Once a Warrior (31 page)

A bitter laugh erupted from his chest.

“I’m glad one of us finds something amusing in this,” muttered Gavin. “By God, Duncan, after all we did for your people, one would think we deserved better than to be bound and led away like common criminals.”

“You are bound so you will not escape,” explained Duncan, his tone apologetic. “It is not meant as an insult.”

“Insult or not, this rope is wearing my flesh raw, and my back and arms are aching,” growled Malcolm. “Do you intend to keep us bound like this for the entire journey?”

“Yes.”

“Just where the hell is it that you think we would go?” he demanded impatiently. “Can you honestly believe I have any interest in returning to your clan after this?”

“Ariella knew you would refuse to leave when she asked,” Andrew replied. “You must not be there when our new laird arrives. By the time we have reached your home, it will take you three days to return. The new MacKendrick will have come by then.”

“What the hell does it matter if I’m there when he arrives or not?” snapped Malcolm.

“Ariella doesn’t want you there. I assume you know the reason why, MacFane,” said Duncan, casting him a condemning look.

So they knew he had shared her bed. Malcolm wondered if he had been sprawled naked on the floor of her chamber when they’d arrived.

Christ.

“Rest assured, I wouldn’t return to your precious little mistress if you begged me to,” he muttered tautly. “The thought of being drugged again, and carried away like a trussed deer, holds little appeal. Release us, and we will be on our way.”

“My orders are to deliver you to your home, MacFane,” Duncan countered. “That is what I intend to do.”

They rode in silence awhile. With every mile the rough rope binding Malcolm’s wrists bit deeper into his flesh, and the pain in his body intensified. Finally, seeking some way to distract himself from his mounting discomfort, he asked, “Who is the man Ariella has chosen to be your laird?”

Duncan hesitated. “We cannot tell you.”

Gavin frowned. “Why not?”

He shrugged his shoulders, but his expression was uneasy. “Ariella asked us not to.”

“Do I know him?” demanded Malcolm.

Duncan remained silent.

“It isn’t Niall, is it?” he growled, outraged by the idea.

He had long known of Niall’s attraction to Ariella. The man’s eyes were lit with longing every time he looked at her. And Niall had never made a secret of his contempt for Malcolm. That was why Malcolm had originally believed Niall had shot at him and placed the spur under his saddle. Later, he was no longer certain. Niall had fought bravely during the attack on the castle, and one of Roderic’s men had nearly killed him. If Niall was Roderic’s ally, why would he have tried to thwart the assault?

Of course, it was possible that the attacks on him had had nothing to do with Roderic. It could be that Niall had simply been trying to drive him away, at first because he hated the Black Wolf and feared Malcolm might learn Ariella was still alive, and later because he sensed Malcolm’s attraction to her.

“Niall has no army,” pointed out Gavin. “I doubt he is the one.”

Of course not, realized Malcolm. Ariella’s first duty was to her clan, and she was well aware that at this moment her clan needed a force of trained warriors.

“Perhaps it is one of the chiefs from the neighboring clans,” he speculated, freshly infuriated by the possibility. He quickly reflected on the lairds he had met who were in need of a wife. “It isn’t old Fraser, is it?” he sputtered. Laird Fraser led a substantial army of some five hundred warriors, which could easily keep the MacKendricks secure. But the man was well past seventy, with a pasty, shriveled frame, a stingy thatch of yellowed hair, and a dark cave of a mouth that was almost entirely void of teeth. The thought of him touching Ariella made Malcolm sick.

“Don’t be absurd,” retorted Duncan. “Laird Fraser is far too old to be the MacKendrick.”

Of course. Ariella expected the next laird to be perfect, or as near to perfect as she could find.
It could have been you,
she had told him, her voice trembling with anger.
It should have been you.
Had he ever been the man she once thought he was? He had been trapped in this wretched body for so long, carrying the unbearable weight of so many innocent souls upon his back, it was hard to remember a time when he had been young and strong and whole. A time when he had faced the world with the brazen confidence of youth, a clear conscience, and the strength of righteousness planted deep within his soul.

A time when he had been known as the fearless warrior, the Black Wolf.

