Sixteen
Fires blazed toward the heavens from the valley where the Summer Walkers were known to dwell, and fear lodged itself in Callum’s heart. He and Broch exchanged a look, and then they both drew their swords.
“My God,” Marsaili said from her perch in front of Callum on his destrier. “It appears as if the entire valley is burning!”
Though the sun was now high in the sky, Callum could no longer see it, for the smoke that rose from the valley was thick and gray. He slowed his horse to a stop. “Marsaili, I want ye to wait here.”
She twisted around to look at him. “Nay! Ye said we would face our problems together.”
“Aye, I did, but we dunnae ken what has occurred below. I dunnae think it can be peaceful, given the fires. I want to keep ye safe.”
She placed a hand on his cheek. “And I love ye for that and so much more.” Hearing her say she loved him made his chest squeeze warmly. “But I’ll nae let ye ride into possible danger alone, and if ye try to leave me here”—she tilted her chin up defiantly—“I’ll just follow.”
He didn’t doubt it. Her stubbornness was one of the reasons he had fallen in love with her. That combined with the bravery she displayed now made him feel so much love that he ached. He wanted to argue, but he knew it was pointless. He nodded. “Stay by my side, ye ken?”
She nodded and held out her hand. “Give me a weapon please.”
He withdrew a dagger from the holder at his hip and handed it to her, then turned to Broch and Maria. He settled his gaze on Broch, who looked disgruntled. Callum assumed it was because he had relented to Marsaili’s wish to ride down below with him, but when Broch glared at Maria and said, “This one refuses to stay, as well,” Callum realized the Highlander was irritated that he’d not been able to convince Marai to do as he bid.
Maria smiled sweetly. “Ye need me there to aid ye.”
Broch frowned. “Ye’re a lass.”
She snorted. “Therefore, I must be weak?”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“Lean close, ye big clot-heid. I will kiss ye farewell, then.” When Broch leaned forward to kiss Maria, she snatched his dagger out of the holder on his hip and held it to his throat. “I may be a lass,” she said in a cool tone, “but I am nae weak.”
Broch pushed the dagger away with the tip of his finger. “Ye may come, but dunnae ever hold my dagger against me again, lass.”
“Dunnae offend me, then,” she shot back.
“Fair enough,” he replied. “Let us ride.”
They set a slow pace down the hill. Callum scanned the surrounding woods for enemies as best he could, but with the smoke so thick he knew they were easy targets to ambush if someone was wishing to do so. The closer they came to the camp below—or what was left of it—dead bodies began to litter the ground.
Marsaili clutched at his leg. “Someone has laid waste to the Summer Walkers,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Aye,” he whispered, pulling his horse to a halt. “We walk from here so we will nae be so easy to spot.”
Marsaili nodded, and he quickly helped her dismount, as Broch did Maria. With Marsaili behind him, they climbed down the steep embankment, the smoke so heavy now that Callum’s eyes burned and he had to swallow repeatedly to keep from coughing. He looked toward the river, where fires burned almost in a straight line.
“Someone has set the tents on fire,” he said.
Marsaili moaned an almost animalistic sound, but Callum did not need to ask why. If their son had been here, he could be dead. If he had not been here, where was he? Black rage swept through Callum as he considered the possibility of never knowing his own son. He cursed himself for not riding to Marsaili’s home so long ago to see her dead body with his own two eyes. He cursed himself for ever leaving her in the first place. He should have taken her with him the day he’d departed her home. He’d lived with guilt over choosing his heart over his clan, but he realized in this moment that by choosing his heart, he would strengthen his clan with Marsaili by his side. Their love was a mighty alliance all on its own.
The camp was eerily quiet, so when a child cried out, the screeching pierced the silence. It was a lone cry, high-pitched before it turned into a wail. The cry seemed to echo to the very chambers of Callum’s heart, as if his soul recognized his son. He could not explain it, but he glanced back at Marsaili and saw her eyes wide, her face white as snow. She knew it, too.
“Callum,” she sobbed.
The cry came again, louder, and then through the thick smoke, they became visible—a sea of warriors clad in the Campbell plaid. In the front of the hundreds of men, one man sat on a great, black charger with a wailing boy sitting in front of him.
All logic fled. With a bellow, Callum raised his sword to charge the men, but a dagger pierced his sword arm from behind, and he dropped his sword. Shocked, he turned as Broch swooped upon him and slid the flat of his blade across Callum’s neck. “If ye move,” the Scot said, “I’ll slit yer throat.”
The anger and betrayal he felt was almost numbing. “I will kill ye,” he replied, nearly choking on the words.
