Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Something is wrong.”
The bells woke him.
Lachlann awakened with the particular alertness of a man who had been half-expecting something and was not surprised to find it was happening.
The bells were not the slow measured toll of the morning call. They were faster, urgent, the rhythm reserved for emergencies.
He was out of the bed before he'd fully registered the decision.
Alba stirred beside him. "Lachlann?"
"Stay here," he said, already reaching for his trousers.
"What?"
"The bells." He pulled on his shirt, his mind already moving through the possibilities. Attack, fire, breach. "Stay here until I come back."
He was out the door before she could argue.
The corridor was already filling with men. Servants and soldiers both, moving toward the source of the noise with the organized confusion of people who knew something was wrong but not yet what.
Lachlann took the stairs two at a time and emerged into the courtyard in time to see a guard riding hard through the gate, his horse lathered, his face grim.
"Me laird," the guard shouted, pulling the horse up hard. "The village. They've set fires."
Lachlann felt something in his chest go very still.
"How many?"
"Three buildings that I saw. Maybe more by now." The guard swung down from the saddle. "And there are more ships, six at least, maybe seven, disembarkin' men at the southern beach. They're comin' up the coast road."
"How many men?"
"I couldnae get close enough tae count. Fifty, maybe more."
Lachlann turned to James, who had appeared at his shoulder. "Riders tae the village. Every man who can carry water. I want those fires out before they spread." He turned back to the guard. "The ships, how far out?"
"Close. They were offloadin' when I left."
"Then they'll be on the road within the hour." He scanned the courtyard, his mind running through the arithmetic. Men, horses, time, distance. "Ruadhri. Get the archers tae the wall. Cailean, horses fer twenty men, armed and ready tae ride in ten minutes. James…"
"Aye, me laird."
"Find the lady. Bring her to the inner keep and post a guard. Nobody in or out that ye dinnae personally clear."
"Aye."
He was moving before James had finished acknowledging, crossing the courtyard toward the armory, his mind already three steps ahead.
Fifty men. Maybe more. Torquil had waited until he thought Lachlann was divided. Worried about the village, unprepared for a direct assault, and now he was moving while he thought the advantage was his.
He was wrong about the advantage. But he wasn't wrong about the timing.
Lachlann reached the armory and began pulling weapons from the racks. Sword, dirk, the bow he kept strung for emergencies.
Around him, men were doing the same, moving with the efficient urgency of people who had trained for this and were relieved, in some perverse way, to finally be doing it.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned.
Alba stood in the doorway.
Her face was pale, her hair still loose from sleep, and she was wearing still wearing her shift with a cloak thrown hastily over it. Bràthair stood at her side, his ears up, his body tense in the way dogs got when they sensed their people preparing for something dangerous.
"I told James ye should remain in the keep," Lachlann said.
"He tried tae stop me." She came into the room. "I wanted tae see ye before ye left."
He looked at her. He saw the fear in her face that she was working very hard not to show, at the determination underneath it and he crossed to her in three strides and pulled her against him.
"I'll be back," he said into her hair.
"Ye'd better be," she said. Her voice was steady, but he could feel her hands gripping his shirt.
He pulled back just far enough to look at her. "Go tae the keep. Stay with James. Dinnae come out until I come fer ye."
"Lachlann."
"Please," he said.
She looked at him for a long moment, and then she nodded.
He kissed her, quick and hard, and then he let her go and turned back to the armory.
"Mount up," he called to the men. "We ride now."
The courtyard was organized chaos. Horses being brought out, men checking weapons, the controlled urgency of a force preparing to move fast.
Lachlann swung into the saddle and looked back once at the keep.
Alba was standing at the window, her hand raised. Captain sat beside her.
He raised his hand in answer, and then he turned his horse toward the gate and rode.
Alba watched from the window until Lachlann disappeared through the gate, and then she stood there longer, staring at the empty courtyard, her hand still raised like an idiot.
Captain whined softly beside her.
"I ken," she said. "I ken, I dinnae like it either."
She turned from the window.
James had stationed himself at the door to the keep with two men, and his expression when she'd tried to leave had been so apologetic and so immovable that she'd stopped arguing and simply retreated to the window instead.
She hated it.
Hated standing there doing nothing while Lachlann rode toward whatever Torquil had planned.
Hated the helplessness of it, hated the way her heart was beating too fast and her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She was married now. Legally, formally, in every way that mattered. And her husband had ridden off to defend a village that was burning because of her.
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass.
Time moved strangely after that.
She could see the distant smudge of smoke rising from the direction of the village, could hear the faint, terrible sounds carried on the wind. There was shouting, the clash of steel, things she couldn't identify and didn't want to.
She watched and she waited, and Captain pressed his warm flank against her leg and didn't move.
She didn't know how long she'd been standing there when she heard it.
Not fighting. Not fire.
Hoofbeats.
Fast and purposeful, coming not from the direction of the village but from the south, from the coastal path that skirted the castle's eastern wall.
She frowned.
Captain heard it too. His ears went up. His body went still in that way that meant something was wrong.
"James," she called.
He was already in the doorway. "Aye. I heard it."
More hoofbeats now, and then shouting from the walls, her name, in a voice she didn't recognize. Urgent and sharp.
"Get back from the window," James said, crossing the room in quick strides. "Now, me lady. Away from the window."
She stepped back. James moved past her, and then the door opened.
She turned.
Torquil MacLean stood in the doorway of her chamber.
Behind him, two of his men held James and the guard at sword point, their faces blank and professional.
Torquil's eyes found her immediately, and the expression on his face––satisfaction, possessiveness, a rage barely held in check––made her stomach turn cold.
"Lady MacKinnon," he said. "I think ye've caused me enough trouble."
She didn't scream. She thought about it, but there was no one close enough to hear, and something told her that screaming would only make him move faster.
Captain placed himself between her and Torquil with a growl that resonated through the floorboards.
Torquil drew his dirk and pointed it at the dog.
"Call him off," he said, "or I'll dae it fer ye."
She put her hand on Captain’s scruff. "Easy," she murmured. "Easy, lad."
Bràthair didn't stand down, but he stopped advancing.
Torquil stepped into the room. "Ye're comin' with me."
"I'm nae goin' anywhere with ye."
"It wasnae a request." He closed the distance between them, fast, and his hand was in her hair before she could move.
Then she was fighting, she was kicking and scratching and calling him every foul name she'd ever learned from listening outside Calum's door, and Captain lunged, his teeth sinking into Torquil's forearm.
Torquil shouted. His grip loosened for one moment.
She drove her elbow back into his ribs.
He grunted but didn't let go.
His free hand came up and backhanded her across the face hard enough that her vision went white.
Then he was shouting at Captain, at her, dragging her toward the door while the dog snarled and pulled. She could hear James fighting in the corridor, could hear the sounds of more men coming up the stairs.
Too many. There were too many of them.
She was still fighting when they dragged her out of the keep and into the courtyard, blinking against the daylight, searching desperately for anyone who might help.
But Torquil's men had moved fast and quietly, and there weren't enough of Lachlann's guard left behind to hold them.
She screamed his name. Not Torquil's. Not James's.
"Lachlann!"
It was useless.
He was at the village, a mile away, and she was here, and Torquil was dragging her toward his horse with her blood on her lip and Captain still hanging from his arm.