Warriors: The Rose and The Warrior Part 18

"Gelfrid!" barked Roarke, banging harder. "Open this door at once!"

There was much snuffling and coughing before Gelfrid sleepily demanded, "What is it?"

"There is an enormous rat in here," Roarke told him. "We need you to come in and kill it."

"A rat?" Gelfrid sounded thoroughly unnerved. "Why don't you just kill it yourselves?"

"We haven't any weapons," explained Donald.

The door to their cell remained stubbornly closed. "I don't know anything about killing rats," Gelfrid objected, sounding rather overwhelmed by the idea. "Maybe I should go and fetch Mungo and Ninian."

"By the time you wake them and drag them down here, this foul rodent will have bitten us all," argued Roarke, not relis.h.i.+ng the idea of having to overcome more MacKillons than necessary. "All we have to do is capture it in a blanket, and then you can dispose of it as you see fit."

There was another long pause. "You'll help me to catch it?"

"Of course."

The lock turned.

"Where is it?" Gelfrid demanded, peering cautiously around the door.

Roarke pointed into the shadows. "In that corner."

Gelfrid stepped into the chamber with his sword drawn, but remained steadfastly by the door. "I don't see it."

"Of course you can't see it from over there," said Roarke, "you've got to move in closer." He put his hand on Gelfrid's shoulder and guided him across the room. "There, now-do you see it?"

Gelfrid hunched a little lower as he squinted into the darkness. "I think so-what in the name of St.-"

Whichever saint Gelfrid chose to call upon was lost in the rag Donald used to bind his mouth, while Eric and Myles made short work of immobilizing his wrists and ankles. Once he was adequately trussed and stripped of both his sword and dirk, he was laid upon one of the trestle beds and a blanket was draped over him.

"Forgive us, Gelfrid, but we find ourselves unable to enjoy your clan's hospitality any longer," apologized Roarke. "Tell Laird MacKillon we have enjoyed our stay, and will do what we can to keep any other MacTiers from visiting." He went to the door to check the corridor, followed by Myles and Donald.

Eric lingered a moment. "I would ask a favor, Gelfrid," he began hesitantly. He paused, desperately searching for the right words. "When you see Gillian, tell her I said...thank you." It wasn't right, that wasn't at all what he wanted to say, but he couldn't think of anything else except good-bye, and somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave that as his final message to her. "Will you tell her?" he demanded.

His eyes wide with fear, Gelfrid nodded.

Eric went to leave, wondering why Gelfrid seemed so anxious. Surely he must realize they had no intention of harming him? He was all but through the door when he suddenly understood the source of his alarm.

"There is no rat, Gelfrid."

The light was dim, but Eric could see relief pour over Gelfrid's face. Satisfied that he wasn't going to die of fright, Eric closed the door.

They moved silently through the castle, pausing only to relieve the sleeping forms of Mungo and Finlay of their weapons before making their way to the door leading off the kitchen. The moon was buried beneath a thick mantle of charcoal cloud, effectively dousing any light that might have revealed their forms to those posted to watch on the wall head.

"Here," said Roarke, pa.s.sing his sword to Eric. "You and Myles open the gate while Donald and I fetch our horses."

Eric nodded and moved toward the iron portcullis with Myles.

The stables were dark and quiet but for the s.h.i.+fting of hooves and the gentle snorting of the horses. During his inspection of the castle Roarke had made a point of finding out exactly where his and his men's mounts were kept. He moved through the blackness with his dirk gripped firmly in his palm, while Donald followed with his sword drawn. Neither had any intention of actually using their weapons on any MacKillon they might encounter, but both knew it was vital to appear prepared to employ deadly force if necessary.

Roarke's horse sensed his presence long before he could see his master's shadow. The beast whickered loudly and tossed his head.

"h.e.l.lo, my friend," whispered Roarke, running his hand gently over the animal's neck. "Feel like going for a ride?"

His horse pressed his nose roughly into Roarke's side, then snorted impatiently. Roarke turned to fetch the bridle hanging on a nail on the wall.

And froze.

Melantha's face was a pale oval against the shadowy darkness, her skin so luminous he could make out every bitter line in her taut expression.

"Drop your dirk," she ordered in a hard voice.

Roarke stood utterly still, his dirk firmly encased in his hand. He had not wanted it to be like this, he reflected desperately.

