Warriors: The Rose and The Warrior Part 28

"That's all right," she said cheerfully. "Now we can make two stakes. Here, twist off the broken length and you continue to work on that one while I start another."

"Did Da show you how to make these?" he enquired, watching her as she began to expertly grate her piece against the stone wall.

She nodded. "Da always said every good hunter always saves one last arrow for his journey home, in case he suddenly finds himself in need of it. But sometimes, in the excitement of the hunt, he will have used up all his shafts. If the journey home is long, he must know how to quickly forge something that he can use to protect himself, should the need arise."

"And that's what we're doing, isn't it?" His voice dropped to a whisper as he urgently demanded, "We're making weapons so we can escape and go home, aren't we?"

Melantha kept her gaze fastened upon the ragged end of her twig. It was easier to deceive Daniel if she didn't have to look directly at him. "Once Colin returns, I am going to convince Laird MacTier to release the two of you immediately." Her manner was deceptively confident as she finished, "Then I can escape without having to worry about you as well."

"But what if Laird MacTier refuses?" Daniel's fine dark brows puckered with concern. "That b.a.s.t.a.r.d said he was going to kill you and make me watch!"

"You mustn't swear, Daniel."

"For G.o.d's sake, I'm not a bairn, Melantha-I'm almost a man!"

She looked at him in surprise. His eyes were glittering with anger, but she knew it was not directed at her. It was an anger born of fear, coupled with a raw, naive determination. He was gripping his crudely carved weapon with murderous intent. In that moment Melantha realized that the innocent little boy she had loved so deeply and tried so hard to be a mother to was gone. In his place was this terrified youth, a boy who was not quite a man, but was definitely not a child either. Aching loss swept through her, leaving her feeling cold and fragile. Sometime during this past year, the beautiful child she had known and adored from his first tiny breath had vanished, forever lost amid a tide of suffering.

And except for these agonizing moments spent sharpening useless sticks against a foul wall, she would never know the brave young man before her.

"You're right," she acknowledged, averting her gaze so he would not see the depth of her pain. "You're not a bairn. Swear if you like. But try not to do it in front of Edwina or Beatrice-it will only distress them. And don't do it in front of Matthew and Patrick either," she added, her chest tightening at the thought of her other two brothers. "They're too young to swear."

Daniel sighed, looking as if he could not begin to understand such feminine nonsense, and continued to work on his slender weapon.

It had been hard on Daniel, Melantha reflected, to not have a father. She had tried her best to fill the role of mother, but the role of father was one she had left untouched. After her da's death there had been some whispers within the clan about her marrying Colin so that her brothers could have two parents. Even Colin had been n.o.ble enough to suggest that it might be a good arrangement. But Colin was Melantha's closest friend, and she could not imagine forcing him into becoming a father of three at the tender age of twenty-two. Moreover, she had never felt anything other than the purest, truest friends.h.i.+p for Colin, though she sensed that he had long felt something more toward her.

Only Roarke had managed to ignite a fire of pa.s.sion within her, and it had burned so hot she had thought she would melt within its unbearable light and heat.

She had thought about Roarke endlessly these last few days. It was ironic, that having spent so much time after he left struggling not to think of him, she now indulged in his memory at length. Her attempts to imprison him in a tiny, hidden cell in her mind had failed miserably, and had only mattered when she had believed she was destined to live the remainder of her life without him. Now that her existence could be counted in brief hours, she permitted herself to reflect on him at will. The thought of Roarke was especially comforting as she lay huddled upon the frigid dungeon floor at night, her arm wrapped protectively around Daniel. The cell was a pit of sour blackness in those hours, filled with nothing but the soft whisper of Daniel's breathing and the oppressive weight of her own guilt and despair. Having examined the hopelessness of their situation from every conceivable angle, there was nothing left for her except to desperately try to forget, just for a moment, where she was.

It was then that Roarke came to her, was.h.i.+ng away the stench and the black and the cold. His expression varied according to her mood; sometimes it was faintly teasing, sometimes it was sober and reflective. But most often it was the look of yearning etched upon his face just before he kissed her, that darkly powerful, magnificently heated expression he had as he drew the tip of her breast into his mouth, or as he thrust deep inside her, melding their flesh and their need until they were one.

She had been filled with fury when he left. Much of her rage had been directed at him, for after witnessing the suffering of her people, she could not believe that he could so callously accept a vanquished holding as his rightful prize. But even more of her anger was with herself. For deep within her heart lay an overwhelming desire to forget that Roarke was her enemy, and see him only as the man who had somehow reached inside and touched her very soul.

