Chapter Nineteen
A FAIRLY POWERFUL MAN in his own right, Laird Ogilvie made several attempts to fight back, to roll Wilkie off of him, and finally to shield himself from the onslaught.
But Wilkie was a wild thing. He had been pushed past his limits and was mindless with bloodlust. Damage accumulated.
Ogilvie’s struggles weakened until it was clear he was having difficulty maintaining consciousness.
And Wilkie was tiring, too. The combined effect of his own injuries were making themselves felt, and his fists were now bloodied along with the rest of him.
Ritchie finally stepped in. “Mackenzie.”
It took Wilkie a moment to respond; he was still hell-bent on destruction. His actions slowed, and he turned to see Ritchie holding out his sword. “Save yourself some trouble, man.”
Wilkie paused, then took the sword. He held it to Laird Ogilvie’s throat. Ogilvie’s swollen eyes could not hide his terror in his final moment. And without a word, Wilkie, with a single thrust, ended his life.
I turned my head to block out the sight of it. The minister stood next to me, and he was rocking slightly and mumbling a soft and endless prayer.
Wilkie stepped away from Ogilvie’s body, returning the sword to Ritchie. Then he walked over to me. I wanted to touch him, but the sight of his battered body stopped me from reaching out to him; I didn’t want to hurt him. In the end, he quietly held my hand with the barest, gentlest grasp.
One of his eyes was ringed with a blue-black bruise, his lip was cut and still bleeding, his hair in disarray.
The colors of him appeared extraordinarily intense: the red, blue and black of him, drawing all my undivided attention.
Even in this ravaged, relieved moment, all I could comprehend was his aching, mind-numbing beauty.
Transfixed, we were, in this moment. Together. And alive.
And there, in the aftermath of many tragic, violent hours that had very nearly finished us, Wilkie kissed me.
The soft touch of his lips to mine fed me a violent rush of joy that bloomed in my heart and leaked out my eyes.
He deepened the kiss, and I could taste his blood on my tongue, sharp and metallic, and I drank of it willingly, wanting to entwine every part of his being with mine, and again, always.
But Wilkie’s soft groan reminded me of the severity of his wounds.
He’d been sliced once again with a sword, beaten by no less than seven brutish guards, and lashed repeatedly by one of the most renowned executioners in the land.
And he hadn’t slept for at least two nights.
Even the night before that, I recalled, our sleep had been regularly interrupted by more sensual pursuits.
And we were still in grave danger. We’d just killed the laird of the keep. And Ogilvie’s men were now, and had been for some time, in conversation with Laird Campbell, a greedy, savage rebel.
I could read in Wilkie’s eyes that he was having similar thoughts.
We needed to flee, and now. Wilkie turned to Ritchie and Ronan and said, “Men, I thank you for your assistance. It will not be forgotten, and I owe you more than I can repay. You are welcome to avail yourself of the protection and hospitality of the Mackenzie clan. I will be honored to count you among our ranks. And I must ask you now to accompany us, to equip us with horses and lead us to the nearest exit.”
“Aye,” Ritchie replied. “’Tis only a matter of time before Dougal announces Roses’s secret to anyone within earshot, and if Campbell learns that Roses is King William’s daughter, he’ll stop at nothing to take her for himself. It would ensure his ownership of Ossian Lochs once and for all.”
“We can escape through the kitchens,” Ronan said. “This way.”
Wilkie looked at the diminutive minister, who continued to sway slightly in the aftermath of all that had taken place. His fathomless internal chatter calmed. “Minister,” Wilkie said. “Can a marriage be officially consummated prior to a wedding ceremony?”
The minister looked thoroughly agog at the question and highly in need of a strong brew of ale. He paused, as though never having considered this particular question before. “I—I don’t believe so, nay.”
“In that case, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you accompany us. I’d prefer Roses to marry me in a somewhat more romantic setting than this, and as far away from Ogilvie’s dead body as possible. But if we have need to marry on the run, we’ll want you on hand.”
The minister’s watery gray eyes contemplated us both for a brief moment. “On the run?” he asked.
“Aye. We will take our leave immediately, to return to Kinloch.”
The minister decided not to argue with the big, aggressive warrior who stood before him. “Lass?” he said to me. “Is this a marriage you would consent to?”
I looked at my warrior and uttered the truest word I had ever spoken. “Aye.”
