The Rose and The Warrior (10 page)

“Are you all Melantha's brothers?”

“Aye.” Daniel's bony fists remained balled menacingly at his sides. “And if I ever hear of you trying to harm her again, MacTier, I swear I'll kill you.”

His voice was deadly soft, his boyish face twisted with raw hatred. He was only a child, yet Roarke knew loathing and anguish simmered just beneath his skin, making him capable of almost anything. In all his years as a warrior, he had never seen a lad so completely stripped of every remnant of innocence, and the sight cut him to the bone. Roarke had fought in countless battles, and had led massive assaults on scores of holdings in the name of his laird and his king, but somehow he had always thought of it as a fight against other warriors, not women and children. Of course he had never tarried long once a holding had surrendered. After all, his skills were best utilized where there was another battle to be fought. And so he had always moved on, never permitting himself to dwell upon the terrible suffering he left behind.

“Does your mother know you're down here threatening the prisoners?” he enquired with uncustomary gentleness.

Little Patrick shook his head. “She died a long time ago.”

“Only two and a half years ago,” Daniel corrected tautly. “That's not so long.”

No, Roarke agreed, that was not so long. Muriel and Clementina had been dead five years, and their absence still carved a deep abyss in his soul. He could well imagine the terrible pain experienced by these boys at losing both their mother and father in such a brief span of time. And so Melantha had been forced to assume responsibility for her younger brothers. Roarke had never been home enough to play a significant role in his daughter's upbringing, but he knew it would require enormous energy and patience to be both mother and father to these three lads. Melantha had strictly forbidden them to come here tonight, and they had recklessly defied her, just as he would have done at their age.

If she rose during the night to find the three of them missing, she would be overcome with fear.

“You lads shouldn't be here. If Melantha finds you with me, she will be very angry with you for disobeying her.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear they had completely forgotten about this possibility.

“H-he's right,” Matthew stammered nervously. “Melantha will be awfully mad when she finds out.”

“Melantha won't find out.” Daniel hurled a contemptuous look at Roarke. “Unless you tell her.”

“I see no reason to tell anyone of your little visit,” said Roarke. “Other than your threats to drive a sword through my foul, rotting heart and burn my eyes into steaming holes, I found your company quite pleasant.”

Daniel eyed Roarke doubtfully, debating whether or not to trust him. “Come, then, lads,” he finally said. “We've seen enough of these butchering MacTiers for one night.”

Matthew eagerly turned, but young Patrick lingered a moment longer, his little red brows scrunched together.

“Did Magnus really shoot you in the bum?”

Roarke nodded.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“A little.”

“Once I fell and cut my forehead, and Melantha made me lie in bed while she pressed cold cloths on it, and she even let me drink some wine. You should ask her if she will do the same for you.”

“Somehow I doubt your sister is overly concerned about my pain,” said Roarke dryly, “but thank you for the suggestion.”

“We have to go, Patrick!” snapped Daniel.

“I have to go now,” Patrick informed Roarke, “but I'll see you tomorrow.”

“I shall look forward to that.”

The lad gifted him with a smile.

And then he turned and scampered toward his eldest brother, who cast one last look of utter loathing at Roarke before melting into the shadows.

C
HAPTER
4

“That's it, Lewis…ye've almost got it…there, now! Bang her in, she's as straight as can be!”

Roarke watched as Lewis obediently positioned a nail over the damaged shutter, gave it a meek tap with his hammer, then withdrew his supporting hand.

The shutter crashed to the floor.

“For heaven's sake, lad, ye can't expect to secure a heavy slab of wood with just one nail!” said Magnus, exasperated. “And ye must strike the nail as if ye mean to kill it, not as if ye're trying to rouse it from slumber!”

Lewis gazed down apologetically from his precarious perch of stacked benches. “Sorry.”

Magnus sighed. “Never mind, lad. It's not yer fault ye've no gift for fixing things. Climb down from there and let's see if we can't find something else for ye to do.”

The great hall was teeming with men balancing on benches, tables, and chairs, their mouths crammed with iron nails as they awkwardly attempted to repair the damaged shutters dangling from the windows.

“Excellent job, lads!” praised Magnus, who was directing the activity from the center of the hall. “A few more hours work here, and those wily MacTier dogs will never be able to breach the windows.”

“Forgive me, Magnus,” said Roarke, “but why are all these men working in the great hall when there are so many repairs to be done to the outside of the castle?”

“I know 'tis a wee bit noisy, lad,” Magnus acknowledged apologetically, “but until we get that storeroom ready for ye, I'm afraid ye'll just have to put up with us.”

“I'm not complaining about the noise,” Roarke clarified. “I'm wondering why you aren't securing the curtain wall and the gate instead of fixing a few broken shutters in here.”

