Pride of the Clan (9 page)

“They’re escaping into the hills.”

Rheade wiped the sweat from his brow. Margaret was gesturing frantically in the direction of the Grampians. “When Bàn galloped out they took flight,” she shouted.

Rheade sheathed his weapons, mounted Dubh and rode out the door. Logan, Keegan, Alasdair and Fergus followed hot on his heels.

~~~

Margaret gasped in dismay when Bàn erupted out the front door of the castle. She’d been standing back from the window, afraid Robert and the Earl might catch sight of her keeping an eye on them.

They’d remained atop their ponies with the rest of their men, gazes fixed on the door. When the melee inside broke out, some of their company began to dismount, but turned away from the castle after a shout from the Earl.

Bàn’s sudden appearance in their midst alarmed the ponies and the men spent precious moments trying to regain control of their animals.

It was imperative the fugitives not get away, but how to stop them? Judging from the sounds of battle from below Rheade and Logan had their hands full with the five in the Hall. It was a relief the Earl had commanded the others not to join in the fray, but soon they’d be hastening away to the mountains.

How to delay them for a minute or two? She banged her fists on the window, but it was evident the frenzied group below couldn’t hear. Frantically, she looked around the room for something to break the glass.

Her eyes fell on the chamber pot atop the armoire. She seized it, gritted her teeth and hurled it against the window. Glass shattered, exploding everywhere. Heart pounding, she picked her way through the shards, leaned against the ledge and looked out.

The chamber pot had smashed upon landing in the bailey. But it had caught their attention. To a man they gazed up, squinting at the tower from whence the unusual missile had come.

She leaned out of the window, her fear forgotten. “Robert Stewart,” she screamed at the top of her lungs, brandishing a fist. “Traitor.”

She stared into the puzzled face of a complete stranger. “Margaret Ogilvie,” she shouted, “in case yer wondering who I am. Yer betrothed.”

His mouth fell open.

She was yelling like a fishwife in the street market of Oban, but didn’t care. Venting at this man who’d betrayed her naive trust was exhilarating. “Aye. A fine pickle ye’ve landed me in. What were ye thinking?”

It appeared he might say something in reply, but the Earl urged him away. They started off in the direction of the mountains as Rheade, Logan and their men burst from the castle, mounted and brandishing broadswords. She was relieved the five had survived the ambush.

The fugitives pressed their mounts forward, but the stocky mountain ponies were no match for the speed of Dubh and the other horses. They’d travelled only half a league when Rheade caught up with them. She held her breath as the Robertsons surrounded the Earl and his grandson. The Stewart men dismounted quickly and formed a circle around their lord. Legs braced, weapons at the ready, they looked formidable and determined. Logan swung his broadsword. She should have looked away when a severed head rolled to the ground, but she had to watch, had to be sure Rheade was victorious, despite the turmoil in her belly.

One of Logan’s friends was pulled from his horse as the two sides came together. He dropped his broadsword, but managed to unsheathe his dagger. He and his assailant struggled beneath the flailing hooves. Logan jumped from his horse and went to his aid, running Stewart’s man through with his sword.

Margaret gasped when Rheade was finally able to urge Dubh past the remaining opponents. He reached the Earl, ducked when Atholl swung his sword, and kicked him off his pony. The auld man fell heavily, and lay still for a moment. When he got to his feet, he clutched his elbow and fell back to his knees, his fur cape askew. His injured arm held only the hilt of his broken sword.

Logan and his comrades had overwhelmed the others who lay motionless. They encircled the Earl, swords pointed at their quarry. He bowed his head in surrender. Robert Stewart took advantage of his grandfather’s capture to attempt an escape. He fled at a gallop towards the mountains, sword in hand.

“Coward,” Margaret shrieked.

Rheade went in pursuit. She gripped the stone ledge, urging him on as Dubh closed the gap. Her throat constricted. Her heart was beating too fast. What if Stewart killed Rheade? She’d track him down and tear him limb from limb. The vehemence of the hatred coursing in her veins shocked her to the core.

Her lungs stopped working and she feared her trembling knees would buckle when Dubh drew level with Robert’s pony and Rheade leapt at the traitor. The sword went flying. They tumbled to the ground, two men locked in mortal combat, too far away to see who held the advantage.

The fist fight seemed to go on and on, but suddenly they stilled. Margaret didn’t breathe again until one man came to his feet. She exhaled and laughed out loud, almost choking as a result. It was Rheade.

He hauled Robert up. The fool swayed, seemingly having difficulty staying upright. Coughing had made Margaret’s eyes water. She wiped away the tears with the back of her trembling hand, suddenly realizing her fingers were torn and bloodied by the shattered glass.

PRISONERS DELIVERED

Rheade was a warrior. He’d fought in many a skirmish to protect what was near and dear to his clan and his country. But the desire to kill had never seized him as it did now. Aye, he thirsted to plunge his dagger into Robert Stewart’s heart, not only for the king’s murder, but for the suffering he’d brought to Margaret’s door.

He gulped air, his lungs on fire. Pain arrowed through his fingers and he wondered if he’d broken a bone or two lacing into his quarry. Bees buzzed in his head. He swatted them away with one hand until it came to him it was anger fogging his wits.
 

And mayhap relief…and
elation
. Tannoch itched to be the one to capture the Stewarts. His brother would be furious. Rheade chuckled as he hauled Robert to his feet.

“What’s amusing?” his prisoner rasped, his face bloodied and bruised, his nose badly broken.

“Ye are a fool,” Rheade replied, pulling his opponent’s dagger from its sheathe and flinging it with all his remaining strength.
 

“The tyrant had to die,” Stewart murmured.

Rheade was struck by the half heartedness of the assassin’s claim. He pitied this man who’d likely been influenced as much by his grandfather as by his own convictions. A poor husband for Margaret. “I’m nay talking about that,” he growled. “Ye’ve implicated an innocent young woman in yer plot.”

Robert stared at him, trying to staunch the blood dripping from his nose with the back of his filthy hand. “I’d forgotten Margaret. What in God’s name is she doing here?”

Debating morals with Stewart was a waste of time. Rheade mounted Dubh. “March,” he commanded, making sure Robert felt the heat of his stallion’s breath on the back of his neck as he limped back to the castle.

They hadn’t gone far when he noticed the assassin’s sword in the dirt. He dismounted briefly to retrieve it. This cursed weapon had slain a king. What to do with it wasn’t his decision to make. He would deliver it to the Queen.

He handed his prisoner over to Logan who was coming out of the stables, several pieces of rope in his hands.

He dismounted, slipped into the stable, climbed the rickety wooden ladder to the hayloft and secreted Robert’s sword under a mound of hay.

