Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (17 page)

We will do all we can to hold Sìtheil. We will die for our cause, like so many who have gone before us.

I beg you, most humbly, to recall the council. To have them tried for their treachery. To bring justice to the people of Sìtheil. Whatever your will, we are here to obey.

Your most humble servant,

Prince Macrath of Sìtheil

Macrath rolled up the parchment. He held a wax stick to the candle on his desk and then dripped the red liquid onto the paper, sealing it closed. He pressed his ring into the melted wax, leaving the impression of his seal as it dried.

He wrapped the parchment in a leather binding, tying it tight, when a knock came at the door.

Marrec.

He pushed back from his chair and carried the missive with him.

Marrec stood in the hall, his expression serious. “You wished to see me, my laird?”

“Come in.” Macrath shut the door, and then said in hushed tones. “I’ve just spoken with Tobin. Three of the councilmen are packing for a journey. They will leave tonight under secrecy to meet with their army on the road. We must make haste with fortifying the castle. I’ve given Tobin instructions regarding the walls and entrances. I want you to prepare the men, see that they are armed. See that our clansmen are all brought inside the walls at night and scouts sent out.”

Marrec nodded. “I will do so straightaway, my laird.”

“Within less than a week, we could be at war. I believe in our cause, and I will fight to the death for it. I’ve seen our men train in the short time I’ve been here. They are skilled. Vastly so, but as their captain, as their guide, do you think they have what it takes?”

Macrath’s chest swelled and he gave a curt nod. “Aye, my laird. With absolute certainty.”

“Good. I fear this battle may be worse than all the games put together, especially with the council behind it. They will not fight with honor, but with vengeance and the deep desire to massacre us.”

Macrath could see in Marrec’s countenance that he felt the same way.

“I have a missive that needs to be delivered to the king posthaste. No one can know this message has left. The council will try to stop it if they should know.”

Marrec nodded, taking the leather package. “I have a man who can do that.”

“Good. Speak with him, make certain he is aware discretion is imperative and that an army will soon be at our gates. Once you’re finished meet me in the bailey.”

“How much time do you think we have until the battle begins?”

Macrath walked over to the window and gazed outside. Every person he saw was working on preparations. “A day, maybe a few, a week at most.”

Marrec frowned. “Bloody bastards.”

“Aye. But they will not win. We will not let them.”

EXHAUSTED from emotional distress and the hard work she’d done in preparing the castle, Ceana sought out a moment of peace in her chamber. On her way, an odd noise coming from the floor above hers bade her continue up the circular stair instead of going to her chamber.

She tiptoed, careful not to make a sound. Even held her breath so she could hear better. It was a banging noise, followed by shouting. A man’s voice. She couldn’t hear what he was saying.

There did not appear to be any reply. He sounded desperate. Hurt.

Her mind brought her back to the day when Gowp had been nailed to the post and the haunting cries of someone else had filled the air. They’d all assumed it was the wind or the gods. She couldn’t fathom who else it would be.

When they’d first been crowned they’d checked the dungeon, willing to pardon the people who’d been kept there, but those left had already died and with the oubliettes it was the same case. They’d not put anyone else inside. All cells had been clear. These sounds had seemed to come from thin air.

Ceana jolted. Someone’s heels clicked on the floor of the corridor above—coming right for the stairs.

Instinctively, she knew that she did not want to be seen snooping. She also had an idea that the clipped steps were a woman’s—Beatrice.

Ceana rushed down the stairs, skipping every other one in her haste, and nearly stumbled over the hem of her gown at the bottom until she caught herself against the wall.

The footsteps paused above her—whoever they belonged to most likely knowing she was there. How could they not with the noise she’d just made?

Ceana skated down the corridor toward her chamber, slipped inside and leaned against the door. Her heart pounded loud inside her ears and something of a rush flooded through her veins. She sucked in maddening gasps.

Whoever had walked toward the stairway was not the person making all the noise. If it was Beatrice on the steps, and she was certain it was, then the witch had to have a prisoner in her room.

Footsteps tapped outside Ceana’s door, pausing.

Was Beatrice there now? Listening for any noise from Ceana’s chamber? Trying to figure out if it had been her that had listening on the stairs, most likely.

Ceana pressed her lips together, not wanting to give away that she was in her room. But why was she so afraid? Did she think Beatrice would slide a blade into her belly right now?

A resounding
aye
filled her mind.

“I know you’re in there, sweeting.” Beatrice’s voice was sing-song, deceptively endearing. “Did you have fun spying, love?”

Ceana’s heart stopped beating, her breath caught in her throat. She was suddenly dizzy, nauseated and tired all at once. Close to collapsing, she forced her legs to stay straight to hold her up.

