The Highlander's Promise Page 22

  “I’ll not make anything up,” Lachlan said and reached into his pouch for the now-worn, folded letter given to him by the black knight. He held it up in the air for all to see. “It’s right here. In Thomas Annesley’s own hand. Given to me by one Lucan Montague. Perhaps you know of him, Hargrave?”

  Hargrave began marching across the green at once, all traces of joviality gone, his hand held out. “Give it to me now. Give it to me!”

  Lachlan backed up until he was standing next to one of the balefires, and held the letter over the licking flames. All around him the creak of crossbows being drawn sounded.

  “If they shoot me, the letter falls,” Lachlan pointed out.

  Hargrave stopped his advance and held out his hands. “Disengage your weapons! Disengage.” He turned his face back to Lachlan. “I’m sure we can come to an understanding. What do you want?”

  “I’ve already said what I want. Send your men away, and I’ll give you the letter.”

  “And kill me straightaway afterward, no doubt,” Hargrave smirked. “No, I’m afraid that won’t work.”

  “My arm’s getting tired, Hargrave.”

  Hargrave’s face brightened. “Why don’t we let the mighty chief decide? Surely he will not risk your life—the life of the foster son he’s raised—over his own, isn’t that right?” He turned. “Marcas? Care to contribute?”

  Lachlan’s foster father stepped forward, Mother Blair hanging on his arm and weeping. He shook her off roughly. His face was stony and he seemed to be staring beyond Lachlan, even beyond the ring of guards to the darkness past the green, as if he could not bear to meet his eyes.

  Lachlan remembered the day at the falls after Dand was born, the water tumbling him over and over, holding him under. Marcas had not saved him then. He hadn’t saved him from the fine when Archibald lay dying. He wouldn’t save him now, and somehow, Hargrave knew it.

  Then Marcas’s eyes were boring into his, with an intensity that Lachlan could nearly feel. “Forgive me, Lachlan,” Marcas began, and although Lachlan thought he could not be hurt any more deeply by this man, the only father he’d ever known, he feared he was wrong. His last, brief flicker of hope died and he wished there was a way to deafen himself to Marcas’s words.

  “Forgive me for not fighting for you. For my pride and my cowardice. It has haunted me since the day you left Town Blair, and I wish everyone to hear it from my own lips, now. I didna do right by you. I didna do right by this town. I didna do right by our neighbors, the Carsons. I am no better than Archibald. I am not this town’s rightful chief. But we—hear me well, all you Blairs—we alone canna hope to defy this man who has invaded our home not once, but twice. We canna do it.”

  He dropped to his knees, and when next he spoke, his voice broke. “Forgive me my failings, son. It perhaps would have been easier if I had not loved you as my own, but I did. I still do. Lachlan, my son. Forgive me, and trust me this final time, I beg you. We will not fail you again.”

  Lachlan’s throat constricted. It no longer mattered. It didn’t matter what Marcas had done or failed to do. Even if he could not save him, Lachlan still loved him, too.

  “I do,” Lachlan said.

  Marcas nodded, and his eyes grew hard as his hand disappeared inside his shawl. “Drop the letter, son.”

  Lachlan’s fingers opened without hesitation, and the pages written by Thomas Annesley swirled as if caught in time, twirling, floating, and then sliding into the flames, where they shimmered into red and black and yellow nothing.

  “No!” Vaughn Hargrave roared.

  And then all hell broke loose in Town Blair.

  * * * *

  Finley watched with her stomach in painful, stabbing knots as Lachlan stood near the balefire, what appeared to be sheets of parchment clutched in his hand.

  “Oh my lord,” Kirsten breathed at her side. “Oh, my lord, Dand is alive.”

  “Shh,” Finley said, watching Rory Carson closely now from where she and Kirsten peeked out from behind the corner of a house.

