The Chief (39 page)

Christina frowned until she saw the open parchment on the table. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She couldn't believe it. He'd left the missive.

Heart pounding, she leaned over the table and turned the documents around to face her. She scanned the top page first, noting that it was written in French.

She gasped, reading it again to make sure she'd done so correctly. It was from the Red Comyn to King Edward, informing him of treason by Bruce—the proof attached herein. She quickly lifted the top piece of parchment and saw a sealed indenture in Latin below. It was detailed, but it appeared to be a pact between Comyn and Bruce
against
King Edward. And now Comyn meant to betray Bruce, using their bond as proof of treason.

Hearing heavy footsteps outside the door, she replaced the documents and leaned back in her chair, trying to steady her pulse and wipe the nervous flush from her cheeks.

Her heart pounded as she forced her mind to answer his questions as nonsensically as she could, while planning her escape.

She couldn't wait for rescue, not when that message would be on its way to London at any moment. Though she was unfamiliar with the area, she knew that Bruce's Annandale castle of Lochmaben was nearby. How she would find her way, she didn't know, but she had to try.

If that letter reached King Edward, Robert Bruce would soon be following Wallace to the grave.

It was a perfect night for a raid—dark and misty, with nary a sliver of moon to betray them. Darkness would be their first weapon, speed and surprise their second. Strike fast and hard was the motto of all pirate raiders. No chivalry, no rules.

Tor and the team waited in the woods behind the small motte-and-bailey castle, biding their time until the wee hours of the night, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the movements of the English soldiers.

After the long sea journey from northern Skye to Galloway in the southwest corner of Scotland, it was torturous having to wait, knowing that his wife was only a few hundred feet away. He didn't want to think about what she might be enduring right now. Nor would he allow himself to consider that she might not be alive. He had to focus on the task at hand. Taking a castle occupied by an entire English garrison was no simple proposition.

But it could be done.

Wallace had famously taken the English garrison at Ardrossan Castle in Ayr by surprise, and Tor decided to use a similar approach. With roughly a score of men and no siege engines, storming the gates was out of the question, so they would need to use stealth and distraction.

They had to assume that Christina was being held in the stone peel tower house located on the top of the forty-foot earthen motte. To reach her they would need to breech the two layers of defense offered by a motte-and-bailey fortification: the ditch surrounding the entire complex and the wooden palisade on the other side.

He would lead eight of Bruce's team over the ditch and palisade at the rear of the castle opposite the outer drawbridge. Once inside they would break into two groups. His team would search for Christina, while the others would prepare for their escape. MacRuairi was certain he could get her out of the tower house once they were inside, no matter where they were holding her. One look at his expression and Tor was inclined to believe him. Seton and Boyd would also come with him. He needed men skilled in close combat who could kill silently—with dirks and by hand.

They would have a half hour to find her and kill the guards before Gordon and the rest of the team provided their distraction to get out. MacSorley would be waiting outside with his MacLeod guardsmen when the drawbridge came down.

The light in the tower had dimmed to almost nothing. The English soldiers' movements had slowed. Only the occasional sound of an animal or leaves rustling in the wind pierced the silence. It was time.

He knelt in the dirt and leaves, the team circling round him, to give the men their final instructions. “You know what to do, Hawk?” he asked MacSorley, who would be leading the MacLeod clansmen. Tor had risked bringing additional warriors but had been careful not to use the team members' names as an added precaution. Boyd had given him the idea of war names when he'd used MacSorley's nickname for him to Christina.

The big Norseman grinned, his teeth flashing white in a face otherwise absorbed by darkness. “Aye, captain. Fetch your lass and we'll give these bloody Englishmen a night to remember.”

By any rational estimation, a score of men against a garrison of a hundred English soldiers sounded like a suicide mission. But he was confident it could be done. The skill of Bruce's elite force had exceeded even his own expectations. Together they were a force to be reckoned with. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something momentous. As if history were about to be made. The dawn of a new age of warrior harkened—the dawn of the Highlander.

The damned English wouldn't know what hit them.

