Chapter 38
The noise wasn’t more than a faint echo. A tremor in the cold morning air, but enough to make Donall grab Gavin’s arm, then tilt his head to listen.
“By the gods, they’re coming!” Gavin jerked free and pointed. “Look.”
“Where?” Donall followed Gavin’s out-stretched arm. A dark mass, denser than the gray mist and much faster-moving, was just swinging around a distant hill. An ever-increasing swell of pure, mounted might racing across the open moorland.
Donall’s heart slammed against his ribs and he gave a triumphant shout. And though he’d ne’er admit it – except perhaps someday to his grandchildren – he almost shook with joy.
The earth did tremble, an echo of many pairs of pounding hooves, while the low rumble of moments before now became the drumming of powerful steeds tearing up the ground as they and the warriors atop them flew toward Donall and Gavin.
It was Iain.
Even at a distance, Donall spotted his brother leading the horsemen. Tall, furious, and broad-shouldered in his saddle as he thundered across the moor, a small dark form clutched before him.
Lugh.
He’d made it, a thousand blessings on him.
He’d fetched Iain, and what appeared to be the entire MacLean army. Donall also spotted a slight figure, not to be mistaken for one of the powerfully built warriors.
Gerbert.
And the old goat led two horses.
Grinning, Donall whacked Gavin on the shoulder. “It’s over! Iain’s coming and I’ve ne’er been happier to see him.
“To see all of them!” Donall threw back his head, stared up at the cloud-streaked sky. “Every last one of them.”
“That I doubt, my friend.”
“What’s wrong?” Donall glanced at him.
“They have company.” Gavin lifted a hand to his brow, scrunched his eyes. “Enemies.”
“Nae.”
Frowning, Donall stared at the tight group of standard bearers riding close to Iain. Gavin was right. The banners snapping in the wind bore not only the MacLean crest, but also the MacKinnon insignia.
“What the devil?” Donall’s brows swooped low. “He has MacKinnons with him.”
“So he does.”
Then the riders pounded up, drawing around them in a circle of trampling hooves, horses’ snorts, and men’s voices raised in greeting.
Iain pulled up before Donall, his eyes alight with a rare twinkle. He held up his hand and the clamor ceased.
“Dinnae ask.” Iain tipped his chin toward the MacKinnon warriors. For once, he wore a broad smile rather than a frown. “They come in peace and are friends.”
Gavin frowned. “You’re sure?’
Iain’s smile deepened. “Would they be here otherwise?”
“I’ll no’ doubt it,” Donall said, grinning at his brother and at the MacKinnons.
They, too, wore smiles.
And what looked suspiciously like MacLean armor. Not that Donall begrudged them the gleaming ware. He was too happy to see all of them. His men and the MacKinnons. He’d ask later why Iain outfitted them with MacLean steel.
Even Lugh sported a child-sized mail shirt of Baldoon origins. The lad also looked proud, wearing the first smile Donall had seen on the quiet boy’s face.
But Lugh wasn’t smiling at him. He’d twisted round to peer up at Iain with pure adulation.
“This is a time for miracles,” Donall said, still smiling at his brother, but speaking loud enough for all to hear.
Iain laughed and tousled Lugh’s head. “Your young friend here tells me you’ve a lady in need of a few braw and ready sword arms?”
“So I do.” Donall’s smile faded, concern for Isolde tightening his gut.
“Lugh told me who she is,” Iain said, his own face earnest now. “Lileas spoke of her often. She loved her greatly.”
“As do I,” Donall admitted. “We must we reach her hall before-”
“We will.” Iain’s smile flashed again. “If you haven’t noticed, I brought our stables’ best horses.”
“So you did.” Donall glanced aside then to catch the sword belt Gerbert tossed to him. Grateful, he secured it low on his hips, then also accepted the sword the white-haired steward handed him.
Gerbert gave a second belt and sword to Gavin, who took both with thanks, and then returned to Donall.
“It will soon be over,” Gavin said, clamping a hand on Donall’s shoulder. “The lass is strong. She will stand until you can pull her into your arms again.”
“I will hold you to those words,” Donall said, then lifted the sword high and kissed the cross-hilt.
As he did, a roar went up from the men. “Onward to Dunmuir!” they shouted. “We’ve a lady to rescue and the gods pity any who’d stop us!”
“Dunmuir!” Donall added his voice to the cries. A squire led his horse forward then, and he sheathed the sword before vaulting into the saddle, eager to be on.
He swerved in the direction opposite Baldoon and raised a hand. “We ride!” he roared. “Away to save my lady!”
Then he spurred his horse out across the moor, leaving his men, his steward, and his new MacKinnon friends to chase after him.
A short while later, the sprawling bulk of Dunmuir rose against the horizon.