  The Carsons were just coming into place around the perimeter of Town Blair’s green on quiet Highland feet, with their great swords, their daggers, their axes and staffs. Hargrave’s guards were not paying any attention to the darkness beyond the ring of houses, didn’t see the scores of Carson men surrounding their positions, waiting, waiting…

  “Come on,” Finley whispered. She crouched and ran across the alley separating the houses, and then stepped up on a water barrel, hoisting herself up onto the low, sloped roof. She reached down and pulled Kirsten up, and then the two women crawled to the low peak of the house, looking over from the darkened backside. Finley reached down to ensure she’d not lost the blade attached to her shawl.

  Marcas Blair was standing in the center of the green, speaking words Finley could not quite hear.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw her father raising a fist in the air.

  Then Marcas Blair went slowly, deliberately, to his knees.

  Lachlan dropped the pages he was holding into the fire.

  The frightening cry of Carson warriors filled the bowl of the green as they charged forward, taking the foreign guards by surprise. Marcas flung the small dagger he withdrew from his shawl, striking the guard nearest Lachlan in the neck, and then he raced to where Blairs roiled from benches and tabletops like the water going over the falls, diving for the pile of confiscated weapons. They came aright and at once sprinted to the perimeter to engage the English guards.

  Crossbows twanged, metal on metal rang in the air, screams and grunts and wails sprang up like a fortress wall around the center of the green, where now Marcas Blair and Lachlan, swords in hand, circled slowly, opposite each other. In their midst stood Vaughn Hargrave and Harrell Blair, back to back.

  A score or more of the English guards lay dead on the green already, and several were now fleeing—running, limping eastward from town, and Finley remembered the carts waiting in the dark. Was the cargo more weapons? Perhaps even the explosive fire used on Carson Town thirty years ago? If the escaping men were allowed to reach it, if their loyalty to Hargrave was true, they could destroy the populations of both towns in one devastating moment.

  Finley raised up, trusting in the commotion below to mask her movements. She could see the shape of the horses in the distance, five or six houses away.

  “I’ve got to reach the carts, Kirsten,” she said.

  “Fin, if you’re caught, they’ll kill you!”

  “If I don’t, everyone here could be in even greater danger. Both towns this time, Kirsten. I can’t let that happen.”

  Kirsten stared at her with pleading eyes for a moment and then pulled Finley into a tight embrace. “You’re my best friend,” she whispered.

  After a moment, Finley squeezed Kirsten to her. “And you are mine.” She pulled away and went to her stomach, sliding from the roof to land on her feet with an oof.

  She slipped her blade from its sheath, crouched, and ran around the house, sticking to the shadows of the overhanging eaves, trying to shield herself from the sounds and sights of battle. One house, two…she paused, pressing her back flat against the wall as an English soldier lurched from between the houses, staggering, falling, his crossbow crashing to the ground. It fired, and the arrow whizzed toward Finley with a sick whine.

  She screamed, felt a tug on her sleeve, and her blade fell to the ground as a slow, spreading ache bloomed in her arm. She looked to the right and saw her sleeve ripped open, her upper arm split in a line of fleshy red, the shaft of the arrow still lying against her, where the tip had opened the side of her arm.

  She jerked away reflexively, and the arrow remained stuck in the wall behind her. But the pain spread up into her shoulder just as quickly as the blood flowed down her arm. She bent and picked up her dagger with her left hand and then pressed it and her palm against her wound as she stru
ck out once more toward the makeshift corral, staggering into the middle of the widening street, blinking away tears.

  The corral ropes had been torn down. Many of the able soldiers had mounted horses and bolted down the road, leaving the dead and dying behind, and Finley was grateful for the mercenary tendencies that prompted them to self-preservation over duty. Riderless horses milled about the track in a dusty panic, the torches sputtering in the road. Finley dodged the spooked beasts and ran toward the nearest cart, where she strained to lift the edge of the thick, heavy covering hiding the cargo to see the shadowy shapes of rows of padded earthen jugs, nestled together and affixed with corks. Finley squeezed beneath the tight canvas and reached in with a hiss at her burning arm to pull at one of the stoppers until it came free. She slipped from beneath the canvas and brought the cork to her nose and sniffed. The sharp odor took her breath, and set her nose and eyes running.

  Finley looked around her, fighting the dizziness that suddenly swarmed over her like bees.