~~~

Margaret danced around in the turret room like a child at Yuletide festivities, oblivious to the discomfort of her lacerated hands. All would be well. Robert Stewart had been captured. He would surely swear she’d had no involvement in the plot. It was likely he’d forgotten his betrothed far away in Oban.

But would anyone believe him? He’d murdered a king. He was a man without honor, a pariah.

However, Robert wasn’t her concern at the moment. Rheade may have been injured. Stewart hadn’t surrendered without a fight and only God knew what had transpired in the Hall below.

She rushed out to the landing, lifted her skirts and nigh on skipped down the steps. She paused on reaching the Hall to catch her breath, daunted by the prospect of having to pick her way through numerous bloodied bodies to get to the door. Most of the men lay as still as death, but some moaned in pain.

She heard Rheade’s voice outside, issuing commands. She dithered, afraid one of the injured might grab her as she passed. Braden's favorite phrase floated into her wits. “Bollocks,” she shouted, then quickly threaded her way through.

At the door she collided with Rheade, relieved to see a smile on his handsome, if bruised face.

“Bollocks, is it?” he teased, folding her in his embrace. “Now what’s a nice girl from Oban—”

“Three brothers,” she reminded him before pressing her lips to his, ravenous for the taste of his saliva, desperate to breathe with him, to be certain he still lived.

He cupped her bottom in his big hands and pressed her body to his. “I’m happy to see ye too,” he drawled when they broke apart. “As ye can no doubt tell.”

She grinned like an idiot and traced a fingertip over a deep scratch on his swollen cheek. “Ye’re cut.”

He took hold of her wrists. “Good grief, Margaret, you’ve spilled more blood than the rest of us put together.”

“The window,” she said. “I broke it.”

He chuckled. “The remains of the chamber pot lie in the bailey.”

