Six

Maggie hung from the rope on the outside of the castle, one floor down from her bedchamber window and one room over. Although “hung” wasn’t entirely accurate. She’d slid down the rope partway, then unhooked her feet and wrapped the rope several times around one leg so she could “walk” across to Ross’s bedchamber window.

It was much more difficult than when she’d practiced on the cliff above the creek they used to climb as children. The castle wall was fairly smooth, and she had a hard time pushing herself far enough to one side so she could swing back the other way. She’d also misgauged the length of the rope, and all she’d managed to do was hook the heel of her free leg around the stone opening before she ran out of line. If she let go now and tried to pull herself inside, she’d fall.

She needed to start over, but her hands and arms burned, and she was afraid to release her grip for even an instant to give herself more rope.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. If she fell into the bailey now and survived, how would she get over the curtain wall without alerting the guards? Nay, she needed to lay a false trail so Irvin’s men would search for her within the castle grounds. And while they did that, she would be using the pulley system she’d stolen weeks ago to get over the wall.

It was a dangerous escape, which was why she hadn’t gone this route the first time. But now she had no choice. It was either get out this way or hide within the castle, avoiding Irvin until Callum returned with all the might of his allies behind him. And she definitely didn’t want to do that.

Callum MacLean was not her future, and she wouldn’t depend on him for anything.

She was just about to unhook her heel and start over, praying she could find the strength for a second attempt, when a hand wrapped around her foot and grasped tight…then yanked her through the open window. She yelped as the rope dragged through her hands and along her leg, burning as her skin scraped and her knee wrenched, but before she knew it, she was straddling the windowsill.

Safe.

Tears blurred her vision. The last person she’d expected to come to her rescue was Ross, but there he stood, swaying with drink, eyes bloodshot and hands shaking. Ducking her head and coming all the way in, she quickly unwound the rope and threw her arms around him. He fell against the wall and slowly returned the embrace.

How had he been able to help her? He could barely lift his arms—as worse for drink as she’d ever seen him.

“Thank you, Ross. I doona think I had the strength to loosen the rope and try again without falling.”

He stared down at her, confused. “Eleanor?”

Maggie stilled, and then her heart squeezed. “Nay, it’s Maggie. Your sister.”

He nodded vaguely and glanced around the room with a bewildered frown. “Where’s Eleanor? Have you seen her? I thought I heard a bairn crying.”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then cleared her throat. “If she’s here, Ross, you go to her. Doona fight it, do you hear me? You go to her and your little one and be happy.”

He mumbled something and stumbled to the bed across the room. A low fire burned in the hearth, lighting the way. He fell facedown onto a pile of messy quilts and didn’t move.

She glanced around his chamber, thankful they were alone, then gathered up the end of the rope from the floor and leaned out the window to drop the line. It bounced and swayed at first before settling in a straight line down to the bailey, ending about three feet from the ground.

Someone yelled above her, and she yanked her head inside, her heart racing. More raised voices—coming from her room, she was sure. She slowly peeked out, staying in the shadows, peering up at her empty window. Did someone see me?

Then suddenly, a man’s head appeared, and she ducked down.

Lord help her—she’d gotten out just in time.

She rose and faced the room, her eyes darting from her brother to the door, then to the stone beside the washstand. The entrance to the tunnel that led to the laird’s solar.

Surely she had some time. They would be looking for her in the bailey, not in the keep. But shouts sounded throughout her home, and she heard feet pounding down the passageway toward Ross’s room.

She ran halfway across the chamber to the door, intent on putting the bar across and locking them out. But if she did that, they would know she was here. So she changed direction and headed for the washstand and the tunnel entrance, her breath rushing though her lungs, only to realize it was too late—she’d never make it in time.

She heard the key in the door and, at the last minute, lunged at Ross on the bed, scrambling under the mess of covers and tucking in as close to his big body as possible. He roused a bit, and she prayed he wouldn’t get up and leave her there. Instead, he rolled onto his back, almost completely covering her, and snored loudly.

“He’s still here, Laird,” she heard Blàr say, getting louder as he moved toward the bed. She knew he wasn’t talking to Ross, his real laird, which meant Irvin must be in the room too.

“Is he awake? Find out if she told him anything.”

