Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"Bring me more bandages. Clean ones."
Elinor moved through the great hall with purpose, her hands already stained with blood from the first wave of wounded.
The space had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary—tables pushed together to serve as surgical beds, linens torn into strips for bandages, the castle's healer directing operations with grim efficiency.
"Me lady." One of the kitchen maids appeared at her elbow, arms full of clean cloth. "Cook says there's more if ye need it."
"We'll need it. Trust me." Elinor took the bandages, already moving toward where a young clansman sat clutching his arm. Blood seeped between his fingers. "Let me see."
"It's nae so bad, me lady." But his face was pale, his voice shaky.
"Let me be the judge of that." Elinor gently pried his hand away, examining the wound. Deep, but clean. The arrow had gone straight through the meat of his forearm, missing bone. "You're lucky. This should heal well if we keep it clean."
She worked quickly, washing the wound with boiled water mixed with herbs the healer had prepared. The young man hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away.
"You did well out there," Elinor said, keeping her voice steady, conversational. She'd learned quickly that talking helped—distracted from the pain, kept them focused on something other than the battle they'd just survived. "What's your name?"
"Finn, me lady."
"Well, Finn, you're very brave." She began wrapping the bandage, making sure it was tight enough to staunch the bleeding but not so tight it would cut off circulation. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen, me lady."
Seventeen. God, he was barely more than a boy.
"Do you have family in the castle?"
"Me ma and two sisters. They're in the kitchens helpin' Cook." His eyes were bright with tears he was trying not to shed. "I wanted tae make them proud. Show them I could defend our home."
"I'm sure they're very proud." Elinor tied off the bandage, checking her work. "There. Keep this clean and dry. Come back if it starts to smell strange or if the pain gets worse. Understood?"
"Aye, me lady. Thank ye."
He moved away, making room for the next wounded man. Elinor took a deep breath, steeling herself, then moved to help.
The wounded kept coming. Some with minor injuries, cuts and bruises that would heal quickly. Others with more serious wounds—deep gashes, broken bones, burns from the boiling oil.
Elinor worked until her hands were numb and her back ached from bending over. She'd never done anything like that before, her father certainly hadn't prepared her for tending battle wounds. But the healer was patient, showing her what to do, and Elinor found she had a knack for it.
Or maybe she was just good at not fainting at the sight of blood.
"Me lady." Ainsley appeared beside her, looking worried. "Ye should rest. Ye've been at this fer hours."
"Has it been hours?" Elinor glanced toward the windows, surprised to see the sun had climbed higher. "I didn't notice."
"Aye. And the battle's quieted outside. They're regroupin' or somethin'." Ainsley held out a cup of water. "At least drink somethin'. Ye'll be nay good tae anyone if ye collapse."
Elinor accepted the water gratefully, draining half the cup before she realized how thirsty she'd been. "Thank you. Has there been any word from David?"
"Nae since the battle started. But that's probably good news, aye? Means he's still out there fightin'."
Or it meant he was too busy, or too injured, to send word. But Elinor pushed that thought away. She couldn't afford to think like that. Couldn't afford to let fear paralyze her when there was work to be done.
"I'm going to check the stores," she told Ainsley. "Make sure we have enough supplies. If they come again—"
"They will come again," the healer interjected, overhearing. "Langley didnae bring two hundred men just fer one assault. He'll be back."
"Then we need to be ready." Elinor set down the cup. "Ainsley, stay here and help where you can. I'll be back shortly."
She left the great hall, moving through corridors that felt quiet after the chaos of the infirmary. Servants hurried past with water and food for the defenders. Guards stood at intervals, weapons ready, eyes alert.
The castle felt different. Tense. Like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next blow to fall.
Elinor made her way to the storage rooms on the second floor where extra linens were kept. They'd need more bandages soon, the supply in the great hall was already running low.
She was reaching for the door handle when she heard it.
A sound. Soft. Like fabric brushing against stone.
She froze, her hand hovering over the latch.
There. Again. Coming from inside the storage room.
Probably just a servant, she told herself. Someone gathering supplies.
But something felt wrong. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. Her instincts—honed by years of reading her father's moods, of knowing when danger was near—were screaming at her to run.
Elinor took a step back from the door.
"Going somewhere, my lady?"
The voice came from behind her. English. Unfamiliar.
She spun around to find a man blocking the corridor. He was dressed like a MacDonald servant, but his accent gave him away. And the way he was looking at her, like a hunter who'd cornered his prey.
"I don't know you," Elinor said, keeping her voice steady even as her heart hammered. "You're not clan."
"Very observant." The man took a step closer. "Sir Edmund sends his regards. Says it's time to come home."
Elinor's blood turned to ice. "How did you get in here?"
"Been here for weeks, actually. Hidin' in plain sight. Waitin' for the right moment." His smile was ugly. "And with the laird busy defendin' his walls, this seems like the perfect time."
He lunged.
Elinor ran.
She didn't think, didn't hesitate, just turned and sprinted down the corridor, her skirts bunched in her fists. Behind her, she heard the man curse and give chase.
"Help!" she screamed. "Guards! Someone."
A hand grabbed her arm, yanking her backward. She stumbled, catching herself against the wall. The man was on her in an instant, his hand clamping over her mouth.
"None of that," he hissed. "You're coming quiet-like, or this gets messy."
Elinor bit down hard on his palm.
The man yelped, jerking his hand away. "You little bitch."
She screamed again, louder this time, and kicked at him with all her strength. Her foot connected with his knee and he staggered.
More footsteps, coming from the other direction. Two more men appeared, also dressed as servants. Also English.
"Grab her!" the first man ordered. "Before someone hears!"
But it was too late. A guard appeared at the end of the corridor, his sword already drawn.