Attacking an English garrison would make them all traitors in Edward's eyes, but they'd all known that when they answered Bruce's call. Whether Lamberton and Bruce would approve of their precipitous rogue operation, Tor didn't consider. Christina's life was at stake; he would do whatever he had to do.

Tor and the eight of Bruce's guard accompanying him crept soundlessly through the dark toward the ditch surrounding the motte. Using hand signals, he directed them to get on their stomachs and stay low to the ground. When they reached the edge of the earthen ditch, they waited to make sure the castle guard at the top of the motte couldn't see them before descending. Because it was winter, the deep ditch was filled with a few feet of water—or rather, cold, black sludge that had the boggy stench of rotting vegetables. Taking care to protect Gordon's powder, they sledged through muck and climbed up the other side to reach the spiked wooden palisade enclosure.

This was the most precarious part of their mission. They would have to climb over the ten-foot wooden posts without being seen by the guards on the motte above them or the soldier patrolling this section of the enclosure. They'd chosen a section of the wall that was blocked by a large outer building in the bailey—probably the kitchens, judging by the amount of smoke they'd seen earlier—but there would still be a dangerous few minutes when they were visible.

Tor went first. Using a rope fixed with a grappling hook, he tossed it between two posts and pulled until it caught.

Blood was pumping through his veins. Senses flared, he waited for just the right moment. When the soldier made his pass, he pulled himself up the rope and over the posts, dropping down safely on the other side.

He was in.

The next time the soldier passed, his back met the steel of MacKay's special dagger fashioned just for this purpose. The blade was thick at the hilt and narrowed to a fine point, piercing through the habergeon of mail to his lungs. The soldier slumped to Tor's feet without making a sound. MacRuairi called it a “silent kill” and had trained the men to locate just the right place to plunge their blades. It was a highly effective technique in covert situations like this, where the slightest sound could make the difference.

One down, ninety-nine to go—give or take.

A few more minutes later and the other eight men were standing beside him, all safely over the palisade.

He nodded to Gordon, giving him the signal, and the team split up—MacRuairi, Seton, and Boyd coming with him; MacGregor, MacLean, Lamont, and MacKay going with Gordon.

Tor led his team around the back side of the earthen motte. To access the keep, they were going to have to slither up the hill without being seen. Rather than follow one after the other, they spaced themselves apart, so that when they reached the top they'd be in position to take out the guards. But timing was everything. They had to reach the top of the hill and silence the two guards circling the perimeter before they alerted the guards stationed at the entry of the tower house.

The dirt and dried grass were slick and muddy as they worked their way up the hill, using their knees and forearms to inch up. A few feet from the top they stopped, signalling
around from man to man. Tor held up his hand: five, four, three, two…

They leapt out of the darkness on the unsuspecting guards like phantom wraiths, knives plunging in deadly surprise. The guards stationed at the outer entry to the keep went next. Ninety-five. Tor felt the rush of battle surge through him with each moment as he moved closer and closer to his bride. This was going to work.

The hall of sleeping soldiers was next. He wanted nothing more than to slaughter the lot of them, but that would have to wait. First he had to get Christina out of there. They were just about to enter the tower house when he heard a cry go up from the bailey below that chilled his blood.

He swore, knowing that their chance of success had just gone from good to bad in the space of a heartbeat. Their cover of darkness and surprise had just been blown. He hoped to hell it wasn't one of his men.

Now to get Christina out of the castle, they were going to have to fight through the garrison of soldiers sleeping in the hall a few feet away. The castle was already stirring as the commotion grew below. There was no time to waste.

He was about to order the men inside when out of the corner of his eye he saw something that made him stop.

MacRuairi had noticed it, too. “It looks like a lass, captain,” he whispered.

Tor frowned, studying the cloaked figure struggling with the guard near the gate. His pulse spiked and his heart took a sudden lurch against his ribs. Not just any lass,
his
lass. It seemed his wee wife had decided not to wait for a rescue. Why wasn't he surprised?

