The Devil in Plaid(54)

“Fergus, ye bastard, what is happening?” Ranulf shouted. His son’s eyes were wide. His hands gripped his hair.

“I do not know, father,” he cried.

“Stop it,” he shouted down at a dozen or more cottars who had Gregor surrounded. “Nay,” Ranulf shouted as the mob cut Gregor down.

Ranulf’s heart pounded. He spied Kenric swinging his sword, cutting down the treacherous farmers and MacKenzie warriors who dared defy him. “Get them, Kenric!”

The drawbridge touched down. A surge of MacLeod and MacDonnell warriors thundered into the baily with a massive swordsman in the lead.

“Jamie!” Lady Fiona cried out beside him.

“Shut up,” he snarled and brought the back of his hand against her cheek. She stumbled back, falling on her side.

He looked back to the battle below, grinning when he saw that Kenric was even larger than the infamous Laird MacLeod. With greedy eyes, he relished each blow of Kenric’s sword as he forced Jamie to retreat.

He reached down and yanked the lady to her feet. “Watch while yer beloved falls beneath the might of a true swordfighter.” Then he shouted. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners!”

Kenric swung his sword. Ranulf held his breath, but the MacLeod ducked. Again, Kenric lashed out, his blade glinting in the sun. This time Jamie blocked the blow. Still, Kenric trudged forward, using his greater strength to push his opponent back. Jamie’s feet slipped. He fell forward, but rolled quickly, avoiding Kenric’s sword that plunged down, driving into the earth rather than the MacLeod’s body. Jamie spun, swinging his blade. Kenric yanked at his sword, freeing it from the ground just as Jamie’s sword sliced through his neck.

“Nay!” Ranulf shouted as Kenric’s head fell to the ground, his body crumpling moments after.

Ranulf whirled around. “Ye,” he snarled at the lady.

Her eyes glinted, and a smile curved her lips.

“What have ye done?” he gritted, his fingers biting into her shoulders.

“Ye’ve lost,” she said, her voice deadly soft.

He growled, hearing the thunder of footsteps charging through the keep. He swung her back around, dragged her into the solar, then flung her to the ground. She struggled to sit up. Her hair fell in messy waves, obscuring her face. But she flung her head back, her hair cascading behind her, her chin raised with defiance.

“The people have taken their clan back,” she declared.

Rage coursed through him. “Shut up,” he shouted as he grabbed her. Lifting her feet off the ground, he threw her back, slamming her against the hearth. She cried out in pain. For a moment, she lay unmoving. Anger pulsed through him. He glowered at her and unsheathed the blade strapped to his back. She lifted her head. Her eyes widened. A thrill of desire shot through him. He wanted her blood. She fought to sit up, to scramble away, but her hands were tied. She no longer smiled at him. The arrogant glint in her eyes had vanished. Blood trickled down her temple, and she stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Aye, that’s right. Be afraid,” he said. He slowly raised his blade above his head. Her weakened body squirmed. “If I lose, then so do ye,” he cried, swinging his sword, but the clash of metal rang out. He jerked his head around to see who parried his blow.

“Fergus,” he snarled.

“She is an unarmed woman,” his son gasped.

Ranulf sneered. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners. Remember, ye bastard.”

Fergus lowered his blade. “We’ve lost, father. ‘Tis not she who must now ask for mercy. ‘Tis ye.”

Ranulf seethed, but he lowered his blade and offered his son his hand. Fergus eyed him for a moment, then tentatively reached out, accepting his father’s hand.

“Ye’re right, son,” Ranulf said. “’Tis not Lady Fiona who must beg for mercy.” He thrust his sword, catching Fergus beneath his ribs. “’Tis ye,” he growled.

“Nay!” Fiona screamed.

Fergus’s eyes widened. He sputtered, pressing his hands to his wound. “Father,” he gasped before he fell forward, his body sprawled on the floor.

“Ye always were weak,” Ranulf growled. “Now, ye’re dead.”

Turning back to take care of the MacLeod wench, he growled. She was gone. He turned about, not knowing by which door she had left. He charged for the closest door and threw it open just as a throng of servants, armed with pitchforks and spades, came rushing down the hall at him. He scurried back and slammed the door before scrambling across the room to the next door, which he swung wide. Lady Fiona held a sword at the ready. Behind her a dozen warriors bared their teeth at him.

She glared at him. “Ye’re finished, Ranulf.”

Ringing filled his ears. His heart pounded as he stumbled back. Climbing to his feet, he charged for the final door, but it swung wide before he could reach it. Jamie MacLeod filled the doorframe and took aim at Ranulf with a crossbow. Before Ranulf could duck, an arrow lodged in his shoulder. He turned away from the fierce Highland chieftain right into Fiona’s blade. Turning back around, he growled at Jamie. “Aren’t ye going to finish me?”

*

Jamie reloaded his weapon, wanting nothing more than to put an arrow through Ranulf’s skull.

“Are ye too soft?” Ranulf taunted, his eyes wild and desperate. “What if I told ye, I took her over that table.” He cupped his manhood. “I rode her good and hard.” He smelled his fingers. “I still have her juices on my hands.”