Highland Scandal (26 page)

The band pulled up. The horses’ cries were an exclamation to the men’s shouts. Some horses twisted and fell, tossing aside their riders while the men on foot rushed to the trees. Jonty screamed for his men to regroup. The men gathered again. Left with no other option, Jonty turned to face Lachlan. Jonty charged at him. His face twisted in an ugly grimace.

Lachlan straightened in his saddle. His sword was held aloft, prepared for the coming strike. The blades met in a clash. His muscles tightened at the blow rumbling up his arm. Lachlan pushed back and sent Jonty off balance. He punched him in the face. Knuckle and cheekbone pounded against each other. Jonty tumbled to the ground.

Lachlan leaped to his feet. With his targe in his right hand and his sword in his left, he charged Jonty.

The damn scourge rolled away and climbed to his feet. Jonty attacked, lashing his sword at Lachlan’s targe. The strikes drummed against the wood.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The thumping matched his heart rate.

Tired of the ineffective blow, Lachlan swung his arm, catching the sword and pinning the sword downward. He cut Jonty’s exposed arm. The blow sent him stumbling to the side with a scream. Lachlan let out a war cry that matched the roar in his head. Jonty shoved a man in his path. He scurried away, his arm tucked to his side.

“Face me, coward.”

Men clashed before him, blocking his escape. Jonty threw aside his targe and switched his blade to his other hand. “Ye bastard.”

“I’ll kill you.” Lachlan took his stance. He might be out of his mind with rage but he was collect enough to let Jonty come to him.

“Na this day. I’ll run my blade through you like I did yer father.”

“First, I’ll have to give you my back.”

Jonty swung. It was ineffective, half his strength lost and the rush of energy that propelled a man forward in a fight drained from him along with his blood.

Lachlan raised his sword upward and blocked the blow. He put his strength in his arms and shoved him off. Jonty cut in a frenzy. Lachlan jumped back and dodged the strike at his gut. The blade sliced his
leine
.

Lachlan lashed out, forcing Jonty back. Jonty swung his sword around in a wide arc. His right side was exposed. Lachlan switched his broadsword to his other hand and buried the thick blade in his side, where it stopped in his gut.

Lachlan jerked his sword free and wiped the blood on Jonty’s plaid. His men fled. Lachlan cast a glance about the glen. His sweat dried, giving him a chill. His ears pounded. He could hear nothing. Slowly, that changed until a heavy silence weighed down and made his ears hurt more.

He wiped his hand across his face, smearing blood across his face and the back of his hand.

The MacKenzie commander came over to him. He was smiling. Blood and dirt were caught in the creases. “Naw, ye ha’e to wed Rowen.”

“The problem isn’t me. That woman is stubborn.”

“Aye but that be yer problem naw. Wat ye wanna do wit him?” He kicked at Jonty’s lifeless foot.

“Leave him to the animals. I have to get married.”

“Guid, MacKenzie wants it done quick.”

* * * *

Rowen had returned. She slinked her way through the courtyard’s shadows. Her plan was simple—get her son even if that meant her life. She’d do all she could to avoid falling into Laird Murray’s hands.

Three days had passed since the Lairdess had stolen Kenny. She forced herself to cease the terrifying images of his limp, bloodless body from flashing in her mind. She hadn’t been successful and the images rushed to the forefront of her mind. As it did now. Her stomach flipped. Her chest pinched and she gagged. She swallowed back the bile, but the shaking did not stop.

Covered in cold sweat, she slipped into the castle. The kitchen was empty. Embers shown in the hearth. The soft sounds of slumber came from the kitchen boy. She made her way down the corridor. As she neared the archway, she struggled to draw in air. She dragged her hand along the wall for support.

No matter her gut-wrenching terror, Rowen would get her son back alive. She touched her thigh, bolstered by the feel of the blade against her skin. She hesitated, and then stepped in the great hall. The square space was empty. She climbed the stairs. The wooden stairs creaked beneath her feet.

“Welcome home, dear.” Laird Murray stood at the top of the stairs.

Rowen squeezed the handrail. Slivers of wood dug into her palm. “Where is my son?”

He descended, his wide girth forcing Rowen backward.

“Ye must be parched. A cuppa is just wat ye require.”