When he was her prisoner his presence had bewildered and tormented her. But from the moment he left, she felt as if her heart had been ripped in two.

She prayed that Roarke would not learn of her capture until after she had been executed. He had been ensconced in his own holding the day she and her men arrived, but it was possible that Laird MacTier might invite him to attend her execution. She could bear anything but that. To have him watch as she stood waiting to be killed, knowing that he would have wanted desperately to help her, but that there was absolutely nothing he could do, would only deepen her torment.

I will not let you or your people suffer anymore.

How strong and sure he had sounded as he made that pledge, with silver drops of rain falling off his black hair and his wet s.h.i.+rt and plaid clinging to his ma.s.sive frame. For one glittering moment she had almost believed him, had almost permitted herself to be lulled in the arms of his strength and his conviction. He had wanted to protect her, to s.h.i.+eld her from the cruelty that seemed to fill the world around her. But that was before she had come to his clan and tried to sink a dirk into his laird's heart. There could be no illusions about Roarke's empathy for her now. He was a MacTier through blood and bone, and more, he was a favorite warrior of his laird, an honor he had fought his entire life to earn. Regardless of what had pa.s.sed between them, Roarke's absolute, undying loyalty was to his laird and his clan.

If Laird MacTier ordered Roarke to kill Melantha himself, Roarke would have no choice but to obey.

Hinges groaned somewhere down the dark pa.s.sage.

"Hide these!" she hissed, slipping her crudely worked stake into Daniel's boot, then adding the sharp one he had been holding into the other.

The heavy lock on their door turned, and a shaft of oily light spilled into the dungeon. Having grown accustomed to the dark these past six days, both Melantha and Daniel were forced to squint as they stood and struggled to make out the shadowy form of their visitor.

"Good afternoon," said Laird MacTier pleasantly. "I trust you both have been keeping well?"

He was resplendent in a magnificent robe of gold heavily embroidered with silver thread, the hem of which he had carefully draped over his arm in an effort to protect the costly garment from the dank, stinking floor of the dungeon. A weighty gold belt dangled from his waist, and several gem-studded chains of varying lengths had been positioned over his chest, making it clear that he was attired for an occasion of considerable import. Panic rippled through Melantha as her eyes slowly adjusted to the light.

Her pendant was not s.h.i.+mmering among his garish jewelry.

"Oh, yes, your gallant friend returned," Laird MacTier a.s.sured her, sensing her concern. "Although 'twas barely within the time I had allotted. I have no desire, however, to draw undue attention to the pendant he brought me, and so I am wearing it concealed beneath these robes. I'm not prepared to have someone else try to steal it from me-especially with so many unfamiliar faces milling about. It seems the occasion of your execution has become something of an event, my dear," he continued, idly polis.h.i.+ng one of the gems resting against his chest. "I'm not sure whether 'tis because I have clipped the wings of the mighty Falcon, or because the Falcon turned out to be such a beautiful young woman."

Desire flickered hot within his gaze, despite her disheveled hair and the grimy state of her gown.

Melantha did not flinch beneath his nauseating scrutiny, nor did she expose the depths of her contempt. Were it only herself being held prisoner, she would have gladly p.r.i.c.ked his temper. But she wanted to secure Daniel's release, and for that she needed to appeal to whatever sliver of compa.s.sion Laird MacTier may have had buried deep within his shriveled soul.

"Whatever the reason," he continued, returning his attention to his own attire, "a crowd has gathered to watch you take your final breath. The entire affair has become quite festive, with jugglers and minstrels strolling about, and food and ale being sold. Several troubadours have already composed ballads in which I am acclaimed for my role in bringing the terrible Falcon to justice." His robes finally arranged to his satisfaction, he lifted his eyes to her and smiled. "I have no doubt this momentous day will be talked about by all the clans for a hundred years or more."

"And so now you have everything you wanted," Melantha observed. "You have regained your precious amulet, and can enjoy being heralded as the laird who managed to capture the elusive Falcon. It is a moment," she continued, choosing her words carefully, "in which you could well afford to make a gesture of compa.s.sion."

"It is a most gratifying moment," Laird MacTier agreed. "But surely you are not suggesting that I disappoint the hordes of people pouring through my gates by not executing you. To do so would incite a riot."

"I'm not suggesting that," Melantha quickly a.s.sured him, squeezing Daniel's arm to keep him silent. Her voice barely wavered as she continued. "All I am asking, Laird MacTier, is that you spare my brother and my friend the agony of having to watch."

