The Devil in Plaid(53)

Taking a deep breath, she held her wrists to her mouth and chomped down on one of the loose ends of rope and tugged hard. She screeched in frustration as the bindings only tightened. A moment later, the door that led to the battlements opened. She glimpsed Ranulf, his back to her as he looked over the parapet, but it was Thomas, or rather Fergus, who entered the room, closing the door behind him.

“My father has requested yer company,” he said, gently taking her by the arm and helping her to her feet.

“Was it all a lie, Thomas?” Fiona asked.

The young man’s gaze darted to the floor. “My name is Fergus,” he said simply.

“Or is yer name Bastard?” she snapped. “Because I’ve heard yer father call ye both?”

Fergus’s eyes flashed with anger. “Be careful, my lady. I do not take kindly to being insulted.”

“It was not I who did the insulting, but rather yer father. He does not love ye, Thomas, not like Abby does.”

Fergus hesitated. “She loves me?”

“With her whole heart,” Fiona answered.

His face softened. He seemed to consider her words, but then he shook his head. “She loves Thomas, the legitimate son of cottars. If she knew I was a bastard she would never love me.” His eyes grew distant and hard. “No one could ever love a bastard.”

“That’s yer father speaking,” she argued. “He could never love ye. His heart is not capable of love. But Thomas—ye have spent time with my clan. Ye have now experienced the love kin are meant to have for each other. Do ye not see that there is more to ye than a young man willing to do anything for his father’s love.”

“Enough,” he snapped.

“Thomas, please—”

He jerked her toward the door that led out to the battlements. “My name is Fergus.”





Chapter Thirty Two


Ranulf stood on the battlements, watching the army approach. He licked his lips and gripped the wall as a frenzy of excitement shot through him. Without even a drop yet spilled, he could smell the blood about to be shed. He inhaled deeply, imagining the iron taste in his mouth. Soon, agonizing cries of the dying would rend the air, the sound mingling with the roar of the victor. He relished the anticipation coursing through his veins. He was close to achieving his longstanding dream of dominance. His reign would be vast, and all would bow to him.

“Let them come,” he shouted as the enemy marched across the green and curved around the moat. Hundreds of Highland warriors, clad in the MacDonnell and MacLeod plaids stood just beyond the outer wall, and yet, Ranulf knew no fear in his heart.

The wealth of Clan MacKenzie was great even before Ranulf added the spoils of his own hard-earned coin to the coffers. His keep was strong and well-defended. He did not doubt that he could squash any attack, especially when the wife of the commander was his captive.

“Yer husband should have stayed home and found a new wench to warm his bed. Now, many of these men will die. ‘Tis a pity, really. I would have given yer warriors a chance to join our ranks.”

He relished the raw emotion passing over the lady’s beautiful face.

His words made her eyes narrow. “They would rather die than swear fealty to a murderer like yerself,” she spat.

He crushed her to his chest and kissed her lips hard. The more she struggled in his arms, the more aroused he became. He turned her around and pressed her up against the wall, so that she faced outward. He gripped her head with his hand. “Now, watch as yer warriors fail.”

He gazed out upon the vast army, waiting for the glorious sound of metal slicing the air as they unsheathed their blades. But they did not draw their swords, nor were they positioning a battering ram. They stood, silent, unmoving. Suddenly, from the lips of a single warrior, the battle cry of the MacDonnell rent the air. The entire army repeated the cry. The same warrior sounded the call of the MacLeod. Once again, the entire army thundered the words across the battlements.

Ranulf sneered. “Those words will be their last.”

And then the warrior unsheathed his blade and raised his sword high and shouted the battle cry of the MacKenzie—Ranulf’s own call—the cry of his people. His hands gripped the battlements in confusion as the entire army sounded the battle cry of the MacKenzie.

In a flash, MacKenzie warriors positioned on the outer wall turned and aimed their crossbows into the baily and fired on his men. Warriors, wearing his crest, crumpled to the ground. And then a rush of MacKenzie warriors surged from the stable and attacked his men at the gate.

“What are they doing!” he cried, shoving Fiona aside. Then he turned to Kenric. “Get down there. Kill the rebels. Kill them all!”

Ranulf stared in horror as more of his men fell. And then the grating of the gate wheel blasted his ears. “Stop them,” he shouted to Gregor who was now fighting his own kin, MacKenzie fighting MacKenzie. Ranulf leaned over the wall. “They are lowering the gate,” he screamed.

“Ye there,” he shouted to a cluster of farmers pressing against the wall to keep away from the fray. “Pick up a bloody pitchfork and kill those men.”

The farmers looked at each other, and then they sprang into action. But they did not heed Ranulf’s order. Some of the them rushed to the wheel to help open the gate while others did, indeed, take up pitchforks and sickles, but they trained their weapons only at the men wearing black, leather jerkins.