The Rose and The Warrior (7 page)

“You must be tired after such a long and perilous journey,” said Laird MacKillon. He began to shuffle toward the main entrance of the castle. “Come inside and have something to eat.”

“Forgive me, MacKillon,” apologized a balding man whose tailored shirt of fine linen strained so tautly across his chest and belly Roarke was certain it was about to burst. “Don't you think we should inquire about the prisoners?”

Laird MacKillon stopped and scratched his head. “Prisoners, Hagar? What prisoners?”

“The men Melantha has brought with her,” Hagar explained, pointing.

Laird MacKillon squinted at Roarke and his men. Suddenly his white brows shot up. “God's bonnet,” he said, shocked. “Melantha, why do our guests have their hands bound?”

“Unfortunately, Laird MacKillon,” she began, “we ran into a little trouble—”

“A little trouble?” interrupted MacKillon. “I think not. These big brutes look as though they could give you a great deal of trouble.” He waved a gnarled hand at Roarke, beckoning him to approach.

Roarke obligingly eased himself off his horse, trying to minimize his limp as he approached the aged laird.

“Tell me, lad, are you from the Sutherlands, then?”

“No,” said Roarke.

“I thought not,” MacKillon hastily assured him. “Not even the Sutherlands grow them as big and ferocious looking as you young wolves.” He scratched his nose thoughtfully, considering. “You're from the Murrays, aren't you?” he exclaimed suddenly, pleased that he had sorted it out.

“No.”

“No, no, of course you aren't,” MacKillon agreed, waving his hand dismissively in the air. “Melantha would never be so foolish as to take a Murray prisoner—why, to do so would be seen by Laird Murray as an act of war.” He shuffled over to Eric, who glowered down at him. Laird MacKillon's crinkled eyes widened like two great cups.

“Sweet saints, Melantha,” he squawked, hastily stepping back, “this fellow looks like a Viking. You haven't gone and kidnapped some of MacLeod's warriors, have you?”

“They are not MacLeods,” Melantha assured him.

“Excellent,” said Laird MacKillon, clearly relieved. He winked at Eric, as if the two of them shared some private joke. “Forgive me, big fellow—didn't mean to insult you—'tis just that blond hair of yours—quite shocking, really. No doubt you've some Viking blood roaring through those veins of yours, eh? Reminds me of a lass I knew in my youth—a comely little thing she was. Then she married and grew to the size of a cow, with hands and feet like fat loaves of bread. Of course you wouldn't take a MacLeod prisoner, Melantha,” he finished, smiling fondly at her. “Now that that's all settled, let us go inside.”

“But who are these men?” persisted Hagar.

Laird MacKillon regarded him in confusion. “Didn't we find out?”

“They're from the clan MacTier,” supplied Colin.

The crowd gasped.

“MacTiers?” repeated Laird MacKillon blankly. “You've brought MacTiers back to our holding?”

Melantha hesitated, wishing they could discuss the matter elsewhere. “Unfortunately, Laird MacKillon, I had no—”

“By God,
let me at them
!” roared Thor with murderous fury. “I'll strip their flesh from their miserable, thieving bones and grind them up for haggis! Here, Keith, help me off this platform, take my pipes, then run inside and fetch my sword so I can get started.”

“They cannot be harmed,” Melantha protested. “They are to be ransomed.”

Laird MacKillon blinked. “Ransomed?”

“That is our suggestion,” qualified Colin, giving Melantha a warning look. “Perhaps we should go inside to discuss this matter.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Laird MacKillon, nodding sagely. “Inside is a much better place to attend to a matter of such grave importance. All right, everyone, back to whatever you were doing.” He flitted his hands in the air, shooing away his people. “The council and I will consider this important situation and tell you what is happening—as soon as we know ourselves.”

“Lewis, take Morvyn to the stable and douse his bandage with cold water,” Melantha instructed, handing him her horse's reins. “See that he is given ample fresh water and hay, and that his stall is thick with clean straw. I'll be along to tend to him later,” she added, gently stroking Morvyn's nose. “Finlay, you take care of the other horses, and then both of you join us in the great hall.”

“Do you think Laird MacKillon will be angry with us for bringing these MacTiers home?” asked Lewis worriedly.

