Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
T he wind howled through the stones of Bronmuir Keep like the roof was going to come crashing down on her head. Rain lashed against the narrow window of Kate’s chamber, the droplets transformed into tiny projectiles by the gale-force winds. The shutters rattled, and she wondered if they had tornadoes here in seventeenth-century Scotland?
Sleep was impossible. She had tried, oh, how she’d tried, but the combination of the storm’s fury and her racing thoughts kept her wide awake. She’d counted sheep, recited dating app statistics in her head, and even tried the meditation technique Mandy had insisted would “change her life.” Nothing worked.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” she muttered, the Southern drawl she’d spent thousands of dollars on vocal coaching to eliminate slipping back as her stress mounted.
“This storm’s got more drama than a pageant queen with a broken heel.”
With a sigh of defeat, she tossed back the heavy woolen blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor sent a shock of cold through her bare feet, and she quickly slipped on the soft leather slippers Connor had given her.
Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating her small chamber. In that instant of brightness, the room looked almost modern, just a bed, a trunk, a small table with a basin. Then darkness swallowed everything again, and the thunder that followed seemed to shake the very foundations of the keep, making her wish for electricity so she could flood the room with light.
The night was pitch black except for when lightning split the sky as she moved to the window, peering out through a gap in the shutters. During those brief flashes, she could see the courtyard below, rain-slicked and deserted, and beyond that, the angry, churning sea.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the battlements, and Kate froze. For a split second, she thought she saw a figure, but not a guard, slinking along the top of the wall, a dark silhouette against the briefly lit sky. Then darkness fell again, and she couldn’t be sure if her eyes had deceived her.
“Who in tarnation would be out in this?” she whispered, her accent thickening further. “That’s crazier than a sprayed roach.”
The wind changed direction, and suddenly the rain was hammering directly against her window. Kate stepped back, startled, as water found its way through the shutters and sprayed her face.
She wiped her face with the edge of her shawl and turned away from the window. Maybe she was just seeing things. The keep was full of guards, so surely one of them would notice if anything was amiss.
But something felt wrong. Call it instinct, call it her finely tuned BS detector, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
She lit a small candle from the dying embers in the hearth and made her way to the door. The hallway outside was dark and drafty, but at least it was dry. She hesitated, considering whether this midnight wandering was really a good idea, then shrugged. What else was she going to do? Lie in bed and listen to Mother Nature’s temper tantrum?
The candle created a small bubble of light around her as she moved quietly down the corridor. The stone walls amplified the storm, making it sound as if she were walking through the very heart of it. Kate had always hated thunderstorms, a childhood fear she’d never quite outgrown, but there was something almost exhilarating about being inside this ancient fortress while nature raged outside.
As she reached the top of the staircase that led down to the great hall, she paused. Had she heard something? She held her breath, listening intently. There it was again, a sound that didn’t belong to the storm. A scraping, like metal against stone.
“Hello?” she called, immediately regretting it. If it was nothing, she’d look foolish. If it was something, she’d just announced her presence.
No answer came, just another rumble of thunder that seemed to last forever. Kate shook her head. The storm was making her jumpy.
She continued down the stairs, the stone cold beneath her slippered feet. The great hall was dimly lit by a few dying embers in the central hearth. Servants slept on pallets along the walls, their forms barely visible in the gloom. During the day, this space was the heart of clan life, full of people, noise, and activity. Now it was eerily quiet, the only sounds the soft snoring of the sleeping servants and the howling of the wind outside. How on earth were they sleeping through the storm?
Kate crossed to one of the narrow windows and peered out. Another flash of lightning revealed the courtyard, still empty, and the battlements above. This time, she was certain, a figure was moving along the top of the wall, hunched against the rain.
“Who would be out in this mess?” she whispered.
The guards, of course. Connor had men patrolling at all hours. But something about the way the figure moved didn’t seem right. Then again, she had become paranoid since working for Love Lasting, always expecting the worst of men.
Kate waited for another lightning flash, but when it came, the battlements appeared empty. Unsettled, she turned away from the window. The candle in her hand flickered, casting strange, dancing shadows on the walls. Maybe she should go back to her chamber. Clearly, this midnight wandering was feeding her imagination.
As she turned toward the stairs, a muffled thump came from somewhere above, barely audible over the storm. Kate froze, straining to hear. Had she imagined it?
No. There it was again, a shout, cut short.
Moving as quietly as possible, she made her way back up the stairs and along the corridor that led to the upper levels of the keep. She knew Connor’s chamber was on this floor, as were those of his most trusted men.
The corridor was dark and empty. Kate raised her candle higher, trying to see farther ahead. The flame cast eerie, dancing shadows on the stone walls.
“Connor?” she called softly, not wanting to wake the entire keep if this was just her imagination running wild.
No answer.
She continued forward, her slippers quiet on the stone floor. At the end of the corridor was a narrow staircase that she knew led up to the battlements. As she approached, Kate noticed something dark and wet on the floor.