  Hornets. Remember the hornets in Dove Douglas’s bed? Someone had to stand up to him, teasing all the girls so.

  She sheathed her blade before struggling to loosen the cart horses with only one arm. She slapped their rumps, sending them galloping off into the darkness, the cart shafts drunkenly tipping up in the air, the earthen jars giving hollow thunks and rattles.

  She shook her head to clear it. Now that the beds of the carts were raised, it was easy to retrieve a corner of the covering and pull it over the side, holding it down by her waist to twist it into a tight, spiraling point. Then she shoved the makeshift wick into the uncorked jug until it was wedged deep inside the neck of the bottle. Finley tipped the jug onto its side and smelled the volatile liquid as it began creeping up the tightly woven fabric and into the maze of batting.

  Finley turned around, staggering on her feet for just a moment as her vision cleared, then took her dagger in her bloody hand once more before shuffling toward a flickering torch lying in the road. She felt so strange, she nearly toppled over when she bent to pick it up, but managed to stand aright and face the cart once more. They were lined up, side by side, like dead bugs, or women, she thought. Women with their legs up in the air and their skirts over their heads, waiting patiently.

  She laughed aloud, thinking Kirsten would appreciate the joke. Finley’s right hand felt cold and she looked down and saw her fingers dripping red. But rather than scare her, it cleared her mind of the fear- and pain-induced hysteria that had seized her.

  Fire in one hand, her blade in the other, already coated in her own blood, she was a Carson tonight. As brave as any man—any son—of her town’s fine, as fierce as any clan chief’s wife. And she was fighting.

  Finley hurled the torch with an enraged cry into the bed of the closest cart as if it were a javelin. At first, she thought the flame had gone out, but then it bloomed like a hazy sun on the surface of the canvas and began to creep like a wave beneath sand. Finley backed away, slowly at first, and then some instinct warned her to run. Run.

  She stumbled back, turned, ran toward the green. The air pushed around her suddenly, heavy and hot, and then an explosion that shook the ground beneath her feet. Then another. And another. And another.

  She ducked behind the side of the closest house and the wall opposite her was lit up as brightly as if it were midday.

  Finley smelled noxious smoke. A burning piece of cart fell into the street with an explosion of fat droplets of fire. She dashed to the right, into the thickness of Carsons and Blairs, her dagger still clutched in her hand.

  Lachlan. She must find him and warn him. Murdoch—

  * * * *

  “I ken it’s the only reason ye didna kill me,” Geordie said when Murdoch’s weeping had quieted. “Why ye gave me leave to the old house, and kept my secret.” He paused. “Ye couldna squall about it to nae one else, could ye? Ye knew I’d never tell that it werenae the Blairs’ fault at all, what happened to Carson Town. Any Carson’d seen me would have cut me throat at first sight.”

  “I doona know that they would have done,” Murdoch said quietly, his words almost a whisper.

  “Aye,” Geordie agreed with a hearty nod. “But that’s what ye wanted me to believe, innit?”

  Murdoch’s reply was a whisper now. “Aye.”

  “An’ I did believe it. I know I’m nae clever.” He pulled out his small dagger from his pouch, its point already broken off when his father had given it to him years ago. Then he chose a stick near his side and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, scraping off the flaky, dried moss. “Tommy saved me and Edna the day the men came up the ben. He held ’em off while we ran. If it werenae for him, we’d a’ been killed. There’d been no bairn. No Lachlan Blair.”

  “If Sal would have stayed up the beach,” Murdoch muttered. “If Andrew would have just let the goddam ships go…”

  “None of this is nae one’s fault but yer own, Murdoch,” Geordie spat. “Yours an’ that English bastard down there now.” He stood and tossed the stick back to the ground as the ring of Carsons surrounding the Blair green in the darkness grew still in anticipation.. “Why do ye nae go down and say hallo to yer mate, Murdoch? May be he’ll take you with him this time.”

  Geordie started down the hill.

  “Geordie, wait!” Murdoch called out. “Doona go down there—you’re dead if ye do. Doona leave me!” When Geordie only kept walking, Murdoch demanded, “Do ye even know which side ye’ll fight for?”