“I will make Laird MacKillon and the council see that we have much to gain from these prisoners. Now go.”

Laird MacKillon's order had not caused the crowd to disperse, but it did part to permit Melantha's prisoners entrance into the castle. As Roarke limped forward he was aware of everyone staring anxiously at him. It was clear the MacKillons feared him and his men. He glowered as he passed them, causing some of the women to gasp and step back.

“Here, now, lad, that's no way to act amongst women and children,” admonished Magnus sternly. “Shame on ye.”

Roarke said nothing. It was not his custom to intimidate women and children, but when the time came for escape, their fear would be a powerful weapon.

The interior of the MacKillon castle was little better than the exterior. Huge chunks of stone were missing from the walls of the great hall, and the holes had been only crudely patched with mud and straw to keep out the wind and rain. The wooden shutters over the windows were smashed, and pitiful shreds of embroidered cloth hung limply from nails embedded in the walls, the sad remnants of rich tapestries that had once decorated the salmon stones. The room was furnished with dark oak tables and benches, most of which were broken and somewhat haphazardly repaired.

Despite its dilapidated state, there was a remarkable aura of cheer in the room. Fires blazed in the massive hearths at both ends of the hall, and coppery flames fluttered from handsomely wrought torches, banishing the grayness of the day's fading light. The tables were neatly set for dining, and although the wooden platters upon them were only sparsely filled with bread, oatcakes, cheese, fish and fruit, massive pink and purple bouquets of heather bloomed everywhere, giving the hall a gay, festive air.

“So here you are, home at last.” A short, amply proportioned woman bustled across the hall, impatiently drying her hands on her apron. Her dark hair was liberally striped with gray, and her plain but pleasant face bore the creases of many sleepless nights.

She went straight to Colin and grabbed his beard, handily pulling him down to her level so she could examine him.

“You're thinner than when you left,” she observed critically. “Are you hungry? I've a nice broth simmering on the fire if you can't wait for dinner—”

“For God's sake, Beatrice,” growled Hagar, “he's a full-grown man, not a squalling bairn. He scarcely needs you coddling him as if he were barely weaned.”

“You needn't tell me when he was weaned, Hagar,” returned Beatrice, her hand clamped protectively on Colin's shoulder. “I all but gave my life to bring him into this world and I'll do no less than see that he's well looked after while he's in it, and if you don't like it you can just—”

“I'm fine, Mother,” Colin interjected, uncomfortably aware that Roarke and his men were watching him with amusement.

“You look terrible,” she countered, pinching his cheek. “Scrawny as a starved rat, with dark circles under your eyes that I could see from across the hall. And you, my lass,” she railed on, turning to Melantha, “are even skinnier than before, if such a thing is possible. If your dear, sweet mother could see you now, she'd lock you in a chamber and not let you out until you'd put some flesh on those bones, and I warn you I'm strongly tempted to take such a measure. Strongly tempted.”

Melantha gazed at Beatrice fondly. She had been subjected to her fretful mothering from the time she was seventeen, when her own mother died. Although Colin found Beatrice's fussing tiresome, Melantha secretly enjoyed it. The burden upon Melantha's young shoulders had grown even heavier when her father was killed the previous autumn, and she often felt impossibly overwhelmed. It was nice to come home and have Beatrice worry about whether she had eaten enough or felt tired.

“ 'Tis just these shapeless garments that make me look thin,” Melantha protested.

“ 'Tis your face I was looking at,” objected Beatrice, impatiently dismissing her explanation. She planted her work-reddened hands on her hips and stared at Melantha and Colin with maternal disapproval. “Obviously you two children cannot be trusted to feed yourselves once you're out of my sight.”

“I have just the thing for them,” announced an attractive, silver-haired woman who appeared from behind the wooden screen leading to the kitchen. “A nice warm cup of my special posset.” She smiled, then looked expectantly back at the screen. “Come, now, Gillian, don't be shy.”

A pretty girl of about nineteen tentatively emerged, carefully carrying a heavy tray. She kept her gaze fastened on her burden, as if she feared she might spill a precious drop from one of the many cups balanced upon it, but even with this limited view it was obvious to Roarke that the girl was exceptionally lovely. Her skin was as pale as fresh milk, and her features were small and delicate. Her hair was neatly combed and woven into a soft, loose braid, which shone of copper and coral in the flickering torchlight.