Weariness swept over him in a debilitating wave, heightening his pain as it blunted the edge of his anger. Ariella was right. He was not fit to be laird of the MacKendricks, and more, he did not want that monumental responsibility. Last night he had thought it was a challenge he could rise to, however imperfectly. He had at least been willing to try. But trying was not enough. And failing was unthinkable. Somehow, during the months he had spent with Ariella and her people, he had gradually deluded himself into believing he was almost a warrior again, or at least a leader of men. And last night, for one brief, shimmering moment, he had forgotten what he had become. Forgotten that he was not longer fit to hold the lives of innocent people in his care.

His anguish was almost more than he could bear.

Ariella could marry whomever she goddamn liked, and she and her clan could either rise or fall to the dangers that awaited them. It was not his problem anymore. His life had been infinitely simpler before he met her, and it would be again.

He focused on the ropes binding his wrists, searching for the knot. It was beyond the reach of his fingers. Another tactic would have to be used to free himself from this intolerably humiliating situation. If he was to go home, it would be by his own choice, not because he had been dragged there against his will.

“I have to stop,” he announced, using the easing pressure of his legs to halt Cain.

“Why?” demanded Duncan.

“Why do you think?” he retorted.

Duncan regarded him suspiciously a moment. “Very well,” he relented. “We will rest awhile here. But don’t get any thoughts of trying to escape, MacFane.”

“I had not planned on anything grander than relieving myself,” Malcolm drawled. “Unfortunately, with my hands tied behind my back, I cannot get down without assistance.”

Duncan dismounted and helped him to the ground. Malcolm looked at him expectantly.

“Well?”

“I’m afraid I will have need of my hands,” Malcolm told him, “unless you are offering to lift my plaid.”

“Just don’t try anything, MacFane,” Duncan warned, removing his dirk from his belt. “Turn around.”

Malcolm obliged him. Once the ropes were cut from his wrists, he slowly stretched his aching arms, bending and flexing them until the blood was flowing and the muscles were responsive. His weakened right arm was stiff, but it had not fared as poorly as he had expected.

“Feel better?” asked Duncan, sympathetic to his discomfort.

Malcolm spun around and crashed his left fist into Duncan’s jaw. Duncan’s head snapped back and he went flying to the ground, where he lay perfectly still.

“Much better,” Malcolm assured him. “Andrew, kindly remove Gavin’s ropes and give him back his weapons,” he commanded as he limped over to Duncan’s horse and retrieved his sword and dirk.

“I—I can’t do that, MacFane,” stammered Andrew, reaching for his sword.

Malcolm calmly strapped his sword to his waist. “Don’t be ridiculous, Andrew. I may be older and stiffer, but there isn’t one move you could make that I haven’t taught you myself. Besides,” he finished, shoving his dirk into its sheath, “do you honestly think I believe you would actually hurt either of us?”

Andrew regarded him helplessly a moment, uncertain what to do.

Then he slowly dismounted and went to untie Gavin.

Malcolm carelessly opened one of Duncan’s bulging leather bags, searching for food for their journey home. He frowned in confusion at the gold and jewels gleaming in the large sack. He opened another bag, and then two more. All four were crammed with riches.

“What the hell is this?”

“Your payment, MacFane,” Andrew replied. “For training us to fight, and for fortifying the castle.”

Gavin joined Malcolm, who was staring in disbelief at the fortune before him.

“My God.”

“We never agreed to a sum such as this,” Malcolm protested, wondering what game they were playing with him.

“Ariella expressly ordered that you were to be handsomely paid,” Andrew explained. “She wanted you to know how grateful she—we are.”

Malcolm reached into one of the bags and scooped up a handful of the glittering jewels. He raised his palm toward the sun, fascinated by the play of warm light on the stones. There was enough there to support him and Gavin lavishly for the rest of their lives. They could purchase an enormous tract of land, build a magnificent home, and surround themselves with the finest furniture and artwork, horses and servants. By God, he could have anything he wanted with this, he realized numbly.

Except Ariella.

“Take it back,” he snarled, throwing the stones into the bag.

Both Andrew and Gavin looked at him in astonishment. “What?”

“I don’t want it,” Malcolm snapped, limping toward his horse. “All Gavin and I require is a small quantity of food, and whatever ale or wine you brought.”