She knelt down, raising the candle to see better.
Water. A small puddle on the stone floor.
That wasn’t unusual, given the storm. Except...this puddle was nowhere near a window or door. And it wasn’t just water, it was tinged with something darker.
When she realized what she was looking at, Kate’s blood ran cold.
Blood.
She stood up quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Connor!” she called, no longer caring about waking anyone. “Help!”
The door at the end of the corridor burst open, and a man she’d never seen before emerged from the stairwell. He wore the plaid of the MacDonalds. She recognized it from Connor’s descriptions. The man’s face was hard, focused. Water dripped from his hair and clothes, forming puddles on the floor. In his hand, he held a dagger, its blade dark with blood.
An intruder. A MacDonald in the heart of MacLeod territory. He had to have inside help to breach the keep’s defenses. Connor had a traitor in his midst.
The man’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw Kate, then narrowed dangerously. “Well, well,” he said, his voice a low growl. “What have we here?”
Shaking, she backed away. This couldn’t be good. The feud between the clans was at a breaking point, with Cameron still held captive. If a MacDonald had infiltrated the keep...
“Stay back,” she warned, trying to keep her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her. “The guards will be here any moment.”
The MacDonald laughed, a harsh sound that sent chills down her spine. “No one can hear you, lass. The wine and whisky put them all to sleep, likely for hours.” He shrugged. “Those who did not partake will not hear anything over the storm. ’Tis why I chose this night.”
That explained why the corridor wasn’t full of MacLeod men. They’d been drugged, and she had stuck to water after all the whisky she’d imbibed the day before during the wool waulking work.
He advanced toward her, the bloody dagger still in his hand. “And who might you be? Not a MacLeod, with that strange accent.”
Kate continued to back away, thinking. She had nothing to defend herself with, no weapon, no plan. Just the cold stone wall at her back and a murderer approaching.
“I’m warning you,” she said, her Southern accent now in full force. “You come one step closer, and I swear I’ll scream louder than a pig caught under a gate.”
The MacDonald man’s eyes widened slightly at her strange expression, but his advance didn’t slow. “Scream all you want, lass. Everyone is asleep and the storm will swallow yer words.”
He lunged at her as she dodged to the side, slippers sliding on the stone floor. She stumbled, caught herself against the wall, and ran.
Behind her, she could hear the man’s heavy footsteps gaining on her. She darted down one corridor, then another, desperately trying to put distance between them, to find help, or a weapon, anything.
The keep was a maze, especially in the dark, and soon Kate realized she had no idea where she was. The storm continued to rage outside, thunder crashing overhead as if in accompaniment to her frantic flight.
She rounded a corner and found herself facing a narrow staircase spiraling upward. With no time to hesitate, she gathered her chemise in one hand and began to climb, taking the steps two at a time.
The stairs seemed endless, winding higher and higher. Kate’s lungs burned, her legs ached, but the sound of pursuit kept her moving. Finally, she burst through a wooden door and found herself on the battlements, the highest point of the keep.
The full fury of the storm hit her like a physical blow. Rain lashed her face, and the wind threatened to knock her off her feet. Lightning flashed almost continuously, turning night into fractured day, followed by thunder so loud it seemed to shake the very stones beneath her.
In the brief illumination, she saw a crumpled form on the walkway, a young MacLeod warrior, his throat cut, his eyes staring unseeing at the stormy sky. The assassin’s work.
Kate staggered forward, searching desperately for another door, another staircase, any escape route. But there was only the narrow walkway of the battlements, with the sheer drop of the keep’s outer wall on one side and the inner courtyard far below on the other.
She was trapped.
The door behind her crashed open, and the MacDonald man emerged onto the battlements. Rain plastered his hair to his scalp and soaked his plaid, but the dagger in his hand gleamed in the lightning flashes.
“Nowhere to run now, lass,” he called over the howl of the wind.
Kate backed away, feeling the rough stone of the parapet against her back. The man advanced slowly, savoring her fear.
“Why are you doing this?” she shouted, trying to buy time, though she doubted he could hear her over the storm.
“For my clan,” he replied, close enough now that she could see the cold determination in his eyes. “The MacLeods will fall, one by one. Starting with their chieftain.”
He raised the dagger.
In that moment, Kate saw movement behind him, another figure emerging onto the battlements. A MacLeod guard, his sword drawn, moving silently toward the man’s back.
Hope surged through Kate, but it died just as quickly. The man must have seen something in her expression change, because he began to turn, the dagger still raised.
There wasn’t time. Kate acted without thinking. As the MacDonald man turned, she lunged forward and shoved him with all her strength.
Time seemed to slow. The MacDonald man’s eyes widened in surprise as he stumbled backward. His arms windmilled, trying to regain his balance. For one terrible moment, he teetered on the edge of the battlements.
Then he was gone.