She ought to apologise for screaming at Robert like a common harlot, but the words stuck in her dry throat. Rheade was easing the plaid off his shoulder and unlacing the front of his
léine
. It fell open. Seeing a man’s bare chest wasn’t a new experience for Margaret. She’d grown up with three older brothers for goodness sake, all rugged and fit. But Rheade’s chiseled beauty was different. Her nipples went rigid at sight of his darker ones. She blinked away an urge to brush her thumbs over them. A faint dusting of golden hair underlining powerful muscles wandered its way in a fine line down his belly to disappear into the folds of his belted plaid. She should ask him what he was doing, but feared she might babble like a lunatic.

Her puzzlement was resolved when he tore a strip off the front of his
léine,
then ripped it in two
.
He inspected her wounds. “Making sure there’s no glass in them,” he explained.

Seemingly satisfied, he carefully wrapped her lacerated hands. She watched in stunned amazement. “There,” he said softly as he tied off the ends.

He was too near. “Ye’ll catch cold,” she muttered, probably sounding like his mother. Then she compounded her discomfort. “Ye’ve ruined a costly
léine
.”
 

He shrugged. “’Tis of no matter.”

She avoided his gaze lest she succumb to the urge to pounce on him and lick off the sweat still sheening his body. “There must be more serious injuries.”

He kissed her fingertips, the only part of her hands not swathed in linen. “Ye gained us precious minutes,” he said. “They might have got away had ye not distracted them.
 

“Logan has trussed up our prisoners with rope from the stable, and I canna wait to see Tannoch’s face when we arrive home with two of the assassins in our custody.”

He shrugged his plaid back on and adjusted the pin.

“’Tis a bonny brooch ye have,” she said hoarsely.

“Aye,” he replied, tracing a finger over the clover shaped pin with great reverence. “’Twas a gift from my father when I turned thirteen. Must look the part,” he quipped with a wink as he offered his arm and escorted her outside. “Pay no mind to Stewart.”

She deemed it good advice. Berating her betrothed would serve no purpose, but she gasped in dismay when she stepped out into the sunlight. Despite the injury to his arm, Walter Stewart’s hands had been tied behind his back. A rope knotted around his waist was tethered to Logan’s pommel. Robert had been similarly bound, his tether held by Keegan.

Evidently the Earl and Master of Atholl were to be forced to walk behind the horses to Dunalastair. Protesting the ignoble treatment would do no good. Indeed the humiliating ordeal would likely be the least of the torments these men would soon suffer.

A familiar whinny caught her attention. She dragged her eyes away from Robert. Rheade held the reins of her palfrey. “Bàn,” she breathed, relieved the horse had returned safely.

STANDING UP TO A BULLY

They proceeded slowly and hadn’t gone far, mayhap a league or two, when they sighted a large party of men coming toward them.

“Tannoch,” Logan growled. “He’ll be furious.”

Riding between Rheade and Logan, Margaret was saddened again that neither brother seemed to hold any affection for Tannoch. She didn’t fault them after her brief contact with the Robertson chieftain. “He’ll be angry I escaped,” she murmured.

Logan snorted. “He’ll be preoccupied with the prisoners and might not notice ye.”

Rheade called a halt and his next words made her nervous. “He’ll get round to it. May as well wait for him to reach us. Give the Stewarts a chance to prepare.”

His measure of pity for the assassins, despite the foul crime they had committed, heartened her, but his remark made her fearful of what Tannoch might do to the captives. The chieftain wasn’t a man in control of his anger.

Rheade sat tall in the saddle, the reins loose in his hands, but his jaw was clenched. She longed to lay a reassuring hand on his bare knee, something she’d never done to a man before. However, specks of blood had oozed through her bandages and he might not appreciate the gesture in front of the other men.

Tannoch reined to a halt directly in front of Rheade, his face contorted in anger. His men gawked at the battered wretches tethered to the horses.

Logan and Keegan dismounted, untied the ropes securing the prisoners to their saddles, and handed them to Rheade. The Earl had collapsed to his knees. Rheade dismounted, jerked Atholl to his feet and made a courtly bow to his older brother. “Tannoch, my laird, into yer custody I pass my prisoners, Walter Stewart, Earl of Atholl, and his grandson, Robert Stewart, Master of Atholl.”