Highlander in Her Dreams (15 page)

About the same time, Aidan stood in the middle of Ardcraig's smoke-hazed great hall and struggled to ignore the softly crying women huddled together by the hearthside. Pale-faced and hand-wringing, they posed a trial to his already thin patience. He shot another glance their way, then scowled, dignity alone keeping him from thrusting his fingers in his ears. Truth was, he couldn't bear to hear any women cry, especially when he bore the brunt of causing their grief.

A weakness Conan Dearg's womenfolk were using to their fullest advantage.

Sure of it, he paced the length of his cousin's hall, cursing under his breath. Something was sorely amiss, and if his foe's teary-eyed females would cease their sniffling and sobbing long enough for him to think clearly, he'd surely figure out what the devil it was.

In any event, it had little to do with despairing women and even less with the sad state of Ardcraig's dingy, foul-smelling hall. O-o-oh, nay, it was the same niggling sense of
not-rightness
that had ridden him the last time he and his men had come here, the whole lot of them scouring Conan Dearg's keep from dungeon to parapets, searching pointlessly and making fools of themselves in the process. An embarrassment he wasn't going to endure again.

Especially if it meant having to admit failure to Kira.

Flashing a glance at the blackened ceiling rafters, he clenched his fists in frustration. Truth be told, he was also growing mightily weary of the sideways looks his men had been giving him ever since he'd left his chamber to join them that morn. Their silence rode his last nerve, but he'd deal with such annoyances later. After he'd routed his nefarious cousin and tossed him into Castle Wrath's dungeon.

The blackguard was here somewhere.

Aidan could smell him.

Furious that he hadn't yet found him, he strode over to the dais end of the hall, where Tavish and a few others guarded those of Conan Dearg's garrison who'd had the misfortune of sleeping too soundly when Aidan and his men burst into the hall, swords at the ready and flashing.

Surprisingly, though naked and weaponless, not a one amongst them seemed concerned. They certainly didn't appear sleep-befuddled. If anything, they looked smug. And that was what gave him such an uneasy feeling. Almost as if they'd let themselves be caught unclothed and defenseless, knowing any Highland chieftain with a smidgen of pride would refrain from wielding steel on an unarmed man.

Aidan blew out a breath and slid a glance at them, their bare-bottomed, muscle-bound bulk limned by torchlight and the reddish glow of Conan Dearg's hall fire.

Nary a one of them could meet his eye, each one glancing aside whenever he wheeled to fix him with a penetrating stare.

He shivered, drawing his plaid against a cold that had little to do with his cousin's crowded, untidy hall.

The bastard's men were hiding something.

And he was certain that
something
would prove to be Conan Dearg. The chill creeping up and down his spine left no room for doubt, even if they had searched everywhere. Half expecting to see the craven come crashing out of some hidden corner, swinging a battle-ax, he scanned the shadows, but saw only emptiness.

Even so, his every nerve ending hummed, his warrior instincts screaming with each indrawn breath. He tightened his grip on his sullied blade, his heart heavy with the need to stain his steel with the blood of kin.

Tavish stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “Kin or no, the deaths couldn't be helped,” he said, as always seeming to read Aidan's mind.

“The bastard is here,” Aidan seethed, anger shielding him from the morning's horrors. “He's sacrificed his men, hiding behind them as he would a woman's skirts.”

Tavish shrugged. “They should not have refused us entry.” His gaze flicked to Aidan's sword, then to his own. Its blade, too, dripped red. Looking back at Aidan, his lip curled. “Better they died nobly than lying silent and feigning sleep.”

Aidan arced a brow. “So you agree something is amiss?”

“To be sure.” Tavish lifted his sword, eyeing its bloodied edge. “I just canna grasp where Conan Dearg is hiding. We've upturned every stone and peered into each corner.”

Aidan rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “We're missing something, but it will come to me soon.”

