The Devil in Plaid(12)

“I am telling ye—there is no way the MacKenzie is behind this attack.”

Graham, one of her father’s fiercest warriors, stepped forward. His skin was streaked with soot and blood. In his hand, he clasped a strip of torn plaid. The colors made her heart sink. “Forgive me, my lady, but ye’re mistaken.”

She shook her head. “But if it was Clan MacKenzie who attacked us, then why did they send a rider to warn us of their coming?”

No one replied. The men around her exchanged glances.

“Ye’re right, lass,” her father said. “None of this makes any sense.”

“Where is the rider?” Fiona demanded.

An elderly woman with a brown scarf covering her long, gray hair crossed to Fiona’s side. The healer rested her gnarled hand on Fiona’s arm. “He sleeps.”

“Well, wake him up,” Gordon MacDonnell growled.





Chapter Six


Jamie McLeod sat on the edge of his bed, having sought a few moments of solitude. Releasing a long, slow breath, he rested his head in his soot and blood streaked hands. But when he closed his eyes all he could see were images of the recent attacks. Fields going up in flame. Women and children dead. Growling, he fisted his hands as a fresh wave of fury coursed through him.

Damn Fiona MacDonnell to Hell!

The viper had run home to her father after Jamie had seen her safely from his lands and, no doubt, spewed vicious lies against him. More than that, she had clearly turned the MacKenzie against his clan. Now, his people were being slaughtered, but he was powerless to defend his kin against both clans MacDonnell and MacKenzie.

How could he possibly set this right?

A moment later, a sharp rapping sounded on his door the instant before Matthew, his second in command, walked in.

“The council has assembled in the great hall.”

Jamie closed his eyes for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and stood. Crossing to the hearth, he rested his forearm on the stone mantle and stared into the fire. Small, demon faces bared their teeth at him, staring up through the dancing flames. The frightening images had been carved by his grandfather to appease his wife. Jamie’s grandmother had believed the fairfolk would fly down the chimney and take her babies from their cradles. The demonic sprites still decorated the bed of the hearth all the way to the mantle. As a child, Jamie could remember being terrified of the hearth and had vowed to have them plastered over when he became laird. Now, the faces were a constant comfort, a reminder of the men who had come before him and borne the weight of the chiefdom with courage and compassion.

He turned to face Matthew. “I am ready.”

Upon entering the great hall, Jamie listened to his council members’ fury and distress over the recent violent raids from the MacKenzie.

“They burned out poor William’s croft with him and his Elsa still inside,” Grant choked out. “His children…” he shook his head, pressing his lips together in a grim line. “They were slaughtered. We found them in a field near the house as if they had tried to run but had been cut down, arrows mangling their wee bodies.”

Jamie slammed his fist on the table.

“Hamish and his family suffered the same fate,” Matthew added. “That brings the death toll to twenty.”

Jamie stood, fury seething within him. He pressed his hands on the table and looked each of his council in the eyes. “They’ve slaughtered our cottars, burned our fields, and torched one of our storehouses. They must be stopped.”

Matthew stood up. “The MacKenzie has five times the men and stores. They are toying with us, trying to force our surrender.”

Jamie pushed away from the table, raking his hands through his hair. “So my cousin reminds me,” he muttered bitterly.

Jamie had sent a messenger to his cousin, Kenneth, chieftain of Clan MacLeod on the Isle of Harris to the north. Kenneth sent back a missive offering men to help defend Jamie’s keep, but he refused to send warriors to mount an offensive attack, arguing it would be sending his men to be slaughtered. Kenneth promised to stand with Jamie only with better odds.

As much as Jamie wanted to be furious with his cousin, he knew Kenneth was right. Attacking the MacKenzie with only the might of the MacLeod would be suicide. What’s more, he knew the MacDonnell chit was engaged to Adam MacKenzie, which only stacked the odds further against the MacLeod. No matter how he looked at it, he was outnumbered. Never had his clan stood so close to the brink of ruination.

He fisted his hands. “This cannot be the end of the MacLeod.”

“My laird,” Edward shouted as he rushed into the great hall.

Jamie turned and looked at the young stable hand. “What is it?”

“A rider from the MacDonnell has been spotted.”

Matthew lunged to his feet. “Prepare for battle!”

The room erupted into chaos. Grant unsheathed his broad sword. “I am ready for blood, my laird.”

“Hold,” the young lad cried, waving his arms.

“Silence,” Jamie bellowed.

Everyone froze. Jamie turned to Edward. “Speak,” he snapped.

“The MacDonnell bears the colors of his clan alongside our own colors.”

Jamie straightened. “Are ye certain?”

The lad nodded, wide-eyed.

Jamie turned and stormed from the great hall, down the wide steps, and into the courtyard. He raced across to the inner wall and thundered up the stairs to the top of the battlements, taking them three at a time. Straightway, he spotted the lone rider who sat astride his horse, and, sure enough, he held two banners high—one bearing the colors of Clan MacDonnell and the other, the crest of Clan MacLeod.