The Rose and The Warrior (4 page)

“You MacTiers have stolen much from our clan. We intend to use you to get some of what belongs to us back.”

Roarke tightened his jaw, struggling to keep his sorely frayed temper under control. It was bad enough that he had been shot in the arse, robbed, and made a prisoner by the very outlaws he had been sent to capture. But to be imprisoned and held for ransom by this preposterous little party was more humiliation than he could bear. He could just imagine MacTier's reaction when his laird received the missive from the Falcon demanding payment. Once he recovered from his shock, his laird would be infuriated that his finest warrior had failed in what Roarke had assured him would be a childishly simple mission. After years of brilliant service, in which Roarke had successfully led scores of men into the bloodiest of battles and on the most harrowing of raids, he had come to this. He had been captured by an asp-tongued wisp of a girl in coarse leggings and a battered steel helmet, a decrepit old man who looked as though he might trip and impale himself on his own sword at any moment, and three striplings who barely qualified as grown men, never mind warriors.

Everything he had fought so tenaciously to procure for himself these past twenty years would be completely, irretrievably lost.

“You have no hope of securing a ransom for us,” he said flatly. “Laird MacTier will not pay.”

Magnus scratched his white head. “Why not, lad? Does he not like ye?”

“To pay for our return would subject all of his warriors to the risk of being trapped and ransomed in the future,” Roarke explained. “MacTier cannot possibly agree to your demands.”

“You had best hope that you four hold a special place in your laird's heart,” Melantha warned, “or there is no value to our letting you live.”

“He will not pay,” Roarke insisted. “You should take what you want and release us. I give you my solemn word that we will not seek you out, but will simply return to our holding.”

“Now, that's a joke,” scoffed Finlay. “Expecting us to trust the word of a MacTier.”

“You came here to kill us, yet you expect us to release you?” A bitter laugh erupted from Colin's throat.

“I am trying to prevent you from doing something that will only endanger you and your people,” Roarke replied. “By ransoming us, you will infuriate Laird MacTier, and I warn you, his wrath will be awesome.”

“We are well acquainted with MacTier's vile ways,” Melantha snapped. “Now get on your horse, or I shall have Magnus shoot another arrow into you to get you moving.”

Magnus fitted his prized arrow against the string of his bow. “Take yer time decidin', laddie. Truth be told, I'm curious to see how this shaft flies.”

Roarke muttered a curse, then reluctantly limped to his horse and heaved himself up, gritting his teeth against the pain the movement cost him.

Realizing they had no choice, his men did the same.

“My men will form a ring around you at all times,” Melantha informed her prisoners. “If any of you try to break from the group, you will be shot—is that clear?”

“If I am shot, I will kill two of you with my bare hands before I hit the ground,” vowed Eric darkly.

Magnus chuckled. “Got a real fire in yer ballocks, don't ye, laddie? Ye remind me of myself when I was a lad. What ye need, if ye don't mind my sayin' so, is a good, strong woman to put out some of those flames.”

“I was just saying the very same thing,” said Donald, amused.

“I could tell ye tales that would make yer eyes pop right out of yer heads!” bragged Magnus, pulling himself up onto his horse. “I'll have ye know that in my youth, I was known all across Scotland for the glorious feats I performed.” His eyes twinkled with pleasure as he settled into his saddle and urged his mount forward. “Of course in those days, I was known as Magnus the Magnificent….”

She hated them.

Her animosity festered like a weeping wound, filling her with such acrid loathing she was scarcely aware of anything else. Not hunger, nor weariness, nor even the pain of her aching muscles could detract from the emotions roiling through her as the little party rode north.

There was bitter irony to the fact that she was taking these MacTiers to her holding, as opposed to trying to drive them away. Here she was, leading this murdering scum back to the very place where they had already inflicted horrendous misery and destruction. MacTier had sent his forces once before. For one hideous day they had held her people in the jaws of terror, slaughtering men, terrorizing the women and children, and stripping the cottages and castle of every object of beauty or value. It had been the end of Melantha's life, or at least the end of the life she had known. In those agonizing hours she went from being a laughing girl, who had lived safely sheltered within the glorious heather-covered mountains that surrounded the MacKillon lands, to being an inferno of pain and rage that threatened to consume her within its flames if she but let it.

Her people would be terrified when they arrived, of that there could be no doubt. But once they understood that these despicable warriors were the key to forcing Laird MacTier to make restitution for all he had wrought upon them, her clan would see she had made the right decision. The only other choice was to murder these men, and despite the suffering the MacTiers had so cruelly inflicted upon her and her people, somehow she could not bring herself to do that. Magnus was right—she and her men were thieves, not cold-blooded murderers. Her loathing of the MacTiers was absolute, but she would not permit them to turn her into one of them. To do so would be to let them wrest away the last few shreds of her integrity, leaving her but a cold, vacant shell of the girl she had once been.

She would not let them have that final victory.

“The light is falling,” observed Colin, riding up to her. “We should find a place to make camp.”

Melantha studied the soft glaze of slate and peach seeping through the canopy of trees overhead. Afternoon had melted into early evening, and the air was cool and fragrant with the scent of crushed pine and sweet earth. It was as good a moment as any to stop. But she had been away from her younger brothers for well over a week, and she was longing to see them again. The prospect of closing the distance between her and Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick, even by just a few more miles, was far more enticing than the promise of rest.

