The Highlander's Outlaw Bride (20 page)

“Nae, we cannae,” Conn agreed with infuriating calmness. “But this night the water will stay shallow enough.”

“And if we attack tonight, how will we breach the walls?”

“We willnae. Young Gillis will.” Conn looked at the lad, who hung on his every word. “Do ye know what I ask of ye? If ye are caught, ye will get no mercy.”

Gillis swallowed hard, but nodded. “Aye. But Malcolm cannae be allowed to get away with what he has done.”

“There could be other ways.”

“But ye said it could take weeks or months, or mayn’t even work,” Gillis replied.

“True. But I need to know if ye understand the risk.”

Gillis drew himself up. “Laird, ye said I could make this work. I am ready.”

Conn nodded. The lad was sure of himself and loyal, traits Conn had noted more than once since allowing him to join himself and Bray on their trek to Morven. He grinned suddenly, the heaviness of indecision gone.

“Ye will make it, lad. I know it.”

Gillis grinned back, the joy of challenge hot in his eyes.

Conn clouted the lad’s shoulder. “Get some rest. I will send for ye closer to dark.”

“Tell me, Laird,” Bray drawled as Gillis disappeared into a rough shelter. “How will the
garçon
help us breach the castle walls?”

Conn glanced at Bray. “I am sorry, my friend. I could say nothing until I was certain Gillis felt he could do what I asked of him. I dinnae want to coerce the lad into anything he wasnae sure of. Here is my plan.”

He motioned for Bray closer. “I dinnae want this overheard.” He squatted, feeling jittery, as though he’d forgotten some crucial part of his plan, though he’d gone over it a hundred and more times in his mind. He knew it would only create problems if he over-thought the plan, but it was essential he talk it through with Bray, both to include his friend and in order to satisfy himself he had covered every possibility.

“There is a hidden door in the wall of the castle. The few of us who know of it call it the Laird’s Stairway. To reach it from this side, ye must have a low tide, both to cross the loch and to reach the door, which is inset along the wall at the base of the west side of the castle. And, of course, Gillis must approach under the cover of darkness.

“I have had Malcolm’s guards watched. They are bored with their work and dinnae even take pleasure in taunting my men any more. They are becoming inattentive in their tasks. Tonight the water will be shallow, the guards are certain we are still preparing our siege weapons, and Gillis will have his best chance to gain his entrance.”

He stared at the dirt at his feet and picked up a short stick, using it to draw his plan in the dust. “If Gillis is able to enter through this door, he will follow the tunnel up the stairs to the laird’s chambers. The door to this room is behind a heavy chest set against the wall.”

“How will Gillis move the chest away?”

“He willnae have to. On the back of the chest is a small door. Another opens on the front of the chest. It was made so a child could escape alone should the need arise. Gillis is small enough to use that door.”

“How do you know Malcolm does not know of the hidden stair?”

Conn looked steadily at Bray. “I dinnae.”

“And if Gillis is captured?”

“He is on his own.”

Silence stretched taut between them. Finally Bray nodded. “What is your plan once Gillis is inside?”

Conn scuffed away his marks in the dirt with a broad, angry stroke of his hand. “Acting on my orders, Gillis will burn the castle.”

Chapter 23

Shivering with cold and anticipation, Gillis crossed Loch Mor on foot beneath the bare sliver of a waning moon. On cautious feet, he slipped ashore and darted to the base of the castle walls, hugging the uneven rocks, the nearly moonless night cloaking him in deep shadows. He made his way to a ragged niche and crept inside. Running one hand lightly over the rough stones, he stepped deeper into the inky darkness. Suddenly, his hand encountered the upright planking of a wooden door, and he swept his hand across its face until he encountered the iron ring in its center.

His breath rasped and his heart raced painfully. Murmuring a quick prayer against rusted locks, he reached into his pocket for the large iron key made by the smith in the village, guaranteed—so he said—to unlock any door. He ran his fingertips across the door’s warped surface, searching for the keyhole. To his relief, the key slipped easily inside. Steadying his shaking hands with a deep breath, he slowly turned the key, every nerve in his body straining to hear the groan of grating iron. A low sound like gravel being ground together broke the silence, as loud to his over-sensitive ears as the fall of a tree. He hesitated, then firmly turned the key its full rotation, ignoring the resulting squeal.

