DevilsHeart (24 page)

Leah’s chest convulsed with sobs she scrambled to hold
inside. The crowd before her parted. Tears streaked the faces of many and some
offered her words of gratitude and safety as she passed. The handful of men
left behind to defend them were positioned along the curtain wall with bows and
arrows trained on Andrew. Two young boys and two elderly men manned the gate,
ready to pull it up as soon as she was clear of it or if Andrew broke his word
and tried to send his men inside.

Her footfalls echoed in her ears as she passed through the
gate, leaving the safety of the castle walls for the first time in weeks. The
wooden gate groaned behind her and her heart dropped into her stomach. A swirl
of wintry winds whipped her skirts around her legs.

She forced her gaze upward, but then almost faltered in her
footsteps. A sea of grim-faced warriors stared back at her. A strange, hollow
loneliness set in. Had she made the right decision? Could she be walking to her
death for no good reason? Maybe Andrew wouldn’t be true to his word and would
attempt an attack anyway. Maybe they could have held out somehow. Rathe could
be on his way home right then.

Andrew hopped down off his horse and extended his hand
toward her. As she studied the eagerness on his face, some of her self-doubt
faded. He wanted something. Whether from her or Rathe, she couldn’t tell.

As her gaze was drawn back to his eyes, she almost stopped
in her tracks. His features were suddenly familiar. It wasn’t until she drew
back her stare and took in his whole form it struck her. Sandy hair,
nutmeg-brown eyes, cleft chin.

Daniel.

She bit back a gasp threatening to escape from her throat.
Was Daniel’s father not some random Frenchman at the Scottish court? Was that
the real reason Rathe’s last wife killed herself—because she’d given birth to
her husband’s enemy’s son?

She stopped in front of Andrew, ignoring his outstretched
hand, and cast her eyes off to the side.

It couldn’t end like this. There was no way she could have
been transported eight hundred years into the past to find the love of her life
and the family she’d always wanted just to have it end like this.

Fight like hell.

Rathe’s words to her when he’d sent her alone into the woods
over two months ago rang in her ears. Determination grew within her. There was
a way out of this. She just had to find it.

Andrew stepped forward and leaned toward her with the
obvious intention of kissing her cheek. She turned her head to the side,
avoiding it.

Pain shot through her skull as the back of his hand smacked
into her cheek. She stumbled back but regained her footing, anger coiling
within her belly. As she glanced up, several of his men’s faces twisted in
disgust. Uncertain if it was directed at her or what Andrew had just done, she
forced her face to remain cool and expressionless, refusing the urge to touch
her stinging cheek. She refused to give any of them the satisfaction of seeing
her fear.

Andrew drew close, his demeanor altering from ease to
menace. “You would do well to submit. I can make your life very pleasant or
turn it into a living hell, Lady Sinclair. It is your choice.”

He stepped back and snapped his fingers. A man dismounted
from his horse and moved toward her with a rope in his hands as Andrew regained
the back of his steed.

The man stopped in front of her. “Your hands please, Lady
Sinclair.”

As she held out her hands, she caught the remorse passing
through his blue eyes.

“I am truly sorry, my lady,” he whispered as he bound her
wrists together.

She nodded, biting her lower lip. His had been the first
disgusted scowl she’d caught after Andrew struck her. Could it be not all of
Andrew’s men gave him unfailing trust and loyalty as Rathe’s men did him?

The sea of men parted, allowing a lone man guiding a
riderless horse to pass through. The blue-eyed man assisted her onto the
animal’s back while the other man tied a long lead rope to the back of Andrew’s
saddle.

Andrew grinned as he looked back at her. He grabbed the lead
rope and drew her horse toward him until her knee bumped his. This time when he
leaned over, she remained still, every muscle rigid as she fought her instinct
to curl away.

He kissed the cheek he’d slapped before and patted her knee.
“I know you did not send for me, Leah, but I could not let such a delicate
flower wither under the Sinclair’s neglectful thumb.”

Disgust slithered across her skin and she sucked a long,
calming breath through her nose. Her thoughts spun and scattered, drawing close
to images of the terror that could befall her and what she might suffer at the
hands of this delusional man next to her. Of what she might have to do to
survive just to see Rathe’s face one more time.

Then the words came back to her again like a whisper.
Fight
like hell.

Rathe shut the door, blocking out the saddened but curious
eyes of his clan, and stared into the great hall. A swirl of a skirt out of the
corner of his eye caused his numbed heart to jump and then sink like a stone.