With that assurance, the minister allowed himself to be swept along with our getaway party, led by Ritchie. I knew the way. Ritchie, Ronan, Wilkie, myself and the minister fled down a narrow back staircase which led to the small back corner of the kitchen that housed the healing quarters.
And there, sitting at her table, stirring in a steaming medicinal tincture, was Ismay.
She was so surprised by our sudden appearance that she dropped the wooden spoon she was holding.
It seemed infinitely strange to see her again, here, now.
She was entirely aghast at my return and also by the shirtless, bloodied warrior who, despite being huge, rugged and outrageously masculine, clung to my hand as though it were the only thing that kept him from collapsing.
Ismay rushed over to me, sweeping me into a warm embrace. “Roses, I worried so. I feared for your life. ’Tis so wonderful to see you alive...” It was only then that she glanced at my muddied, very brief outfit, her eyes widening. “...and well.”
“Come, Roses,” said Ritchie, “We must hurry. We must escape and ride for safety. Now.”
But Ismay’s eyes were carrying out a quick survey of Wilkie’s many dirtied bruises and cuts. Then she circled him, and she gasped when she saw the deep lashes cut into his back.
“Ismay, this is Wilkie Mackenzie,” I said.
He nodded a curt greeting, too immersed in his own aches, fatigue and escape plans for niceties.
Always the healer, Ismay was too overcome by Wilkie’s injuries to take much notice of either his identity or his brusqueness.
She touched the skin of his back. “Roses, we must treat these immediately. They’re deep and dirty.
They need to be disinfected, or they’re likely to go septic.
” Her eyes met Wilkie’s, then mine. “However did you—?”
“Ismay,” said Ritchie, becoming more and more impatient. “If you want to treat those wounds, do it on the way. We need to get outside the gates of the keep before the guards and soldiers are alerted to Ogilvie’s death.”
Ismay’s eyes grew wide. “Ogilvie is dead?”
I happened to know that Ismay had been called upon by Laird Ogilvie, as many of his staff were, to visit his mistresses’ chambers, upon more than one occasion, and unwillingly. She had acquiesced only because she felt it more important to keep her job as healer, one Ogilvie knew she valued.
“Well, hallelujah,” she said, to which the minister frowned.
Without further ado, Ismay grabbed a bag and began throwing jars of salves, bandages and other supplies into it, including a large bottle of whiskey, which I knew to be a potent disinfectant. “I’m coming with you,” she said.
I grabbed her arm. “Nay, Ismay. Our lives are at risk. Ogilvie and Mumford are dead, and we are responsible. We’re on the run, and I won’t have you put in danger.”
But Ismay wasn’t deterred. “I’ve been wanting to escape this keep for some time, Roses.
I’ve no family left here, and it hasn’t been the same since you fled.
And the laird’s nephew—heir apparent for the lairdship—is as shady as his uncle.
Take me with you. Please. This man’s injuries are severe. I can keep him alive.”
We didn’t have time for me to stand there and talk her out of a life-threatening situation.
She was already putting on her cloak and fastening her medicine bag.
And secretly, I was glad she would be on hand to treat Wilkie.
I had no medicines, and Kinloch—if we even made it that far—was a two-day ride.
And so our growing party of six exited through the back door of the kitchens. There were people about, and curious ones at that, but we did not engage stares nor questions and fled directly to the stables.
“Luckily for us,” said Ritchie, “most of the men are engaged with entertaining Campbell and his officers, and attempting to learn more about the commotion surrounding Roses’s return. But there’s little time to spare.”
Wilkie agreed. “’Tis only a matter of minutes before they’ll discover Ogilvie’s fate.”
And we weren’t to get away unnoticed. Three men were tending to three horses—horses we would need to steal, and now.
I noticed that two of the men were already armed. And one, seeing Wilkie, narrowed his eyes in an angry glare. He looked at me, then continued his hostile study of Wilkie. “’Tis true, then,” he said. “Wilkie Mackenzie is here, attempting to claim one of our servants as his own.”
A second man sounded equally riled. “Ritchie, Ronan, why have you not taken this man into custody? Was he not to be taken to the dungeons?”
Ritchie, who would once again prove himself to be invaluable to our cause, addressed the men who stood between us and a precarious freedom.
And while Ritchie was attempting to reason with them, Wilkie was already taking the reins of one of the horses, cinching up the saddle and beckoning me and Ismay with a hurried finger.
“Men,” said Ritchie, “I have been ordered by Ogilvie to escort these people to Kinloch. We’ll need to borrow your horses.”