"What's this, then?" The guard took in the scene quickly. "Step away from Lady MacDonald. Now."
"This doesn't concern you," one of the new arrivals said. "We're just—"
The guard didn't wait for the excuse. He moved forward, his blade flashing.
Chaos erupted in the narrow corridor. Steel rang against steel. Elinor pressed herself against the wall, trying to stay out of the way while the guard fought off two of the infiltrators.
The third, the one who'd grabbed her, pulled a knife from his belt.
"You're coming with me," he snarled, advancing on Elinor. "One way or another."
"Like hell I am." Elinor grabbed the first thing her hand found, a decorative candlestick from a nearby table. It was heavy, iron, and when she swung it at the man's head, it connected with a satisfying thunk.
The man went down, blood pouring from his temple.
But the other two were still fighting the guard, and he was tiring. One of them got past his defense, driving a blade into his side.
The guard fell with a cry.
"No!" Elinor started toward him, but strong hands grabbed her from behind.
A fourth man. There had been a fourth one, waiting.
"Got you," he breathed in her ear, his arm locked around her waist, lifting her off her feet. "Now be a good girl and come along."
Elinor fought like a wildcat—kicking, scratching, biting anything she could reach. But he was strong, and he'd caught her by surprise. He started dragging her down the corridor, away from the wounded guard, away from help.
"Let me go!" She drove her elbow back, catching him in the ribs. "Let me go right now."
"Shut up!" He shook her roughly, making her teeth rattle. "Just shut up and—"
Something whistled through the air.
The man's grip on her loosened. He made a choking sound and then collapsed, taking Elinor down with him. She scrambled away from his body, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
A knife protruded from the man's back. And standing at the end of the corridor, another knife already in hand, was Malcolm.
"Me lady." The steward's voice was calm, controlled. "Are ye hurt?"
"I—no. I don't think so." Elinor looked at the chaos around her—three men down or dying, the guard bleeding on the floor, Malcolm standing there like he'd just taken care of a minor inconvenience rather than saved her life. "How did you do it?"
"Been fightin' since before ye were born, me lady." Malcolm moved past her to check on the guard. "This one's alive. Barely. We need tae get him tae the healer." He looked up at her. "And we need tae get ye somewhere safe. If there were four of them, there might be more."
"The guard…"
"I'll handle it. Ye need tae go. Now." Malcolm's tone brooked no argument. "Tae yer chambers. Lock the door. Dinnae open it fer anyone but the laird or me. Understood?"
Elinor nodded, her legs shaky as she started moving. Behind her, she could hear Malcolm calling for help, his voice sharp with command.
She ran through the corridors, her heart pounding, not stopping until she reached her bedchamber. She slammed the door behind her and threw the bolt, then leaned against it, trying to catch her breath.
Langley had men inside the castle. Inside. How many? How long had they been here? And what else were they planning?
She had to warn David. Had to tell him—
A sound from the balcony made her freeze.
The door was opening. Slowly. Carefully.
But she'd locked that. She always locked the balcony door.
Unless someone had unlocked it from the outside.
Elinor's hand went to her throat as a figure stepped through. Male. Dressed in MacDonald colors but with the wrong build, the wrong bearing.
Another infiltrator.
"Hello, my lady." The man's smile was cold. "Sir Edmund is waiting for you."
Elinor looked around desperately for a weapon. The candlestick was gone, left in the corridor. There was nothing within reach but—
The fire poker.
She dove for it, her fingers closing around the iron shaft just as the man lunged. She swung wildly, catching him across the face. He staggered back, blood streaming from his nose.
"How dare you!" He came at her again, faster.
Elinor swung again but he caught the poker, wrenching it from her grip. His other hand closed around her throat.
"Should've made this easy," he snarled, squeezing. "But no. You had to fight."
Black spots danced across Elinor's vision. She clawed at his hand, trying to break his grip, but he was too strong. Her lungs burned. Her head spun.
She was going to die here. In her own bedchamber. And David would come back to find nothing.
This couldn't be how it ended.
She remembered something Malcolm had done––the knife throw, quick and precise. Her hand fumbled at the man's belt, feeling for anything, any weapon. Her fingers found the hilt of a dagger.
With the last of her strength, she yanked it free and drove it upward into his side.
The man roared, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench free. She stumbled backward, gasping for air, her vision clearing slowly.
But he wasn't finished. Wounded and enraged, he pulled the dagger from his side and advanced on her, backing her toward the balcony.
"You'll pay for that," he growled, blood seeping through his tunic. "Even if I have to drag your corpse to Langley."
Elinor's back hit the stone wall. She glanced behind her, realizing there was nothing else she could do about the situation. There was no escape that way.
The infiltrator lunged, the dagger flashing.
Elinor ducked and twisted, but her foot caught in her skirts. She stumbled, her hand reaching for the curtains to steady herself.
He got a hold of her and started dragging her backward, toward the balcony. Toward the open door where she could see—
A rope. Hanging from above. Leading down to the courtyard below, where the chaos of battle would provide perfect cover for an escape.
"Sir Edmund's waiting for you," the man grunted, still squeezing her throat. "Been planning this for weeks. Every detail. And now you're finally coming home where you belong."
Elinor's foot caught on the threshold of the balcony door. She stumbled, and for a terrifying moment she felt herself falling backward.
The stone balustrade hit her legs, and suddenly she was bent over it, the ground far below spinning in her vision.
She was going to fall. Or he was going to throw her over, let her die, and tell Langley it was an accident.
But then his grip shifted, from her throat to her arm, and he hauled her back onto the balcony proper. Not mercy. Just repositioning her for the climb down the rope.
"Stop fighting," he hissed, pulling her toward the rope. "You'll only make this harder on yourself."