Claimed by the Highlander (33 page)

Except for Slevyn—Murdoch’s witless ox, who was cutting down one Moncrieffe warrior after another … shouting like some kind of giant, ugly troll.

Where was Angus? Gwendolen wondered desperately, searching the bailey for a flash of golden hair. Was he even among the invaders, or was this something else? A political struggle? The Hanoverians against the Jacobites? Or was it a battle for retribution?

Then she spotted him—her husband, the great Highland Lion—riding recklessly into the castle atop a lathered black stallion, cutting a straight line through the center of the army, which parted for him like the waters of the Red Sea.

With a ferocious battle cry, he galloped toward Slevyn with his sword high in the air, gleaming brightly in the sun. Slevyn whirled to face him, while the thundering hooves pounded over the tough earthen floor. Angus swung his sword and knocked Slevyn’s shield from his hand, then dismounted in a run while the horse was still galloping.

Fear squeezed around Gwendolen’s heart, as she watched the two men meet and come to blows with their heavy claymores. The clang of steel against steel rang through the early morning air, while the warriors of all three clans looked on in a motionless hush of fascination.

Her eye was caught by Murdoch at that moment. He was late to arrive, rushing out of the Great Hall, while buckling his belt around his waist and adjusting his decorative dress sword. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Her attention swung back to the fight. Slevyn was a giant of a Highlander—bald-headed, muscled, and thick as a bull—but Angus was leaner and faster. His lunges and strikes were lightning flashes of movement. It was all too quick for Slevyn, who barely had a chance to turn before the point of Angus’s sword pierced him through the heart. Slevyn fell to the side like a big tumbling tree. He bounced heavily on the hard ground, then went still.

Gwendolen saw Murdoch back away and melt anonymously into the crowd.

Angus raised his sword and called out,
“Murdoch MacEwen! Show yourself!”

No one moved or dared to speak. Gwendolen too was transfixed by the iron force of her husband’s will, while another part of her was rejoicing. Her husband was alive! And he had come here like the invincible conqueror she always knew him to be, and had triumphed over those who had wronged him.

She had never loved him more, nor had she ever felt such longing and desire.

Delirious with the need to be reunited with him, she raced down the tower stairs and burst forth into the crowded bailey, shouldering her way through the crowd. Three clans were gathered, waiting to see which leader would prevail.

She pushed her way to the center, where Angus stood with his bloody sword in his hand, turning in a slow circle, his fierce eyes scanning the rooftops.

“Murdoch MacEwen!”
he shouted a second time. His deep voice echoed off the stone walls.
“Come and fight me!”

Gwendolen pushed her way into the open circle. “He won’t come,” she told him. “He’s afraid of you.”

Their eyes met and locked. Her veins pulsed with awareness and sudden, unexpected terror. She had envisioned their reunion many times in her imagination, but it had never been anything like this. She had not expected to feel the same suffocating fear that she had felt the first day they met, when his eyes were as cold and hard as steel. But again today, his whole being was raging with bloodlust. He looked as if he might lunge forward and run her through next—for the mere audacity of daring to speak.

“Where is he then?” Angus asked.

His lips curled contemptuously. It was as if he did not know her. As if they had never met, never made love or held each other in the tender silence of the night. He was looking for his enemy. That was all that mattered to him.

She pointed toward the powder magazine. “I saw him go in there.”

Angus glared intently. “Is this a trap? Do you lie to me, woman?”

“No!”
Her distress mounted to the surface. Her husband loathed her. She could feel it like a bitter winter wind. He blamed her for this, and he believed she had betrayed him.

Suddenly, her courage failed her. She could see in his eyes that he wanted only to fight. He needed to face her brother, who had taken his home and thrown him from the rooftop.

Angus was going to kill him. There was no escaping that fact, nor was there any possibility that Murdoch would defeat him. Her brother was not a skilled swordsman. That was why he kept Slevyn so close—to fight his battles for him.

He was a coward in many ways, and yet, she did not want him to die. Despite everything, he was still her brother.

“Please don’t kill him.” The words spilled softly over her lips, even while she knew it was the worst possible thing to say. But she had to say it. She had to plead for her brother’s life. She couldn’t simply send her husband to the powder magazine to hack him to pieces.

Angus’s pale blue eyes narrowed. A muscle clenched at his jaw, and his fist tightened around the hilt of his sword. He pointed at two Moncrieffe warriors. “Seize her. Take her to the prison in the South Tower and lock her up.”

“No, Angus, please!” She struggled against their hold, while a few brave and loyal MacEwen clansman rushed to defend her. They were quickly subdued, however, by Moncrieffe men, who held knives to their throats.

“Let me explain!” she shouted, while they dragged her away. “I didn’t know this was going to happen. I didn’t betray you. I didn’t know the wine was poisoned. It was all part of their plot, and they used me!”

Angus pointed his sword at her from across the distance. A harsh loathing darkened his voice. “I don’t wish to hear it. Not now. Take her away.” He started to go, but turned back. “Do not harm her! She carries my child!”

He strode off to find Murdoch, while Gwendolen was dragged in the opposite direction. She fought hard, struggling the entire way. In the end, it took four burly men to get her up the curved tower stairs and into the cell, where she finally collapsed to her knees on the floor and wept uncontrollably with frustration and despair.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Angus strode with steely purpose to the powder magazine, all his muscles flexed, his mind sharp and ready for another fight. He would not think of the agony he felt at seeing Gwendolen again. Not now. Not at this crucial moment.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, but stopped dead at the sight of Murdoch standing over a powder keg with a burning torch in one hand, his fancy jeweled sword in the other.

“One step closer,” Murdoch said, “and I’ll blow this entire castle into the clouds.”

