Chapter Thirty-Three
“So, that is the King of all England and Scotland,” Thomas said wonderingly, and not for the first time. “He was in a right foul mood for himself, was he not?”
“As vile as this weather,” Dougal replied.
The two men, with their escort of warriors, traveled home following an audience with the King during which Dougal had his knuckles slapped quite sharply.
He knew he should be grateful—he might have received far more than chastisement.
And he was aware much of the credit for it might be laid at the feet of the man who rode beside him.
Thomas had proved quite forthright and eloquent in his explanations and defense of Dougal, managing to convince James that Dougal had not, in fact, abducted Bertram MacNab’s betrothed since she had never traveled north from Yorkshire and had, at the time, been wed to Thomas himself.
The King, with a written complaint from Gerald Maitland in his hands—Isobel’s father had not been present—listened and lost a shade of his bad humor.
“All for the sake of love, was it?” he asked. “Who can fault that? It does not mean, Master MacRae, you can go about snatching women from carriages.”
“I rescued her from the wreck of a carriage, your highness.”
James did not swallow it. “You, sir, have a reputation that precedes you. Your neighbors complain ceaselessly of your activities. We tire of listening.”
“I assure you, Sire, I am mending my ways and have wed just as you, yourself, instructed. I hope for a family soon and mean to devote myself to tending my children and my lands.”
James grunted, “Do not let us see you here on any future complaint, or it will go badly for you. You have been warned. Now, waste no more of our time.”
Recalling it now, Dougal narrowed his eyes. “Aye, Thomas—that is the very man who wields the power of life or death over us. This time, thanks to you, he proved lenient. You have a place wi’ me so long as you need it.”
“Thank you, MacRae. I promise to serve you as bailiff, faithfully.” Thomas gave Dougal a quick smile. “And perhaps I can help you keep your nose clean, eh?”
Not while either Randal or Bertram MacNab draws breath, Dougal thought bitterly.
Oh, aye, he would act the part of the responsible landowner to the best of his ability, if only for Isobel’s sake.
But there were still a number of scores to be settled, and the anger inside him would find no rest until it knew revenge.
Right now, however, he just wanted to get home, to reach journey’s end and be with his wife. It astonished him how much he longed for that moment and how he ached to see Isobel, hold her, crawl into bed and avail himself of her warmth.
That desire sustained him through the many miles from Stirling, through cruel wind and driving sleet.
Weary, he and his party reached their own lands just at nightfall, and Dougal knew from crossing his borders that something was amiss.
Instinct told him so, a kind of sixth sense acclimated to the land, as well as the absence of the guard.
He called to his warriors at his back, “Something is very much wrong!” And they pushed their tired mounts hard through the gathering dark.
For all that, when Dougal beheld his own gates he stared in disbelief. They lay in ruins, charred and broken, and beyond them the forecourt of the keep lay in darkness, a yawning black hole.
His heart began to pound as if it would force its way out of his chest. He dismounted just inside the forecourt and began to bellow, “Rab! Lachlan! Here, to me!”
Silence met his ears, but for the sharp wind whistling round the stones. He heard his men mutter to one another and dismount behind him. He stared, transfixed, at his front door.
Battered, broken like the gates, one of the stout panels had fallen, charred, and there on the threshold he saw the stain of blood.
He hollered wordlessly and pushed his way inside, his head feeling as if it would burst. And there, coming to meet him, Meg…
They met in the center of the entry hall, and Dougal wondered at his sister’s appearance—hair loose and flying, face pale—she looked as if all the fire had been taken from her and only sorrow and resignation remained.
“What has happened here?” The words tumbled from him. “When—?”
“We fell under attack yesterday. He came with a small army and a ram, fire—I placed a spell of protection round the place and your men fought like badgers, but we could not hold.”
“He?”
“Need you ask?” Meg’s eyes looked dull, flat like black stones. “Bertram MacNab. They call you the Devil, Brother, but he has earned the name.”
Dougal’s party entered behind him. He felt them gather, stricken, at his back. He swallowed and asked what he must. “My wife?”
“Taken, along with her sister.”
Thomas groaned. “But my wife is with child—”
Meg shot him a hard look. “Then pray for her, if you believe in anything.”
Dougal’s tongue tripped on. “Rab? Lachlan?”
For the first time emotion showed in Meg’s eyes. “Rab is dead, as are most your guard. He fought valiantly and, for a time, held his ground as an army might. They burned him and still he fought. The MacRae blood ran strong in him!”
Dougal felt the color drain from his face. “And Lachlan?”
“He lies dying.” Meg’s expression betrayed none of her agony, but it filled her voice. “Everyone left alive here, save two maids and myself, is injured unto death. They would not take me, for they feared my magic. Yet it was no’ strong enough to save anyone.”
Isobel. Lachlan. Dougal’s mind stuttered over their names, painful as a raw nerve.
He knew, then, the complaint to the King has been a ruse, yet another distraction to remove him from the place so the attack could be carried out.
MacNab had taken everything he cared for—once again—and left him nothing with which to fight.
