Kate Robbins - The Highland Chiefs Series 03 (12 page)

“I see we have found your weak point, lass.” His foul breath washed over her face reminding her of her earlier sickness. Her guts lurched anew.

He studied her face with a curious expression. She held fast to her courage by a thread. When he shifted, she felt his hard shaft against her thigh. Her heart raced, realizing the man was aroused by violence. Though she did not know what would happen next, she would keep that knowledge close to her. The more she learned about him, the more likely she may find a weakness in him to exploit.

He leaned down until his mouth was a breath from hers. She held her own breath to avoid the stench.

“My lord, you wanted to see these two as well?”

The voice was accompanied by whimpering. Her resolve arose. She shifted to try dislodging him, but he caught her movement and countered, keeping her pinned.

“Drop them on the furs,” he said.

A thud and another whimper sounded to her right. Freya and he continued their staring contest until finally he grinned and lifted off her. He pulled her up with ease and then shoved her toward the other two, who Freya prayed were unharmed.

When she caught her balance, she examined the women. Kneeling, she brushed Muren’s hair away from her face. It was matted, but there were no marks on her skin. The poor lass’s eyes were wide with fright; she trembled much as Freya had moments before.

“Shhhh, Muren. I have you,” Freya whispered.

Shuffling from behind her caused her to turn—she was not comfortable with her back to him, not even for a second. Morag moved to Muren’s other side and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Freya locked gazes with Morag. Nothing added up. If Ronan was part of this then why were they all treated in such a manner?

Morag opened her mouth to speak but Freya shook her head slightly in warning. The only thing she knew for certain was that Morag and Muren appeared to be as rattled by this whole affair as she was. If Ronan was involved, why had he not insisted on their comfort?

“I know you are scheming, young Freya. I can already read you quite well,” he said.

She whipped around. “Very well. If you wish to know. I am scheming. I will escape your grasp, and Ronan’s too. If either of you thinks you can destroy my family or that I will come along willingly, you are mistaken.”

He smiled. Though why he looked pleased, she knew not.

“I doubt it not, young Freya,” he said. He waved his hand toward a blanket on which bread and meat was spread. “Please, come and eat. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow and all three of you will need your strength for what awaits you at Dunrobin.”

Chapter Twelve

Ronan gazed out at the sea. The storm had broken in the night, but not before forcing them to take safe harbour at Thurso. He stood on the shore and cursed the Fates who had driven them aground. It would take a miracle now for them to rendezvous with Fergus and his men as planned. By his estimation, if they left within the hour, and came in from the north, staying close to the beaches, the plan still had merit. He would need to be sure they only engaged those they trusted along the way, though.

“We will have to walk to Dunrobin with our gear on our back, MacKenzie,” Ronan said to the man standing beside him, who appeared in much the same contemplation as he.

“Aye. We’d best be at it then.” He turned toward Ronan. “Do you not feel an unease this day?”

Ronan raised his brows at the question. “Unease? I did not take you for a superstitious man.”

He shook his head. “I am not, but something feels very off, Ronan. We had better be more cautious.”

Good advice. Ronan turned to the other men; he had not noticed their countenance before, but MacKenzie was right. There was an uneasiness about them. They could not battle his uncle like this—they would not stand a chance.

He moved into the thick of the men. “We make ready to march within the hour.” His voice was loud and clear. “Our plan has taken an unexpected turn, but we are all here and we are all able.” He caught the eye of a few of the men who noticeably stood straighter. “Our journey will be long and our fight will be hard. But know this. You fight for every man, woman, and child who is not here. You fight for their lives, and for their freedom from a man who will lay them in the ground without a second thought.”

He now had everyone’s attention.

“We must remember the faces of our loved ones as we march toward Dunrobin. It is for them we fight!”

A few men said ‘Aye’.

“I said it is for them we fight!”

A few more joined in and MacKenzie came up behind him.

“Do you hear the man, lads? We go to war! The threat is real and we are the only ones who can save our homes and families now! We will not let one man take that from us!”

The men nodded their heads in agreement.

“To Dunrobin!” he said.

“To Dunrobin!” they shouted, pumping the air with their fists.

The atmosphere among the men transformed from solemn to determined. The men picked up the pace with the preparation, and before half of that hour was gone, they were ready to march.