Angus eyed him shrewdly for a few tense seconds, then boldly marched forward. Murdoch sucked in a breath. His eyes grew wide with fear.

Before he had a chance to even contemplate the smallest defensive move, Angus snatched the torch out of his hand.

“You bluidy fool,”
he growled. He returned to the door and handed the flaming torch to one of his men. “Get this out of here.” He faced Murdoch again. “I ought to run you through right now. You’re too stupid to live.”

Murdoch lifted his sword and lunged forward.

“What the fook is that?” Angus asked. “Have you been play-fighting? Did you think you’d be ready for me?” He shook his head with disdain, strode forward again with his heavy claymore, and knocked Murdoch’s decorative weapon to the floor with a light, bouncing clatter. Murdoch raised both hands in the air and stumbled backward along the wall of powder kegs.

“You won’t kill me,” he said in a shaky voice.

“You don’t think so?”

“Nay.”

“Why not?”

“Because of my sister. If you lay one hand on me, she’ll curse the day you were born, and everyone knows you are obsessed with her.”

“Move away from the wall,” Angus warned.

Murdoch moved to the center of the chamber. “All right,” he carefully said. “Let’s talk then. Clearly you have the advantage in a swordfight, but I have the advantage of social connections and the right politics. Your father was a known Jacobite. Surely you’ll consider joining me. We can rule here together, and when England’s war with Spain begins—”

“England’s war with Spain?” Angus replied irritably. “I want no part of that.”

“It’s a chance for Scotland to have a king again,” Murdoch insisted.

Angus looked him up and down from head to foot. “Nay, it’s a chance for you to wear a coronet on your head. That’s right. I learned of your treachery just this morning. You’re dreaming if you think you’ll ever be a duke, and I won’t let you use Kinloch, and the blood of my clansmen, to seek your fortune.”

Angus touched the point of his sword to Murdoch’s chest.

His brother-in-law frowned at him. “If you’re going to do it, do it now. Then everyone will know which side of the border
your
sword falls on.”

Angus clenched his jaw and felt the old familiar fires of violence and vengeance burning through his body. It was a darkness unlike any other, and he wondered suddenly how many men he had killed in his lifetime, without a single thought to repercussions. The death of one man had never mattered to him before, because he had had no regard for human life, not even his own.
Especially
not his own.

But this man was Gwendolen’s brother. He was Onora’s son.

Without lowering his sword or taking his eyes off Murdoch’s, he stepped back and said to his men, “Lock him up. But take him to the West Tower. I don’t want him anywhere near his sister.”

Murdoch offered no resistance as three clansmen quickly escorted him out. He looked as if he fully expected to triumph in the end.

Angus secured the powder magazine, then returned to the bailey where dozens of clansmen—MacEwens, MacLeans, and MacDonalds alike—all stood in fearful silence, staring at him.

Were they judging him? he wondered, as he moved to the center of the crowd. Did they think him weak for sparing the life of his enemy?

He stood before all the men and said nothing for a long time as he looked into their eyes. He turned a full circle, scrutinizing each one of them individually, challenging anyone to voice disapproval, or raise a sword against him.

No one uttered a word. They simply watched him, waiting for something to happen.

He looked up at the morning sky, then at the four corner towers of Kinloch, and thrust his sword into the dirt.

“I am Angus Bradach MacDonald,”
he shouted,
“and I am chief and laird here!
If anyone standing in this bailey is a Jacobite, so be it. You may fight for the Stuart King if that is your choice. But Kinloch is neutral ground. All wars will be fought on distant battlefields. Not here.” He turned around. “Men of Moncrieffe! I thank you for joining me in this fight today! Remain and feast with us tonight, then you may go home to your own laird, your wives and your children, knowing that you have an ally in me, Laird of Kinloch. Everyone else—pledge loyalty to me now, or begone!”

The Moncrieffe clansmen began to back away while all those who remained got down on one knee. There were none who were willing to fight him, nor did anyone turn away.

Angus spotted Gordon MacEwen standing in the arched doorway to the Great Hall. The old steward met his gaze, nodded at him, then dropped to one knee.

Afterward, Angus pulled his sword from the ground and moved through the crowd to address Gordon. “You’re that quick to desert your MacEwen chief, when I locked you up like a turncoat and accused you of treachery?”

Gordon met his gaze directly. “Murdoch MacEwen wanted to drag us all into the war between England and Spain. Even me. He told me I had to fight, or he’d have my head.”

Angus studied the man’s stricken face. “Your head has better uses elsewhere, Gordon. You’re a good steward. You work well with numbers. The treasury needs you, and I’ll have you back in that position if you’re willing.”

Gordon’s eyes warmed to him. “I am, sir.”

Angus rested a hand on his shoulder. “Good. Now tell me something. Where is Onora?”

He needed to know the situation here at Kinloch and make certain that she would not try to free her son, or seduce other men into doing it for her.

Gordon’s face paled. “I’m afraid you won’t find her.”

“Why not?”

“She fled the castle two days ago. She ran off to marry your cousin and Laird of War.”

Angus dropped his hand to his side and regarded Gordon questioningly. “Lachlan is alive? And you say he intends to marry Onora?”

No, that was not possible. It was a trick. Angus knew Lachlan too well. He would never marry Onora, or any other woman. Marriage was not for him. Never again in this lifetime.

“Aye, it’s true,” Gordon insisted. “Onora freed him from the prison and wrote a long, poignant message to her son, informing him of their love for each other and begging him not to come after them. She said her happiness depended on it and promised they would not interfere with his plans. Imagine that.”

Angus was exceptionally pleased to hear that his cousin and friend was alive.