“My wife,” said Thomas, and touched Dougal’s arm. “Somehow, we must get them back—”
“How?” Dougal asked, looking into the man’s eyes which burned with cold fury. “He has slaughtered my warriors, all but these who ride with me.”
Thomas said, “We will return to the King, ask him for justice. It will surely be forthcoming—”
Dougal laughed harshly. “Aye? When? Our women are in that bastard’s hands and, I assure you, one day is too many. You know not what he is.” And I understand him, Dougal thought. I never should have left Isobel here, should have taken her with me as she begged.
“We must do something!” Thomas protested, heated now. “My wife—”
“And mine.” Dougal turned to Meg. “Lachlan. Take me to him. The rest of you, check our defenses, what is left of them.”
Lachlan lay in the solar on a makeshift bed constructed of bloodied cloaks. Meg began to speak as she led Dougal in, as if the words were compelled from her.
“He was very brave. You know, for years I thought him naught but a pretty boy, but he has proved me wrong—aye, proved me wrong! They injured him in an attack the day before yesterday when he was out with the guard. Our warriors managed to bring him home. He was so sore hurt—yet when MacNab brought the attack here yesterday at dawn, he got up somehow and fought. He fought!”
The solar, usually the most charming room in the keep, lay in disarray and smelled of blood and sickness. Casting one cursory look about, Dougal saw at least some of the battle had taken place here.
He went forward and knelt at Lachlan’s side, the sword he wore clanking. “Lachy?” To his dismay, his voice broke. A shocking thing, since he supposed he had conquered all emotion years ago.
Lachlan’s eyelids fluttered, but he did not otherwise respond.
Meg sank to her knees beside Lachlan and touched his brow.
“I worked over him all night after they brought him in—he and a troop of warriors had been riding the borders when they encountered MacNab attempting to steal back his own cattle. There was a sharp, short battle, the men said. I thought I should lose Lachy. I poured all my magic into him. I have little left, now.”
Dougal asked, his voice hoarse, “Tell me what transpired when MacNab attacked yesterday.”
Meg shuddered. “We three women were together here in this room, I keeping watch over Lachlan. Rab, who had gone out on patrol, returned soon after dawn. I think he had an instinct and wanted to be here defending the gates.”
“The best warriors are all about instinct,” Dougal said, grief gripping his heart.
“Our men reached the forecourt just before Bertram MacNab and his men attacked. Many of our warriors fell at the outer gates—dragging our dead, they withdrew to the doors of the keep and fought on. When the doors broke, and Rab fell, that is when Lachy pulled himself up. He stood in that doorway and held off MacNab’s men as long as he could.
When they at last took him down, I believed him dead. ”
She paused and sucked in a breath. “It felt like my heart tore from my chest. I did not want to love him! I swore I would never again be so weak.”
To Dougal’s horror, she began to weep broken, ragged sobs into her hands.
Dougal experienced one moment’s pure identification with his sister: he knew in full her pain, her dismay, her belief that she had protected herself.
He too had grown a shell woven of darkness and hurt, fancying himself untouchable.
Isobel…
Yet, he did not love his wife… He feared for her, aye, he desired her, he longed to protect her. But unlike Meg, he was incapable of love.
And he had little comfort for his sister, now. He did not attempt to take her into his arms. Instead he looked at his friend—his one friend in the world.
“What are his injuries? His arm, you say?”
“The original wound was a grievous blow to his chest. His right arm is cut to the bone in two places—I do not know how he held a sword. So many other wounds, I lost count of them.” Meg flipped back the cloak that covered Lachlan. Beneath it he lay naked, a maze of slashes and contusions.
Dougal winced and raised one hand to the deep scar on his own cheek.
“He may lose the arm,” Meg went on, “if he lives. I have done all I can, all I know. The fever may defeat me.”
“Never say that,” Dougal whispered. “He is strong.” And, what would life be without Lachlan at his side, rueful and light of spirit, his humor always matching Dougal’s own and game for any endeavor? “His own courage will save him.”
Meg turned her head and looked her brother full in the eyes. “I only wish you had possessed such courage when Aisla needed you. It might have prevented all this.”
Dougal did not duck the accusation in her eyes. “Do you not think I have blamed myself a thousand times?”
Her lips twisted. “Much good that does us now. Much help to Isobel and Catherine—you know what MacNab will do to them.”
“You think I will not fight to rescue Isobel?”
“Will you? As you fought for Aisla?”
Aye, Dougal thought desperately, passionately, though no word passed his lips. I did the best I could. I failed—I was little more than a lad, and I failed. It shall not end so, this time.
“Tell me how they left Lachy alive,” he begged.
“They thought him dead, as did I. MacNab took the women and would have taken me, also, but I threatened him with a curse. I stood over Lachy’s body—I stood, Brother, and defied them. A lesson you might well learn.”
Dougal nodded, again not dodging the missile of her hate.
“What will you do?” Meg challenged with a sneer.
“Give MacNab what he wants—what he has always wanted.”
Meg lifted a brow. “And, what is that?”
“Me,” Dougal replied. “I mean to place myself squarely in his hands.”