Laird MacTier gave an affected sigh. "I'm afraid that is not possible, my dear. I have said that this lad must be shown what fate awaits him should he decide to follow in your path, and as so often happens in matters of this kind, word of my decision has spread. Hundreds of people have traveled many miles to watch you die, but they are just as eager to see your dear brother as they are to see you. I have made arrangements for the lad to sit upon the dais with me, so everyone can be afforded a clear view of his tormented face."

Melantha's hand rested upon Daniel's arm in an effort to restrain the anger swelling within him, but she was no match for the fury that Laird MacTier's cruelty suddenly unleashed.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Daniel screamed, lunging at his tormentor and clamping his hands around his throat.

"Daniel, no!" cried Melantha. She tried to pull him away, but rage and fear had given her brother an awesome strength, and he was unaffected by her efforts.

The surprise of being attacked by a mere lad momentarily stunned Laird MacTier, giving Daniel a brief advantage. MacTier quickly regained his composure, however. He swept his arms around in a powerful circle, breaking Daniel's bony grip upon his neck, then drew back his fist and drove it deep into the boy's lean gut. Daniel doubled over in pain, enabling Laird MacTier to deliver a final, crippling blow with both fists to the back of his neck.

Daniel moaned and sank to the filthy floor.

"This ruffian needs to be taught to respect his betters," snarled Laird MacTier as he angrily rubbed his stinging neck. "I will have him executed along with you for daring to attack me!"

"No," pleaded Melantha, feeling utterly desperate. She could withstand any punishment Laird MacTier might choose for her, but she knew with agonizing clarity that she could never endure watching Daniel suffer. "I beg of you, Laird MacTier, spare him-he is just a lad-"

"Even more reason to snip the stem of his existence," interrupted Laird MacTier coldly. "I've no desire to let him grow into a man and come back to kill me later."

"But such an action could only be seen by those who await outside as unnecessarily cruel," Melantha argued. "After all, would you not expect your own son to fight on your behalf if you were sentenced to a fate such as mine?"

"I will never be sentenced to your fate," he snapped, but she could see that her question had affected him. "Just look at what he has done to my robe!" he complained as he gathered up the hem of his precious garment, which was now slimy with muck from the dungeon floor.

"Perhaps you have time to change into another-"

"There is no more time," he said, irritated. "Even as we speak the throng outside grows restless to see you. Can you not hear them calling your name?"

A chant had been swelling outside for some time, but it had been lost amid the general noise of the crowd, making it impossible for her to interpret it clearly through fifteen feet of stone wall and earth. There was no mistaking the words that they were shouting now, however. Hundreds had joined the chorus, giving the phrase a terrible rhythmic cadence.

"Kill the Falcon, kill the Falcon, kill the Falcon...."

"I cannot possibly delay your execution a moment longer," said Laird MacTier, looking almost wistful as he a.s.sessed the condition of his attire. "However, I will let your brother live, for the moment at least." He gave Daniel a menacing look. "Do one more thing to vex me, and I will have you dragged onto the platform to stand beside your sister and join her in her fate. Now get up-I'm sending the guards to escort you outside."

He turned in a flurry of gold and gems, leaving Melantha and her brother alone once again.

"Are you all right, Daniel?" she demanded anxiously, sinking to her knees beside him.

"Here," he said, freeing the sharpest wooden stick from his boot. "Take this so you'll have a weapon to use when you escape."

Melantha shook her head. Already the guards were coming down the corridor to lead them outside. "You keep it," she said softly, putting it back into his boot. "You'll be able to use it better than I."

"No," he protested, trying to give it to her once more. "You need it-"

"Listen to me, Daniel," Melantha urged, feeling her heart begin to break. "I have used up all my shafts in this hunt-do you understand?"

He stared at her in disbelief. And then his eyes welled with tears. "No."

"Now it is up to you to go home and take care of Matthew and Patrick. You must get home, Daniel, so do whatever you have to do to get there. Do you hear me?"

"I won't go without you," he choked, throwing himself into her arms. "I'd rather die!"

"I know," she whispered softly, stroking the sweet tangle of his hair. "But you aren't going to die, Daniel. I need to know that you are going home, and that you are going to take care of Matthew and Patrick. You'll do that for me, won't you?"

He inhaled a shuddering breath. "Yes."

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, holding him as long as she dared, trying to pour her love and strength into him as she held him close. And then somehow she found the courage to break away, and to regard him with steady calm, when beneath her fragile composure she felt as if she were shattering.

"Here," he said, scooping up something off the ground and pressing it into her palm. "If you won't take the stake, at least take this."

Melantha felt the coolness of a stone press into her flesh. "Thank you," she whispered, swiftly closing her fingers over the pitiful weapon. If nothing else, at least it would give her something to grip as she faced the horror of her death.