Opening the door, he saw only darkness beyond. Carefully shutting and latching the door behind him, he stared into the impenetrable darkness, squinting his eyes, hoping to gather even the faintest hint of light.

The cloying dampness smothered him like a dense fog, and he wrinkled his nose against the odor of mold and decay. After a few moments his vision adjusted, and he discovered shades of gray amid the blackness. Encouraged, he started forward, quickly stubbing his toes against stone risers. Using one hand against the cold stone wall for guidance as well as balance, he took a deep breath and mounted the stairs.

* * *

Conn stood at the edge of the tree line, unable to do anything but stare across the water as Gillis began his task. He could see nothing but the pale glow of the white castle walls, hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart amid the gentle swish-swish of the waves of the loch against the shore. Though he heard no shouts of alarm, there was no way of knowing if Gillis had reached the inside of the castle yet. Time dragged slowly, but there was nothing to do but wait

Bray jostled Conn’s arm, pointing to the castle.

“Look!”

Conn glanced to where a dark cloud stained the soft pink-gray sky above the white walls. Moments later, shouts from the guards could be heard. As the sky lightened, another cloud of smoke appeared, then a third.

“Gillis seems quite adept at starting fires.” Bray noted the multiple columns of black smoke billowing in the early morning breeze as it drifted into the pale sky.

“Bring the men out.”

Held at the ready since Gillis left camp hours earlier, the men quickly formed their lines, moving to the edge of the trees as the smoke clouds grew bigger and blacker. Cries of alarm inside the castle reached a fever pitch, and suddenly the gates opened.

“Now!” Conn kicked his horse into a run. The men charged across the loch, their battle cries mingling with the shouts of fear and panic from the castle. They poured through the gates, past men who stumbled, coughing and choking, on their way out the gate. Some who drew their weapons, saw the futility of fighting both armed men and the raging fires and simply surrendered. Others fought briefly, but fled at the first opportunity. As Malcolm’s men quailed before the soldiers of Morven, Conn gave orders for those in the dungeon to be released.

“I want Malcolm!” Conn shouted, reining Embarr to a rearing halt inside the bailey. He surveyed the blackened walls and battlements dispassionately. The castle would require some repair, thanks to Gillis’s resourcefulness, but regaining the castle had been worth it.

He glanced at each face as the men were subdued. But there was no sign of Malcolm.

Swiveling in his saddle, he snarled. “Bring him to me!”

A scuffle sounded at the door of the keep, and two soldiers emerged, dragging a man between them. Dressed in robes befitting royalty, the man shook himself as the soldiers released him. He settled his clothing around his plump body with a shrug, twitching the heavy gold chain at his neck into place with one hand. Drawing himself up to his less-than-impressive height with an arrogant bluster, his eyes nonetheless failed to hide his fear. Conn let him stew for a few moments before he dismounted and approached his disloyal cousin with angry, pounding strides.

He loomed over the shorter man, fists clenched at his sides, barely able to control his rage. Malcolm quaked before Conn’s fury, held in place by the fierce glares of the men surrounding him.

“Why, Malcolm?” Conn finally asked, the words falling harshly. “Why would ye do this to these people?”

Malcolm sneered. “’Twas never about them. ’Twas the power. Ye wouldnae have used it.”

“Ye are wrong. It is always about the people.”

Leaning forward, Malcolm pointed a finger accusingly at Conn. “If only ye had died on yer trip to France. I counted on it. How hard could it be? People die abroad all the time. Ships sink every day. Morven would have been mine. ’Tis why I sent ye no word of yer da’s accident. If yer sister hadnae interfered, it may have been another year before ye made yer way home. A lot could have happened in that time.”

“Ye failed.” Conn’s voice was flat, emotionless.

Malcolm sniffed. “’Twas nae for lack of trying.”