Nay!
She was not going to let Beatrice do this to her. She was not going to let her be in control. Ceana tugged the dagger from the leather strap on her thigh and then whipped open the door, pressing the blade to Beatrice’s throat.

The witch’s eyes and mouth opened wide in surprise. Ceana walked forward, pushing Beatrice backward until her back hit the opposite wall.

“This is
my
castle, wench,” Ceana said through gritted teeth.

“For now…” Beatrice bared her teeth. The callous virago pushed back, forcing Ceana’s blade to cut into the skin of her neck.
On purpose
. Why did she get the sense that Beatrice
enjoyed
the pain of the slice? A trickle of blood slid down the side of the blade.

Ceana’s nausea rose again. Beatrice was calling her bluff. But was it all a ruse? Nay, she hated Beatrice and everything she stood for.

“If you are hoping to scare me, you’ll have to try a lot harder than that. I bled on the fields during the games. I killed. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re the reason behind it. I wouldn’t mind slitting your throat right now,” Ceana said, shoving back.

“Do it,” Beatrice said. “Slice my neck, you little cunt.”

Beatrice pressed forward, the blade sinking deeper.

Ceana laughed, letting the sound rip from her throat in the same coarse and cruel way as Beatrice. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re a sick woman. You
disgust
me.” She pronounced each syllable slowly and with force. “I will not kill you right now, because I want you to suffer as you’ve made everyone else suffer. But make no mistake, I
will
kill you.”

Words that had never left her lips before. Such vengeance. Such hate. This was what the games, the council, this harridan, had done to her. They’d made her think in cruel ways. They’d made her want to do horrible things. Just like Rhona said—the evils of the land were sinking into her bones.

Beatrice smiled, pushing the blade away with her finger and not caring at all that it pricked her skin.

“Wouldn’t that be ironic?” Her brutal grin widened. “To be slain by the offspring of one I myself slaughtered?”

Her graphic choice of words sent a chill over Ceana.

“What?” she asked. What was she saying? Had she…

“That’s right, dearie, I killed your mother.”

Ceana’s vision grew fuzzy and a dull thud pounded in her head.

Beatrice took advantage of her momentary shock to shove Ceana through her bedchamber door.

Ceana stumbled, her feet not working. She tripped over the tapestried rug and fell on her rear. Stinging from what she’d just learned and the fall, she tried to make sense of it all. Beatrice had killed her mother?

“Isla was a whiny bitch, too.” And with those words spewed, Beatrice slammed the door in her face.

Chapter Eighteen

ICE filled her veins, making her tremble and shiver all over. Ceana crawled, sobbing, to her bed. She gripped the post tight enough to make her knuckles white as she pulled herself up onto the mattress.

Flashes of childhood memories assaulted her. A windy day, and her mother chasing her through the courtyard, the both of them laughing. Warm summer sun kissing their skin as they rode horses through heather-filled fields. Her mother pointing out the rainbow coming through an icicle. Mother stroking her forehead when she was sick. Mother sweating and working as hard as any laborer in the fields of their land—always with a smile.

She should have guessed about Beatrice, but in her naïve mind, she’d hoped the two of them had been friends.

“I knew your mother.”
Beatrice had said it one day during the games. Her words had shocked Ceana almost as much as the woman’s kindness in seeing her given a bath and clothed after a fight in the mud with another entrant.
“She, too, liked to be called the Bitch of MacRae. Must be a family trait.”

Was that as much of a confession as she was going o get—until she’d pushed Beatrice to the breaking point?

“She and I fought together once. Must have been before you were born.”

But it wasn’t before Ceana was born. She was very much alive, unless they’d met more than once, the final time being when Beatrice had murdered her mother. A tiny spark of a question niggled at the back of Ceana’s mind. Beatrice had said more. She’d expressed remorse at Ceana’s mother’s death. What had she said?

Ceana tossed herself backward on the bed, tugging Macrath’s pillow against her chest. She sobbed into the cushion, breathing in his scent, remembering how beautiful her mother was, how vibrant, smart and determined to see to their clan’s future. Hearing this news only made her relive the horrendous day all over again. She could see the men of their clan carrying her, covered in a bloody plaid, through the gate of their castle. Ceana mourned deeply the death of her family.

Without Macrath, she would have gladly joined them. Then Beatrice’s words became clear to her. Those odd, mournful utterances that Ceana couldn’t seem to decipher.

“I was sorry to hear that she passed. And ’tis a shame she didn’t teach you better. Don’t start any more brawls, MacRae, or I’ll be forced to punish you. These games are serious, and while I’d like to see you succeed because I respected your mother, I’ll not give you any more special treatment.”