Every night for the past four days he had tormented himself by lying awake thinking about her. He had recreated every glorious detail of her in his mind: her sunwashed scent, her silky softness, the hot, lush feel of her lying beneath him as he buried himself deep inside her and lost himself to her exquisite sensuality. And he had indulged in the most ridiculous of fantasies by trying to imagine how it would be when they saw each other again; how she would look at him with shy tenderness, what impossibly clever and charming things he would say to her to make her laugh and put her at ease. Of course he had known that in reality it would be awkward, possibly even painful. But never in his most haunted reflections had he ever imagined her looking so utterly betrayed. Her body was rigid as she stood facing him, her sword raised and ready to drive through him on the least provocation, but it was her eyes that commanded his complete attention. They were s.h.i.+mmering with a terrible anger and an agonizing sorrow, and the combination was so appalling he very nearly dropped his dirk and begged her to forgive him for hurting her so.

Then he remembered that if she or her beloved clan had any hope of surviving, he must leave immediately and stop the MacTiers from attacking.

"I am leaving, Melantha," he informed her, his voice betraying none of the emotions churning within him.

"What did you do to Gelfrid?" she demanded.

He nearly smiled. Even in a moment like this, her first thought was not for herself or her own safety but only for the welfare of another of her clan.

"Gelfrid is unharmed," he a.s.sured her. "He is merely resting in the storage room."

If she experienced any relief from this knowledge, she refused to show it. "Where are the others?"

"Listen to me, Melantha," he said, his voice achingly gentle. "We cannot stay any longer, because our very presence here is putting you and your people at risk. Do you understand? MacTier has not answered your people's ransom missive, and that is because an army is on its way here to collect us. But they won't be coming just to free us. They will be under orders to make you pay for attempting to ransom us, and to ensure that you never try anything so foolish again."

"Then we will fight them," Melantha informed him coolly, raising her sword.

"Your people tried to fight the MacTiers once before, and you were hopelessly defeated."

"We have been working on the castle's defenses, and our men are now better trained," she pointed out.

"You are more prepared than you were before," he acknowledged. "Even so, you cannot possibly hold off an army of MacTiers."

Her gaze was contemptuous. "You're just saying that so I'll let you go free."

"No, Melantha. I'm saying it because I don't want to see either you or any of your people hurt."

Melantha kept her sword pointed at Roarke's chest, contemplating what he was telling her. She wanted to believe that he was wrong, that if an army of the clan she most despised were coming, she and her people had the power to fight it. After all, she, Magnus, Colin, Finlay, and Lewis had been waging their own private war on small groups of MacTiers for months, and they had always emerged victorious. But that was in the protected arbor of the woods, where they were the aggressors, not the defenders. They always had the element of surprise in their favor, their extensive knowledge of the forest, and their ability to lure their prey into carefully laid traps. Fending off an a.s.sault on their home was not the same. An attacking army could lay siege to their holding for days or even months, slowly eroding their resistance until finally they were too weak to continue to defend themselves. Of course Melantha had always known this-that was why she had proposed ransoming Roarke and his men in the first place. She had wanted to strike back at the MacTiers by bleeding their coffers, but she had also hoped to restore her holding and buy the alliance of the MacKenzies so that her people could better defend themselves in the future.

She had not antic.i.p.ated that Laird MacTier would care so little about his own warriors that he would rather risk their lives than pay their ransom.

"There's a problem," said Eric, appearing suddenly at the entrance to the stables with Myles.

"What is it?" Roarke demanded.

"A force of about two hundred MacTiers has positioned itself outside the castle wall. They are preparing to attack."

"Sweet Jesus," swore Roarke. "Is the gate open?"

"No."

"Who is leading them?"

"I don't know-'tis too dark to see clearly."

Donald emerged through the black. "What are we going to do?"

Roarke hesitated. Even if he and his men rode out of here unharmed, it was going to be b.l.o.o.d.y difficult to convince an army of MacTiers poised to attack that they should simply turn around and go home-especially if they had been given orders by their laird to crush the MacKillons.

"We'll go up to the wall head and show them we haven't been harmed, then make it seem like we're being released in exchange for them holding off their a.s.sault," he decided quickly.

"You're not going anywhere except back to your cell," Melantha informed him. "My clan will handle this matter."

"Rouse everyone in the castle and see that they are armed and put into their positions," Roarke instructed his men, ignoring her. "We must be ready in case whoever is leading this force is not prepared to listen to reason. See that the women and children are taken to the lower level of the castle, and a.s.sign four men to guard them. Once you are certain all areas are manned, join me on the wall head."