"It's time," growled the guard who appeared at their door. His face was deeply pocked from disease and his chest and arms were webbed with scars at various stages of healing, giving him a truly hideous appearance. "You come first." He pointed a blackened finger at Daniel.

Melantha and her brother rose together. She gave Daniel a small smile, then watched as he straightened his shoulders and walked into the waiting grip of the monster at the doorway. Another guard roughly grabbed his other arm. Daniel did not look behind, but something in the sure, brave way with which he held himself as he disappeared gave her a fragment of hope.

She was about to die, but Daniel and Colin would make it home.

Somehow, that would have to be enough.

"And so the honor of leading the infamous Falcon to her death falls to me."

Pure hatred flared within her as she studied the handsome warrior whose enormous frame now blocked the doorway. He was the same MacTier who had held Colin steady to suffer Laird MacTier's beating the night they had been captured. He was also the one who had led the a.s.sault on her holding to retrieve Roarke and his men; the coward who would have torn her home apart piece by piece with his deadly siege machine. Magnus had told her that he had also led the subsequent a.s.sault on her home, where both Daniel and Matthew were taken and the cottages and fields were burned.

She tightened her fist around the stone nestled in her palm, wondering if she should make use of it now by hurling it straight into his face. It wouldn't gain her freedom, but she would derive immense satisfaction from being the one to permanently mar the perfection of this smug warrior's unblemished features.

"I'm baffled as to how such a pretty la.s.s has managed to cause so much trouble," reflected Derek, looking at her as one might regard a naughty child. " 'Tis a pity our paths did not cross before now. I would have kept you so exhausted in bed, you'd have had neither the strength nor the inclination to go riding about playing outlaw."

Melantha regarded him with unmitigated contempt.

"Unfortunately, fate has not been kind to us," Derek sighed. "Come, milady." He mockingly extended his arm. "Your executioners await you."

Melantha stiffened her spine and walked past him, coldly ignoring his proffered arm. "By what method am I to die?"

"Laird MacTier has come up with something rather unique," replied Derek, walking alongside her. "As hundreds of people began to flock here from miles around, it quickly became apparent that a simple hanging wouldn't do. Too fast, and somewhat ordinary for an outlaw as notorious as yourself. And so MacTier held a tournament this morning, in which over a hundred partic.i.p.ants competed for the coveted privilege of shooting the Falcon. Ultimately six archers were chosen. That way there is less chance of your surviving beyond the first volley."

A s.h.i.+ver of fear rippled through her. She had a.s.sumed she would be hanged, or perhaps burned, neither of which were appealing. But the prospect of being riddled with arrows by six overzealous archers filled her with an almost paralyzing dread. No doubt each partic.i.p.ant had indulged in a cup or two of ale to help pa.s.s the long hours before their exhilarating performance. What chance had she that one or more of them might not succeed in cleanly piercing her heart, but would blearily send their shafts into an arm, or leg, or perhaps even her face instead?

She stumbled.

"You're looking rather pale, milady," Derek observed, deriving a perverse pleasure from her fear. "No doubt the fresh air will revive you."

They ascended the slime-coated stairs leading from the depths of the castle. The fetid stench of the dungeon was gradually replaced by the reek of greasy roasting meats and the heavy smell of charred breads and other hastily cooked dishes. The crowd that had poured through Laird MacTier's gates to see her slain would need to be fed, and it seemed the kitchens and bakehouse were working hard to make sure there was ample fare.

Up the narrow, slippery steps, along a dank, barely lit corridor, and then up another twisting staircase, until finally they had reached the main level of the castle. The chanting outside began to swell, pouring through the open windows of the holding in a hostile wave. Two guards stood on either side of a heavy oak door. When they saw Melantha approach with Derek, they regarded her with pity. Melantha did not know if their unexpectedly tender sentiments were aroused by the frailty of her appearance or the drunken savageness of the crowd awaiting her. Whatever the reason, their sympathy had the effect of causing her stomach to quicken. She inhaled a shallow breath, fighting the painful pounding in her chest as she forced herself to stare woodenly ahead.

Soon it will be over. Soon.

The heavy door crashed open, and the restless mob roared with antic.i.p.ation. The sound was almost deafening, a ghastly cheer of animosity and bloodl.u.s.t and pleasure merged into one. It was clear that copious amounts of ale had already been consumed, for virtually every man in the throng held a dripping cup, and the sickly stench of spilled brew permeated the air.

"Kill the Falcon! Kill the Falcon! Kill the Falcon!"

Their faces were screwed into hard, angry masks as they fought to catch a glimpse of her, each one looking as if he would relish the opportunity to carry out the deed himself.

