Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
T he urgent wail of horns blaring through the predawn darkness woke Kate. The riders from late last night had kept their distance, obviously waiting until early this morning to attack.
For one disoriented moment, she thought she was back in Atlanta, with a car alarm going off outside her apartment window. Then the rough wool blanket scratched against her skin, and the smoky scent of peat fire filled her nostrils.
Not Atlanta.
Bronmuir Keep.
1689.
The thundering of boots in the corridor outside her chamber door jolted her fully awake. She threw back the covers and scrambled to her feet, yanking on her dress, a simple linen shift with a bodice that she’d finally learned to lace properly. The corset was much more comfortable than the old underwire bras she used to wear. Her fingers trembled as she worked the laces, her heart pounding in rhythm with the shouts echoing from the courtyard below.
“To arms! The MacDonalds are upon us!”
Kate flung open her door just as Moira rushed past, her gray-streaked braid swinging behind her.
“Stay inside, lass,” the healer commanded over her shoulder. “This is no place for ye.”
She ignored Moira, following the stream of people down the narrow stone staircase. The great hall was in chaos, with women gathering children, old men strapping on swords they hadn’t wielded in decades, warriors rushing to the battlements. The acrid smell of fear mingled with smoke and the metallic tang of freshly sharpened steel.
Through the open main door, Kate could see the courtyard filling with MacLeod warriors. Connor stood at the center, broad shoulders squared beneath his plaid, sun-kissed brown hair pulled back from his face. Even from a distance, she could see the intensity in his blue eyes as he barked orders, his voice carrying across the yard.
“Ewan, take ten men to the east wall. Dougal, secure the gatehouse. The rest of ye with me at the main gate.”
Kate pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the disapproving glances from the women herding children toward the back of the hall. Outside, the air was thick with mist, making her feel like she was walking through a nightmare.
Connor caught sight of her and frowned, striding toward her with purpose. “Get back inside. Now.”
“I can help,” she insisted, lifting her chin. “I’m not going to cower in a corner.”
“This isna a debate,” he growled, his accent thickening with stress. “These men willna hesitate to cut ye down and worse.”
A cry from the battlements interrupted them. “They’re at the gate! And there’s movement on the cliffs!”
Connor’s head snapped up. “The cliffs? Bloody hell, they’re trying to flank us.” He grabbed Kate’s shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh. “Inside.”
The raw emotion in his eyes nearly made her obey. Nearly. But as he turned away, shouting orders to split his forces, she made her decision. She wouldn’t hide. Not this time.
Instead, she ran to where Moira was readying the makeshift infirmary in the corner of the great hall. “What can I do?” she asked.
The older woman’s sharp eyes assessed her. “Ye can fetch clean water and tear these into bandages.” She thrust a stack of linen at Kate.
She took the fabric, grateful for a task to occupy her mind. As she tore the linen into strips, Nessa bustled around the kitchens, barking orders at the other women and gathering herbs for poultices. The sounds of battle echoed from beyond the keep’s walls. Shouts, the clash of metal, and occasionally, the terrible cry of a wounded man.
Hours passed in a blur of bandages, water, and blood. Just as Kate was returning from the well with another bucket of water, something caught her eye through the open kitchen door. Movement in the mist. A flash of tartan that didn’t belong to the MacLeods.
“They’re coming through the back!” She shouted.
But her warning came too late. The door burst open, and three MacDonald warriors charged through, their dirks flashing in the gray morning light. The women near the door screamed, scattering with children in their arms.
Kate looked around frantically, searching for a weapon. Her eyes landed on a heavy cast-iron pan sitting near the hearth. She lunged for it, her fingers closing around the handle just as one of the MacDonalds spotted her.
He grinned, revealing stained teeth beneath his red beard. “Well, well. What have we here?”
Kate backed away, hefting the pan. It was solid, the weight reassuring in her palm. The warrior advanced, his dirk held low.
“I wouldna do that if I were ye, lass,” he sneered.
Behind him, the other two MacDonalds were engaged with the MacLeod men who had rushed in from the courtyard. The clash of steel on steel filled the air, punctuated by grunts and curses.
Kate’s attacker lunged, and she swung the pan with all her might. It connected with his forearm with a sickening crack. He howled, his dirk clattering to the stone floor. Kate didn’t hesitate. She brought the pan down on his head, and he crumpled at her feet.
Her hands shook as she stared at his still form. Had she killed him? The thought made her stomach lurch, but there was no time to dwell on it. More shouts came from the kitchen passage. The MacDonalds had found their way in.
