The Devil in Plaid Page 4

  Esme’s cheeks reddened. “Ye can’t be kissing a strange man. We don’t know his family. What were ye thinking, Abby?”

  Brows drawn, Fiona stood, then sat next to Abby on the bed. “Ye ken I usually try to stay out of things between ye two, but Esme’s right. Ye’re still young, too young to be fooling around with men. Yer liable to gain a reputation.”

  “Then who will marry ye?” Esme added.

  “But he had such gorgeous, stormy black eyes and broad shoulders and—”

  Just then the bell sounded.

  “’Tis time for chapel,” Fiona said.

  Esme stood up and shook the wrinkles from her skirts. “Abby, ye’d best stay after the service and confess yer dalliance to Father John.”

  “I will not,” Abby shot back. “It was only a kiss.”

  “Silence,” Fiona snapped. Her heart started to race. “The bell has not stopped.” She held her breath. Still, it rang out, her heart hammering in time to its fierce clanging. “’Tis the alarm.”

  Fiona rushed to the casement and threw open the shutters and leaned out. Warriors were straining as they turned the wheel to drop the drawbridge. Fiona held her breath watching, waiting. Several moments later, a single rider entered the outer wall.

  “He bears the colors of my lord,” Fiona exclaimed. “He must bring word from Adam. She narrowed her eyes on the rider. His seat did not look right. Her hand flew to her mouth as the man slid to the ground, his body sprawled out, unmoving.

  “Saints above,” Fiona gasped. She whirled around and raced from her chamber, then down the stairs, through the great hall, and out into the courtyard.

  “What is happening?” she cried when her path intercepted her father’s.

  Laird Gordon MacDonnell also hastened to reach the rider. “I do not ken, child,” he said, breathless from his excursion.

  A wall of MacDonnell warriors encircled the body.

  “Clear the way,” her father called.

  The men scurried back. Fiona dropped to her knees next to the injured man. Two arrows protruded from his chest.

  Tears stung her eyes. She recognized him from her visits to the Mackenzie keep. She pressed a trembling hand to his cheek. “Henry, what word have ye brought from my lord,” she asked.

  He muttered something she could not hear.

  She dropped her head, putting her ear just above his mouth.

  “They are coming,” he rasped. Then his eyes closed. His head rolled to the side.

  She sat straight and locked eyes with her father. “Close the drawbridge. They’re coming!”

  Chapter Five

  “More wood for the fires,” Fiona shouted to the lads carrying baskets on their backs, teeming with cut wood. She stood on the battlements where large cauldrons of water lined the parapet, suspended over hot flames in preparation for a breach of the inner wall.

  “Fiona!”

  She whirled around and crossed to the other side of the battlements and looked down onto the courtyard, which was filled with her kinfolk. The alarm had sent villagers rushing from the fields and their vulnerable peat homes to the safety of the keep. She prayed the many cottars that dotted their lands had made it to one of the fortified towers built to protect those who lived too far to reach Castle Creagan in case of attack.

  Below her, she glimpsed mothers trying to soothe crying babies while children huddled in their skirts. Farmers were being turned into warriors. They took up swords and targs, listening intently to orders from the MacDonnell captains.

  “Fiona!”

  Again, her father called to her. Looking down, she met his gaze, his face red with fury.

  “Blast it all, lass! Get yerself to the keep,” he shouted.

  She shook her head. “I will not hide away, Father. I’m needed here.”

  “Who needs ye?”

  “I’m helping Broden.”

  “Fiona, Broden can handle it. Get down here!”

  She stood her ground, despite her father’s protests. “Ye can yell at me after we’ve saved our necks.”

  She turned away from her laird and scanned the outer curtain. Dozens of MacDonnell warriors lined the battlements, standing in the crenels with pikes and crossbows at the ready. A sudden cry snaked her attention to the stone stairs leading up to where she stood. One of the wee lads had tripped, spilling his basket of wood.

  “Hurry, William,” she shouted and raced down to help. The lad thundered up the stairs in front of her when his basket was righted, then dropped to his knees, adding fuel to the hot flames.

  “’Tis still not enough,” she cried.

  William nodded, jumped to his feet, and scurried back down the stairs.

  “Look, my lady,” Broden shouted from where he stood further along the inner wall. With crossbow in hand, he pointed beyond the outer curtain. Her gaze followed his. At least five score riders charged down the sloping moors. Her hands gripped the wall as they disappeared from view only to rise up, cresting over the next hill. Each rider clasped a torch. Fire blazed and danced as they barreled toward the outskirts of the village.

  “Nay,” Fiona screamed, leaning over one of the crenels. Helpless, she watched the enemy circle their fields, swinging their torches. Her heart quaked when their crops went up in flames.

  She whirled around the instant she heard the MacDonnell war cry rend the air and the clanking of the drawbridge being lowered. Horses thundered across the cobblestones beneath her. Holding her breath, she watched as her clan’s warriors cleared the outer wall and raced out to meet the enemy with her father in the lead. Fire spread. Flames licked the peat huts, but when the enemy reached the heart of the village, her heart sank. So much destruction. The clash of metal rang out, distracting her from the fiery scene. She strained to distinguish her clansmen from the enemy, but the skirmish was too far away.

  She tore her gaze from the fray and hastened across the battlements, a surge of determination coursing through her when she saw the large cauldrons had begun to boil.

  “Ready yerselves,” she called to her men.

  Then she cupped her hands and shouted across to the warriors on the outer wall.

  “What do ye see?”

  “The enemy retreats,” Alasdair shouted back.