Frowning, he glanced again at the captured garrison men. Others were joining them, men brought in by the patrol he and Tavish had sent around Ardcraig's perimeter. Men now stripped of arms and clothes, just as their brethren from the hall. Their leader was nowhere to be seen. To a man, they stood sullen and defiant, some shifting restlessly, others exchanging glances. All refused to talk, a stubbornness Aidan secretly admired, not that he cared to admit it.

Instead, he shoved his reddened sword into its scabbard and folded his arms. Sooner or later, one of them would let his guard slip, revealing the truth through a gesture or a glance, a word spoken too quickly. Moving to the high table, he settled himself in his cousin's chair, deigning to wait.

“You will grow cold, standing there naked,” he observed, speaking to the men but pretending to study his knuckles. “Yet stand you shall, for I will have the bollocks cut from the first man who dares sit.”

He leaned back in the chair, watching them. “I am a patient man. It willna cost me the least to while here for days if need be. Indeed, I intend to stay put until one of you tells me where my cousin is keeping himself.”

None of the men said anything, though several tightened their jaws and glared at him.

One spat into the floor rushes.

Another slid a nervous glance at the screens passage and the arched entry to the kitchens.

The kitchens
.

At once, the hall tilted and dipped, spinning around Aidan as the answer hit him like a fist in the gut.

“God's holy truth!” He leapt to his feet, his own words echoing in his head:
He's sacrificed his men, hiding behind them as he would a woman's skirts
.

He wheeled to face Tavish, triumph surging through him, hot and sweet. “I know where he is!” he cried, and slapped his mailed thigh. “The bastard is in his kitchens—disguised as a scullery wench!”

Tavish's jaw dropped. “By the Rood! The unfortunate creature we saw sitting in a corner, querning corn. The big-boned woman with a head veil and her face turned away from us!”

Aidan nodded. “That'll be him. I'd bet my life on—”

“Your life is over!” One of Conan Dearg's men lunged forward, snatching the sword of Aidan's youngest guardsman. “'Tis you who shall die!”

“I think not.” Aidan whirled with eye-blurring speed, his own sword already drawn as the man rushed him, swinging his blade in a stroke that would have been deadly against any other foe. As it was, steel met steel, the clang of clashing metal and angry snarls filling the air as Aidan parried the man's every slashing blow, then closed in, his arcing blade cutting a mortal wound in the other's side. The man folded in a pool of his own blood, his roar of pain echoing in Aidan's ears.

Jerking his sword free, he swept Conan Dearg's men with a heated stare.

“Should any others amongst you feel honor-bound to defend my cousin, come forward now or hold your peace,” he challenged them, bile rising in his throat that he'd been forced to cut down yet another kinsman. “I'll see that you're given a blade and even a shield to counter my blows, but I'd have it a fair fight. No' the likes of what just transpired.”

A sea of hostile gazes met his own cold stare, but no one made a move to accept his dare.

“You have no right to speak of fairness when you'd have us ride to Castle Wrath only to be slaughtered by your allies on the journey!” An older man pushed past the others, glancing hotly at the fallen guardsman before turning his glare on Aidan. “Your treachery is the reason we—”

“My treachery?”
Aidan stared at him, a chill dread icing his blood. Suspicions too blasphemous to consider. He strode forward, clutching the man by the arms. “What is this you'd accuse me of? If we have our differences, every man within these walls is of my blood. Ne'er would I harm a kinsman without due reason.”

He paused to shove the hair from his brow, taking heart in the doubt beginning to flicker in the man's eyes. “I see you know it,” he said, releasing him. “I would think every man in these isles knows it as well.”

“Your words spoke otherwise.” The man rubbed his arms, his face darkening again. “One of Conan's riders intercepted the courier you sent to the Mackenzies of Kintail. Your missive fell into Conan's hands. He told us of your perfidy. How you planned to invite us to feast with you and how the Mackenzies would lay in wait, falling upon us when we passed through the narrow gorge not far from your holding.” The man put back his shoulders, fury blazing in his eyes. “Your orders were to give no quarter, that not a one of us should be left alive.”