A tremor of disgust rolled through her. From the corner of her eyes, she marked the changes to him. He seemed to have a calm insanity about him. His eyes shined brightly and darted about. He had not bathed, and she caught the foul odors of body sweat and urine about him. His lips were cracked and crumbs hung from the corners of his mouth.

Rowen bumped against the table’s corner. Laird Murray rapped his hand against a chair’s back, a silent order to sit.

With no other recourse, she perched on the hard edge. He filled two cups with wine.

He set a pewter cup before her. He took a sip as he sat in his own chair. In the firelight, she saw the creases of his face deepen, seeming to have cut deep into his flesh. A thick smear of blackness encircled his eyes.

“’Tis good to ha’e ye back. Ye belong here.”

“My son,” she bit out.

“Ye willna take him. Eacharn loved him. He is all I have left. Eacharn was such a joy to me. He was a good man,” he said.

“Aye, he was.”

“Why did he die?”

“I…I cannot answer that.”

“Why did ye na warn him? Ye must ha’e ken being a banshee.”

She did not bother to deny it. “If I could have warned him, I would have done it.”

He slammed the flat of his hand against the table, sending the cups shaking. “Ye dinna. Ye na be leaving he’e.”

Bran crept out from the shadows with the Lairdess behind him. He walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Welcome.”

She shook off his touch. He chuckled in the back of his throat. She bit her tongue when a dozen of curses flooded her mouth.

“See her to a chamber,” Murray said.

Rowen shoved back the chair and went without his assistance. She felt him behind her. She breathed through her nose as her rage built. The chamber door was open, awaiting her.

“Ye ken that I’ll kill ye.” Bran’s foul breath swept across her face. He shoved her in to the chamber.

She fell on her knees, and then forward. She cracked the side of her face against the wooden floor. She closed her eyes, dizzy from the blow. Behind her, she heard Bran and the Lairdess speaking. The coolness of the floor soothed her pulsating flesh. The pounding in her head lessened to a dull throb. She touched her nose. No blood, though she swore it poured out. She climbed to her hands and knees.

“Oh, my dear.” The Lairdess put an arm around her waist, offering support as Rowen rose to her feet. “I sent him away. You are safe now.”

Rowen drew away from her.

“Do not be afraid. You are free from that bastard. He will be dead soon.”

“You are speaking of Lachlan.” She knew whom the Lairdess meant, yet she still had to clarify.

She blinked in surprise. “Who else? Och, I know there was talk about you wedding him, but you do not know what would await you.”

Rowen sent her a look to continue, not that she needed any encouragement.

“That bastard shares much with his father. Oh, I have heard the stories. He lies with numerous women without a thought to the anguish he causes—speaking false words—professing false love. He will turn cruel when your sons die. Your blood is too weak. Ha! My sister has the same blood. But my sons died.”

She fell quiet. Her eyes glazed over and she rocked slightly in comfort. “You’ll learn.”

Rowen stiffened. “What do you mean?”

The Lairdess stared at her, her face blank.

Rowen grabbed her by the arm and shook her. “What do you mean? Tell me. You killed your husband.”

She snickered. “Jonty killed him. Stupid boy, I did not mind so much. He tried to kill me. Thought he would reunite with Agnes. I was most happy afterward. That Sheena was going to die and Jonty would be laird. But then that bastard became laird. I couldn’t allow that. ’Tis most embarrassing. Then you came with your bastard. Agnes and all proof of her must be wiped from the earth.”

* * * *

Lachlan stood in the great hall. His curse still echoed in the air. The guards hung their heads. The servants tried to hide in the background while Mistress Cullen wept.

Caelen’s man paced behind him and grumbled about Caelen killing Murray, perhaps Lachlan and even Rowen. Lachlan agreed with one statement—Rowen was too independent a woman. She should be beaten for acting stupidly and putting many people in danger.

“We ha’e ta get her back.”

Lachlan glared at MacKenzie’s man. “I know.”

“What the hell have you done with my sister?” Caelen stomped his way to Lachlan.

“I haven’t strangled the foolish woman
yet
.”

“Murray will die.”

“Aye, but I get to kill him.” Lachlan stabbed his forefinger against his chest.

“We shall see. Let’s go.” Caelen marched out the hall with his men behind him.

Lachlan glared at his men. “You save the woman I love.” He left after giving the order.