Ronan and the MacKenzie led the men for hours, stopping only long enough for a brief rest and to eat. They had made good time. A village was ahead and he needed to make a decision whether or not to approach the bishop of Caithness for help. He would be located just south of the castle at Dornoch. This meant circling around, but he could see no other alternative. His family had always held the clergy in the region in the palm of its hand, and considering his endorsement of the writ of bastardy, Ronan was not quite sure if he could, or would, assist.

“We go to Dornoch?” MacKenzie asked with disbelief in his voice.

“I think ’tis the best solution. The bishop handed me the writ personally, and had endorsed it. Aye, there is that. But if my uncle has created as much mayhem as I believe he has, the bishop is the key to reversing the writ. Without it, my uncle is a man without the power of a piece of paper.”

It all sounded ridiculous to Ronan. One piece of paper told a man he was elevated to this or that. That same piece of paper could strip a man of everything, including his right to live. There was much about the whole situation that did not sit right with him. He had worked hard over the last two years to build a strong community to replace the tyranny under his father’s rule.

“Who will go with you?”

“I go alone with Allain. I will not risk you or your men. If the bishop is still on my uncle’s side, I may be captured. You must still carry out the plan, MacKenzie. It is critical you surround his army. Only then will you and Fergus have a chance to defeat him. Stay here until nightfall. At dawn, if I am not back, march without me. Do you understand?”

MacKenzie shook his head. “’Tis madness, Ronan. Surely your uncle will have men on the lookout for you even here, as it is so close to Dunrobin Castle.”

“Aye, that is a risk I must take. If I can sway the bishop, we have a better chance to reverse the writ. Without that, we have only our fists, and that pulls us into the conflict he craves. I wish to rid him of everything and drive him as far away from here as possible.”

“Godspeed to you then, Ronan. We will see you in the morn.”

Ronan grasped arms with the man. “If God is on our side, then aye, MacKenzie, that you will.” He turned to Allain. “Are we set then, my friend?”

“Do you really think approaching the bishop is the best course of action at this time?” Allain asked, once they were on the road.

“Aye, I do. You do not?”

“With the army marching, are we not best served with them instead of on a fool’s errand.”

Ronan stopped. “Why would you say that? You know as well as I the writ gave my uncle all the power he wields. Stripping him of it is a logical first step in defeating him.”

“You are the master here,” he said. “If it is your wish, it shall be done.”

“What do you mean by that, Allain? If you have something on your mind, then be out with it.”

“Aye, I will tell you what is on my mind. You would not face Alexander in the beginning of this mess. Instead, you tore off across the country to seek a man’s help who has been our worst enemy for decades. Now we are the best of friends and relying on them to defeat your family. It all seems a wee bit illogical to me.”

“How can you say that?” Ronan could not believe his ears. “You believe we should have shown ourselves that day back at Dunrobin? You think my uncle would have welcomed me with open arms? Did you not hear his words?”

“Aye, I heard them, Ronan. But I believe that since you went to Tongue, you have thought more about bedding and wedding Freya MacKay than your clan’s safety.”

“Is that what this is all about? You do not approve of Freya?” Ronan could not have been more shocked.

“Aye, I do not approve. And I do not approve of you peddling Muren off to the MacKenzie in order to keep your bed warm.”

Ronan’s fist landed on Allain’s jaw, sending the man’s head jerking backwards. “You whoreson! How dare you speak of my reasons regarding either woman.”

Allain held the back of his hand to his mouth which dripped crimson. He laughed and Ronan’s heart filled with dread. What the hell was going on?

“Oh, I dare, and it is because I dare you will not succeed in this plan of yours.”

Ronan grabbed him by his tunic and lifted him off the ground, growling, “What have you done, Allain!”

Allain struggled, but could not free himself from Ronan’s grasp.

“I have only thought about Muren’s safety as you have. I do not trust Fergus MacKay as you do, so I have secured your mother and sister for you.”

No. No. No.

“Allain! Tell me what you have done.”

“Put me down and I will tell you, Ronan. Though it is no doubt done by now and all shall be resolved upon our arrival at Dunrobin.”

Ronan had no choice but to release Allain when a blade stung the back of his neck, and another at his side, perilously close to his heart.

“You are in no danger from me, Ronan,” Allain said. “I have secured protection for both of us by revealing our alliance with the MacKays and MacKenzies to your uncle’s men. They have your mother and Muren by now and are no doubt returning with them to Dunrobin as we speak”

Ronan’s head buzzed. His blood pounded in his ears and it took everything in him not to snap Allain’s neck. He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward to help him focus. His uncle at Tongue? Christ’s guts! The man would burn the place to the ground! What of Freya? What of Fergus?

