The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY

W ithin two candle-marks of his return from the witch’s glen, Alistair was on the road again, Ewan and a dozen of their best warriors mounted beside him. Ewan, to his credit, asked no questions. He simply helped Alistair into his battle gear and ordered the men onto their horses.

Alistair would have ridden at a gallop from his castle to MacTavish’s fortress, but he forced himself to set a pace the horses could actually manage. There was no point riding the beasts into the ground, or laming them permanently through misuse. No sense in driving the men so hard either. He wanted them fit for battle when they arrived, not exhausted from the hard ride.

It was hard. Had he not had Sorcha’s promise of spells, he might not have managed such restraint. But he had her promise, and she had never broken an oath. She could not, when her magic depended on her honor as much as her power. One did not risk angering spirits or otherworldly entities by failing to keep one’s word.

It helped that he could see the touch of her spell, to give them good passage, all around them. Heavy clouds seemed thinner around them, and the moon illuminated their path, giving way to a perfectly unobscured sunrise, such as was almost never seen in the Highlands at this time of year.

The ground seemed as smooth as a well tended road, even as they traveled across the wild moors. In every step, he could feel the touch of the magic guiding him and clearing his way as promised. It was a small comfort, but it reassured him that Sorcha would keep her other promise as well.

The cost would be his life, but she would preserve Niamh’s, and their unborn child’s.

He hadn’t told anyone of the child, not even Ewan. He couldn’t bear to. If they failed, better that his clan never knew how close they’d come to having a proper heir.

Finally, the fortress came into sight. Alistair almost questioned whether it was the correct one - it was smaller and cruder than he would have expected MacTavish’ to be - but even as he thought the words, a raven flew by, rising on the wind to circle the walls of the building. Alistair shook aside his doubts, recognizing it for the sign it was.

“What is the plan?” Ewan nudged his horse forward to stand beside Alistair’s. “It doesnae look heavily fortified. And we cannae be sure Niamh is here…”

“She is. We’ve followed the information I have so ‘far, ‘tis nae good tae start doubting it now.” Alistair shook his head. “Normally, I’d want tae wait, tae scout, but every moment we wait puts Niamh’s life at risk. And if Fergus MacTavish realizes we’re here, he’s likely tae kill her afore we can think o’ a strategy.”

“Then what dae ye intend tae dae?”

As if in answer, the raven flew by again, this time toward the eastern wall. Alistair watched it. “Charge the eastern gate. We tak’ it, we hold it with three or four warriors, then the rest o’ us enter the keep and search fer Niamh, with men stationed at critical points tae prevent soldiers from tak’ng us from the back.”

“’Tis risky.” Ewan spoke softly.

“’Tis the best option I can think o’. If ye’ve another idea, speak it now.”

“I’ll nae, so long as ye promise me one thing.” Ewan caught his shoulder. “Ye’ll follow me, nae the other way around.”

Alistair started. “I…”

“The clan needs laird and lady far more than it needs a second-in-command. Ye’ll trust yerself tae me sword, me laird, or I’ll ask the men tae keep ye back entirely.” Ewan’s voice was firm.

After a moment, Alistair nodded. He knew, as Ewan did, that he could easily override such an order. But he also understood why his brother had threatened it. “As ye will.”

They all took a moment to adjust and tighten their armor, then loosen their blades in their sheathes. Final words were exchanged.

“Ready?”

There was a mutter of agreement. Ewan shared a last look with Alistair, then kicked his horse into a gallop with a sharp cry.

The rest of them followed, with Alistair in the center of the vanguard. The guards at the eastern gate saw them coming, there was no question of that, but they had no time to get their defenses raised before Alistair and his company thundered into them.

The guards were on foot, and ill-prepared. Against armed and armored men on horseback, it was no contest. The warriors of the MacDuff clan were through the gate with a crash of steel and splintering wood before any of the men on guard had time to do more than raise a futile sword and shield.

Ewan snapped out four names, and four warriors immediately took up mounted guard positions at the gate, while the rest of them dismounted and hurried toward the front door.

By then, guards were pouring toward them from every side. Alistair launched a dirk at one man, bashed another with his sword hilt, then cleaved another. There was a whistle of arrows and he spun, looking for the threat.

Two of the mounted warriors were archers. They’d seized the guards bows and were shooting at any man they could find to target, from the sentries on the walls to the approaching MacTavish warriors.

Ewan had known. Alistair had not even realized that their party included two archers. He wouldn’t have known, wouldn’t have thought to use the men like that…

Then any thoughts of gratitude were lost in the chaos as the melee closed around them again.

There was no telling how many men he killed, maimed or injured before they gained the door. It didn’t matter. Ewan set most of the men to guarding the door, and they hurried through the halls.

No one in the Main Hall, save for frightened servants. Two men were left to guard them.

No one in the first receiving room. Or the second. Then he found the door to the dungeons. Ewan sent two men down to explore, but there was no one, though there were signs of a prisoner.

Another room, then another…

Then he flung open the door to another room and froze.

Fergus MacTavish stood there, one hand holding a dagger.

The other hand held Niamh, with the dagger’s tip pricking her throat as she stared at him in wide-eyed terror.

Alistair waved Ewan to the door and stepped into the room, his lip curling in a snarl of fury. “Fergus MacTavis. Release me wife, now, and I’ll make yer death quick.”

