Chapter Twenty-Seven
Caught fully unaware, Calum gaped at the substantial force of English soldiers amassed outside the keep’s walls. Unease slid down his spine as he watched their numbers grow. Sunlight gleamed on row after row of plate and mail-clad men, while the blasted king’s banner waved like a shining beacon in their midst.
Why the devil was the damned king at his door?
The muscles in his shoulders stretched taut as he clenched his fists. He ground his teeth together to withhold a host of curses. By the Saints, he had more pressing matters to attend to that did not involve avoiding a cursed battle with the English. And a fight it would be—if the affronted voices of his clansmen and wedding guests around him were any judge.
For a moment, Calum simply stood immobile and strove for some semblance of control. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tucked away the impulsive urge to release a battle cry that would hurl his kinsmen into outright war they had no chance of winning. With a loose grasp on his remaining patience, he dropped his arm and turned to regard the crowd gathering behind him.
Man after man donned the face of a hardened warrior. Wrapped in their tartan mantles, every Highlander brandished swords, axes, or bows. Their severe demeanors displayed a savage, imbued desire to draw blood. The slightest provocation and these men would fly into battle at will, but ’twas not what Calum wished. ’Twas not the time, nor the place. He needed each and every man to join his fight against Longford.
Struggling for discretion, which he severely lacked at present, he sucked in a lungful of chilled air and shifted his feet to widen his stance. Over the rattle of weaponry and the drone of displeasure, he addressed the men.
“I ask more than many of you wish to give, but I beseech you to temper yourselves.” His gaze stretched over the disgruntled crowd. “I do not know why the English have paid us a visit, nor do I truly care. What matters to me the most is the safe return of my wife and sister and, for that, I need your help. Save your sword arms, brothers, and let me handle the English. Afterward, we ride.”
Despite a few angry murmurs or glared daggers, his clansmen grudgingly yielded to his request, lowering their weapons. In truth, he understood their discord and understood it well. ’Twas a man’s place to fight his battles and protect his own but this particular fight was not his.
Steeling his nerve, Calum spun on his heel and strode to the front gate. He scanned the mass of unwelcomed visitors, while his mind spun with a reason for their untimely arrival. To be honest, the reason scarcely mattered. The faster he rid himself of their presence, the sooner he would see his family returned.
Within moments, his commanders, Liam, Fraser, Patrick and even Dougal joined him at the gate. Their strong, unspoken show of unity pleased Calum, infusing him with a store of confidence he desperately needed before facing his foes.
Sword gripped at his side, he rolled his shoulders to loosen the tense set of his back. He tipped his head toward the English. “Let’s get this over with.”
Fraser grunted. “I’ll walk out with you.”
Forcing his hands to rest lax, Calum looked on at the ranks of mounted knights and foot soldiers as he and Fraser stepped outside the front gates. Despite their considerable number, the English stood at ease, uncaring of his and Fraser’s advance.
Amid the two opposing groups, the distinct cry of a hawk overhead shattered the yawning silence. Trickles of movement surfaced from within the English ranks as three mounted riders emerged from a sea of men. The middle rider swayed in his saddle, and the two soldiers with him shifted closer to his flanks. The trio halted scores of feet away and raised a hand to signal no further advance.
Wary, Calum slid a glance at Fraser who nodded once. The old laird puffed out his barrel chest and strode ahead with Calum. Their dogged strides closed the remaining distance in no time, pausing mere paces away from the three mounted soldiers. Uneased hung thick in the chilled air, but he held his stance firm, not blinking when the middle rider managed a clumsy dismount. His two companions hurriedly descended their horses to move to the rider’s sides to balance his wavering frame. Calum passed a dubious eye over the plate-covered knight as the tall man shuffled closer.
The unsteady rider lifted his arms, his armor groaning from the motion. With a slight shift in footing, Calum adjusted his stance and tightened his grip on the cool hilt of his sword. From the corner of his eye, he caught Fraser’s subtle shift of position as well.
Slowly, the rider removed his helm and lowered his arms.
Stiffness drained from Calum’s body and his hand slid away from his weapon. He gaped at the pale, gaunt face of a man he thought dead.
“Iain?” he mumbled in disbelief.
The pallor alarming, Iain’s face bore signs of weariness and pain. The bulk of his mass had all but vanished, accounting for the odd fit of his armor and his wavering form. ’Twas God’s truth, the man looked as though death hung around his neck.
Fraser’s elbow to the ribs shook Calum from his stupor. The two of them rushed forward, fitting their shoulders beneath Iain’s frame before he fell flat on his face.
“You gave this old man a start, boy.” Fraser’s voice faltered. “Your sister…” The words died in his throat.
Iain’s sharpened gaze snapped to his uncle’s. “Where is she?”
“Later.” Fraser barked out.
From the laird’s drawn features, ’twas evident he did not wish to burden his ailing nephew with bad tidings. Neither did Calum for that matter. Christ, ’twas a wonder Iain survived the journey from England in his condition.