Lachlan led the way from the castle and set off to get back his woman and his son. He sent a prayer that they were well and he would arrive before anything happened to them. Never in his life had he so much to lose. And if he lost them, he did not think he could recover. Now knowing his weakness, he felt an animalistic urge to lash out.

Through the men kept up a hurried pace, Lachlan felt it was too slow. Wulver fought Lachlan, tossing his head even craning his head to take a bite out his leg. The party rode without halting.

“Lachlan, you have never lied to me, so tell me—is my nephew your son?”

Lachlan dipped his head. “I love her. I always have. I learned that I cannot live without her.”

“You cannot claim him. People will speak as he grows older.”

Lachlan’s heart twisted. “I know, but I shall do all I can to make sure that he has a good life, one fitting him.”

“I shall do the same.”

Night had fallen. Dawn broke and the day wasted away. By the time Lachlan spotted the outline of Rowen and Kenny’s prison, the moon hung in the sky.

“Shall we raze it to the ground?”

* * * *

Rowen shoved the Lairdess aside and raced to the door. She had it open and was in the corridor when she heard the Lairdess scream out for help.

She ran up the stairs to search the chambers up there. Kenny had to be somewhere. The first chamber was empty. She tried the next door.
Locked.
She whipped up her
leine
and pulled her blade free. She stabbed the sharp point in the keyhole. With a twist of her wrist, the door opened. She rushed in.

Kenny slept in the center of the bed. She snatched him up.

“Ma,” he mumbled, sleep thickened his voice. He wrapped his arms around her neck.

“Shh,” she said as she sped to the door.

Kenny buried his head in her neck and held her tightly.

“Ye bitch.” Bran filled the threshold.

Rowen reeled back, gasping in fright as sweat broke out on her back. She tightened her hold on her blade. It took all her stubbornness not to cry out with the fear rushing in her.

Bran stretched his filthy hands to her son. She twisted him away and brandished her blade. She sliced his forearm.

He jerked back and pressed his other hand on the wound. “That little thing isna gonna save ye or him. Come.” With his bloody hand, he yanked her from the room and pushed her ahead of him. She charged away, chased by his laughter. She slowed once she reached the great hall.

Murray sat before the hearth, dazed by the fire. He brightened at seeing Kenny and hurried to him. “Yer brother and Laird Gordon have been spotted.” He wrenched her son from her arms. Rowen gripped Kenny’s
leine
. Murray slapped her hand away.

“I had hoped to ha’e ye stay on for the most a fortnight just to get the lad comfortable, but that isna going to happen.” He inclined his head to Bran in a silent order.

Bran wrapped his thick fingers around her wrist and twisted. Needle-like pain shot up her arm. She grasped, wincing with pain. She had to drop her weapon or have her wrist broken. It clanged useless against the floor. He tugged on her, almost jerking her arm from its socket. She dug in her heels and yanked against him.

“Ma,” Kenny stretched out to her, fighting against Murray’s hold. “Dinna hurt her. Da willna like it.”

“Shut ye mouth, ye wee bastard,” Bran spat.

Murray slowly climbed to his feet. He set Kenny on his chair. Kenny whimpered. Rowen sent him a look of encouragement. He nodded and wiped his sleeve across his nose. Rowen picked up the blade.

“Ye dare to raise yer tone. I am yer laird. He shall be chief of this clan, as his father was meant to.”

“Ye speak of him as if that bastard were part of Eacharn. He isna. Ye ha’e to kill him. Ye ha’e to kill them both. If Eacharn were he’e, he’d do it.” The vein in his forehead throbbed. Spittle flew from his mouth.

“Bran, do not speak.”

“Ye ken nothing aboot my son and grandson. I’ll kill ye.” Murray roared in his face.

“I ken everything. Yer son loved me. This bitch stole him from me.”

Rowen fixed her grip on the hilt. She plunged the blade into Bran’s chest. She missed his heart, catching him in just below his shoulder. Her roar of strength blended with Bran’s cry of pain.

“Run,” she screamed. “Run, Kenny.” He snapped from his daze and sprinted toward the door.

Bran grasped handfuls of hair and dragged her as he chased after Kenny. She struggled against his hold. She only managed to get her hair yanked from her skull. She swung her hands wildly, trying to strike the hilt sticking from his chest.

She heard Kenny’s scream and saw Kenny’s legs kicking out.