his knuckles. “Niall MacPherson. ’Tis Lachlan MacKay, laird of Clan MacKay. We mean the MacPhersons no harm. Our fight is with Laird Machar Murray. I have a young lad back at my camp by the name of Ian who asked me to see to your well-being.”
He strained to hear a response over the sounds of the ongoing conflict outside. A thump sounded inside, followed by a scraping noise. Maybe a chair being dragged across the floor? “Ian is in the dungeon,” a frail voice finally said.
“Nay, he escaped. He said you helped him to get out. Please, Steward, we need your help to find Machar Murray without hurting any more MacPhersons.”
“The lad, what color is his hair? And his eyes?”
“His hair is the color of amber, and his eyes a most unusual blue.”
“Nay, not blue,” said Callum. “They’re almost purple. Like a violet.”
“Who’s that?” the voice shouted.
“I’m Callum MacLean, laird of Clan MacLean, raised by the great Gregor MacLeod, who has charged us with bringing peace to the Highlands. We mean no harm to any innocents.”
“Please, Niall,” Lachlan asked again. “Open the door.”
A moment passed. Lachlan let out a relieved sigh as the bar lifted and the door swung inward.
A stooped old man with tufts of curly gray hair on his head and a disheveled plaid stood before him, his cheeks damp from tears. “What took you so long, man? I’ve been writing to Gregor MacLeod for years.”