The Rose and The Warrior (34 page)

“What about Melantha?”

Magnus shook his head mournfully. “It seems Laird MacTier believed that Colin was the Falcon, and he decided to make an example of him before his men.”

“And so Melantha convinced him he was beating the wrong outlaw,” finished Roarke.

Magnus and Lewis regarded him grimly.

Roarke closed his eyes. Of course that is what she would have done. Melantha would never have stood by and let one of her men be tortured. “What is her punishment?” he asked softly.

Magnus cleared his throat, forcing himself to say the words. “She is to be executed before the clan in four days. Daniel will be made to watch. Once she is dead, the lad will be set free.”

Roarke inhaled a slow, steadying breath, fighting the helpless rage roiling through him.
No,
he thought, trying hard to focus on what Magnus had said.
No, no, no.

“What about this pendant?” asked Donald urgently. “Does anyone know where it is?”

“Apparently Melantha gave it to Gillian for safekeeping,” said Lewis. “Laird MacTier believes 'tis an amulet—that is why he is so anxious to have it returned to him.”

Roarke recalled the shimmer of silver against Melantha's pale skin. “Is it the silver-and-emerald bauble you stole from the priest that he seeks?”

“Aye,” said Magnus. “Melantha told Colin that MacTier believes it has unnatural powers.”

So that was it, thought Roarke. MacTier had been clear that Roarke was not to kill the Falcon—he had directed him to bring the outlaw to their holding for punishment. What MacTier had really wanted was to learn the whereabouts of his precious charm before he executed the Falcon. Not even Roarke, his most trusted warrior, had been told of the missing amulet.

Obviously MacTier had not had sufficient faith in him to believe Roarke wouldn't take it for himself.

“Assuming Colin rides fast and hard, he has barely enough time to retrieve the amulet and present it to Laird MacTier within the remaining four days,” reflected Donald.

“But we can be at the MacTier holding within two days,” pointed out Eric. “I say we leave now.”

“And do what when we get there?” wondered Myles. “ 'Tis just the four of us against an entire army.”

“There's six of us,” corrected Lewis. “Magnus and I may not be highly trained warriors, but we are still able to fight.” He gripped the hilt of his sword, looking considerably older and more confident than the nervous youth who had dropped from the trees the day Roarke and his men had been caught.

“No offense, lads, but I was hoping there would be a few more than that,” said Magnus. He regarded Roarke expectantly. “Now that ye've got yer own holding, don't ye have an army at yer disposal?”

“Unfortunately, the army at my disposal is the one we're going to fight,” said Roarke.

Magnus's crinkled eyes widened in bafflement. “What about all the lads ye've got right here? They seem a wee bit fidgety, but I'm sure they could wield a sword fair enough if they had to.”

Eric snorted in disgust. “We don't trust them.”

“These people were conquered by the MacTiers,” explained Roarke, “and they see us as their conquerors. I cannot ask them to join me against those who have already reduced them to the cowering servants you saw when you came in.”

“Colin is going to return with Finlay and more men, but it'll only be twenty or so at best,” said Magnus, looking troubled. “Do ye think that'll do us?”

“Even if he brought every single MacKillon fit to ride, it wouldn't be enough to defeat the MacTier army,” said Donald. “We're talking about a deadly fighting force of some nine hundred warriors, each equipped with the finest weaponry available.”

“They'll crush us like bugs the instant they see us coming,” predicted Eric.

An idea began to unfurl in Roarke's mind. “Did you say Laird MacTier is planning to execute Melantha before the clan?”

“Aye,” said Magnus. “Seems the wretch wants to make an example of her to any who are vile enough to watch.”

Roarke considered this barely a moment. “Gowrie!”

The servant appeared so fast he nearly collided with him. “Yes, milord?”

“Rouse everyone in the castle and the cottages at once. Tell them to start packing.”

Gowrie looked at him in confusion. “Now, milord?”

“Yes, now,” said Roarke impatiently. “We must be on the road within the hour. Only the main detachment of guards may stay to guard the holding.”

“Your pardon, milord, but may I be so bold as to ask where we are going?”

“We're going to see the mighty Falcon's execution,” Roarke told him. “Now make haste!”

“Well, lad, I'm not sure what ye're about,” remarked Magnus, watching in bemusement as Gowrie scurried out of the hall. “Did ye not just tell me that these people were not fit to fight?”

“They will not have to.”

“What exactly are you planning?” wondered Donald.

Roarke reached for his silver goblet, then paused to study its elaborate artistry against the coppery flicker of torchlight. He had lived his life as Laird MacTier's devoted warrior, conquering holdings in an endless quest to expand his clan's power and riches. And ultimately he had been paid well for his service. This castle was everything he had ever longed for, he reflected, deriving no pleasure from the realization.

Except Melantha.

After a life of unfailing loyalty, he was about to lead a ragged band of outlaws against the powerful clan he himself had helped to create. He was betraying his laird and his people, and renouncing both his blood ties and the magnificent prize of this holding in the process. Once it was finished, assuming he survived, he would be left with absolutely nothing. It did not matter.

If Melantha died, then so would he.