Aye, that was Irvin, sounding half crazed, yelling and gasping for breath at the same time. She tried not to make a sound, which wasn’t hard. Ross was heavy and squeezing the air out of her lungs.

She heard a loud, hard slap, and her brother jerked above her. “Wake up, ye sack of shite,” Blàr said before he slapped Ross again.

If Maggie could have moved, she would have drawn her daggers and defended her brother, but she couldn’t lift her arms, let alone breathe. When she saw black dots from lack of air and feared she would suffocate, Ross lifted partially off her. She sucked a breath deep into her lungs, trying desperately to control her breathing, fearing they’d hear her. But Blàr was too loud, yelling and shaking her brother before throwing him down on top of her. She quickly wedged her arms between their bodies so she could continue to breathe.

“He’s out cold,” Blàr said.

“Search the room,” Irvin ordered. “I’m going down to speak to Alpin.” His footsteps echoed on the stone floor as he exited the bedchamber.

She heard Blàr curse, and then a crash sounded as if something had been kicked over. The stool in front of the fire, perhaps? She scowled and wished she had her daggers in her hands. If Blàr were to drag the covers off her right now, she’d be mad enough to gut him for beating Ross and for kicking the stool her mother had covered with embroidery just months before she died.

It was a family treasure.

As she listened for any noise that might indicate where Blàr was in the room, she played out in her mind what she would do if he found her. How she would untangle herself from the blankets first, so she wouldn’t be restrained, deciding if she would stab him or throw her dagger—and where in his body she would bury the blade.

She heard the big chest in the corner open, and the wardrobe next to it. More muttering and cursing as Blàr moved around to the other side of the room. Through a tiny slit in the covers, she saw him look behind a tapestry that hung against the wall, then kneel and look under the bed.

He rose with a groan, leaning heavily on his hands as if his knees hurt, and moved to a side table where Ross’s jug of whisky perched. After pouring himself a full cup, he sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, and slowly drank the uisge-beatha.

She had a clear path to his heart now—from behind—and could kill him with very little risk to herself. But what would she do with the body? Leaving him here would expose her whereabouts and set them on her trail. Also, she might hesitate to kill him, regardless of what he’d done, and then she’d be done for—locked in the dungeon or even worse, being raped by whoever Irvin chose until a bairn was in her belly.

“Blàr!” someone yelled from down the passageway. “Laird Sinclair wants you.”

“Aye, I’m coming.”

Laird Sinclair? She hadn’t heard that one before. Usually, Irvin was careful to keep his clan name forgotten. Maybe it was good she’d reminded everyone that her cousin was not, and never would be, a MacDonnell.

Blàr hefted himself up from the bed and swayed on his feet before he steadied. Most likely from the whisky. Then he crossed to the entrance, kicking the stool one last time on his way out, and locked the door behind him.

Maggie forced herself to count to twenty. She imagined Blàr walking down the passageway to the top of the stairs and making his way down to the great hall.

Finally, she tried to shove Ross off her. He was as heavy as an ox, and she despaired she would never escape, but then he rolled to his side and she was able to sit up, pull the covers away, and get some air.

She examined Ross, who was still breathing but otherwise looked dead to the world. She could see Blàr’s handprint on his cheek and now wished she had stabbed him, despite the consequences.

“Thank you, Brother,” she whispered, tears forming as she stroked his brow. She’d like to believe that in some corner of his mind and heart, he knew he’d saved her.

Inhaling deeply to clear the sorrow, she wiped her cheeks and pulled her legs all the way out from under him. Without looking back, she crossed to the washstand, lifted the sharp, thin razor that Ross hadn’t touched since Eleanor had died, and knelt to lift up the stone—something she’d done almost daily over the last three months as she’d spied on Irvin. She tucked the knife into her belt when she was done—she might need it later—and lowered herself into the tunnel. Then she carefully slid the stone into place.

It was dark without a candle, unrelentingly so, but within a minute, she was at the other end below the laird’s solar. She lifted the stone slab quietly, finding the room empty and lit only by a low-burning fire, and moved it—and the chair—to the side. It seemed like days ago she was here with Callum and Gavin, but really, it was only hours.

Her heart hurt thinking about them, Callum especially, and she crushed the feeling. It did no good to dredge up those memories. Most likely, she’d never see him again. Certainly not in a week’s time when Gregor MacLeod arrived to help Callum take over the castle, and most definitely not in the spring when he’d said they were to be married.

