The Rose and The Warrior (17 page)

“Climb in that opening over there,” directed Daniel, pointing to the next crenel. “You'll be able to see better. Don't be scared,” he chided, seeing his brother hesitate. “Just hold on to the merlon and you'll be fine.”

“Do you think we can still use that timber?” asked Lewis doubtfully.

“I think it's best not to,” Roarke decided. “A fall like that probably cracked it, or created a fault deep within its center. Better to use one we know we can rely on.”

“Now, that's a bloody waste.” Finlay glared at Mungo.

“It wasn't my fault,” Mungo objected. “How was I to know I was going to sneeze?”

Melantha caught sight of Matthew and Daniel precariously balanced in the crenels of the parapet. She was about to order them to get down when suddenly Matthew lost his footing. He clawed wildly at the merlon beside him, his fingers scrabbling over the rough stone.

“Hold on, Matthew!” shouted Roarke, racing toward the boy.

Matthew cried out in terror, his hands grasping for Roarke.

And slipped off the battlements.

Melantha screamed, a ragged, agonized sound that hung with deathly finality upon the air.

His heart frozen with dread, Roarke braced his hands on the parapet and forced himself to look down.

Instead of finding Matthew's broken body lying in a crumpled heap upon the ground, he saw the lad's ghostly pale face staring up at him from some ten feet below. Miraculously, the boy had managed to find a hold in an opening between the stones as he fell. He now clung to the wall, trembling.

If he lost his grip, he would die.

“Someone hold my legs!” Roarke commanded.

Every man on the wall head rushed toward him, desperate to help. Myles and Finlay reached him first. The two powerful men each grabbed hold of one of Roarke's legs, then held him fast as they lowered him down the wall.

“Hello, Matthew,” Roarke said, affecting a casual tone that completely contradicted the direness of the situation. “I'm going to take hold of your arms, and I want you to lock your hands as best you can around my arms—do you understand?”

“I can't,” Matthew whimpered.

“Of course you can,” said Roarke, his voice low and reassuring. “You just hold on, and I'm going to take you back up.” He stretched his arms out, then cursed silently.

The boy was beyond his reach.

“Don't let me fall!” pleaded Matthew. Tears spilled from his eyes.

“I won't let you fall, Matthew,” Roarke insisted gently. “Finlay,” he said, his voice utterly calm, “I need to be a little lower.”

Finlay and Myles obligingly eased him down a few more inches.

“I don't know about you, Matthew,” Roarke said cheerfully as he reached for the boy once more, “but I'm getting hungry. What do you say we go inside and find ourselves something to—”

“I'm slipping!” shrieked Matthew, his face wild with terror.

Roarke surged toward him, straining every inch of his muscle and bone and skin. His hands clamped with brutal strength around Matthew's slim forearms.

“Pull us up!” he commanded.

Using their combined strength, Finlay and Myles hauled the enormous warrior and the terrified boy up the wall.

A deafening cheer exploded from every member of the clan. Roarke stood with his massive arms closed protectively around Matthew's shivering form.

“Easy, now,” he murmured, bending to rest his chin atop the lad's head. “You're safe now.”

Matthew clung tightly to Roarke, his face buried in the warrior's chest.

“Matthew!” cried Melantha, grabbing him and turning him around to face her.

A purple stain was spreading on his cheek and blood leaked from a gash on his forehead. She knelt and urgently ran her hands along the sides of his face and down his shoulders and arms, which were pink and raw with cuts and scrapes. Once she was absolutely certain there was nothing seriously cut or broken, she wrapped her arms tightly around him and closed her eyes.

Thank you, God.

“Ow—you're hurting me, Melantha,” Matthew complained in a muffled voice.

Reluctantly, she released him.

“I'm sorry about that, Matthew.” Daniel's fine, pale features were twisted with guilt. “I never should have told you to climb onto the parapet.”