Kate rushed to the edge and looked down just in time to see the MacDonald’s body strike the rocks far below, where the sea crashed against the base of the cliff. The next wave swept over the rocks, and when it receded, there was nothing to be seen.
“Mistress!” The guard was at her side, pulling her back from the edge. “Are you hurt?”
Kate couldn’t answer. Her whole body was shaking, and a strange buzzing filled her ears. She had just killed a man. Pushed him to his death. The reality of it crashed over her like the waves below.
“Mistress Kate,” the guard’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “You’re as pale as death. Come away from the edge.”
She allowed herself to be led back toward the door, her legs moving mechanically. The rain continued to lash her face, mingling with tears running down her cheeks.
“What happened?” the guard asked, having to shout over the storm.
Kate opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. Instead, a wave of nausea swept through her, and she doubled over, retching.
The guard held her shoulders, steadying her as she emptied her stomach onto the stone battlements. When there was nothing left, he guided her through the door and down the winding stairs, one arm around her waist to keep her upright.
By the time they reached the bottom, the keep was in an uproar. Either the effects of the drugged wine and whisky had worn off, or someone else like her and the guard had managed to wake everyone. Word of the intruder and the dead guard had spread, and MacLeod warriors rushed to secure the castle. Angry voices called for vengeance, and servants huddled in frightened groups, whispering among themselves.
“Kate!”
Connor’s voice cut through the chaos. He pushed through the crowd, his face a mask of concern and fury. When he saw her, pale and trembling in her rain-soaked chemise and shawl, something in his expression changed.
“What happened?” he demanded, taking her from the guard into his own arms. “Are you hurt?”
Kate tried to speak, but her teeth were chattering too hard to form the words. Connor cursed under his breath and swept her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing.
“Get Moira,” he ordered the nearest man. “And find me dry blankets. Now!”
He carried her to the great hall, where the fire was being built up to a roaring blaze. Setting her gently in a chair near the hearth, Connor knelt before her, his blue eyes intense as they searched her face.
“Kate,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Tell me what happened.”
The warmth of the fire began to penetrate her frozen limbs, and she found her voice at last.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered, her accent still thick with stress. “The storm... I saw someone on the battlements. I knew somethin’ wasn’t right. I just knew it.”
Connor nodded encouragingly, his hands rubbing her cold arms.
“A man. A MacDonald. He killed one of your men.” The words came in short bursts, her breathing still uneven. “He tried to kill me. I ran. The battlements. He followed me.”
Understanding dawned in Connor’s eyes. “The guard said you pushed a man from the wall.”
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I just... he was going to kill the guard. And then me. I just wanted to stop him.”
Connor’s hands tightened on her arms. “You did what you had to do. You saved a life tonight. Many lives.”
“I killed someone,” she whispered, the full weight of it settling on her shoulders. In her time, she’d never even fired a gun, let alone taken a life.
“Aye,” Connor said solemnly. “And it’s a terrible thing. But he was here to do harm. You stopped him.”
Moira arrived then, carrying a steaming cup of something that smelled of herbs and honey. She took one look at Kate and clucked her tongue.
“Drink this, lass,” she said, pressing the cup into her hands. “It will calm your nerves and help you sleep.”
Kate sipped obediently, the warm liquid spreading through her chest. It tasted of chamomile and something else she couldn’t identify, something bitter but not unpleasant.
“The MacDonald man,” she said suddenly, looking up at Connor. “What does it mean? Why was he here?”
Connor’s face darkened. “It means the MacDonalds grow bold or desperate. To send an assassin into my keep...” He shook his head. “They’ll pay for this,” He spoke quietly. “There is a traitor amongst us.”
“Cameron,” Kate said, remembering the captured brother. “Will they hurt him because of what I did?”
“Nay,” Connor assured her, though a flicker of worry crossed his face. “We have been going back on forth and they need him alive for ransom. They don’t yet know their man has failed. Likely, they will think he lost his footing and was swept away by the sea.”
“What happens now?” Kate asked, the herb tea beginning to work its magic, dulling the sharp edges of her shock.
“Now, we prepare,” Connor said grimly. “We are to meet the MacDonalds in a sennight to discuss Cameron’s ransom. This changes nothing, except perhaps the terms I’ll demand.”
Kate nodded slowly, her eyelids growing heavy. “I’m sorry I caused such a ruckus. I should’ve just stayed in my room like a proper lady.”
A ghost of a smile touched Connor’s lips. “If you had, lass, I might be lying dead now instead of Young Ian. Your ‘ruckus’ likely saved my life.”
Kate wanted to say more, to ask what this meant for the already strained relations between the clans, to understand the politics at play. But the warmth of the fire, the soothing tea, and the emotional exhaustion of the night conspired against her.
The last thing she remembered was Connor’s strong arms lifting her once more, carrying her back to her chamber. As consciousness slipped away, she felt him brush a gentle kiss across her forehead.
“Sleep, mo chridhe ,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”