She felt around for the big canvas sack she’d stored in the tunnel weeks ago, and when her fingers gripped it, she looped the heavy bag over both shoulders and climbed out, putting everything back into place afterward. She quickly found a candle, lit it in the fire, then hurried to another hidden passage behind a colorful tapestry that depicted a field of flowers.

Her mother had embroidered it before Maggie was born, and she stopped for a minute, despite the urge to hurry, and laid her hand on her namesake’s work. Closing her eyes, she pictured Margaret sitting in front of the fire with her yarn, re-creating the splendor of the flowers while her father sat at his desk. Her red hair had been just as wild as Maggie’s, and her hazel eyes filled with love. Unlike Maggie, however, the only sharpened metal her mother had ever wielded was a pointy embroidery needle.

Finally, Maggie pushed the tapestry aside, careful to keep the candle away from it. A dark, spiral staircase rose upward on the other side, and she ran her fingertips along the cold stone wall beside her as she mounted the steps. The difference between this passageway and the tunnel beneath the solar was that several people knew about it—including Irvin.

When she neared the top, breathing heavily and legs aching under her load, she slowed and placed the candle in a holder mounted on the wall. Taking the light outside now would make her a target.

Feeling with her hand, she found the latch that bolted the door from the inside, opened it, and stepped as quietly as possible into the night. The moon had just started to wane, and the sky was surprisingly bright—too bright for her comfort. Drifting clouds scattered the heavens, and if she timed it right, the moon should be covered when she made her descent.

She secured the door from the outside with a piece of wood she’d left there and strode to the edge of the turret—the keep’s highest point, on the southwest corner directly above the curtain wall. She carefully lowered her bag to the walkway so the metal inside didn’t clink. Although there was so much activity going on in the bailey right now as they searched for her that no one would have heard.

Again, she thought of Callum and Gavin and wondered if they’d escaped, wondered if they were safe. With a frustrated sigh, she returned her mind to the task at hand. She didn’t want to think about Callum MacLean right now.

Preferably not ever.

Opening her bag, she took out a thick, strong, tightly woven hemp rope. It had been soaked in glue and then dried to prevent stretching. After securing one end around the merlon, she very carefully wound the rest into a pile beside her. Next, she took out a custom-made bolt for her crossbow. She fed the other end of the line through a metal loop on the bolt, then knotted it—just like she’d done in the woods when she’d practiced with the rope and perfected her aim.

She’d have only one shot at it. If she missed the huge tree that stood about three hundred paces from the castle wall, she couldn’t imagine she’d have the strength or time to drag the bolt and rope all the way up to try again. Or that Irvin’s men wouldn’t notice it as it scraped across the stone.

So she’d made sure to come up here during the day whenever she could, playing the shot over and over in her mind, knowing exactly where she had to stand, the precise angle of her arms and turn of her hips required to hit the trunk—directly above a small platform built into the tree that had once been a lookout. She knew the trajectory of the bolt as if she was standing there in broad daylight.

She could make this shot with her eyes closed. She had to.

It was a dangerous escape route, but it would take her the farthest away from the castle in the least amount of time.

And she prayed it would work—without killing her in the process.

Finally, she pulled her crossbow and windlass from the bag. Pointing the bow down, she slid her foot into the metal stirrup at the bottom, then attached the windlass at the top, its rotating handles and cords hanging down. After hooking the cords over the bow’s string, she cranked the handles, which winched the cords and drew back the string.

When the bow was set, she lifted it onto the merlon in front of her and laid the pointed bolt, rope attached, in a groove on the top of the stock. Ready, Maggie looked out into the darkness.

She’d planned meticulously over the last few months: she’d planted daggers all around the keep, the dungeon, and the bailey; she’d packed bags of clothes, weapons, and food, so she could run at a moment’s notice; she’d hidden ropes in several rooms, including the one she’d used to escape from her bedroom tonight; and she’d cultivated relationships with a few people she thought she could trust.

But if she missed this one shot, that would all be for nothing.

She stepped into place, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply to calm herself, then raised the crossbow. She knew the right position the moment she felt it. Without hesitating, she pulled the trigger. The cross bolt flew into the air with a loud twang, the rope trailing behind it.