Broch had given her a look, hadn’t he? Marsaili’s heart beat wildly with doubt as two of her father’s guards seized her. They started to drag her toward Callum.
“Marsaili!” he roared, straining against the four men who were now holding him.
She winced at the blood that dripped down his arm and the raw pain that twisted his features. He loved her. She would have that knowledge in her heart for the rest of her life, no matter what was to come.
“Marsaili!” he bellowed, his voice buffeting her back like a violent wind as she was led away.
She trembled as she walked toward her father and her son. It was her child; she was sure of it. His cherubic cheeks were red from crying, his big, dark eyes glistened with tears, his brown, curly hair was a tussled mess.
He was perfect. And he had Callum’s eyes—they hadn’t remained blue as they were at birth—and she was grateful for it. Her heart clenched with a strange mixture of love and pain. As she was stopped in front of her father, she tried to recall exactly what she’d seen in Broch’s gaze right before he had thrown his other dagger at Callum. Broch’s eyes had pleaded, she thought. His look had beseeched her not to fight what he was doing. Doubt battered her, but she trusted Broch. He was honorable to the core. He had, she was sure, known instantly what she had when Callum had charged toward her father: Callum was going to die. Fear had frozen her mind and her body, rendering her useless.
She prayed now as her father’s cold eyes swept up over her that Broch had a plan that would save Callum’s life and somehow enable Callum to rescue their son. As for her, as long as her son was safe with Callum, she could withstand anything. She would do her part.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Broch as he strode up and stopped to stand beside her.
“What business have ye here, Broch MacLeod?” her father growled. It did not surprise her that her father recalled Broch. They had met briefly at the Steward’s home, not long ago, and her father had an excellent memory for people.
Broch stepped as if to move toward her father, and the guards who had pointed the swords at her before, swiveled them to Broch. He offered an indifferent look, and with a shrug, he said, “Ye may nae wish others to hear what I have to say, but if ye dunnae care…”
Her father waved his hand at his men. “Stand down. If the man so much as flinches as if he means ill, kill him.”
The guards nodded and moved away. As Broch stepped forward, Marsaili took advantage of not having the guards trained on her and followed Broch. She would know what he was going to say and what his plan was.
“The MacLeod sent me to retrieve yer daughter to come before him in reckoning for her crimes of betraying his clan and the king.”
Her father’s face remained expressionless. “I dunnae have any notion what ye speak of.”
“Ye do, and we both ken it. Yer daughter did yer bidding to retrieve her child, whom ye hold in this verra moment. Ye asked her to betray the king’s mission, and she did. She must be punished for her crimes.”
Broch gave her a hostile look that she prayed was all part of his plan. In that hope, she returned his look with a narrow-eyed scowl, then faced her father once more. Fear rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back, sensing the importance of the next few minutes.
“She will be punished,” her father replied. “She is to marry an English earl and will be parted from her son.”
“’Tis nae enough. She owes much for her sins. The MacLeod will wage war on ye if he dunnae receive compensation for her betrayal.”
“Take the child,” her father tossed out, as if he were offering a bag of coin. Marsaili clenched her hands into fists. “He can suffer the sins of his mother.”
“That is a start,” Broch agreed with a nod of his head. “I wish to take the Grant prisoner, as well.”
Her father’s eyes widened at the news. “What crime has he committed against the MacLeods?”
“He feigned to want an alliance and then killed some of my laird’s favored guards,” Broch lied. “He will be staked at the castle for all to see what happens to those who dare to cross us.”
“Fine.” Her father waved his hand negligently toward Callum. “Take him and kill him as ye will, but hear me now, if he somehow lives and comes to bring me trouble, ye can tell the MacLeod that I will nae hesitate to wage war with yer clan myself.”
Broch bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “I’ll be sure to relay yer message.” Broch held his arms out toward her father. “The boy.” His tone was commanding, and Marsaili feared her father would become angry and change his mind about giving her son to Broch.
“I would hold my son before ye take him,” she blurted as much in desperation to do so, as in a bid to distract her father from becoming angry that Broch had dared to command him.
Her father settled an impassive gaze on her. “Ye’re verra predictable, Marsaili. Though I will say I am impressed with how resourceful ye have proven to be escaping the castle and getting yer stepmother to confess to the whereabouts of my grandson.”
She gloried for a heartbeat in the confirmation that the boy was hers. Not that she had needed it, but hearing her father verify it, made it that more real. “I want to hold my son,” she demanded, stepping closer only to have the guards upon her in a flash. One drew his sword and pointed it at her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Broch tense, and behind her, Callum’s bellow of rage echoed. She longed to turn to him, to assure him with a look that she was not scared, but she dared not. “I will go with ye peacefully, Father, if ye but allow me to hold my son before ye hand him over to Broch.”