Donall drew rein and stared at the stronghold, dark against the morning’s gray, cloud-chased sky.
He locked his gaze on Isolde’s home, his heart pounding in slow, hard thumps.
She was somewhere behind those walls and he prayed she was unharmed.
MacArthur’s war-galley could be seen riding anchor off Dunmuir’s narrow, rock-bound shore. High-prowed and low in the water, the single-masted ship banked what looked to be forty oars, and its mere presence made his gut clench and put a taste like stale ash in his mouth.
Eager to see the galley sailing away on a strong, home-bound wind, Donall spurred his horse and galloped the rest of the way to Dunmuir’s gate.
The iron-spiked portcullis clanked upward at their approach and he and all those riding behind him thundered beneath it. They clattered through the tunnel-like gatehouse, and into the stronghold’s silent and deserted bailey.
To his surprise, or perhaps not, two figures stepped from the shadows...
Lorne, the older knight, and the dark beauty, his rescuing angel.
They hurried forward, Lorne with a trace of reserve, his lady glowing with relief. And Donall didn’t doubt she was the graybeard’s woman.
Never had a pair looked more at ease together. Lorne and the black-garbed angel showed the air of trust and loving he hoped to share with his lady.
Enjoy with her for all their days.
And nights.
Impatient to fetch her, he swung down from his saddle. “Lady Evelina, Lorne.” He gave them terse nods. “Where is she? Is she still safe?”
“She yet sleeps,” Lorne said, glancing back at the keep.
Relief swept Iain. “Thank the gods.”
“I still fear for her,” Evelina said. She started to say more, but Lorne shot her a warning glance.
“My lady and I are relieved you’ve returned, Sir Donall.” The knight gripped his arm. “I will give you apologies later, after all this has passed.”
“As you shall have mine,” Donall said, grasping Lorne’s arm in return.
“The MacLean is a good man, as I’ve told you.” Evelina glanced at Lorne. “As you have seen for yourself.” To Donall, she said, “The gods be thanked, you came.”
“Did you doubt it?”
“Nae.” She looked again at Lorne. “We knew you would return. Bless be, you came so quickly.”
Iain must’ve dismounted or lowered Lugh to the ground, for the boy dashed past Donall then and threw his arms around Evelina.
“Lugh.” She smiled down at him, rested a hand on his shoulder. “You are a braw lad,” she said, tousling his hair. “I knew you were the perfect messenger to send to Laird MacLean’s brother.”
“Indeed.” Iain strode up to them. “Now where is this lass who’s done the impossible and claimed Donall’s heart?”
Lorne cleared his throat. “Struan – her uncle - banished her to her bedchamber,” he said with a sidelong glance at Donall. “Good sirs, you came swiftly, but we must make greater haste now. I do not trust Struan not to suffer a worse penalty on her than merely locking her in her room.”
“Then let us fetch her at once.” Donall frowned. “I’ll deal with Struan afterward. He will wish he’d never been born if he’s harmed Isolde.”
Not caring for the look on the older knight’s face, Donall again gripped his arm. “Where is Struan? Dinnae tell me he’s yet with her?”
“I cannae say.” Lorne glanced over his shoulder at the keep’s outer stairs. They loomed steep and rain-slick behind him. “No one has seen him since he took her abovestairs,” he added, striding toward the steps.
“We must hurry.” Already, he was sprinting up the stairs. “Niels and Rory have vanished as well. It is troublesome.”
Donall ran with him, taking the steps two at a time. Behind him, he could hear his men and the others leaping from their horses and drawing their blades, their shouts and war-cries lost in the hiss, zing, and scraping of swords leaving scabbards.
Not taking the time to glance back, he raced up the last few steps to crest the landing. He joined Lorne at the iron-studded door and they drew it wide so Donall’s men could rush into the great hall.
At once, an outcry went up from those within. Angry rumblings that swelled to outrage when they spotted Donall.
’Tis him! Defiler of women!
Skirt-chasing craven!
Ignoring the slurs, Donall made for the dais end of the hall and the curving turnpike stair to Isolde’s quarters.
At the base of those steps, he turned, pleased to see that his men and the MacKinnons formed a menacing ring around the hall. Not that such a measure was needed…
The feasters appeared deep in their cups.
So he left them to their ale and bounded up the steps, Gavin, Iain, Lorne, and Evelina hard on his heels. They found the door to Isolde’s bedchamber barred from the outside. Inside, the room proved empty except for Bodo. The little brown and white dog sat on the four-poster bed staring at them.
Before anyone could blink, he jumped from the bed, bolted out the door, and raced down the darkened corridor as fast as his short legs could carry him.
At the first landing, he glanced back over his shoulder, a pleading look on his face. Then he dashed off again, barking frantically.
Donall ran after him.
All of them did, for they understood.
Isolde’s wee champion was leading them to her.