Kate dropped the pan and grabbed the fallen warrior’s dirk. The blade was heavier than she expected, the handle worn smooth from use. She had no idea how to use it, other than stick them with the pointy end, but it was better than nothing.
She ran toward the kitchen passage, heart hammering against her ribs. The narrow corridor was dim, lit only by a single torch in an iron bracket. She pressed herself against the wall, listening to the sounds of fighting ahead.
Connor’s voice rose above the din. “Hold them back! Don’t let them reach the hall!”
She inched forward until she could see. Connor and two other MacLeods were fighting five MacDonald warriors. He moved with deadly grace, his broadsword a blur of steel as he parried and thrust. But even as she watched, one of the MacLeod men fell, blood spurting from his throat.
Connor faltered, still not fully healed from the fever. A MacDonald warrior seized the opportunity, driving his blade into Connor’s side. Connor grunted in pain, staggering back against the wall. The MacDonald raised his sword for a killing blow.
Kate didn’t think. She burst from her hiding place with a scream that surprised even her and hurled herself at the MacDonald. The dirk in her hand plunged into his back, between his shoulder blades. The warrior roared in pain, twisting around to face her. His blade caught her across the forearm, slicing through her sleeve and into her flesh.
Pain blazed up her arm, but she refused to let go of the dirk. She wrenched it free and stumbled backward, nearly falling over an overturned chair. The MacDonald advanced on her, blood soaking his plaid, his face contorted with rage.
“Ye’ll pay for that, ye wee bitch,” he snarled.
Connor appeared behind him, his face pale with pain, but his eyes burning with fury. His broadsword swung in a vicious arc, catching the MacDonald across the back of the neck. The man’s head nearly separated from his body as he collapsed.
Kate stared, bile rising in her throat. Connor’s gaze locked with hers, and for a moment, they stood frozen, both breathing hard. Blood streaked his face and soaked his side where the blade had caught him.
“Ye shouldna be here,” he rasped, but there was something different in his tone. Not anger, but a kind of respect.
Before she could respond, more MacDonalds poured through the rear door. Connor pushed her behind him, raising his broadsword despite the wound in his side. Kate grabbed a heavy bottle of spirits from a shelf and stood at his back, her injured arm throbbing.
“If we die,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, “we die together.”
She felt rather than saw him nod. “Together, then.”
They fought as one, Connor with his broadsword, Kate with her makeshift weapons. The bottle, a wooden stool, whatever came to hand. When a MacDonald slipped past Connor’s guard, Kate smashed the bottle over his head. When Kate was cornered, Connor cut down her attacker with a single stroke.
Time blurred. Her world narrowed to survival. Thrust, parry, dodge. Her arm burned, blood soaking her sleeve and dripping onto the stone floor. Connor’s movements grew slower, his face gray with pain and blood loss. But still they fought.
The clash of steel and shouts of men filled the air until a commanding voice cut through the chaos.
“Enough!”
The fighters parted like a tide to reveal Dougal MacDonald, his imposing figure silhouetted in the doorway. A triumphant smile played on his lips as he stepped forward, eyes locked on Connor.
“Your brother Cameron begged for mercy at my hands,” Dougal taunted, voice dripping with malice. “As will you.”
Connor’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white around the hilt of his broadsword. “You’re a liar as well as a coward, Dougal. My brother would never beg. Least of all to the likes of you.”
Dougal laughed, touching the ornate brooch pinned to his plaid. “I cannot lose, for I wear the Bronmuir Brooch. Your clan’s power is mine now.”
“Is that what you believe?” Connor’s voice was dangerously soft. “Then you know nothing of our history.”
Kate watched as Connor straightened despite his wounds, his voice carrying throughout the room as he spoke.
“The legend of the brooch is known to every true MacLeod. Forged in the fires of Bronmuir by our ancestors, blessed by the old gods themselves. It grants victory in battle and protection from harm.” His eyes narrowed. “But only to those of MacLeod blood.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Dougal’s face.
“That silver and gold was taken from the prow of a Norse longship,” Connor continued, his voice gaining strength. “The metal that survived a hundred storms was gifted to the first MacLeod of Bronmuir by a Norse princess who saw his true heart.”
Connor took a step forward, and Kate noticed how the clansmen around them had fallen silent, hanging on his every word.
“Those stones that catch the light like the depths of the sea? They are the tears of a selkie who gave up her ocean home for the love of my ancestor. When she returned to the waves, she left those tears as a promise of protection.”
Dougal’s hand fell away from the brooch as Connor spoke, the magnificent piece gleaming in the firelight. Silver and gold intricately woven around three large blue stones that seemed to glow with an inner light.