She did not bother to ask to take the child with her; she knew well her father would deny the request, and at least she knew he would be safe with Broch and pray God above, Callum, if all went according to plan. When he simply stared at her, but did not refute what she asked, she knew him well enough to understand he was contemplating her request.
“Just once,” she said softly. “Let me hold him just once. And then I will go with ye to the earl.” If Callum could not come for her, or did not reach her in time, she’d become another man’s wife. It was a thing that could not be undone. She inhaled a long breath to steady her nerves. She had to have faith that Callum would come for her and that he would reach her before she belonged to another in the eyes of God and of the king. She raised her arms toward her son. “Give him to me.”
Her father’s eyes widened a fraction, and a slow satisfied smile pulled at his lips. “Finally, ye are becoming a Campbell, Daughter.”
She clenched her teeth on the desire to tell him that she was a MacLeod, instead saying, “I’m glad to finally please ye. My son, if ye will.”
Her father scooped her son up and thrust him toward her. When her fingers touched his warm chubby arms, her heart felt as if it would explode. Tears filled her eyes, which she did not bother to try to dash away. She closed her grip around him, his skin like silk, and held him tightly. She brought the boy to her chest and wrapped her arms around him. He squirmed a bit, but his crying stopped, and when he nuzzled into her, pushing his head under her chin, a sob caught in her throat.
She lifted her trembling hand to his head and ran her fingers through his soft hair. “Ye’re a fine lad,” she whispered, deeply breathing in his sweet scent. His head popped out from under her chin suddenly, and he looked at her, his eyes so much like Callum’s that she smiled with joy. He brought his tiny hand to her face and patted it. “I hungry.”
“Oh, aye?” She cleared her throat of the clogged tears and brought her gaze to her father, who watched her with a dispassionate look. “Do ye have any food?”
“Norbert!” her father bellowed, bringing one of her father’s menservants scrambling.
The skinny young man rushed over to her father. “My lord?”
“Give my daughter a hunk of cheese.”
The servants did as he was bid, and Marsaili broke off a piece and handed it to her son. His tiny fingers grasped it before he popped it in his mouth and chewed. As he did so, she touched the top of his foot, which dangled near her hip and turned it just enough so that she could see the bottom. She knew before looking that the X brand that Maria had told her about would be there, but when Marsaili saw it, her throat tightened with the final confirmation that the child in her arms was hers.
She glanced down at him and caught his gaze. “I’m yer mother,” she said, not wishing to frighten or confuse him by telling him who she really was, but she feared she may never get another chance. The possibility that she may never see him again loomed in her mind.
He frowned, as if confused, and she quickly said, “Ye can call me Marsaili. For now,” she added, under her breath, praying they would be granted a future where he would know her as his mother.
He grinned, making two dimples appear in his round cheeks and showing he had most of his teeth. The sight of the little white teeth made her feel warm with joy. He touched her hair, winding a strand of it around his finger. “I Brody.”
“Brody,” she whispered, trying the name out and deciding she liked it. She had not gotten to name him, but it was a fine name, and it was his. He knew it, and she would never dream to confuse him by changing it. She turned then, just enough so that she could see Callum’s face and he could see her and his son. Mayhap it would be the only time he ever saw them thusly.
Their eyes locked over the distance, and through the mask of anger on his face, a smile, as intimate as a kiss, emerged. She felt her own lips trembling with happiness.
“Time to depart, Marsaili,” her father said from behind her.
She turned toward him, hating him more in this moment than she had realized was possible. “The Summer Walkers?” she asked, not lessening her hold on her child. “Did ye kill them?”
“Only those who dared to resist me and did nae wish to hand over the child. The rest fled. Now give the boy to Broch.”
Her chest ached, but she did as bid, and the moment Brody passed from her hands to Broch’s, the child began to wail. Callum roared his anger in the distance. She knew Broch would not hurt her son. She understood in her gut what he had done and said was to try to save them all, yet she felt the loss of her child like a dagger to her heart. Her father flicked his fingers from his guards to her, and they scrambled toward her and seized her. The last thing she saw before she was thrown on a charger behind one of her father’s warriors was Brody being handed to Maria and Callum being bound at the wrists by Broch.
Clinging to the knowledge that Callum would be with their son, she had to believe all would be well for them, and that somehow, she might be saved. To believe anything else was unthinkable.