"Wait!" cried Melantha as Donald, Eric, and Myles hastily departed.

"What is it?" Roarke demanded.

"You and your men cannot partic.i.p.ate in this battle."

"What would you have me do, Melantha? Do you think I should just stand by and watch while your people are destroyed?"

Shouts could be heard coming from the wall head, and people were rus.h.i.+ng to and fro outside. She swallowed thickly, fighting the fear rising in her chest as she desperately tried to comprehend Roarke's motives.

"It is your clan waiting outside our walls and they have come to rescue you. How can I believe you will not undermine our efforts to fight them?"

Her eyes were s.h.i.+mmering against the paleness of her face. He could see she was frightened, and well she should be, given the brutality his clan had inflicted upon her people once before. Her father had been killed in that battle, along with many other friends and loved ones, and her people had been left virtually dest.i.tute. It agonized him to think how much she had suffered, and how much she was suffering in this moment. Had there been time, he would have taken her into the comfort of his arms and soothed her with soft words, making gentle a.s.surances to ease her fear. But there was no time. Every second he wasted here was keeping him from getting on the wall head and ending this battle before it began.

"Listen to me, Melantha. Regardless of who or what I am, I swear to you that I would never do anything to hurt either you or your people. You can trust me in this, or take that sword and run me through. The choice is yours."

Melantha stared up at him, completely and utterly torn. "I can never trust you." Her voice was ragged with despair.

"You can tonight," he insisted. "That is all I ask."

She hesitated a long moment, the silver blade of her sword flas.h.i.+ng in the dark abyss between them.

And then she lowered her eyes and let the weapon fall, knowing that when she looked up again he would be gone.

CHAPTER 8.

"And so we thank you for coming here to put past wrongs to right by reimbursing us for our losses, in return for which we are delighted to return your great and valiant warriors," finished Laird MacKillon, squinting as he struggled to read his speech by the flickering torchlight.

The MacTier warriors stared up at the wall head, apparently speechless.

"They certainly are a polite lot," commented Hagar. "Not so much as a peep out of any of them."

"Much better behaved than the last group," Magnus agreed. "Perhaps there's hope for these MacTiers after all."

"And now," continued Laird MacKillon, "we shall mark this momentous occasion in our history with a wee tune upon the pipes." He gestured toward Thor, who was struggling to hoist his unwieldy instrument into his arms.

"I came up here to slay MacTiers, not to play music to them," Thor grumbled irritably.

"I really don't see how we can slay them when they are being so agreeable," remarked Laird MacKillon. "It wouldn't be courteous."

"After listening to Thor play they'll wish we had slain them," Magnus predicted.

Thor glowered at him, then inhaled a deep, rasping breath and proceeded to play with murderous conviction.

The deafening drone that choked the air caused some MacKillons to press their hands to their ears, while the MacTier warriors looked on in complete bafflement. By the time Thor finished his first piece he appeared to have forgotten who his audience was, and he enthusiastically embarked upon another equally torturous strain.

At that point the MacTiers had heard enough and sent a volley of arrows flying over the battlements.

"G.o.d's teeth!" swore Thor, looking down at the arrow protruding from the bag of his deflated instrument. "Those scoundrels have ruined my pipes!"

"Here, now, lads," Laird MacKillon chided, wagging his finger at the warriors below, "that's no way to behave on such a momentous occasion as-"

His words were cut short as he ducked to avoid the second volley of arrows.

" 'Tis war, then, by G.o.d!" roared Thor, casting aside his murdered pipes and reaching for his beloved sword.

Roarke arrived just in time to see the wall head erupt in complete chaos.

"Take that, ye foul wretches!" Magnus bellowed, releasing an arrow into the darkness below. "There'll be shafts buried in every one of ye before I'm through!"

"You can't be here, Finlay," objected Ninian as he blocked Finlay's access to one of the h.o.a.rdings. "I told Gelfrid I would only work with him."

"Gelfrid isn't here," Finlay protested.

"Well, I'm sure he'll be along in just a moment," countered Ninian, "and when he gets here I don't want to listen to him whine about how I let you take his place. You know how he goes on about things-"

"Ninian!" shouted Roarke, "stand aside and let Finlay start hurling those rocks over now!!"

"But I promised Gelfrid-"

"Now, Ninian!"