“Laird MacTier has decided to make a show of Melantha's death by executing her before an audience.” Roarke drained the silver goblet and hurled it against the hearth before finishing in a hard, flat voice, “I intend to make certain it is an event he will never forget.”

C
HAPTER
13

Melantha sat crouched upon the dank earth floor, intently grinding the end of her stick against the rough stone wall.

“If the wood is too dry, it will splinter easily,” she advised Daniel, brushing away the fibers clinging to the creamy point. “You can wet it with spit to help keep it whole, but 'tis best to select a firm, young twig with moist flesh.” She handed the twig to him. “You try.”

Daniel obligingly took the stick and awkwardly began to scrape it against the slick stones. “Like this?”

“Press a little harder. You should be able to see the wood peeling away from the end.”

The twig snapped in Daniel's hands. He regarded her with huge eyes, his expression crestfallen. “I'm sorry, Melantha.”

“That's all right,” she said cheerfully. “Now we can make two stakes. Here, twist off the broken length and you continue to work on that one while I start another.”

“Did Da show you how to make these?” he enquired, watching her as she began to expertly grate her piece against the stone wall.

She nodded. “Da always said every good hunter always saves one last arrow for his journey home, in case he suddenly finds himself in need of it. But sometimes, in the excitement of the hunt, he will have used up all his shafts. If the journey home is long, he must know how to quickly forge something that he can use to protect himself, should the need arise.”

“And that's what we're doing, isn't it?” His voice dropped to a whisper as he urgently demanded, “We're making weapons so we can escape and go home, aren't we?”

Melantha kept her gaze fastened upon the ragged end of her twig. It was easier to deceive Daniel if she didn't have to look directly at him. “Once Colin returns, I am going to convince Laird MacTier to release the two of you immediately.” Her manner was deceptively confident as she finished, “Then I can escape without having to worry about you as well.”

“But what if Laird MacTier refuses?” Daniel's fine dark brows puckered with concern. “That bastard said he was going to kill you and make me watch!”

“You mustn't swear, Daniel.”

“For God's sake, I'm not a bairn, Melantha—I'm almost a man!”

She looked at him in surprise. His eyes were glittering with anger, but she knew it was not directed at her. It was an anger born of fear, coupled with a raw, naive determination. He was gripping his crudely carved weapon with murderous intent. In that moment Melantha realized that the innocent little boy she had loved so deeply and tried so hard to be a mother to was gone. In his place was this terrified youth, a boy who was not quite a man, but was definitely not a child either. Aching loss swept through her, leaving her feeling cold and fragile. Sometime during this past year, the beautiful child she had known and adored from his first tiny breath had vanished, forever lost amid a tide of suffering.

And except for these agonizing moments spent sharpening useless sticks against a foul wall, she would never know the brave young man before her.

“You're right,” she acknowledged, averting her gaze so he would not see the depth of her pain. “You're not a bairn. Swear if you like. But try not to do it in front of Edwina or Beatrice—it will only distress them. And don't do it in front of Matthew and Patrick either,” she added, her chest tightening at the thought of her other two brothers. “They're too young to swear.”

Daniel sighed, looking as if he could not begin to understand such feminine nonsense, and continued to work on his slender weapon.

It had been hard on Daniel, Melantha reflected, to not have a father. She had tried her best to fill the role of mother, but the role of father was one she had left untouched. After her da's death there had been some whispers within the clan about her marrying Colin so that her brothers could have two parents. Even Colin had been noble enough to suggest that it might be a good arrangement. But Colin was Melantha's closest friend, and she could not imagine forcing him into becoming a father of three at the tender age of twenty-two. Moreover, she had never felt anything other than the purest, truest friendship for Colin, though she sensed that he had long felt something more toward her.

Only Roarke had managed to ignite a fire of passion within her, and it had burned so hot she had thought she would melt within its unbearable light and heat.

She had thought about Roarke endlessly these last few days. It was ironic, that having spent so much time after he left struggling not to think of him, she now indulged in his memory at length. Her attempts to imprison him in a tiny, hidden cell in her mind had failed miserably, and had only mattered when she had believed she was destined to live the remainder of her life without him. Now that her existence could be counted in brief hours, she permitted herself to reflect on him at will. The thought of Roarke was especially comforting as she lay huddled upon the frigid dungeon floor at night, her arm wrapped protectively around Daniel. The cell was a pit of sour blackness in those hours, filled with nothing but the soft whisper of Daniel's breathing and the oppressive weight of her own guilt and despair. Having examined the hopelessness of their situation from every conceivable angle, there was nothing left for her except to desperately try to forget, just for a moment, where she was.

It was then that Roarke came to her, washing away the stench and the black and the cold. His expression varied according to her mood; sometimes it was faintly teasing, sometimes it was sober and reflective. But most often it was the look of yearning etched upon his face just before he kissed her, that darkly powerful, magnificently heated expression he had as he drew the tip of her breast into his mouth, or as he thrust deep inside her, melding their flesh and their need until they were one.