It wasn’t her. But, God in heaven, how he wished it were. He
had missed her by hours. Mere
hours
. How could he have not seen this
coming? Had he missed the clues signaling the Dunlop’s betrayal, which had
drawn away the warriors he had left behind to protect his family and clan?

Ros had held him back as Paul intercepted them and relayed
what had happened. Of how his skittish, wee wife had given herself over to the
MacTavish to keep his clan safe only to be struck and bound with a rope before
being dragged away. Deep, stabbing pain ripped through him, tearing to shreds
any strategic thought and leaving naught but a desperate need to tear the flesh
from the MacTavish, to drive his sword through the man’s beating heart and
watch the life drain from his eyes.

Leah would be avenged. By everything good and holy, he would
see it done.

And if goodness refused him assistance, he had no qualms
making good on the rumor of his association with the forces of darkness. He
would send men south to find the Graham witch by whose powers Leah had come to
his world. He would force the woman into bringing Leah back to him, no matter
the cost and no matter what she’d endured at the hands of the MacTavish. She
was
his
. His woman. His heart.

“Laird Sinclair.”

Torn away from his thoughts, his vision refocused and landed
on Mòrag standing off to the side. He fought back the urge to snap at the
interruption.

She cleared her throat, dropping her gaze to his feet for
the first time in his memory. “I heard you were approaching and left some
supper in your chamber.”

He gave her a clipped nod and stepped away, heading for the
staircase.

“You would have been proud of her.”

He froze but did not turn back to the housekeeper.

“She refused to turn anyone away when the panic spread
through the clan. She had extra food brought in and helped comfort the wounded.
She was a true laird’s wife.”

He swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides. God,
how he wanted to go after her. But Ros was right. His men and horses were
exhausted. It would do little good for them to launch an offensive on an enemy
fresh from a night’s rest and with plenty of food in their bellies. It was a
long enough ride and there were still wounded who needed tending.

“Daddy!” Màiri ran down the stairs, clutching the tattered
rag doll Mòrag had made for her when she was but a wee bairn.

He did smile then and stooped to sweep her into his arms. A
bit of warmth crept back into his heart. His little girl was safe. Leah did
that. She’d protected her, protected them all. His oft frightened little doe
had sacrificed herself for all of them.

Màiri twisted her head around, peering behind him. “Where’s
Mommy?”

His chest tightened and he forced himself to continue breathing.

“Now, now, sweet lassie,” Mòrag crooned, suddenly appearing
at Rathe’s side and rubbing the child’s back. “You remember what I said?”

Màiri nodded, bumping her head against his cheek. “But I
want Mommy.”

His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes to keep his rage
under control. “I promise I will find her, lass.”

She nodded again and pulled back, her eyes widening. “Mommy
told me I am supposed to tell you something.”

He forced a gentle smile onto his face. “What is that?”

“She loves you.” She giggled, covering her mouth with one
chubby hand, her green eyes sparkling with mirth.

The strength left his arms all at once. Mòrag stepped
forward and eased the child to the ground before he dropped her.

She loved him.

Liked him and enjoyed his company, sure. And he was damn
lucky for it. After all, neither of his previous wives cared much for being
married off to the bastard son of some far-flung Highland laird. Neither cared
for his humor, his forthrightness, or his lusty nature. Not to mention the
remoteness of his holding or more rustic way of life.

But Leah was different. She blossomed in the quiet, reveled
in the natural beauty surrounding them and eagerly welcomed him into her arms,
oftentimes nightly. She laughed at his jokes, soothed the darkness that haunted
him, and cared for his child. He would have been content with that alone.

But now she’d given him her heart. God’s blood, what he
wouldn’t do if he could but hold her one more time. Ensure she was safe. He
would give his life if necessary.

“Come along now, lass,” Mòrag stated, turning his daughter
around by the shoulders. “It is past your bedtime and your father needs his
rest.”

Màiri took the housekeeper’s hand. As they reached the
staircase, she turned around again. “You know what else Mommy said?”

“What, my sweet?”

Her little face broke into a wide, toothy grin. “I get to
help with the baby!”

Mòrag’s eyes widened and she hurried to hush Màiri.

Rathe stepped toward them, his gaze catching the
housekeeper’s. Chills ran through his skin. He was right. “Baby? She told you
she was—”

Mòrag shook her head. “Pray, do not say another word, Laird
Sinclair. I promised my lady if she did not…”

His eyes narrowed, his stomach clenching at the implication
of her words. “If she did not what?”

Mòrag pressed her lips together and shook her head again,
remorse playing across her features. “I swore to my lady.”