“There are plenty of men working outside, make no mistake,” Magnus assured him. “And they've got matters well in hand. It may interest ye to know that we MacKillons have a long and splendid history of castle building—”

“For God's sake, Ninian, can you not tell the difference between a nail
and a man's bloody finger
!”

Roarke glanced across the hall to see a short dumpling of a man with blazing cheeks standing on a table, angrily shaking his stubby hand in the air.

“If you'd only watch what you're doing and keep your fat fingers out of my way, that wouldn't have happened, Gelfrid!” snapped Ninian testily from his seat atop several unevenly stacked stools. His skin was stretched taut over the bones of his face, giving him a sallow, almost cadaverous appearance that perfectly complemented his shrunken build.

“ 'Tis you who needs to watch what you're doing,” blustered Gelfrid. “Any damn fool can see this is flesh and bone, not a piece of bloody iron!”

“You'd best let your wife take a look at that for you,” said a fellow with a wild flurry of red hair. “It may need to be splinted.”

“I'll be lucky if a splint is all that's needed, Mungo,” Gelfrid complained irritably. “But while I'm at it, I'll ask my Hilda to make a potion that'll sharpen Ninian's sight!”

Ninian whirled around, waving his hammer. “There's nothing wrong with my sight! You put your great, fat finger right on top of the bloody—” Suddenly his eyes grew round and he began to flap his scrawny arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance.

Roarke winced as the poor fellow crashed to the floor.

“That must have hurt,” reflected Donald, who lay comfortably stretched out upon his pallet watching the MacKillons make their repairs.

“ 'Twas nothing,” Eric scoffed, unimpressed. “I've fallen from twice that height and barely felt it.”

“That's because you landed on your head,” said Myles, lazily polishing his arm bands against his plaid.

Eric scowled. “You're just jealous of my superior strength.”

“His head may tolerate the odd blow well enough, but I warrant this morning it is throbbing from the vast quantity of ale he drank last night,” Donald teased. “No doubt that accounts for his surly disposition today.”

“Perhaps Gillian should dose him with another cup of her posset,” suggested Myles. “That would really put this superior Viking strength of his to the test.”

“I thought it was poison,” Eric grumbled irritably. “ 'Twas the foulest brew I have ever tasted.”

“I don't think you need worry about the lass going near you with one of her brews again,” Myles reflected. “Judging by the haste with which she quit the hall, I'd say you've terrified the poor maid.”

“Now, that's a pity.” Donald idly examined the rope around his wrists. “She was a comely little thing.”

“She was weak and afraid,” Eric countered. “She would not make a fit mate for a warrior. A warrior needs a woman who is strong and fearless.”

“I shall settle for a lass who is pleasing upon the eye, and soft and willing in my bed.”

“It is a woman's duty to be willing,” Eric replied brusquely. “My wife should be proud to take my seed and bear strong children.”

Donald regarded him with amusement. “I really must spend some time educating you on the ways of women, my friend, before these barbaric ideas of yours get you into serious trouble.” He sat up, pleased to have found something to keep himself occupied. “Now, then, your first lesson is how to look at a woman without sending her into fits of hysteria.”

Eric glowered.

“Excellent. That is exactly how you don't want to look. Now that you've mastered that, let's move on. The next lesson is: when a woman offers you something to drink, which she has obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to make, try to refrain from spitting it out and accusing her of trying to kill you.”

“If you don't cease this drivel I'm going to kill you,” Eric warned ominously.

“You may think that now, but there is going to be a moment where you will actually want to thank me,” replied Donald, unconcerned. “Women love to be complimented on their appearance, so try to think of something nice to say.”

Myles stopped polishing his arm bands. “Like what?”

“That depends on what stage you are at in your seduction. For instance, if you have only just met, 'tis good to remark on something relatively safe, like comparing her hair to the dark of the night sky, or saying her eyes are the color of sapphires.”

Eric snorted in disgust. “I have never seen a woman with eyes like sapphires.”

“It doesn't matter whether they are actually that blue or not,” explained Donald patiently, “you flatter her by telling her it is so. She is certainly not about to contradict you when you point out her more comely attributes.”

“What about her arms?” asked Myles.

Donald frowned. “What about them?”

“Is that a good thing to compliment her on?”

“In truth, I can't recall meeting a woman who particularly wanted to hear about her arms. Besides, there are so many other wonderful things to remark on, like her creamy skin, her rosy lips, her tiny waist, her soft cheek—”

“I like strong arms,” interrupted Eric. “That means she will be able to carry a heavy load of wood without complaining.”

Donald sighed. “Fine. Mention her strong arms if you like, but be sure to add something else, like the delicate shape of her—”

“Broad hips,” suggested Myles.

Donald raised his brow in exasperation. “You actually believe a woman wants to be told she has broad hips?”

“That means she will be able to bear many children with ease,” explained Myles.