Stepping out of the way, she gripped the stone in front of her, eyes still closed, and listened. She didn’t actually hear a thud as the bolt hit the tree, but the rope slowed its drag before it started pulling again—but downward this time, instead of across.

Grabbing the remaining rope, she yanked as hard as she could, straining to take up the slack until the rope was as taut as she could make it. She wrapped it around the merlon several times, then knotted it firmly in place.

Her heart had begun to race as she anticipated the next step.

She’d practiced launching off the cliff with the heavy bag on her back, and she knew how to compensate for the extra load. Still, she’d fallen two out of twenty times. And this was a much higher drop without the water below to break her fall.

What if the bolt isn’t embedded deeply enough and my weight pulls it free?

She shook her head, exasperated, and tested the rope. It stayed taut. If she was going to go, she needed to go now. The longer she delayed, the closer Irvin’s men would be on her heels.

Go or stay? Choose her own fate, or wait for Callum?

She rolled her head and loosened her shoulders. A part of her wanted to wait, she realized. And not because she was afraid of falling to the ground, but because she wanted to fall…for him…

…all over again.

It set her teeth on edge, and she scowled. She’d done enough waiting.

Crouching, she picked up her bag, light now compared to before, and fished out a simple wooden pulley. It was nothing more than a wheel with a deep groove around the circumference where the rope would fit. The pulley had handles on the bottom, and it would hang suspended over the rope until her weight set the wheel in motion. She’d ride the downward-sloping line all the way across to the tree.

At least, that was her plan.

She’d never ridden this great a distance before, and it was quite possible she’d either go too fast and smash into the tree or too slow and lose momentum halfway there. Now she was wishing she’d built a harness of sorts in case she needed her arms and hands free—to either pull herself along or slow her descent.

She looked down at her extra rope and decided to make a seat that she could hook over the handle. She pulled out her knife, measured, cut, and knotted the rope, then put everything away. After pulling up her skirts and tying them between her legs, she swung her bag over her shoulders and sat on the wall, her heels hanging into the abyss, admonishing herself: doona look down!

She refused to acknowledge the ground below as she looped the harness over her legs all the way up to her backside, wrapped it under her arms, then slid it onto the handles.

Now all she had to do was hold tight, push herself off the wall, and hope for the best.

She snorted. All I have to do.

She waited another second, watching for cloud cover, then grasped the handles as tightly as she could and leaned forward until she fell off the wall.

The jolt was almost enough to pull her hands free, and the makeshift harness slid up beneath her arms, which were still aching after her descent from her window—not to mention the scrapes and stitches she had from the wolf attack. She picked up speed at an astonishing rate, racing through the darkness. Tears streamed from her eyes and into her hair, causing her vision to blur so she couldn’t see a thing. Her body dangled dangerously below the pulley, and she had no idea where the tree was or when she should lift her legs and try to brace herself for impact, let alone slow down. The wind in her ears was so loud, she couldn’t hear anything, and she didn’t know if she’d been seen or if Irvin’s men were giving chase.

That was the least of her worries. She needed to slow down…but how?

She couldn’t reach the cable above her with her hands, and even if she could, the friction would cause terrible damage. She pulled her legs up to her waist and tried to put her leather-clad foot on the rope. It bounced off right away, but she slowed down just a little, wobbling as the pulley threatened to come off the track.

Then leaves smacked her leg, and she knew she’d run out of time. She jammed her foot up hard this time, and the wheel came off the line, slowing and jerking as the rope caught between the axle and the side arm. Branches whipped her legs, and she covered her face and body by raising both feet and hooking them over the rope.

She’d have burns on her ankles, but she’d also slowed enough that the damage wouldn’t be permanent. All she could do now was close her eyes and wait for impact.

When it came, it was little more than a bump on the arse, and she thanked God for the extra padding that would leave nothing more than a wee bruise, if that.

The breath she’d been holding came out with a whoosh, and gales of relieved laughter bubbled up from her throat. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she tried to contain them, but some still squeaked through.

She’d just unwrapped her legs from the rope, cursing the pain that burned across the tendons of her ankles, when a furious voice whispered to her from beside the platform, “Maggie MacDonnell, if I e’er find you up a tree again, lucky to be alive, I swear I’ll lock you in my bloody castle and throw away the key!”