He gripped the banister to steady himself. She
was
carrying
his bairn. His fingers twitched. He needed to get to her.

He nodded at Mòrag and bent to kiss Màiri on the top of the
head. He stood motionless as they ascended the stairs and disappeared into the
dark corridor above.

He dragged his feet up the steps, weariness suddenly
settling upon him. When he reached his chamber, the door was ajar and light
spilled into the hall from the fire in the hearth. He slipped in and closed the
door. He scanned the room, skipping over the bed to the food and drink waiting
for him on a small table near the window. He blinked several times, turning
back to the bed. A form—someone sleeping?

No. It was empty.

A rush of rage washed over him, igniting a fire deep in his
belly, crawling through his limbs. There was nothing he could do. Not a damn
thing. His vision blurred, his blood thundering in his ears. A rumble deep in
his chest clawed through his throat until it escaped in a painful roar from his
lips.

A desperate grab for the table and it was hurled across the
room where it crashed and splintered. Dishes crumbled like dust. Food
scattered. Ale sloshed down the wall, pooling on the floor.

His knees hit the floor, shooting darts of pain up through
his bones.

God, please, save her. Protect her. Bring me vengeance.

“Laird Sinclair?”

One of the servants. Though in his rage, he couldn’t tell
whom. “Leave me be!” he growled.

Footfalls and then silence.

She should be here now. With him. God, he hated being away
from her. He could think of little other than holding her, touching her as soon
as he arrived home. That is until…

He had failed her. Again. How could he have not seen the
ploy? Sensed the game meant to split up his forces and draw them away?

He closed his eyes. “Fight like hell, lass. I am coming for
you,” he uttered in a harsh whisper into the darkness.

* * * * *

Rathe jumped up from the bed when the pink light of daybreak
crept around the window coverings. Attempting sleep had been nothing short of a
waste of time. He had lain atop the bedcovers, fully clothed, his heart aching
at the scent of her still lingering on the pillow. His mind raced, planning,
strategizing, trying to use facts to decode his enemy’s plans.

Killing Leah would gain the MacTavish nothing. He’d already
had the chance—the chance to destroy everything. Rathe’s family, his keep, his
clan. The MacTavish wanted the keep intact. More manpower to add to his wealth
and defenses. Another castle to bolster his holdings and power.

His goal was to take Rathe down for claiming his inheritance
as the Sinclair’s son. Leah was simply a pawn in his cousin’s game.

His cousin.
How he could share any blood with a man
such as the MacTavish? A man so dishonorable as to use innocent women and
children for his own gain? One who would pull manipulative political strings
instead of challenging Rathe as a man? But there remained one thing the
MacTavish might do to Leah—might have already done. But Rathe couldn’t allow
the dark thought to settle. Not now. It would gut him, send him into a blind
rage that would threaten her rescue, his victory. He needed focus. And action.
Before it could gnaw through his gut and overwhelm him.

He threw open the door, almost kicking across the hall a
tray of food that had been set outside. He stooped down, threw back the cup of
tepid ale in one swig and grabbed the oatcakes before booting the tray aside
with his foot and heading down to the great hall. It was time to get his Leah
back. Heads would roll if his men were not saddled and ready to go when he
reached the courtyard.

He stopped short as soon as he stepped outside. Men on
horses, prepared for battle, filled his courtyard and spilled outside the
curtain wall through the gate. At the head were the MacAirth and the MacBain.

“You look like hell,” Galen stated, his hands gripping the
reins of his horse and resting upon his lap.

Rathe shook his head and descended the stairs. “This is my
fight. You have rebuilding to do.”

Galen snorted. “No thanks to the MacTavish. Even if I did
not have a stake in this, though, I still owe you.”

Rathe stopped on the last step, his gaze meeting his
friend’s. How could he have forgotten? It was only a few short years ago he had
ridden beside Galen into battle with the Gowrie. Annie too had been kidnapped.
If only he had known then the terror and rage Galen had experienced…

No, he would not have believed it. He would not have
believed that in just a few years, he too would know the torture and
helplessness of having his heart ripped from his chest. Or that he would fall
in love with his wife.

“After this, you are both going to owe me,” Calum MacBain
grumbled, picking up his reins from where they lay across his horse’s neck.
“Let us get this done. I have not slept in days, thanks to that MacTavish ass.”

A young warrior led Rathe’s horse to him and he quickly
mounted, tucking the oatcakes into the saddlebag.

“Which way?” Calum asked, turning his horse.

“Due east,” Rathe grumbled. “We take out the Dunlop first.”