Respected her mother. Was Beatrice lying? About what—respect or murder? Was it possible she hadn’t truly killed her?

Ceana punched the pillow hard. Then punched it again and again, weeping as she did it. Why should she give Beatrice the benefit of the doubt? The evil witch had admitted to killing her mother. She was guilty.

All the things she’d said to her before were lies. Lies!

Even now Beatrice had a grip on Ceana’s sanity.

Ceana wrenched back her arm and threw the pillow, watching it float through the air, seemingly in slow motion, as the door to her chamber opened and the feather-stuffed linen hit Macrath in the face.

“Should I leave?” he asked, a slight tilt to his lips.

Ceana fell back against the bed and threw her arms over her eyes. “Nay.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. He shut the door and barred it.

“Everything,” Ceana mumbled.

Macrath’s footsteps sounded softly on the carpet and then she felt his side of the bed dip as he sat beside her. She moved her arm to look at him, handsome and strong beside her.

“I…” She swallowed hard, a lump swelling in her throat. “I held a knife to Beatrice’s neck. I threatened to kill her.”

Macrath’s jaw clenched, and then he said, “Did you?”

Ceana shook her head. “I couldn’t. I wish I could have called for the guards… but I was too shocked.”

“’Tis all right.” Macrath gathered her in his arms and pulled her close. “We could not have seized her anyway. I’m not certain of the king’s position.”

She laid her head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heart beating. Closing her eyes, she counted the beats and let her breath match his.

“She told me she killed my mother.” Ceana didn’t care to repeat the coarse words Beatrice had chosen when she’d confessed.

Macrath pressed his lips to the top of her head and breathed in deeply. His hands stroked a comforting pattern on her back. It was amazing to her how his touch, his tenderness, could make her feel better, even at her worst.

“I am not surprised. If anyone could be so cruel, it would be her,” he murmured. “Pay her no mind. She seeks only to destroy you, body, heart, soul.”

Ceana nodded, knowing that what he said was true. Beatrice attacked on every level.

“’Tis another reason we must fight this,” Macrath said.

“Are you upset with me that I did not kill her?” An image of Beatrice’s snarl as she’d pushed back against the blade, made Ceana shiver. It would have been so easy to dig in a little deeper and then…swipe! The bitch’s throat would spurt warm blood over Ceana’s fingers. And her mother would be avenged. But that would have been too swift a death for someone as evil as Beatrice. “She dared me to kill her.”

“Nay, lass, to have killed her in such anger would not have made you feel any better,” Macrath said, the voice of reason. “It would have been quick and unsatisfactory. Before we take her life, we need her to see that all she’s worked for has crumbled. Hit her where she hurts the most—her sense of power and control.”

“I’m so glad you agree.” Ceana slid her arm around his waist, hugging his warmth to her—much better than his pillow.

Macrath toyed with her fingers, feeling the length of them and measuring them against his. He traced the lines on her palms. His touch tickled, sending little tingles up and down her arm.

“Do you know anyone who can read palms?” he asked, suddenly—and she was grateful for it—changing the subject.

Ceana nodded. “There was a woman, she was a healer, but many accused her of being a witch. She had potions that could heal wounds and illnesses when they shouldn’t have been mended or cured. She could also read palms, and made claims of foretelling the future.”

“Did she ever read your palm?” He swirled his index finger over the lines near the base of her thumb.

“Once.”

“What did she say?”

Ceana smiled, recalling how she’d stolen from MacRae keep and through the gate toward the wood where Mora lived. Her little hut was covered in lichen, vines and roots, almost as if the forest wanted to claim her for its own.

A thin tendril of dark-gray smoke had circled from her chimney. Before Ceana could knock, the door was yanked open and Mora was smiling at her.

“She said she’d been expecting me,” Ceana mused, untying her boots and tossing them to the floor. She tucked her feet beneath a warm plaid. “I was only about twelve summers and my mother had just died, my father shortly before her. I was distraught. My parents were ripped from my life brutally and without warning. I had my brother, but he was only a few years older than me, just as confused as to why we were on our own. He was fifteen when he inherited the chiefdom, and though he was young, our clan expected him to lead them as our mother and father had before him.”

Macrath listened to her story intently, one hand still on her back and the other against her palm.

“I was frightened. I wanted to turn around and run back to the castle, and Mora must have sensed that. She grabbed my arm and tugged me inside. I can still smell it.” She closed her eyes. “Cloves, comfrey, birch and anise.” She breathed in deep, picturing the dried herbs hanging from the rafters, stuffed into vials and spilling out of clay jugs. “Mugwart, heather, lavender, thyme and wolfsbane. So many. And the walls, they pulsed with her magic, her power. It was potent and I could feel it leaching my energy. She told me to sit, offered me a cup of tea. I didn’t drink it and that only seemed to make her smile. She told me I was a wise girl. I never asked her why she thought so, if the tea was perhaps poisoned.”