“No, you shouldn't have,” Melantha agreed, her overwhelming relief making it difficult to feel any genuine anger. “You are Matthew's older brother, Daniel, and I expect you to take care of him, not to encourage him to try such foolish antics.”

Daniel hung his head, deeply ashamed.

“You are both forbidden to come up here again—is that clear?”

The two boys nodded glumly.

“Let's get you inside and tend to those cuts,” she said, gently tracing her finger over Matthew's scraped cheek. She rose to lead him away. “You come too, Daniel.” Her voice was soft, making it more an invitation than an order.

The little trio disappeared into the castle, leaving the rest of the clan to breathe a sigh of relief, before turning to regard Roarke with a newly forged reverence.

“And then we lowered him over the wall, each of us gripping a leg as massive and heavy as a tree trunk,” continued Finlay, his face flushed with a generous measure of both pride and ale.

“Dear me, Roarke is a very big chap,” fretted Laird MacKillon. “Were you not afraid of dropping him?”

“I was only worried that poor old Myles here might not be able to hold up his end,” joked Finlay, slapping Myles lustily on the back.

“More like you were praying I would take over your burden as well,” grumbled Myles. “We could have boiled a haggis in the sweat dripping from your brow.”

“If I had let go, it would have been so I could shade my eyes from the blinding sunlight bouncing off your shiny pate,” laughed Finlay, unwilling to be bested by a MacTier.

“Be glad you were blind—you were spared the sight of Roarke's bare arse!” roared Myles, doubling over with drunken amusement.

The entire clan laughed.

“Will you have some more ale?” asked a black-haired girl with a lush bosom and a saucy swing to her hips.

“Ah, sweet Katie, you've the powers of a seer,” sighed Finlay, happily lowering his cup so she could fill it.

“And what about you, my fine hero?” she asked, her rosy mouth curved in amusement. “Can you drink some more?”

Myles regarded her with bleary rapture. “I like your arms.” He vaguely hoped she would dump the pitcher of ale over his head. Hadn't Donald said that meant a woman liked a man?

“Do you, now?” she said, her brown eyes twinkling. “Now, there's a compliment I've not heard before.”

“I like your hips too,” Myles added, gazing at them appreciatively. “They're good and broad.”

“God's teeth, I think the lad is in love!” laughed Magnus, slapping his thigh.

“Careful now, Katie, you don't want to have your head turned with such flowery talk,” joked Gelfrid.

“And why not?” demanded Katie, still smiling at Myles. “ 'Tis not every day a lass has a hero fill her head with such sweet words.”

“I'm a hero too,” protested Finlay.

“Ah, Finlay, I'm thinking 'tis too late to capture fair Katie's heart,” commented Mungo, “unless you tell her quick how much you love her big feet!”

The clan roared with laughter.

“Are you going to dump that ale on me?” asked Myles hopefully.

“Of course not,” Katie chided. “I know you mean no harm.”

Myles watched in disappointment as she filled his cup. “Are you going to dump it on Finlay?”

“Now, there's an idea,” Katie mused, smiling. “A little shower might help douse his shameless boasting.”

Jealousy pricked Myles's ale-soaked contentment.

“But t'would be a waste of a perfectly fine pitcher of ale,” she finished, shrugging her shoulders.

His spirits lifted once more. Obviously this Katie was a thrifty lass. Thriftiness was an admirable quality in a woman, he decided, gazing at her longingly.

“I do believe 'tis time to raise our cups in a toast,” said Laird MacKillon, standing. “To our honored prisoner Roarke. But for his strength, courage, and quick thinking, this day could have ended in tragedy, instead of the happiness you see round you tonight.”

The great hall filled with cheers.

“What about me and my friend Myles?” demanded Finlay thickly.

“Your pardon, Finlay,” said Laird MacKillon. “Of course we are indebted to you and Myles for your actions today as well. Everyone, to Finlay and Myles.”

The MacKillons happily drank from their cups again.