She had been filled with fury when he left. Much of her rage had been directed at him, for after witnessing the suffering of her people, she could not believe that he could so callously accept a vanquished holding as his rightful prize. But even more of her anger was with herself. For deep within her heart lay an overwhelming desire to forget that Roarke was her enemy, and see him only as the man who had somehow reached inside and touched her very soul.

When he was her prisoner his presence had bewildered and tormented her. But from the moment he left, she felt as if her heart had been ripped in two.

She prayed that Roarke would not learn of her capture until after she had been executed. He had been ensconced in his own holding the day she and her men arrived, but it was possible that Laird MacTier might invite him to attend her execution. She could bear anything but that. To have him watch as she stood waiting to be killed, knowing that he would have wanted desperately to help her, but that there was absolutely nothing he could do, would only deepen her torment.

I will not let you or your people suffer anymore.

How strong and sure he had sounded as he made that pledge, with silver drops of rain falling off his black hair and his wet shirt and plaid clinging to his massive frame. For one glittering moment she had almost believed him, had almost permitted herself to be lulled in the arms of his strength and his conviction. He had wanted to protect her, to shield her from the cruelty that seemed to fill the world around her. But that was before she had come to his clan and tried to sink a dirk into his laird's heart. There could be no illusions about Roarke's empathy for her now. He was a MacTier through blood and bone, and more, he was a favorite warrior of his laird, an honor he had fought his entire life to earn. Regardless of what had passed between them, Roarke's absolute, undying loyalty was to his laird and his clan.

If Laird MacTier ordered Roarke to kill Melantha himself, Roarke would have no choice but to obey.

Hinges groaned somewhere down the dark passage.

“Hide these!” she hissed, slipping her crudely worked stake into Daniel's boot, then adding the sharp one he had been holding into the other.

The heavy lock on their door turned, and a shaft of oily light spilled into the dungeon. Having grown accustomed to the dark these past six days, both Melantha and Daniel were forced to squint as they stood and struggled to make out the shadowy form of their visitor.

“Good afternoon,” said Laird MacTier pleasantly. “I trust you both have been keeping well?”

He was resplendent in a magnificent robe of gold heavily embroidered with silver thread, the hem of which he had carefully draped over his arm in an effort to protect the costly garment from the dank, stinking floor of the dungeon. A weighty gold belt dangled from his waist, and several gem-studded chains of varying lengths had been positioned over his chest, making it clear that he was attired for an occasion of considerable import. Panic rippled through Melantha as her eyes slowly adjusted to the light.

Her pendant was not shimmering among his garish jewelry.

“Oh, yes, your gallant friend returned,” Laird MacTier assured her, sensing her concern. “Although 'twas barely within the time I had allotted. I have no desire, however, to draw undue attention to the pendant he brought me, and so I am wearing it concealed beneath these robes. I'm not prepared to have someone else try to steal it from me—especially with so many unfamiliar faces milling about. It seems the occasion of your execution has become something of an event, my dear,” he continued, idly polishing one of the gems resting against his chest. “I'm not sure whether 'tis because I have clipped the wings of the mighty Falcon, or because the Falcon turned out to be such a beautiful young woman.”

Desire flickered hot within his gaze, despite her disheveled hair and the grimy state of her gown.

Melantha did not flinch beneath his nauseating scrutiny, nor did she expose the depths of her contempt. Were it only herself being held prisoner, she would have gladly pricked his temper. But she wanted to secure Daniel's release, and for that she needed to appeal to whatever sliver of compassion Laird MacTier may have had buried deep within his shriveled soul.

“Whatever the reason,” he continued, returning his attention to his own attire, “a crowd has gathered to watch you take your final breath. The entire affair has become quite festive, with jugglers and minstrels strolling about, and food and ale being sold. Several troubadours have already composed ballads in which I am acclaimed for my role in bringing the terrible Falcon to justice.” His robes finally arranged to his satisfaction, he lifted his eyes to her and smiled. “I have no doubt this momentous day will be talked about by all the clans for a hundred years or more.”

“And so now you have everything you wanted,” Melantha observed. “You have regained your precious amulet, and can enjoy being heralded as the laird who managed to capture the elusive Falcon. It is a moment,” she continued, choosing her words carefully, “in which you could well afford to make a gesture of compassion.”

“It is a most gratifying moment,” Laird MacTier agreed. “But surely you are not suggesting that I disappoint the hordes of people pouring through my gates by not executing you. To do so would incite a riot.”

“I'm not suggesting that,” Melantha quickly assured him, squeezing Daniel's arm to keep him silent. Her voice barely wavered as she continued. “All I am asking, Laird MacTier, is that you spare my brother and my friend the agony of having to watch.”

Laird MacTier gave an affected sigh. “I'm afraid that is not possible, my dear. I have said that this lad must be shown what fate awaits him should he decide to follow in your path, and as so often happens in matters of this kind, word of my decision has spread. Hundreds of people have traveled many miles to watch you die, but they are just as eager to see your dear brother as they are to see you. I have made arrangements for the lad to sit upon the dais with me, so everyone can be afforded a clear view of his tormented face.”

Melantha's hand rested upon Daniel's arm in an effort to restrain the anger swelling within him, but she was no match for the fury that Laird MacTier's cruelty suddenly unleashed.