Ceana shifted on Macrath’s lap, wrapping the ties of his shirt around her finger.

“She read my palm, quickly, and I’ve not thought about what she said until now. I suppose she did know my future.”

“What did she say?” Macrath sounded as mesmerized as she felt at the memory.

Ceana let out a short, bitter laugh. “She said that there would be many trials in my life, but that I would prevail. If I knew how to play the game, I could be the victor.”

“Mayhap she was just speaking to a lass who played games with other lassies,” Macrath offered. “Or with lads.”

Ceana shook her head. “Nay, because her parting words to me were that one day I’d come face-to-face with an evil one who took something important from me.” She sat up, locking her gaze on Macrath’s. “She was talking about Beatrice and my mother.”

“I thought your mother had not joined the games?” Macrath asked. “When did Beatrice kill her?”

“After the death of my father, our clan grew weaker. There were a lot of border raids and she died in one of them.”

“And do you think Beatrice would have raided MacRae lands, so far from Sìtheil?”

Ceana rubbed her temples. “None of it makes sense. I questioned whether Beatrice killed her myself when she admitted it, but I know she must have.”

Macrath nodded. “Why confess to something she didn’t do? We’ve already got enough crimes stacked against her, adding a false one would make little sense, unless she wanted to hurt you. Which is entirely possible, but I also doubt she’d confess to it. How is she to know that you didn’t already know the killer? That you couldn’t point out that flaw?”

Ceana lay back against his chest, his steady heartbeat lulling her. “I know. I’m so confused.”

The sounds of the man’s cries from above had her sitting up again. “She is keeping a prisoner in her chamber.”

Macrath blanched and looked away.

“You knew?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid it would only upset you. When Marrec and I followed her, she went into her chamber and minutes later we heard the man’s cries. But neither of them ever left.”

“Can you guess who it is? Is anyone missing?”

Macrath shook his head. “We’ve not been here long enough to know who is missing other than the obvious people and she wouldn’t take one of them—at least I hope she wouldn’t. No one has come forward, and now they know that they can. It has to be an outlier, someone she knew wouldn’t be missed.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Marrec and I were going to pay her a visit tonight. After she’s gone to bed.”

“A demon needs no sleep,” Ceana muttered.

“Aye, you are right.”

“I want to come with you.”

Macrath’s face fell, all the lines filling with tension. “Nay, please. Stay here where I know you will be safe.”

There was no way she’d be able to stay in their room while Macrath went after Beatrice. During the games they’d had each other’s back, and she wasn’t about to cease protecting him now. “But…”

“I will not end her life without you, Ceana. That right belongs to you.”

“After what she did to you, you also have a right to your revenge.”

Macrath tugged her close. “One thing is certain, the woman is going to pay for what she has done.”

And then he kissed her, taking her away from the pain of her memories and to a more pleasant place where only the two of them existed.

CEANA bolted upright in bed. She was alone. The side where Macrath slept was cold, as though he’d not been there for quite some time. A shiver stole over her. He must have quietly slipped from the room for her not to have woken. She’d been tossing and turning, afraid of falling into the brutal dream she’d had before, or perhaps a new one where she witnessed Beatrice killing her mother.

She was momentarily confused. Where could he have gone? Was this another night terror?

She swiped her hand over her face, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Nay. She was awake, groggily so. Her head pounded.

Throwing off the covers, she stood and fumbled for the candle and flint at her bedside. Once lit, the room was illuminated enough for her to see she was indeed alone.

Where his plaid and shirt had been tossed on a chair, his boots haphazardly shucked next to the bed, there was nothing. The space against the wall, directly alongside his pillow, where he leaned his sword was empty.

Sometime in the night, her husband had woken—or maybe he’d never actually fallen asleep—dressed and left the room. Just as he did most nights now.

Then she remembered and she knew where he was. He and Marrec had decided to seek out Beatrice’s chamber and the man she kept prisoner there.

Ceana shivered. She rubbed her arms, unable to shake the chill. It had sunk deep into her bones and there was hope of it releasing her.

She opened the wardrobe to grab her gown from the hook inside, and dressed. She tugged on her hose and boots, lacing them quickly with numb fingers. Her knife was still strapped at her thigh, because she’d not had the nerve to take it off when she went to bed. Now that Beatrice knew they intended to kill her; she would no longer play nice.