13 YE NEVER DESERVED HER
LEOD MACLEAN’S CURSE was explosive.
Turning on his heel, he crossed to the window, grabbing the ledge as he glared out at the glittering waters of Loch Buie. “Attack me at yer peril, whelp ,” he growled. Maclean didn’t appear to have heard Alec’s offer, and if he had, he’d chosen to ignore him.
That mattered not though. What did was that the laird of Moy Castle now had his back to him.
Alec didn’t hesitate.
In one swift move, he’d drawn his knife from his boot, and the next, he was behind Maclean, the blade angling for his throat.
But, somehow, the bastard sensed him.
Leod Maclean turned with a speed that belied his size, his shoulder barreling into Alec’s chest. The two men hurtled sideways, crashing against the wall, and the laird whipped out his dirk.
“She hasn’t sent MacDonald, has she?” he snarled. “She sent ye .”
“Aye,” Alec grunted. “Think of me as her avenging angel.” He shoved Maclean back and then pitched himself forward, headbutting him.
The laird staggered yet righted himself fast. A moment later, his dirk slashed at Alec. “What did the bitch promise ye?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he dodged the blade easily and kicked his opponent savagely in the knee. “Apart from the pleasure of killing ye?”
Maclean cursed, staggering once more. “I swear, ye’ll never get yer filthy hands on my coin.” His dagger struck again, this time tearing Alec’s sleeve. A sting followed, warning that he’d drawn blood. The pain spurred him on, and his knife slashed down Maclean’s left side, crimson blooming upon his dun-colored lèine.
“Whoreson!” Maclean grunted, coming for Alec again, driving in with a lethal strike.
But Alec anticipated him, darting to one side so that the dirk-blade scraped against stone.
Leod Maclean was an aggressive fighter, preferring the offensive to the defensive. Rage had also turned him vicious. Alec’s style was cannier. He’d grown up on the docks of Oban and learned how to fight with a blade at a young age. The best fighters kept moving and turned the exchange into a dance. However, Maclean was like a maddened bull, charging at him repeatedly.
Alec ducked under his next frenzied stab and drove his blade into the chieftain’s thigh.
Maclean roared, swiping at him, but Alec was faster.
Yanking the blade free, he drove it up under the laird’s ribs and twisted. He then stepped in, his free hand clamping around Maclean’s wrist.
The dirk slipped from the laird’s fingers, clattering onto the floor.
His opponent’s face had blanched, his mouth working as Alec leaned in, bringing their faces close. “This is for Liza,” he murmured. “Ye never deserved her.”
Fury flared in Maclean’s peat-dark eyes, despite the agony he was in, although when Alec twisted the blade once more, his face froze.
His big body sagged then, and Alec released him, letting him fall.
Sprawled on the floor, his blood pooling over the wooden planks, Maclean glared up at his attacker. “Baseborn bastard,” he rasped. “Ye won’t get away with this.”
Alec favored him with a thin smile. “Maybe not … but ye won’t be here to find out.”
He stood over the laird, watching as his eyes fluttered shut, as the life drained from him.
A chill settled over Alec then, one that made the hair on the back of his arms prickle. Some acts forever changed the course of a man’s life. Aye, he’d just killed one of Loch Maclean’s chieftains. Would this turn the clan-chief against him? It all depended on the view Loch took of Leod Macleod’s attempt to kill his wife.
The throbbing in his left arm drew his attention then, and he glanced down to see that the linen sleeve was ripped and stained crimson. The cut was deeper than he’d thought, and it would need seeing to. Not yet though.
First, he had a castle to take.
Untying the sash from around his waist, he stepped over Maclean’s prone form and crossed to the window. He then waved it, leaning forward and letting the wind catch the bright fabric like a flag.
Cory, Gunn, and the others would have been blind not to see it.
Turning from the window, he ripped off a length of the sash and bound his forearm with it to staunch the bleeding. He was just securing the bandage when shouting reached him, followed by the clang of blades clashing, echoing up from the barmkin below.
A smile tugged at his mouth then, his uneasiness of moments earlier forgotten. The lads had seen him and had rushed the gates.
They were raising hell.
Liza paced the railing, her gaze trained north. “Where are they?”
“The captain will be on his way soon enough,” Rabbie assured her. The lad sat on a coil of rope, lanky legs stretched out in front of him. He was whitling a piece of rosewood with a thin knife, seemingly unworried that noon had long passed. The sun was sinking toward the west now, and there was no sign of Rankin or his crew.
Liza’s breathing grew shallow, and she halted, wrapping her fingers around the polished wooden railing. “It’s taking too long.” Suddenly, all she could think about was Craeg. What if he’d gotten caught up in Rankin’s attack? What if he’d been maimed—or worse?
