Highlander's Sword (26 page)

   Aila made a face at the mention of day-old tren chers, and MacLaren laughed softly, walking to her and taking her hands. "'Tis no' that bad. I've eaten much worse, I assure ye."

   "I warrant 'tis pointless to tell ye to be careful."

   "I am always careful wi' both my life and that o' my men. God willing, I shall return soon." He kissed one hand then the other, and Aila felt happy tingles at his touch. "Do ye have a crucifix?" he asked.

   "Aye," said Aila, opening a drawer and handing MacLaren her rosary. MacLaren knelt, holding the cross, and prayed silently. She prayed as well, asking for his protection and safe return. MacLaren made the sign of the cross and stood, taking her hand in his.

   "I must go. I wish I could leave a guard for ye, but I need every man."

   "I'll be safe. Dinna worrit o'er me."

   "Lock the door behind me and remain here. Yer father will come to bring ye food and drink. Trust none but him, ye ken?"

   "Aye."

   "If our task goes well, I'll be home by the morrow, or maybe even tonight." MacLaren took Aila in his arms, and she hugged him tight, feeling nothing but cold steel plates. He kissed her gently and looked at her as if he wanted to say something. Aila waited expectantly, but he only gave her another soft kiss and walked from the room. As promised, Aila bolted the door behind him and turned back to the window to watch his departure. She could see nothing in the moonless night.

MacLaren rode hard through the night and into the early dawn. He was tired of traveling the same path and was determined this would be the last time he rode to McNab's land. He hoped to catch the man by surprise, ending this feud quickly and easily. He gave the men instructions to leave McNab to him. He wanted to kill the man for what he had done to his wife.

   Aila now encompassed many of his thoughts, and try as he might to focus on the task at hand, many times during his long night ride did he think upon her. He remembered her beauty last night at supper, yet even more attractive in his mind was how she had looked after their wild chase—dirty and unkempt but untamed and free. MacLaren fought against the images of his wife, telling himself all women were conniving and deceitful, but it didn't have the power it once had. Despite his best efforts, just as the hooves of his horse continued to trod down the hard-packed road, so did his mind return to Aila and their future together. He thought of giving her children, and more times than was comfortable did his thoughts turn to the process of making those wee bairns.

   As they neared McNab's stronghold, they approached more cautiously, scouting for lookouts. They passed quietly through the fields of the crofters, and MacLaren witnessed their poverty, understanding the draw that marrying Aila must be for a young laird. This understanding changed none of MacLaren's plans; McNab had chosen to be his enemy, and MacLaren would see him dead.

   Close to McNab's stronghold, they cut a large tree as a battering ram. McNab's tower house had limited defenses, and MacLaren planned to ram through the front gate and into the house with speed and surprise. They had years of practice, and they made their make shift battering ram quickly. It was carried in a series of slings, three men riding on each side.

   McNab's square tower house loomed before them, an eerie black blight on the landscape in the grey dawn. MacLaren donned his helm and gauntlets, experiencing the tight, sick feeling in his stomach that plagued him before battle.

   Shouting his warrior's cry, MacLaren charged the gate, followed by the thunderous sound of his knights. Shouts rang forth from the guards on the gate, but the battering ram was already in place before the defenses could be mounted. MacLaren's archers knelt and shot volleys at the heads of the men at the gate and toward anyone who approached the gate from the wall, providing cover for the men with the battering ram. They were through the main gate within five blows of the ram, and the fight was on.

   MacLaren rode forward, slashing through the resistance, which remained light, as he had expected. After being carried across the yard, the ram soon battered down the main entrance to the square tower. MacLaren smiled when the door gave way with only two blows. His enjoyment was short-lived. Soldiers began pouring from the gaping hole, and a steady assault of arrows from the rooftop drove his men back. Where had McNab gotten all these soldiers and archers? MacLaren pulled his men back to form lines. Fighting together, they would have a better chance against the onslaught. He cursed for grossly underes timating McNab's forces, but it could not be possible. Confused, his men fought valiantly, but they were desperately outnumbered.

   "MacLaren!" Chaumont's shout could barely be heard over the din, and MacLaren looked to where Chaumont was pointing. The world around him suddenly slowed to a stop. The noise of the battle faded into silence.

   It was the Golden Knight.

   MacLaren stared at the figure in disbelief. How could this be? He suddenly realized most of the soldiers emerging from the house were French, not Scot. He was fighting the most notorious knight in all of France. And he was going to lose.

   "Mount, mount!" he called to his men, trying to give them some advantage over the sea of foot soldiers before them. Never had MacLaren ordered his troops to withdraw from battle. Never had he given his back to the enemy.

   Until today.

   "Retreat!"

AILA SAT ON HER BED, ALONE IN HER TOWER ROOM, the light of a lone candle flickering on the walls. The room seemed much larger and empty now that her husband had gone. She drew her plaid closer around her shoulders and hugged her knees to her chest against the early morning chill. She could not help but smile, the image of her knight warming her deep inside.

   MacLaren had not spoken words of love or even mild acceptance, but he had, she noted, stopped insulting her. Not much to be sure, but it was a start. More importantly, he had trusted her, trusted her with the plans of their surprise attack on McNab, trusted her by getting armed in her presence. She smiled and sighed with contentment. The realization of the depth of her feelings for him came without warning. She cherished his trust, but she wanted more. She wanted to be loved.