  Her heart leapt. The men around her cheered.

  She turned back to look beyond the battlements to the village, but her view was obscured by a blanket of thick gray smoke.

  The enemy had withdrawn. Still, they had set her world on fire.

  She prayed her father had fended them off before the blaze found their stores.

  Fiona raced down to the courtyard and waited breathlessly at the gate for her father and the warriors to return. When she spotted the riders, she scampered out of the way. Hooves pounded the wooden bridge. Her father dismounted. She raced to his side, weaving around the horses and men.

  “Father,” she cried, throwing herself against his broad chest. Strong arms encircled her. “I’m all right, pet,” he crooned. Pulling back, he looked down at her and gently brushed at a tear streaming down her cheek that she had not known she’d shed. A smile tugged at his lip. “Ye’re my lioness with unfailing courage, but ye’re still my sweet, wee lass. Do not cry, Fiona. Yer da is fine.”

  She swallowed back further tears. “Who were they? We could not make out their colors from the distance.”

  Gordon’s nostrils flared. His lips pressed in a grim line. “It was the MacKenzie.”

  Fiona sucked in a sharp breath. She backed away from him, shaking her head. “Ye’re mistaken, of course,” she began. “We’ve made an alliance with the MacKenzie. I am betrothed to Adam. What ye say is impossible.”

  He reached for her hand. “I’m telling ye what I saw with my own eyes, Fiona. The men who just attacked us, who burned our fields, who lit those fires…” He pointed toward the smoke billowing high in the sky. “They wore colors of the MacKenzie.”

  Fiona gripped her head between her hands, her mind racing.

  But she ha
d just visited the clan not a fortnight ago.

  Adam had professed his love for her.

  The MacKenzie, himself, had embraced her warmly and called her daughter as she bade him farewell.

  “’Tis impossible,” she snapped once more before she turned on her heel and stormed back through the inner wall toward the keep.

  Gordon followed quickly behind her. “I do not tell ye this to hurt ye,” he said, reaching her side.

  She hurried through the courtyard and mounted the steps. Already the council was beginning to gather in the great hall. The murmur of their conversations reached her ears.

  “Are ye certain is was the MacKenzie?” someone said.

  “I’ve no doubt,” came the reply.

  “Enough,” she shouted, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.

  Everyone grew silent. All eyes were on her.

  “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.

  Jamie turned and shouted down to Michael. “Prepare for an attack but make no move unless I give the signal.” Then he called to the guardsmen at the gate, “Lower the bridge.”

  Jamie stood with his feet wide and his arms crossed over his chest while he watched the rider nudge his horse cautiously into the courtyard of Castle Làidir. With a wary eye on Jamie, the warrior dismounted and dipped his head in greeting.

  “I am Robert MacDonnell.” He withdrew a missive from his sporran. “I bring ye an urgent message from my laird.”

  Jamie took the offered parchment and motioned his scribe to his side. “Phillip, what do ye make of this?” he asked, handing off the scroll.

  Phillip’s eyes darted over the page, his lips moving in a quick flutter. Then he looked up at Jamie. “The MacDonnell wishes to unite with the MacLeod against their common enemy.”

  Jamie arched his brow. “And who is that meant to be?”

  “It says here Clan MacKenzie.”

  Jamie crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the messenger. “If yer chieftain’s daughter is betrothed to the son of the Mackenzie, how is the Clan MacKenzie our common enemy?”

  Robert’s eyes widened. “Do ye mean ye’ve not heard?”

  Jamie lunged forward and grabbed the top fold of Robert’s plaid. “What have I not heard?” he snarled.

  “The MacKenzie is dead and so is his son, both murdered,” the messenger blurted.

  Jamie froze, then slowly released his
grip on the man’s plaid. “Donald MacKenzie is dead?”

  Robert made the sign of the cross. “He is, may God rest his soul.”

  Jamie repeated the action of the MacDonnell warrior before he asked, “By whose hand?”

  “His own brother, Ranulf MacKenzie. He has taken the clan by force.”

  Jamie remembered seeing Ranulf MacKenzie at a gathering of the clans when Jamie was just eight years old. Ranulf had been regarded as the fiercest swordsmen at the games and won every honor in which he competed. It had been years since Jamie heard his name spoken. “The last I heard, Ranulf MacKenzie was a hired sword, making a fortune in England.”

  Robert nodded. “Indeed, but now he has returned with the spoils of his trade, a fortune in gold and a small army of lethal swordsmen. They have adopted the MacKenzie plaid, but wear black leather jerkins that bear Ranulf’s own crest.”

  “How has he come by his own crest?” Jamie asked.

  “He claims to have been awarded the prestige by an English lord.”

  Jamie shook his head in disbelief. “He is a traitor to his kin and his king.”

  Fury coursed through him. It all was beginning to make sense. His own clan had not feuded with the MacKenzie for more than a hundred years. Jamie had assumed his enemy, Laird MacDonnell, had turned Laird MacKenzie against Jamie’s clan when their children became betrothed. But now, Jamie understood that the MacDonnell and his own clan did, indeed, face a new and treacherous foe. The recent, vicious attacks—the slaughter of innocents—revealed the character of Ranulf MacKenzie. He was a tyrant who needed to be stopped.

  “Come inside the keep, Robert,” Jamie said, turning on his heel. Once inside the great hall, he started pacing.

  Alone, his clan was powerless against the might of the Mackenzie, but how could he join with the MacDonnell? The feud between their clans went back hundreds of years. The origins of their conflict were now forgotten, but many of the elders remembered the last time the two clans had tried to reconcile.