“Storming a castle isn’t the work of a few moments, Lady Maclean,” Egan pointed out, yanking her out of her spiraling thoughts. The pirate was washing the deck with a dirty mop. “It’ll take time to secure it.”
“Aye, and the captain won’t send word unless it’s safe for us to join them,” Rabbie added.
Turning, Liza leaned her back against the railing and tried to calm the anxiety that now danced in her belly.
So much depended on the outcome of today. It was hard not to imagine the worst. She couldn’t keep thinking about it, keep worrying. She needed to distract herself.
Her gaze drifted to the piece of wood Rabbie was whittling. His long freckled fingers worked nimbly. “What are ye making?”
The lad’s lips stretched into a lopsided smile. “It’s a dog.”
“Ye are fond of dogs then?” Rabbie’s earnestness made her return the smile. It helped distract her from the worry that gnawed at her belly.
He nodded. “Aye … wolfhounds especially.”
Egan snorted behind him, sloshing his mop into a bucket of oily water. “It’s always a hound, lad. Do ye whittle anything else?”
Rabbie flashed the older man a wounded look. “I like dogs.”
“Aye, but how about something different? A fish. A cat.” Egan leered at him. “Or a naked lass.”
Rabbie flushed scarlet, and despite herself, Liza swallowed a smile.
“Aye,” Egan continued, warming to his subject. “Make me a naked woman, Rabbie … one with huge—”
Rabbie leaped to his feet, cutting the older pirate off. “I’ve seen something.”
“Oh, aye?” Casting aside his mop, Egan swaggered to the railing and peered north.
Liza swiftly turned, her gaze following his. “Where?”
“There.” His thick finger pointed to the right, where the sparkling water merged with the hazy mainland.
Liza blinked, even as her pulse quickened. Her eyesight wasn’t as sharp as Rabbie's or Egan’s. She couldn’t see anything.
However, as the moments passed, and she squinted, a tiny shape hove into view.
The rowboat.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. “Is it them?”
Egan flashed her a grin, revealing more gum than tooth. “We’ll see soon enough.”
The three of them waited at the railing, watching as the boat gradually inched closer. And as it neared The Blood Reiver, Liza counted just four men aboard, all of them rowing.
To her relief, they were all pirates. However, Alec Rankin wasn’t among them.
Her belly clenched. This didn’t bode well.
“Is it done?” Egan shouted down to them as they brought the boat alongside the cog.
“Aye!” One of the men called back, a wide smile upon his blood-splattered face. “The castle is ours, lads. The captain wants us to bring The Reiver in.”
Stepping out of the rowboat, her slippered feet slipping on loose stones, Liza realized she was shaking.
Time had passed in a blur ever since Rankin’s crew returned with the news.
The Moy Guard had apparently put up quite a fight, but taken unawares, they’d eventually been bested. Only ten of them had survived the attack though, and they’d all been taken captive—for her to deal with.
Heart thumping in her ears, Liza wiped her damp palms on her surcote and glanced over her shoulder.
The Blood Reiver bobbed there, south of Eilean Mòr—the largest of the isles in the loch, and one that connected to the mainland at low tide. The pirate cog was far enough back from the shore that she’d remain in the water, even when the tide drew out.
The bloody flag fluttered from her mast.
Liza’s skin prickled.
She’d been bloodthirsty earlier that morning, when she’d watched Rankin and his men depart, full of revenge and desperation. But her courage was starting to falter now. She’d done the unthinkable—had made a pact with pirates. She’d happily hand over the coin she’d promised Rankin, but would he honor their agreement? Or would the lure of all the coin in the chieftain’s strongroom be too much temptation for him and his crew? Rankin had surprised her the night before—and heat flushed across her chest whenever she thought about what they’d done together—but she didn’t know him at all.
And if he did decide to help himself to everything in the strongroom, she wouldn’t be able to stop them.
Trying to ignore the foreboding that had settled in her gut, she picked up her skirts and made her way up to the path leading to the tower house. As often, her gaze traced the crumbling walls. Moy was a faded beauty these days, but it had become home.
She tightened her jaw then, her spine straightening.
I’ll repair it.
Aye, Leod’s miserly ways had taken their toll on this castle and the village of Lochbuie beyond. Ever since arriving here, she’d itched to restore Moy to its former glory and also help the locals prosper.
And now she could.
She hadn’t been happy here, but all the same, she’d grown fond of this castle with its views south over Loch Buie and its fertile farmland. Moy sat in a cradle, nestled between land and sea, with the rocky slopes of Ben Buie rising to the north, and the rugged outline of the Druim Fada range stretching south.
Usually, she spied sentries on the walls as she approached, but not this afternoon.
The castle was eerily quiet.