“I'm not of a mind to brag, but 'twas my arrow that felled Roarke and brought him here in the first place,” pointed out Magnus. “Therefore I had some hand in what happened today.”

“To Magnus, for shooting Roarke in the arse!” shouted Gelfrid.

“To Roarke's arse!” rose the drunken toast, giving everyone yet another reason to drink.

“Do you think you will ever be able to live down that injury?” wondered Donald, thoroughly amused by Roarke's disgruntled expression.

“No one beyond these MacKillons will ever hear of it,” Roarke said flatly. “Is that understood?”

“An arrow in your backside is nothing,” scoffed Thor, thoroughly unimpressed. “A sword in your belly—now, that's an injury worth talking about.”

“Forgive me, Thor, but I don't think one could survive a sword in one's belly,” pointed out Hagar.

“That's the problem with you striplings—you're too soft!” complained Thor.

“I'm not soft,” Eric objected.

“You're the softest one here, Viking!” growled Thor. “You couldn't even swallow a mouthful of Edwina's posset without weeping like a bairn!”

Donald and Myles roared with laughter.

“Enough!” snapped Eric. “Bring me a cup of that damn posset now!”

“Quick, before he changes his mind!” Donald rose to his feet. “Where's Gillian?”

On hearing her name, Gillian tentatively turned to look at the men at Roarke's table.

“Fair Gillian,” Donald began, placing his hand over his heart, “my Viking friend here is sorely ashamed for the way he has behaved in your charming company—”

“Stop it,” growled Colin. “You're embarrassing her.”

“—and to make amends to you,” continued Donald blithely, “he has requested you bring him an entire jug of your delectable posset at once, so he may forever vanquish any reservations about its highly unique flavor!”

The entire clan gasped.

“I'm going to kill you, Donald,” Eric vowed in a hard voice. “Slowly and with great pain.”

Gillian's gaze flitted nervously to Eric. “Do you really want some?”

Her eyes were wide with uncertainty, and her hands were clutched tightly together, as if in anticipation of some terrible outburst from him.

It bothered Eric that he frightened her so. He was not in the habit of terrifying maids—at least not on purpose.

“ 'Tis all right, Gillian, lass,” Hagar began, “the lads here were just having a wee bit of fun—”

“Yes,” said Eric suddenly. “I want some.”

“Then I'll get it for you,” Beatrice announced, unwilling to permit her daughter to be subjected to any further humiliation. “And you'll not dare throw it at me, or I'll take that wooden platter and break it over your thick Viking head!”

“No, Mother.” Gillian's gaze was fixed upon Eric. “I can get it.”

Hagar regarded his daughter with concern. “Are you sure, lass?”

She nodded.

“Excellent.” Donald rubbed his hands together in anticipation as Gillian went to fetch the drink.

“If you do anything to upset my sister, I swear I'll kill you,” Colin vowed.

Eric said nothing.

“I don't see what all the fuss is about,” remarked Laird MacKillon, confused. “I think Edwina's posset is quite tasty.”

“ 'Tis marvelous for cleansing the bowels,” added Edwina, pleased that her special brew was receiving so much attention.

“Best to toss it down in one gulp,” warned Magnus stealthily as Gillian returned. “Trust me, lad.”

Gillian approached Eric with admirable calm, especially given that everyone in the entire clan was now watching her. She bore a small wooden tray on which she had placed a single fresh goblet and a pitcher.

“Would you like me to pour it for you?” Her voice was small and soft in the silence that had descended over the great hall.

Eric shook his head. “Give me the jug.”

The clan gasped in horror.

“Are you certain?” Gillian regarded him with concern. “ 'Tis a strong brew.”

“Did you make this batch?” asked Eric.

She nodded.

“Then I will drink the entire jug.”

“That's bravery for certain,” muttered Magnus under his breath.

Edwina gave him a chastising look, and Magnus responded by giving her a playful squeeze.