“Do you think Magnus is tired?” Her voice was low so the old man would not hear her.

“He doesn't seem to be,” Colin replied, glancing back at the white-haired elder.

“…and then I raised my rusty sword,” Magnus was boasting, lifting his sword in the air for effect, “which was so blunt ye could scarce have used it to carve butter, and with my broken arm hanging at my side, I cut down every one of those murderin' rascals, till all eight of them lay in a twitching, bloody heap before me….”

The MacTier warriors kept their expressions politely composed as Magnus recited his wildly exaggerated tale. Magnus mistook their skeptical silence for rapt fascination, and immediately launched into another story.

“We will ride on,” Melantha decided. “That way there will be less of a journey tomorrow.”

“It has been a long day, Melantha,” Colin reminded her gently.

“I'm fine, Colin.”

“I wasn't thinking of you—I was thinking of me having to endure another hour of Magnus's outlandish stories.” He smiled, then turned his horse and rode back to join the others.

“…and then there was the time I had to battle a terrible, two-headed beastie,” Magnus continued excitedly, “with naught but my trusty sword, which nearly melted when the horrible creature breathed its ghastly fire upon it….”

Melantha inhaled deeply, savoring the spicy tang of pine and earth. The smell of life, her father used to call it.
Breathe deep, lass,
he would say, thumping his great barrel of a chest.
Breathe deep, my bonny Mellie, and know that the woods and meadows and sky and dirt of this blessed place are part of you. Never forget that, my sweet lass. God has blessed you by making you part of the most glorious place on earth.
And Melantha would puff out her skinny little chest and draw in a great gasp of air until she thought she would surely burst, and as she held it her cheeks would swell into two bulging apples, which would always make her father laugh.

She would have given anything to hear her father's laughter again.

A rustling sound tore her from her thoughts. Looking ahead, she saw a deer burst from the trees, then disappear. Melantha instantly bent low over Morvyn and urged him into a gallop as she freed an arrow from her quiver. There was no time to inform the others—the deer was moving too fast. She could not risk losing it to the thick forest and the rapidly fading light. She and Morvyn thundered in and out of trees, heedless of the branches that clawed at them. Morvyn snorted with excitement as he pounded through the woods, sensing Melantha's urgency and eager to please her.

It had been a long time since her people had enjoyed the taste of venison, for the animals that had once crowded the woods on their lands had been all but eradicated by a devastatingly cold winter. By the time spring finally arrived, most of the poor beasts lay frozen and starved, their bodies shredded by wolves. Hunting parties had only produced small game, which was scarcely adequate to feed her people, especially since the MacTiers had either stolen or slaughtered all their livestock. This single deer could not begin to feed Melantha's entire clan, but its precious meat and hide would be a welcome treasure nonetheless. She thought of her brothers with their thin little arms and rawboned legs, and the pleasure that would light their gaunt faces when she returned home with a fine deer.

“Faster, Morvyn,” she urged. “Come on, faster!”

Morvyn snorted and flew forward. The light dulled to a flat gray as they pressed deeper into the woods, but Melantha's hunting senses were keen and she knew the deer was not far ahead. Another few yards and they were nearly upon it. She took careful aim, guiding Morvyn with her legs as she kept her gaze locked upon her prey.

A massive fallen tree suddenly obstructed their path. She scrambled to grab the reins and pull Morvyn back, but he had already begun to jump. Melantha clutched wildly at his thick mane as he struggled to heave his massive body over the unexpected barricade.

His right foreleg slammed into the heavy trunk, making an ugly crunching sound. Morvyn screeched in agony while Melantha cried out and vainly tried to shield herself as they crashed to the ground.

“…and then there was the time I had to rescue my fair Edwina from a rascal band of Campbells,” continued Magnus excitedly, “who were so bewitched by her comeliness that I had to hack them into bloody, steaming chunks of—here now, what's that noise?”

“Sweet Jesus!” swore Roarke, hearing Melantha's cry. He kicked his heels deep into his horse and galloped into the woods ahead.

“Here, now, ye can't be ridin' off like that!” protested Magnus, fumbling for his bow and arrow. “Ye're a prisoner!”

“You'll have to forgive him,” apologized Donald. “I'm afraid he doesn't have much experience with being held captive.”

“Stay with the others!” snapped Colin to Lewis and Finlay before thundering after Roarke.

Roarke tore through the woods as fast as his mount would carry him, heedless of the pain of his wound. A trail of broken branches and freshly churned earth indicated the path Melantha and her horse had taken, but the light had waned, making it difficult to follow the course at such a reckless speed. After a few moments he cursed in frustration and abruptly stopped, uncertain which direction to pursue. A pain-filled whicker reverberated through the trees. Roarke urged his charger forward again, crashing through the forest like a madman. Finally he saw her horse lying helplessly on the ground, whinnying in pain. Melantha lay in a crumpled heap beside him, unmoving.

Roarke dismounted quickly and limped toward her. Kneeling down, he grasped her shoulders with his bound hands and turned her over. Her face was pale and still, save for a crimson stream leaking from a deep gash in her forehead. A faint gust of breath trickled from her, thin and shallow as a baby bird's, but there nonetheless.