Ronan made to move toward Allain again, but four very large arms held him back. He struggled against them, his fury and fear rising to a pitch, threatening his sanity and his consciousness.

“Where is Freya?” he demanded. “What of our alliance with the MacKays? Allain you have set our fate!”

Allain shook his head. “I have secured our place at your uncle’s side as it should be. Your vision of alliances is flawed, Ronan. No MacKay can be trusted. Your father knew it. Your uncle knows it. And you must learn it.”

“Allain, I will ask you one more time, and then I will not be accountable for my actions. You have been a loyal and trusted friend of mine, and I do not wish to harm you. But I will drive my blade through you where you stand if you do not tell me, where she is.”

Allain’s eyes grew wide. “How can you say that to me when all I have done is help? Very well. Your beloved Freya was collected along with your sister and mother. They should be there by the time we arrive.” He walked past Ronan. “Come, let us go to your uncle. A great feast awaits us.”

The arms around Ronan loosened and he found his chance. Grasping the twin blades sheathed at his hips, Ronan opened his arms and drove them backward landing one in each neck of the men who’d held him. He released and turned, unsheathing his broadsword and kneeling low to slash their bellies open in one movement. They clutched at their spewing necks as they fell to the ground.

Still on his knees, Ronan looked up at Allain who’d come racing back to the scene. His eyes locked with Ronan’s.

“What have you done?”

“The first step in fixing your mess, Allain. Believe me when I say you have destroyed any trust I ever placed in you.” He grabbed Allain’s hands and twisted them behind his back. In his ear he said, “If any harm comes to either woman, I will slice you apart piece by piece.”

Ronan grabbed the loose ends of the rope holding Allain’s tunic in place around his waist, and secured his arms behind his back. He then removed his own belt and secured it around the man’s neck and drew his hands farther up his back to keep him from any arm movement at all.

“I was trying to help.” Allain’s voice was weak. Damn the man to Hell.

Ronan removed his blades from the men on the ground, wiped them and returned them to their sheath on his waist. He needed to speak with the bishop now more than ever. His desired favours from the man would far exceed reversing the writ; he needed the king’s army involved. If the MacKays were already destroyed, and the MacKenzies walking into a trap, the balance of power had already tipped.

Ronan grabbed Allain by the belt at his back and shoved hard. Stumbling forward, the man straightened and shot one mournful look over his shoulder before walking toward the bishopric at Dornoch.

* * *

Freya’s hips ached and her wrists burned. After a long night with no sleep, Sutherland secured all three women and placed them each on a horse in front of a guard.

They had been riding for hours and Freya was not sure how much longer she could sit upright. She did not recognize the road they took, and by the roughness of it, assumed Sutherland had decided to stay off the main road.

Her weariness played with her wits. At times when she was close to sleep, her thoughts drifted to riding with Ronan years earlier and how they had met. A sudden jolt would snap her back to her present, and her heart would break all over again at the realization that she still could not be completely sure he was not involved.

Her anger surfaced. How could she have been so witless? What kind of man would be so convincing in his deceit? And what about his sister and mother? Freya’s mistreatment was no greater than theirs. Everything she had known about his father was becoming a reality in the son. Fergus had always said the sins of the father must be shouldered by the son. Freya had always argued on the side of Ronan and eventually convinced Fergus of the man’s honour.

Where had it gotten any of them? Her heart constricted at the thought of her beloved brother lying in a pool of his own blood. He had been the strongest and best man she had ever known—and now he was dead. She choked on a sob and the arms around her tightened.

“Fear not,” the voice quietly said in her ear. “All is not as it seems.”

“What?” The voice sounded so familiar, but she could not quite place it.

“Hush, Freya, ’tis me, Neville.”
Nessia’s uncle?
“I was able to sneak out of MacKay House with the guards and accompany you. If you draw attention, you risk revealing me and we will both be killed. Do you understand? Nod if you do.”

She nodded. Thank the Lord in Heaven for bringing Neville as her saviour.

“You must stay strong. I was the only one who was able to get out. Luckily, Sutherland is more interested in stuffing his fat face than observing those of his men. And most of them are too busy keeping out of his way to notice anything out of the ordinary. I cannot help you much, but I am here, lass. Know that.”

“Fergus,” she whispered defying his order not to speak. “Nessia and—”

The body behind her stiffened and her grief welled up again.

“Nessia and the bairns were not harmed when we left. Fergus was—”

Freya shook her head. She did not want to hear—could not listen to the words spill from Neville’s lips.