Andrew could not believe he meant it. “But—”

“Tell your mistress the Black Wolf does not accept payment for his assistance,” Malcolm commanded as he heaved himself into his saddle. His expression was savage as he finished, “Especially from those who betray him.”

Andrew looked at him incredulously. “But the night you agreed to come—”

“Food and ale, Andrew,” Malcolm interrupted. “That is all.” The fury in his gaze warned him not to argue further.

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Andrew went to his horse and unpacked the requested items.

“Duncan will waken in a few moments,” Malcolm said, glancing at his outstretched body. “When he does, both of you go home. You need have no fear of my disrupting your mistress’s wedding, though I’m sure it will be a splendid event,” he drawled. “I will not be returning to the MacKendrick lands. Ever.”

He wheeled his horse about.

It was better this way, he told himself harshly. Once again, he was responsible for no one other than himself. He could rise late, drink himself into a blinding stupor, and not worry about anything beyond whether there was enough wine to get him through the night.

The emptiness tearing through him was excruciating.

“What do you mean, he’s gone?” demanded Angus blankly.

“She doesn’t mean forever,” Dugald assured him. “She just means he’s gone for a ride, don’t you, lass?”

“No,” replied Ariella. “I mean he and Gavin have gone home. For good. Didn’t Gordon announce it to the clan?”

“Aye, he did,” admitted Angus. “But no one believed him.”

“Why would the lad leave so suddenly?” wondered Dugald. “It’s most unlike him.”

“He received an urgent message during the night that he was needed by his clan,” lied Ariella, glancing nervously at Alpin. He regarded her calmly, his expression betraying nothing. “He had to leave immediately. But we have nothing to fear,” she assured them, her tone falsely bright. “The next MacKendrick is on his way.”

“You have selected the one to wield the sword, without conferring with us?” sputtered Angus, incredulous.

“I thought it best not to tell you of my decision until his arrival was imminent,” she explained. “Because you were both growing so fond of MacFane.”

“Who is it, then?” asked Dugald, somewhat hurt.

“Harold MacFane, Malcolm’s cousin,” Ariella replied. “He is the one destined to wield the MacKendrick sword.”

Angus frowned. “MacFane’s cousin?”

“That makes no sense, lass,” Dugald told her, shaking his head. “Better we should be led by MacFane himself, who is laird of a great clan and a strong army. No point in settling for his cousin.”

“No point at all,” agreed Angus. “We’ll just explain it to Harold when he comes. I’m sure he will understand.” The two men nodded with satisfaction, pleased the matter was settled.

Ariella glanced anxiously at Alpin, wondering if the time had come to tell the elders the truth about Malcolm’s past.

“It is your decision,” he told her. “But if you don’t tell them, Harold will. Who do you think will be kinder in their explanation?”

He was right, she realized. The moment Harold learned that Malcolm had been here, he would reveal the horrible slaughter of the MacKendrick women and children to her clan. He would tell them Malcolm had been stripped of his position as laird, and banished from his own lands, forbidden to return or even to use his clan name.

Her people would feel deceived, by both her and Malcolm.

“There is something I must tell you.” She took a deep breath before grimly stating, “Malcolm MacFane is not who he appears to be.”

“I should say not,” agreed Angus. “Why, when I first laid eyes on the lad, I never dreamed a man in his condition could do the things he did for us.”

“Appearances are deceiving,” commented Dugald. “Some people look at us and see two old men, instead of the warriors we are.”

“MacFane knew better,” said Angus approvingly.

“Aye, he did,” reflected Dugald.

“I am not referring to his physical weaknesses,” qualified Ariella, surprised the elders were so accepting of them. Did they not understand the requirements of wielding the sword? The necessity of finding a laird with superb strength and stamina? “I am referring to his past—”

“And a more honorable career you will never find,” interrupted Angus, his wrinkled face beaming with pride. “Why, the feats of the Black Wolf are legendary.” He frowned at Dugald. “I don’t recall hearing any legendary stories about this Harold fellow, do you?”

“Not one. But I’m sure he must have done something utterly magnificent for Ariella to consider him.” He regarded her expectantly. “What did he do, lass?”