   She stood from the bed and briskly shook out her plaid, shaking off those dangerous feelings as well. Best not to feel this way. MacLaren may have grown to accept her and trust her, but that was a far cry from loving her. He may eventually make a perfectly agreeable husband, polite and courteous, but she could expect nothing more. She must learn to keep her emotions under control, or she would live in disappointment and bitterness all her days. A vision of her mother crept to mind, and she shuddered at her potential future. She would not willingly travel down that path. She would protect herself from the pain of unrealistic expectations and false hope.

   Aila stood barefoot on the cold stone floor, the warmth draining from her. Still, she was determined to be cheerful. MacLaren's treatment of her had much improved, and she was no longer in fear of being beaten or imprisoned. He was a good man, honorable and fair. It was pointless to wish for anything more from a husband.

   It was time to get to work. Straightening her shoul ders, she prepared for the day. She brushed and plaited her hair before remembering she was not allowed to leave her quarters, and even if she could, it would be hours before even the earliest riser in the castle awoke. She sat back down, feeling helpless to be waiting for the men to settle things while she hid in her room. She had never thought of herself as the courageous type, but somehow, waiting in isolation all day was maddening. Recalling the spilt whiskey, she hastened to clean it, grateful for something she could do.

   When she leaned over to move the soaked rushes so she could mop the floor, a dead mouse lay in the puddle of whiskey. She recoiled instinctively from the sight. Why had the mouse had chosen that particular spot to die? It looked almost as though it had been poisoned.

   
Linguam autem nullus hominum domare potest inquietum
malum plena veneno mortifero.

   A chill crept up her spine.
It is a restless evil, full of
deadly poison.
Senga had brought that red-jeweled bottle of whiskey from someone in the castle to celebrate Aila's nuptials. Aila had not drunk from the bottle, and it had remained on her nightstand ever since. But who sent it? She could not remember. Perhaps Senga had not said. But still, Senga had been working for the traitor, and if the bottle was from him…

   With a sense of panic, Aila recalled MacLaren had asked his flask be filled with that whiskey. Aila flung off her chemise and dressed quickly in her men's clothes and cloak. She only hoped she could get to him in time before he drank from the poisoned flask. She paused at the door. He had specifically told her not to leave her room, and here she was sneaking down to the stables to ride off into the night. He was going to kill her. She did not even know for sure there was anything amiss with the whiskey. Yet if she was right and did not warn him, he would die. She was wide awake, her heart pounding. She unbolted the door. Her choice was clear.

   Never before had she felt scared walking down the spiral steps to the lower bailey. The last time she had been on these stairs at night, she had been running for her life. Now the darkness frightened her, and she froze at every sound. She never realized how the sound of her steps echoed softly or how much like moaning was the sound of the wind along the castle wall.

   Creeping on soft feet, she reached the side door to the stable and froze. There on the floor by the door was the slumped figure of a young lad. He was dead. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. Visions of Fergus came to her unbidden. Once again, her feet were planted to the floor, and she was unable to move. The lad shifted a bit and began to snore. Not dead. She exhaled her held breath.

   She snuck to the door of the stables and stood with her hand on the latch for a few minutes, gathering her courage. If she opened the door, would she find once again the man who had struck the stable master, who had betrayed her clan, and who had killed her poor maid? What was she doing? MacLaren, her father, everyone would be furious. She didn't even know if the flask was truly poisoned. She should turn around and go back to bed where it was safe.

   
Viriliter agite et confortamini nolite timere nec paveatis
a conspectu eorum quia Dominus Deus tuus ipse est ductor
tuus et non dimittet nec derelinquet te.

   Aila closed her eyes and felt the comfort of the scripture.
Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or
terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with
you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.
Praying she would be filled with the courage she needed, she opened her eyes, breathing her prayer, her shoulders relaxing. She once again attempted to open the door, and this time her body complied. Pushing down on the latch, Aila jumped when the door creaked open. She glanced at the sleeping stable lad beside her. He snored louder.

   Before her was the gaping darkness of the stable. No light from a lantern beckoned her; the stable master was gone. She started the move forward, her right hand trailing along the side of the stable. Reaching the main stables, she stopped and listened again. Hearing nothing, she gathered her courage and slowly began the walk into the gloom of the stable.

   She counted down the stalls, her hand guiding her way. After the correct number of stalls, she stopped and opened the door to find Shadow. Even in the dark, she could tell it was him, from the feel of his silky coat to his nuzzled greeting. Saddling him in the pitch black was a challenge, but she had done it many times in dim light, and her fingers knew their way. She deftly finished her work, slipped out the false door into the cave, and locked the gate behind her.

   Emerging from the tunnel, she breathed deep of the cold night air. It was a dark night with no moon to light her way, so she carefully picked her way down the slope and to the main path to McNab's holding. She trusted Shadow to guide her. They had traveled the path many times before and found their way by memory.

   She rode as fast as she could safely travel, which unfor tunately was not particularly swift. Worry knotted in her stomach. MacLaren could drink from that flask at any time, and she would be a widow before their marriage ever had a chance to begin. Since her anxiety could give her nothing but a stomach ache, she attempted to turn her thoughts back to the verse that had come to mind outside the stable door. She could trust in the Lord, for whatever the outcome, she would never be forsaken.

   She rode along until the blackness turned to grey and dawn slowly brought color back to the landscape. Mist settled thick around her, filling her lungs with its cold, moist air. She could ride faster now and she urged her mount forward. She was well onto McNab's land and became wary, watching and listening for any signs of life. She kept the hood of her cloak over her head, obscuring her face, hoping if any chanced to see her, they would never guess her identity. If she rode back into McNab's possession, MacLaren would never forgive her, never believe her, and perhaps never come to rescue her. Of course that presumed he lived long enough to do or feel any of those things. She leaned forward and rode faster. MacLaren must be found before McNab found her.