“I—I helped Edwina make it,” she stammered shyly.

“Did you, now?” said Hagar. “Well, daughter, that's a fine accomplishment indeed. 'Tis not every day a man gets to enjoy a tasty cup of warm posset, now, is it, Colin?”

“No,” Colin agreed, smiling at his sister.

“Bless my eyes, Edwina,” burst out Magnus, “I swear ye're more beautiful than when I left!”

A rosy flush colored Edwina's wrinkled cheeks. “Foolish talk from a foolish man,” she chided, giving Magnus an exasperated look.

“Here, now, I want ye to meet our prisoners,” said Magnus, taking no mind of her embarrassment. “This is Donald, that's Myles, and that tall, scowling fellow with the pretty hair is called Eric. And this great big chap is Roarke, who was unlucky enough to receive one of my arrows in his backside. I did a fine job of stitching him closed, though,” he boasted, slapping Roarke amiably on the back. “Lift his plaid and look for yerself.”

“You've no business stitching with those feeble old eyes of yours,” scolded Edwina. “You'll ruin what little sight you have left. Come, lad,” she said, sighing. “Let's have a look and see if I need to fix it.” She reached for Roarke's plaid.

“Perhaps later,” said Roarke, dodging her grasp.

Edwina chuckled. “Ye needn't be shy with me, my lad. I'm too old for such nonsense. Try my posset,” she invited, offering him a cup from Gillian's tray. “It will slay your hunger and heal whatever ails you in the bargain.”

Roarke obligingly accepted the goblet with his bound hands. “Thank you.” He tilted his head politely at Gillian.

Gillian blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Ye're best to toss it down in one gulp,” advised Magnus surreptitiously as Edwina offered her posset to Roarke's men.

Roarke frowned at the foamy brew. “Isn't it just warm milk curdled with ale?”

“ 'Tis my own special recipe,” boasted Edwina, smiling as she distributed the milky concoction among the rest of the group. “I'm teaching Gillian how to make it, so the secret is not lost after I'm gone.”

Laird MacKillon raised his cup. “To our brave Melantha and her clever band, safely home once again.” He drained the contents of his goblet.

Satisfied that the drink was harmless, Roarke and his men all took a hearty draft.

“By God!” roared Eric, spewing his mouthful onto the floor.
“It's poison!”
He threw down his goblet, splattering its contents all over Gillian's gown in the process.

Gillian stared in horror at her hopelessly ruined gown. Slowly she raised her shimmering eyes to Eric, who glared at her as if she were the deadliest of foes. She cried out in wounded dismay and fled the hall, dropping her tray in the process.

“There, now, swallow and you'll be fine,” instructed Edwina to Roarke and his men, who were still choking on the vile mixture. “Perhaps the lass was a wee bit generous with the fish bile in this batch,” she acknowledged, sniffing Magnus's cup, “but you'll be glad of its effects later.”

Myles wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he manfully tried to keep from retching. “What effects?” he demanded.

“ 'Tis marvelous for cleansing the bowels,” Edwina reported gaily. “Just the thing a man needs after a long journey and irregular, poorly cooked meals.”

Donald looked utterly revolted. “No doubt.”

“You will apologize to my sister at the first opportunity,” ordered Colin, glaring furiously at Eric. “Although I should have expected such brutish behavior from a swine like you.”

“I thought it was poison,” Eric said sheepishly. He looked with regret at the screen Gillian had disappeared behind. “I didn't mean to frighten her.”

“I'm afraid the lass's feelings are rather tender,” explained Hagar. “We all try to be extra gentle with her.”

“Well, now, Melantha,” said Laird MacKillon, who was digesting his posset without apparent difficulty, “tell us about these prisoners of yours.”

“By God, they're evil, thieving, cursed MacTiers!”
raged Thor, entering the hall with his sword dragging behind him. “What more do you need to know?” His arms quaking, he struggled to lift his weapon.

“Well, I should like to know why Melantha has brought them here,” said Laird MacKillon reasonably.

Thor's eyes crinkled with anticipation. “She brought them here so we can hack them to pieces and feed their foul, mangled bodies to the wolves.”