MacTavish sneered back. “I’ll nae.” His expression twisted in a gloating expression of self-satisfaction and arrogance. “I didnae expect ye tae get so far intae me keep, but now that ye’re here, ye can watch me cut yer little wife’s throat.”

“Yer hand moves, and ye’ll die.”

“Empty threats. Ye cannae reach me afore she bleeds out. Nay more than ye could stop me afore I killed yer first lover.”

Alistair felt his stomach clench. Fury roared up, red and hot and heedless, threatening to carry him away. He focused on the pressure of the armband he’d had Ewan help him retie before they attacked. The red tide receded, leaving him in control.

MacTavish kept speaking. “’Tis ironic, is it nae? How history repeats itself? I caught yer first beloved away from ye, and I killed her. Now I’ll dae the same tae yer second, and ye cannae stop me. Ye can only decide how fast she dies.”

MacTavish’s sneer deepened. “I expected it tae tak’ longer fer ye tae discover the trail. I’d planned tae have me men entertain themselves with yer woman, as they did with the last. I suppose ye’ll have tae pay me back fer that loss o’ entertainment.”

The knife shifted a little. “What dae ye think? Perhaps I should kill yer wife slowly in front o’ ye? After I’ve broken yer arms and legs, so ye’re helpless o’ course. I’ve dreamed o’ that often, ye ken.”

“I ken ye’re a depraved bastard, nae fit tae be laird o’ a midden heap, much less a clan.” Alistair’s voice raked his throat like swallowing coals, but at least he was coherent enough to speak.

“O’ course, there’s yer braither too. Ye brought him with ye… should I kill him first? An interesting thought. Which would ye save, if yer braither and yer lover both have knives tae their throats? Who would ye send tae die first?”

He wanted, for a single moment, to turn to see that Ewan was all right. But he’d heard no sounds of fighting. No shouts. He had to trust Ewan. He was a warrior, strong and confident, and there was another beside him. He had to have faith in his brother’s abilities. “Ewan’s in nay danger from the likes o’ ye and yer men.”

“Ye think nae? When ye’re so sorely outnumbered, and I have ye and yer lady at the tip o’ me blade?”

Fergus continued to gloat and sneer, but Alistair no longer paid him any heed. His attention focused on Niamh.

She was pale, and still looked scared, but now that she was no longer standing with a dagger at her neck, she looked less terrified. She was also staring at him with a fixed expression. The moment he caught her gaze, she tipped her chin upward.

He didn’t understand. She repeated the motion, this time shifting in MacTavish’s grasp, as if she were struggling not to faint. MacTavish snarled and pulled her closer, moving his grip as he did so.

Another look, and this time it was as if some spirit whispered in his ear.

MacTavish was far taller than Niamh. If she could get loose of his grip, or if she fainted or fell, MacTavish’s head and torso would be open. Not enough, perhaps, for a straightforward attack. But a thrown dagger or belt axe… that was different.

From this distance, he couldn’t miss, especially if Niamh was no longer a shield for the man.

The axe was harder to block, and more likely to do fatal damage at the first blow. Fortunately, Ewan had made him carry a shield, rather than dual blades as he sometimes preferred. It was no difficulty at all to slide his hand to the axe on his belt, under the pretense of succumbing to exhaustion and despair. All it took was for him to let his fear show on his face, and MacTavish never noticed.

A moment later, the axe was in his hand. Alistair met his wife’s gaze. “Niamh…”

Niamh sagged in Fergus’s grip as if fainting or in despair, falling forward so suddenly that MacTavish was taken entirely off guard. He staggered, his grip broken.

Alistair threw the axe. He gave himself no time to think, no time to consider. No time to aim. Instead, he trusted Niamh’s instincts and his own skills, honed in a lifetime of practice.

The axe flew true and buried itself in Fergus MacTavish’s skull with a crunch. Blood sprayed, even as Fergus staggered back under the force of it. Niamh scrambled to get out of the way.

MacTavish was dead before he even began to fall. He hit the wall, then slid down it, his eyes blank and an ugly sneer still on his face. The dagger clattered to the floor, no longer a threat.

It was over. Alistair felt as if he might want to sit down in relief. But there was something more important to take care of. He moved forward and gathered Niamh from the floor into his arms. “Niamh.” He almost choked on the word. “Ye brave, foolish woman…”

“I trusted ye. Tae come fer me, and tae save me, and tae aim true if ye had the opening.” She leaned against him. “I kent… I dinnae ken how, but I was sure ye’d understand me.”

“I dinnae ken how either, but I did.” He tugged her closer. “I… I was afraid I’d be too late.”

“I wasnae.” Niamh shook her head. “I kent that I’d live tae see ye again. I wouldnae have let it be otherwise. Nae when…” She trailed off.

“When?” Alistair suspected he knew exactly what she was thinking of, but he couldn’t speak of his knowledge, afraid that if he did, he would reveal the price he would pay when they returned.

“I need Catriona tae confirm it, but I believe I am with child.”

“Then I am twice as glad I made it in time.” He bent to kiss her, then rose, still holding her in his arms. “’Tis time fer both o’us tae go home.”

“What o’...”

“Clan MacTavish has nay laird, and nay designated heir. As conquerors, we can claim the right tae appoint a laird, until someone with a better claim comes forward. Or we can absorb the clan intae our own, and MacTavish will cease tae exist.”

Alistair had some ideas on that front, but they would wait. His priority was to get Niamh home. Then he would keep his promise tae Sorcha.

Everything else could wait.