Heat swept Aidan, scalding the back of his neck. He felt his face flush, well aware that his jaw was working, but no words were coming out.

“By the blood of Christ,” Tavish swore beside him, “ne'er have I heard a greater pack of lies.”

Aidan's accuser set his mouth in a grim line, his gaze angry and unflinching. Behind him, others surged forward, their own faces red with outrage. “He speaks the truth,” one of them called. “The Mackenzies were to ambush us—”

“Who amongst you saw these orders?” Aidan thundered, his temper fraying. “Speak up and prove your lies. Here and now, that I might dispel them.”

“I will speak.” A young man barely sporting a beard elbowed his way to where Aidan stood. Ignoring the disapproving glances of his fellow guardsmen, he straightened his shoulders and drew a great breath. “We did not see the missive,” he said, his tone respectful. “We but believed what our lord told us he'd seen. He claimed his fury was so great upon learning of your plans, that he tossed the parchment into the hearth fire. All know of the strife between the two of you, so why should we have doubted his word?”

He paused to clear his throat, his cheeks reddening a bit. “I ask you, sir, would you not expect the same trust from your own men?”

“Indeed, I would.” Aidan folded his arms and did his best not to scorch the louts with a listen-and-learn-from-this-lad glare. “I would know your name.” He eyed the boy, judging him to be not more than fifteen summers. “Your name and if you are skilled with horses.”

“I am Kendrew. I was orphaned and left at Ardcraig's gates, or so I was told.” The boy flushed anew, his gaze darting to Conan Dearg's silent, set-faced men, then back to Aidan. “And I am good with beasts, aye. Especially horses,” he added, shifting legs already longer than those of most of the men crowded near him. “I also know my letters and am handy with both a blade and a battle-ax.”

Aidan nodded. “So-o-o, Kendrew”—this time he did flash a narrow-eyed glance at his men—“are you afraid of witches?”

The boy blinked, then shook his head. “I do not fear them, no. From my experience, the older ones are naught but healers and the young ones are often women who've fallen out of favor with powerful men. There are some who say my mother was such a woman, but I canna believe she was bad. Were that so, I think I'd feel it here”—he paused to clap a hand over his heart—“though I'm sure there are many things in these hills we'll ne'er understand.”

Under other circumstances, Aidan would have smiled. As it was, he made a swift decision. Turning to the man at his left, he ordered, “Mundy, see Kendrew's clothes returned to him and give him a blade.” Before the oversized Irishman could protest, he took the boy's arm and drew him forward. “You, lad, shall hie yourself outside and help my men tend their horses. Then you'll return with us to Castle Wrath, where I have other duties in mind for you.”

The lad's flush deepened, turning as bright a red as his hair. “But, sir, I canna leave Ardcraig.” He pulled back, clearly torn. “I am Conan Dearg's man. I—”

“Go, and dinna make me regret my rashness.” Aidan turned from him to Mundy. “See him into the bailey, then set others to gathering my cousin's horses and weapons. We'll be leaving anon. With Conan Dearg.”

“No-o-o, please!” One of the sobbing women ran at him, clutching his sleeve. “You canna take the laird from us! See you, I carry his child.” She ran her hands down the front of her skirts, displaying the bulge at her middle. “Several of us are heavy with his seed,” she added, gesturing to the clutch of females. “We need him—”

“My regrets.” Aidan cut her off, wishing his cousin's manhood was long enough to be tied into a knot. Unfortunately, he knew from earlier years that it wasn't.

Frowning, he disentangled himself from the woman's grasp. A comely wench with fiery red hair and a lush, creamy bosom fair spilling from her low-cut bodice, she smelled fresh and sweet, her scent reminding him of Kira and what would happen to her should she land in his cousin's hands. He shuddered at the thought, thanking the saints he knew her to be safe and guarded in his own bedchamber.