Six enormous warriors instantly surrounded her, making a formidable ring of muscle and sword as they slowly marched her through the jeering, screaming crowd. Melantha suspected Laird MacTier had ordered this gesture purely for its theatricality, for it made it appear that the dangerous Falcon had to be vigilantly guarded right until the moment of her death, lest she suddenly decide to escape. Trapped in the midst of more than a thousand men, women, and children, each one of whom would scramble over the other for the honor of slaying her, Melantha could see no possibility of flight. Even so, she was glad of the circle of warriors, for they s.h.i.+elded her from the crush of the mob and the clawing, groping hands and fists that rained down upon them as they made their way to the high platform erected at the far end of the courtyard.

Laird MacTier had given careful consideration to his audience in the construction of her scaffold. The platform was positioned above even the tallest warrior, with a narrow stake rising from its center, ensuring that everyone would have an excellent view of her as she was riddled with arrows. Derek and another warrior painfully gripped her arms and hauled her up the wooden steps. Melantha was suddenly aware of the small stone hidden within her palm. An overwhelming sadness seeped through her. She knew Daniel was watching, expecting her to do something, anything, to hurl this tiny, ineffectual stone at Derek and somehow secure their freedom in the process. Her arms were wrenched around the stake and her wrists were bound with rough cord, the pebble still safely nestled in her hand. She kept her gaze low, not because she was afraid of facing the crowd who was calling for her death with drunken enthusiasm, but because she could not bear to look at Daniel and see the awesome anguish in his face as he slowly realized that her life was truly lost.

She suddenly found herself recalling how her father had looked at her just as he was about to die. It had been the most hideous moment of her life, intensified a thousandfold by the staggering grief she had seen in his beautiful eyes. Whatever happened, she could not burden Daniel with such a devastating memory. Summoning the last vestiges of her composure, she lifted her gaze to the splendidly draped dais across the courtyard, affecting an air of frigid contempt as she stared at the man who had so enthusiastically orchestrated her death.

Laird MacTier was seated in a handsomely carved chair of mammoth proportions, which had the unfortunate effect of dwarfing him somewhat, which Melantha suspected was far from his intent. He regarded her with bold triumph, then raised his hand to mockingly stroke his chest, indicating where the amulet lay safely hidden from view. To his left sat his wife, a sad, wrung-out figure of a woman who looked as if she had been crushed beneath the heel of his cruelty years ago. Beside her was a short, doughy boy of about ten years of age, who was furtively biting his nails when he thought his father wasn't looking. Melantha did not waste any of her last precious moments giving them any consideration, but immediately turned her attention to Laird MacTier's right side.

There sat Daniel, his lean face frozen with dread, his wrists bound before him so that all he could do was grip his hands tightly upon his lap. Beside him sat Colin, his own face shadowed with a despair so tearing it pained Melantha to even look upon him. There were other men chatting amiably in a row behind them, who Melantha supposed were the clan's council. To Colin's right was an empty chair, evidently for some honored member of the clan who had failed to arrive. She wondered if it had been reserved for Roarke. She hoped that it was, for its vacancy meant that he had not come to watch her die. There was a modic.u.m of comfort in that, at least.

Laird MacTier stood and raised his hand in the air, calling for the mob's silence. But the sight of him in his sumptuous robes and jewels had the effect of exciting the crowd even more, and a deafening cheer rose into the air.

"Hail, MacTier!" they shouted ecstatically. "Hail, the captor of the Falcon!"

They raised their cups and drained them, then roughly shoved each other out of the way as they surged toward the ale carts to procure more drink.

Laird MacTier smiled and waved, clearly relis.h.i.+ng the moment. Finally he raised his hands again, and the mob obediently quieted.

"My friends," he began, "today is a glorious day in MacTier history. Before you stands the nefarious Falcon, the outlaw who has stolen bread from your mouths and boots from your feet, who has callously stripped you of the very plaids you wear, so she could profit from your suffering, and laugh as you limped home to your families, naked and ashamed!"

Angry curses rose from the drunken throng.

Laird MacTier smiled and raised his hands to quiet the crowd once more. "For many months this thief has eluded us, hiding within the depths of the forest, using the cloak of the trees and the dark of the night to carry out her cowardly attacks. 'Twas not until I cleverly drew her into my trap that we were finally able to end the terror she has wrought. Now you can live your lives without fear of you and your loved ones being beaten, robbed, and viciously slaughtered!"

He paused again, giving his audience another opportunity to cheer him.

"She will stop at nothing to continue her evil war upon the innocent," he continued gravely. "Even I came close to death when she realized that I would finally bring her dark reign of the woods to an end."