“For seven generations, that brooch has protected our people from disaster. No MacLeod laird wearing it has ever fallen in battle. No winter has brought starvation to our clan while it remained in our possession.” Connor’s eyes locked with Dougal’s. “The selkie’s magic flows in our blood. To you, it is merely metal and stone.”
“What you wear,” Connor continued with a wicked grin, “is nothing but a trinket. A decoy. The real Bronmuir Brooch is safely hidden away, as it has been for generations.”
Dougal’s expression twisted with rage. “You lie!”
“Test your luck then,” Connor challenged, raising his broadsword once more.
With a roar of fury, Dougal charged forward. Connor met him with a fierce battle cry of his own, summoning strength from some hidden reserve. His blade flashed in the dim light, and with one powerful stroke, he cut down his enemy.
And then, suddenly, it was over. MacLeod reinforcements flooded the corridor, driving the remaining MacDonalds back. The invaders retreated, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
Kate sagged against the wall, her legs trembling beneath her. Connor leaned heavily on his broadsword, his breathing labored. Their eyes met across the blood-spattered larder.
“Ye saved my life,” he said softly.
Kate attempted a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “Consider us even.”
* * *
Night fell on Bronmuir Keep, bringing with it a heavy silence. The MacDonalds had been driven back, but at great cost. Five MacLeod warriors dead, a dozen more wounded. The injured laid out on pallets before the hearth in the great hall.
Kate sat alone on a bench near the fire, staring at her bandaged arm. Moira had cleaned and dressed the wound, declaring it “a wee scratch.” The healer had given her a draught for the pain, but she’d only pretended to drink it. She wanted to keep her head clear.
The events of the day replayed over and over. The clash of steel, the coppery smell of blood, the weight of the dirk in her hand. She had killed. That made four. The assassin. Kenna. And the two MacDonald men. The knowledge sat like a stone in her chest.
“Kate.”
She looked up to find Connor standing before her. His side was heavily bandaged, his arm in a sling. His face was drawn with exhaustion, but his blue eyes were clear and focused solely on her.
“How are ye feeling?” he asked, lowering himself carefully onto the bench beside her.
“Like I’ve been hit by a bus,” she admitted, then caught herself. “I mean... I’m sore, but I’ll live. How about you?”
“I’ve had worse.” The hint of a smile touched his lips. “Though no’ many.”
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the flames dance in the hearth.
“Connor? Why didn’t you wear the brooch in battle?”
A long sigh escaped. “’Tis said it can only be used three times and has been used twice already.”
Around them, the clan moved quietly, tending to the wounded, comforting the grieving, rebuilding what had been broken.
“Ye shouldna have been in that fight,” Connor said at last. “But I’m grateful ye were.”
Kate turned to look at him, surprised by the admission. “I couldn’t hide while everyone else fought.”
“Aye, I’m beginning to understand that about ye.” He shifted, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wound. “Ye’re no’ like any woman I’ve ever known.”
“Is that a good thing?” she asked, half-joking.
“It is.” His expression grew serious. “I didna believe ye, ye ken. About where, when , ye came from.”
Kate’s breath caught in her throat. “And now?”
Connor reached into the sporran at his waist and withdrew something that glinted in the firelight.
“I had Ewan fetch it.” The Bronmuir Brooch. Its surface was polished to a warm glow, the intricate Celtic knotwork catching the light.
“I believe ye now,” he said softly. “Every strange word, every moment ye speak of a world I canna understand. I see it now. I see you.”
He placed the brooch in her open palm. The metal was warm from his body, the weight of it familiar and strange all at once.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Giving ye a choice.” Connor’s gaze never left her face. “The old witch at the cemetery brought ye here for a reason. Perhaps that reason was today. Perhaps ye were meant to save my life, and now ye’re free to return to your time.”
Kate stared at the brooch in her hand, her throat tight with emotion. “And if I don’t want to go back?”
“Then ye stay. With the clan. With me.” His voice roughened. “We will face every storm together.”
She looked up at him, seeing the vulnerability behind his warrior’s facade. This proud Highland chieftain was offering her his heart, his future, his world.
“I need time to think,” she admitted.
Connor nodded, though she could see the disappointment he tried to hide. “Take all the time ye need. The choice is yours.”
He rose stiffly, favoring his injured side. “Rest now. The dawn will bring enough work for all of us.”
Kate watched him walk away, the brooch clutched tightly in her hand. The metal seemed to pulse with warmth, as if alive with its own magic.