Ignoring the question, Fraser nodded at Calum and they shouldered Iain’s weight, but he asked them to wait. With an awkward glance behind him, he ordered his two companions to set camp for the eve. Calum shared a look with Fraser over that bit of information. All but carrying Iain through the courtyard, they hefted him inside the keep and through the great hall. They deposited him at a trestle table in a clank of rattling armor, and Iain groaned in relief.
At once, Calum signaled a servant to bring water. However, before Iain swallowed a drop, Fraser asked the question burning in Calum’s mind.
“We believed you dead. How is it you live?”
“By the skin of my teeth.” Iain weakly snorted. “Longford was not as practiced with his blade as he believed. Now, where is Arabella? I was told she sought refuge with you.”
With the same mossy green eyes as his sister, Iain pinned his uncle with a hard stare, but Fraser showed no outward sign of relenting. For a man who scarcely kept his blasted gob shut, the old man remained silent as a mouse. He dropped down on a bench across the table from his nephew.
Calum lifted his chin at Iain. “Tell us how you are here, and with the king’s men no less.”
“Damnation, just tell me where she is.” Iain bared his teeth.
Concern bled through the anger on his pale features, and Calum sympathized with his old friend. With a heavy sigh borne of frustration, he plopped down in a chair beside Iain and met his unwavering gaze.
“I believe Longford has Arabella and Mairi.”
Rage twisted Iain’s features. “What the devil does that mean? You believe?”
“The MacRaes grabbed them and headed north after the wedding. I’m certain Longford is involved.”
Iain bit out a harsh curse. “The servants said the bastard fled north with half his men.” More curses rent the air. “Who the devil are the MacRaes and what wedding?”
Calum raised a brow. “Arabella’s.”
Iain speared him with a fierce glare. “The hell you say. Who would dare wed my sister?”
“I would.” He growled in challenge.
“You?” Surprise widened Iain’s gaze. “In truth?”
“Aye,” he affirmed with a narrowing of his eyes.
Iain bellowed another harsh curse and struggled against the weight of his armor to rise to his feet. “Then why the devil are you sitting here? Christ’s blood, you should be out there getting them back. Longford will kill them.”
Annoyed, Calum placed a staying hand on his plated shoulder. “I damned well know that. My men and I were prepared to leave when you showed up with a cursed army of men. Hell, do you think I’d rather sit here, imagining what might’ve befallen my sister or my wife instead?”
Any remaining color drained from Iain’s face. “I should’ve sent a messenger ahead to bring word of my approach. Forgive me for not thinking, Calum.”
Fraser rapped his knuckles on the wooden table across from them. “Listen, boy, tell us how you’re alive and here, with the king’s men at that. Be quick about it, won’t you?”
Iain did not hesitate. “Longford left me for dead along the main thoroughfare from London. By God’s grace, a passing peddler heard my moans of pain and carted me to a nearby convent, or I would’ve died on that road. ’Twas the nuns’ goodwill that spared my life. Fever and infection ravaged my body for a fortnight, but when I was strong enough to gain my legs, I took a cart to London to speak to the king, revealing Longford’s lies and deceit. He offered me a number of men to retake Penswyck, but Arabella was gone. Along with Dougal and his wife. I was told they escaped north, so I came as fast as I could. Christ, ’tis my fault for not protecting them. If anything happens to Arabella…”
“Enough.” Fraser ground out. “No more of that nonsense. Naught will happen to either of our girls.”
Calum met Iain’s troubled gaze. “I will bring them home, Iain.”
“You know,”—Fraser scratched his beard—“’Tis good you’ve arrived. Might as well put some of your men to good use.”
“Of course,” Iain agreed. “Anything you need. Give me a few moments to rest and I’ll be ready to ride.”
Calum squinted. “You can scarcely keep yourself upright, man. How are you to swing a sword, much less stay astride your mount?”
“I can hold my own.” Iain glared at him. “I’ll not be left behind.”
Calum rolled his eyes heavenward. “By the Saints, I know you can, and I understand your need to accompany us. Truly, I do, but we do not have time to ride at a slower pace. You’re in no condition to ride north. Hell, ’tis a blessing you made it this far from England. Stay here and heal. Trust me to take care of matters, Iain.”
His friend sighed in defeat and leaned his elbows on the edge of the table for support. Resigned, he dropped his head in his hands. “Take what you require of the men. Hell, take them all. I do not care. Just bring Arabella and Mairi back safe and sound.”
Studying the sickly man seated before him, he wondered if Iain would ever return to the days of his former self—the sturdy, capable warrior Calum had once known. He cuffed his friend’s shoulder. “You have my thanks.”
Across the table, Fraser slapped his palms flat on the wooden planks. “So, before we charge onto MacRae lands, what’s our plan?”
Despite the heavy weight in his heart, Calum almost smiled. “Come, let’s ready the men to ride, and I’ll tell you.”
Fraser narrowed his eyes but held his tongue, for once.
After they bid farewell to Iain and strode to the hall entrance, Elena rushed in between the two of them.
Fraser snagged her around the middle. “Take care of him, will you, love?”
Nodding, she patted his chest. “Aye, Hammish.” She worriedly glanced from him to Calum. “The pair of you be safe and bring our lasses home.”
The old laird leaned down and planted a kiss on her lips. “As you wish, my lady.”