He cursed and took off running down the stairs that led to the bailey below. With both hands, he reached behind him and pulled the sword from the scabbard at his back. A fierce war cry tore from his lungs, stunning the soldiers below.

A moment later, Gordon answered his call with one of his own.

Christina was fortunate that English soldiers liked their drink.

She'd almost made it past the hall when a soldier she'd thought had passed out in a drunken stupor grabbed her as she was walking by the table and spun her onto his lap. She wiped her mouth, still tasting the disgusting kiss on her lips. But she supposed escape was worth suffering through a drunken groping. She'd laughed and swatted him away playfully and handed him another goblet of wine before slipping off his lap, murmuring that she had duties to attend to.

She winced, thinking about the servant's clothing that she wore. She hoped she hadn't hit the girl too hard, but Christina had to make sure she didn't wake up for a while. When the serving girl had opened the door to bring her the evening meal, Christina had surprised her with a candlestick to the back of the head. She'd “borrowed” the cotte and brat, hoping that no one would notice how the skirt dragged three inches too long, and then tied strips of sheeting around the girl's mouth, hands, and feet. If she did wake, she wouldn't be able to alert anyone.

Never considering the possibility that a woman would attempt to escape, Lord Seagrave thought the bar on the door sufficient and hadn't posted a guard. It was an oversight he would regret.

Hoping to avoid another amorous soldier, Christina grabbed a tray and an empty flagon and pretended to be clearing the tables as she walked right past the guards at the entry, down the stairs, and over the bridge into the bailey below. After getting rid of her props, she hid in the shadows behind the stables near the gate, waiting for an opportunity to slip out with the villagers. But the guard closed the gate not long after she arrived. She tried not to despair, knowing it would not open again until morning.

How long before they realized she was gone? Would
someone miss the serving girl? Had she tied the bindings tight enough?

So many things could go wrong. She prayed for a miracle.

Instead, a few hours later—thanks to an inquisitive kitten with the loudest meow she'd ever heard—she was discovered. She kept trying to shoo the pesky ball of fluff away, but it kept coming back. A soldier saw it and decided to investigate when the kitten refused to heed his bidding.

Wrenched from her hiding place, she found herself facing a young knight. Short and broad-shouldered, he had a flat face and crude features, but his eyes gleamed with intelligence. Unfortunately, he hadn't drunk nearly enough wine.

“What are you doing, hiding in the dark?” he demanded.

She struggled to come up with a plausible explanation while her heart was pounding in her throat. “I…” She forced an innocent smile to her lips and batted her lashes. “I'm meeting someone.”

The feminine ploy failed miserably. His gaze sharpened. “Who?”

“Edward,” she said quickly. Surely, there had to be an Edward? People always named their children after kings, and Edward Plantagenet had been king for more than thirty years.

“Edward who?”

Nettles!
Of course there had to be more than one. When she hesitated, he dragged her out to the torchlight and called out to the three other soldiers stationed at the gate. “Do any of you know this lass?”

One of them did. A soldier who'd been on the galley with her said, “She's the lass we captured. Fraser's gel.”

No! She'd come this close; she couldn't bear to think that she wasn't going to make it. This was her only chance. Next time, her keepers wouldn't be so lax. She tried to pull away, but the soldier's hand was like a vice.

“Please,” she begged, “I need to get back to my duties—”

A terrifying cry pierced the blistery night air. They all turned in the direction of the motte and tower house.

She sucked in her breath.

The soldier dropped her arm.

But she moved back toward him, instinctively shirking something far more terrifying than English soldiers.

Hell had opened its gates and unleashed a demon army. The four warrior wraiths descending on them were the fodder of nightmares. Covered head to toe in black to blend into the night, supernaturally tall and muscular, they tore down the stairs, swords raised, ready to wield the devil's own fury with each swing of the fearsome blade.

Instead of tabards and mail they wore black war coats and dark plaids belted around them in a strange fashion. Even their faces beneath the ghastly nasal helms were covered, not in the blue woad war paint of the ancient Gael, but in ash. Only a flash of white pierced the darkness.