It was an unlikely story and one which we could all see was faulty, the Ogilvie guards included. But Ritchie pressed on, and I could hear one of the guards asking, “What do they need your escort for? And why do you take the healer and the minister?”
“Ismay,” Wilkie was saying in low tones. “You’ll ride with Ritchie. You’ll need to hold on tight. All right?” Ismay nodded with wide eyes. “Luckily there’s not much to either of you, or to the minister for that matter. Our horses will be heavily weighed, but there’s naught to do about it.
“Roses, you’re riding with me. Come on, up you go.” He lifted me up onto a much taller horse than I was used to, but I was glad of its size: it would mean its stride was longer and hopefully swift enough to outrun whoever might pursue us.
Ronan had mounted another of the horses and Wilkie assisted the minister, who was thrust up behind Ronan and who looked as though he might dissolve into a dead faint at any moment; he still clutched his Bible with a white-knuckled grasp.
“We’ll need some sort of clearance before you can depart for Kinloch, Ritchie,” one of the guards was protesting. But Ritchie was already seated behind Ismay, taking control of the reins, and Wilkie was seated behind me, spurring our horses toward the gate with a swift kick.
“Wait!” shouted a guard.
“Halt! You’re not—”
“Stop them!” The confused guards were now pulling more horses out of the stables, saddling them up, understanding that our mission was in fact a getaway.
And Campbell and his men had emerged from the manor with swords raised, running toward the stables to procure their own horses. “Seize them!” howled Laird Campbell, with a face as red as a prized beet. “She’s the king’s lost child! I want her!”
More aggravated shouts spiked through the air as we neared the gate.
“Laird Ogilvie is dead!”
“Chase them down!”
“Retrieve that lass at any cost!”
But the two guards who manned the gate never stood a chance.
Wilkie, who had somehow gained possession of a dagger—I guessed it was one of Ritchie’s or Ronan’s—cut down with a vicious swipe a guard who attempted to grab the reins of our horse.
The second man, struggling to pull the heavy gates of the keep closed, was knocked and stepped on by Ritchie’s horse.
And we were outside the walls of the Ogilvie keep, on our way, at full gallop. Pursued by an assembling number of vengeful Ogilvie warriors—although in fact I wondered if their numbers would be all that daunting—and the hell-bent posse of Laird Campbell and his twelve officers.
I only hoped our horses were up to the task of outrunning equally large animals, and those that carried only one man.
Wilkie’s arms were wrapped around me securely, and he pushed our horse harder and faster. I could take comfort from his closeness as I leaned against him, holding my hand to his thigh.
I could see that Ronan’s and Ritchie’s horses were close behind us.
And far in the rear distance, when I peeked around Wilkie’s body, I could see the figures of at least twenty ridden horses, creating a dusty cloud behind them.
Gaining on us.
“Faster,” I whispered, but Wilkie needed no reminder. Our horses were at full speed, already slowing slightly from the weight of us and the speed at which they were being pushed to hold.
We were outnumbered vastly. I had a sinking feeling there would be no escape this time if we were caught.
In hindsight, bringing along the minister might not have been the best plan of action; it meant that Campbell could force me to marry him without delay.
And Campbell would know, too, that there was one sure way to get me to agree to anything. Anything.
Saving him, my warrior.
Wilkie was wild, flailing our horse with the only riding crop he had on hand: the dagger’s wide edge. The horse was responding to it, too, but it could only hold such a wicked pace for so long.
And they were gaining on us.
Very quickly now.
I could hear their shouts as they spurred each other forward.
“Get me that lass!”
We were approaching the rise of a hill, traveling at such speed that I hoped there weren’t cliffs or rocks or unseen holes on the far side of it.
But we couldn’t slow. We would have to risk pitfalls in the interest of saving our own lives.
And I could hear a loud, thundering noise, very close and all around us.
Dust seemed to be rising from all sides, oddly, and the noise was deafening.
Shouts circled in the air, as though the wind had picked up the noisy approach of our pursuers and amplified it, swirling it in all directions.
I heard Ismay scream and turned to see what I could. I caught only a brief glimpse of Ritchie answering the jab of a Campbell officer with his own sword, fighting him off but only just barely, as the soldier rode now at his horse’s flank.
Wilkie pushed on, and we were nearly to the top of the hill.
And when we reached the top, we were afforded a most alarming, beautiful, astounding view: the Mackenzie army, approaching from the north, riding straight toward us in numbers of several hundred men.