  The battle cry rose up then, causing Geordie to flinch, but he did not hesitate in his advance. He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand, still holding his knife.

  “I’m nae on a side,” he muttered.

  Chapter 17

  “You’ll hang for this, Hargrave,” Lachlan said, circling the pair of men pinned together, Marcas on the far side. “For what you’ve done. You as well, Harrell.”

  Marcas’s harsh chuckle was clear. “They’ll nae last for a hanging, lad, have I any say for it.”

  Hargrave appeared wary but not quite flustered by his current predicament. “What crime have I committed for which you think I should hang, pray tell, Master Blair?”

  “The slaughter of Carson Town. The murder of the two men yonder,” Lachlan clarified.

  “Ah, no,” Hargrave replied. “You have absolutely no witnesses against me for the unfortunate incident thirty years ago. I arrived—as I have yet again—seeking nothing more than to locate the man who murdered my daughter. I had reliable intelligence that Carson Town was harboring that very fugitive. And as for those two men, why, I certainly didn’t kill them. Ask anyone here.”

  Lachlan refused to let Hargrave draw him into debate. “Your hired men are either dead or fleeing. Coin will only buy you so much loyalty. But just look around you, Hargrave; what do you see? Blairs and Carsons fighting together. Fighting you.”

  “Only temporarily, I’m sure,” Hargrave said with a sly smile. “Your kind can’t keep from resorting to barbarism for long.”

  “Da!” The voice came from behind Lachlan, but he wouldn’t take his eyes from the Englishman. “Da!”

  Searrach ran past Lachlan and threw herself on Harrell. Her gown was torn and filthy, her long, dark hair snarled with dirt and leaves. “Da! Finley Carson tried to kill me!”

  Finley was here? In the midst of the fighting?

  “Where is she, Searrach?” Lachlan demanded.

  Hargrave tsked. “Oh-oh, lovers’ quarrel?”

  “I hope she’s dead,” Searrach screamed at Lachlan over Harrell’s shoulder. “I’ll rip out her throat myself if I see her!”

  In that moment, Lachlan didn’t know how he ever could have desired the twisted-faced, dumpy, sullen woman before him. She was like the dark, murky water left in a puddle compared to Finley’s bright, fiery spirit.

  “Dand! Behind you!”

  The woman’s
voice seemed to somehow come from over Lachlan’s head, and he noticed Marcas’s face going slack as he stared across the green. Lachlan turned and saw his brother stumbling backward over a fallen body, while two English soldiers advanced on him with swords drawn. Dand’s back was to a longhouse wall; there was nowhere for him to run. He held his sword before him, ready to fight. He looked younger than his age, then, despite his brave face.

  “Marcas, go!” Lachlan shouted.

  His foster father hesitated only a moment and then sprinted toward Dand as Harrell took the opportunity to attempt to pull Searrach toward Archibald’s dark, old house through the void left by Marcas’s departure.

  She struggled against him. “I’m nae staying here, Da! I’m going to be married! Lord Hargrave said I’ll—”

  “You’ll come away before you get us both killed!” Harrell slapped Searrach’s face and then attempted to take advantage of her shock to haul her from the fray, but she shoved the spindly man with a shriek.

  “I’m going!” She struggled against her father’s flailing embrace.

  Lachlan dismissed Searrach to lock eyes with Vaughn Hargrave. “It’s just you and me now, Hargrave.”

  “Precisely as I’d hoped.” The Englishman twirled his own weapon expertly in his hand, then crouched down with a grin. “I’ve not done this in so very long. I believe I’ve rather missed it. Come on with you, then, boy.”

  They ran at each other, both swinging their blades. There were no blows landed at first, but the wind sang with each mighty thrust, youth and experience, desperation and righteousness springing up from the green around them like ancient spirits. Hargrave’s blade caught Lachlan’s shawl, sending his brooch flying with a sharp ting of metal; Lachlan nicked Hargrave’s forearm, doing more damage to the man’s velvet tunic than the flesh beneath it.

  “So slow, Lachlan. Shall I stop toying with you?” Hargrave taunted.