“Then it was yer men who attacked us that night as we approached Morven.”

“A lot of good it did me! Fools! The lot of them, useless fools! And now I have nothing!” Malcolm whirled amid the stony-faced soldiers surrounding him. There was no mercy in their eyes.

With a cry of frustrated anger, he snatched a sword from the soldier nearest him. He waved it at Conn, blocking the startled soldier with his arm as the man reached for his weapon.

So this is how it ends? Malcolm challenges me for the title and his life?
Grimly, Conn slid his own sword from its scabbard with a low rasp of metal on leather.

“We were boys together, Malcolm.”

The man cut an anxious look at Conn’s sword. “But never friends. I was always in yer shadow. Ye were the laird’s son and I was nothing.”

“Ye could have become anything ye wished.”

“Never laird. Not with ye or yer father alive.”

Conn shook his head. “Tell me ye had nothing to do with his death.”

Malcolm smirked. “I dinnae throw him from his horse. But I dinnae grieve when he was laid in the ground. I will say nothing of the time he lay abed, unable to move or speak.”

Conn’s breathing grew heavy. He had heard enough. He sheathed his sword. “I willnae waste my blade on ye. Ye will stand before judgment of yer peers.” He jerked his head at the soldiers standing on either side of his cousin. “Take him away.”

Disgusted, afraid to contemplate Malcolm’s role in his father’s death lest he cut him down here and now in cold blood, Conn turned his back and took a step away.

A man shouted a warning. Conn swung about, his weapon clearing its scabbard before he completed his turn, the blade singing in the sudden silence. The sword continued in its arc, high in the air, as Malcolm rushed inside Conn’s guard.

Conn leaped to the side, barely missing Malcolm’s thrust. Too close to engage him with his blade, he grabbed the laced leather guard close to the hilt and slammed the weighted metal into the side of Malcolm’s head, sending him sprawling in the dust.

Malcolm cried and lifted a hand to the wound. Blood poured from the gash. He rose slowly, the sword still in his grip. He spread his hands wide as he shook his head, swaying off-balance, eyes blinking rapidly. Conn circled him slowly, waiting for his next move. Malcolm turned with him, facing him always, his hands trembling.

He lunged forward, but Conn had been expecting such a move and evaded him easily. He held his sword up and to one side, both hands gripping the hilt. Again Malcolm attacked, and Conn’s blade swung to meet it, the clash of steel ringing in the air. Malcolm lurched back, his sword hanging limply at his side as he fought to regain his breath. Conn stared at him dispassionately.

“Throw down the sword, Malcolm. Ye cannae win.”

“Nae,” his cousin spat, his labored breathing betraying his exhaustion and the depth of his emotion. With a desperate cry of rage, Malcolm threw himself at Conn, swinging his sword in a heavy arc. Conn stepped backward and parried neatly, his sword stopping Malcolm’s blade with ease. But the sword Malcolm had stolen was an inferior piece and did not bear the force of the contact. It snapped in two above the guard, and Malcolm stumbled forward, the force of his charge carrying him beyond his intent.

Conn stepped back, startled by the loss of Malcolm’s weapon. A snarl on his lips, Malcolm whipped a dagger from his robe, ripping its tip across Conn’s side. Flinching back from the slicing pain, Conn drew back his sword and, without further sympathy for his treacherous cousin, slid the honed blade through Malcolm’s chest, six inches of the tip protruding from the man’s velvet-clad back. Malcolm gasped once in pained surprise, but the life left his eyes before his body touched the ground.

Conn pressed a hand to the shallow wound across his ribs as he watched Malcolm’s blood drain into the dirt. “
Tha e ullamh
, Malcolm,” he said quietly to the man at his feet. “It is finished.”

Chapter 24

Wyndham

A discolored flower, its petals shriveled and torn, floated from the corner of the pillar where it had lodged two weeks earlier. Without pause, Brianna ground it into the rushes beneath her feet as she strode through the hall. The sight of the dried flower sent a jolt through her, a reminder of the humiliation of being abandoned on her wedding day.