“Myles is right,” agreed Eric, nodding with approval. “It is a good thing for a woman to have solid, broad hips.”

“And a good pair of stout legs,” added Myles.

“I don't think you two are going to get very far in your courting if you remark on the stoutness of a woman's hips and legs,” reflected Donald doubtfully.

“Well, I'm not marrying any foolish wench who wants to be told some nonsense about her eyes being like blue rocks,” snapped Eric. He heaved himself against his pallet and turned away from Donald, indicating the lesson had come to an end.

Ignoring the bored discourse of his men, Roarke watched in frustration as the MacKillons continued their bumbling repairs of the great hall. He did not know if Laird MacKillon had sent a ransom message to Laird MacTier yet, but one thing was certain. If fixing these broken shutters was the extent of the MacKillons's preparation for an attack, then the outcome would be both swift and brutal, regardless of which clan assaulted them.

The thought did not please him.

“I'm afraid we need to work down at this end of the hall now,” said Magnus, approaching Roarke. “If ye lads would be so kind to move toward the center of the room, I'm sure we'll have ye back in yer space in no time.”

“It seems my men and I are just in the way, Magnus,” Roarke remarked, determined to see what other preparations the MacKillons were making. “Perhaps it would be best if we went outside for a while, and left you and your men to finish the repairs.”

Magnus cocked a white brow. “Ye're not thinking to try to escape, are ye, lad? Because I've no time to waste today on chasing after ye, do ye hear?”

“I can hardly see how that would be possible,” returned Roarke. “It is the middle of the day, we are unarmed, our hands are bound, and the courtyard is filled with your people. And my arse still throbs from your arrow, which makes the prospect of a long chase wholly unappealing.”

Magnus chuckled. “ 'Twas a fine shot, there's no denying it.” He considered a moment, then sighed. “I suppose there's no harm in ye lads takin'a bit of fresh air. But I'll have to send someone to watch over ye all the same.” He turned to Lewis, who was kneeling on the floor, completely absorbed in the task of piecing together the fragments of his broken shutter. “Lewis, quit playing with that and take the prisoners outside for some air.”

“I've nearly got it,” murmured Lewis, completely absorbed by his task. “All I need is to find one more piece—”

“Leave it, lad,” said Magnus impatiently. “We're better off building a new one anyway.”

“But we don't need to,” replied Lewis, sliding the last piece of his wooden puzzle into place. “See?”

Roarke looked down in amazement. In mere minutes Lewis had managed to completely reconstruct the badly broken shutter.

“Yes, yes, I see,” Magnus said. “And in the time it takes to have a man put all those wee bits together, he can build two new shutters from good, strong wood and have them hung. Can ye not see how that makes all yer fussin' about with things a waste of time?”

Embarrassed to be chastised in front of Roarke and his men, Lewis nodded meekly.

“Be a good lad, then, and take these MacTiers out into the courtyard for some air. I'm not thinkin' they'll be giving ye any trouble. If they do, just shoot one of them in the arse,” he instructed, chuckling. “That'll bring them around quick enough.”

“That won't be necessary,” Roarke assured him. “My men and I merely wish to get some fresh air and a little exercise, nothing more.”

“Off ye go, then,” said Magnus. “Just see that ye don't get in anyone's way while ye're out there—here, now, Mungo, what in the name of St. Andrew are ye doin' with that—watch out!”

Roarke winced as the tower of benches supporting Mungo crashed to the floor, with poor Mungo following.

The courtyard was roiling with activity as Roarke and his men stepped into the damp morning air. Men, women, and children were scrambling in all directions carrying rocks of varying sizes, which they were arranging with great care along the walls of the keep. Others were toting heavy buckets of water from the well and dumping them into enormous troughs and barrels in which a gray, claylike compound was being mixed.

“That's it, Finlay,” said Laird MacKillon. He watched from his seat in the center of the courtyard as the stocky warrior gathered an armful of heavy stones from a cart and dropped them on the ground. “Fifty or so more cartloads, and we'll have more than enough stones to restore these magnificent walls to their former glory!”

“This one won't do,” declared Thor, his forehead furrowed with disapproval as he examined one of the rocks. “Won't do at all.”

Finlay wiped the sweat from his brow. “Not big enough?”

Thor shook his head. “It's big enough, all right.”

“Not heavy enough?” suggested Laird MacKillon.

Thor grunted as he attempted to lift the stone from the cart, then abandoned his efforts and shook his head again. “That's a sound, heavy stone. Can't fault it for that.”

“Is its shape uneven?” wondered Hagar, coming over to inspect the offending rock.

Thor ran a gnarled hand over the stone. “Smooth as a bairn's backside,” he announced, patting it with approval. “Nothing wrong with its shape.”

“What's wrong with it then?” wondered Laird MacKillon.