Chapter Thirty Two
Ranulf stood on the battlements, watching the army approach. He licked his lips and gripped the wall as a frenzy of excitement shot through him. Without even a drop yet spilled, he could smell the blood about to be shed. He inhaled deeply, imagining the iron taste in his mouth. Soon, agonizing cries of the dying would rend the air, the sound mingling with the roar of the victor. He relished the anticipation coursing through his veins. He was close to achieving his longstanding dream of dominance. His reign would be vast, and all would bow to him.
“Let them come,” he shouted as the enemy marched across the green and curved around the moat. Hundreds of Highland warriors, clad in the MacDonnell and MacLeod plaids stood just beyond the outer wall, and yet, Ranulf knew no fear in his heart.
The wealth of Clan MacKenzie was great even before Ranulf added the spoils of his own hard-earned coin to the coffers. His keep was strong and well-defended. He did not doubt that he could squash any attack, especially when the wife of the commander was his captive.
“Yer husband should have stayed home and found a new wench to warm his bed. Now, many of these men will die. ‘Tis a pity, really. I would have given yer warriors a chance to join our ranks.”
He relished the raw emotion passing over the lady’s beautiful face.
His words made her eyes narrow. “They would rather die than swear fealty to a murderer like yerself,” she spat.
He crushed her to his chest and kissed her lips hard. The more she struggled in his arms, the more aroused he became. He turned her around and pressed her up against the wall, so that she faced outward. He gripped her head with his hand. “Now, watch as yer warriors fail.”
He gazed out upon the vast army, waiting for the glorious sound of metal slicing the air as they unsheathed their blades. But they did not draw their swords, nor were they positioning a battering ram. They stood, silent, unmoving. Suddenly, from the lips of a single warrior, the battle cry of the MacDonnell rent the air. The entire army repeated the cry. The same warrior sounded the call of the MacLeod. Once again, the entire army thundered the words across the battlements.
Ranulf sneered. “Those words will be their last.”
And then the warrior unsheathed his blade and raised his sword high and shouted the battle cry of the MacKenzie—Ranulf’s own call—the cry of his people. His hands gripped the battlements in confusion as the entire army sounded the battle cry of the MacKenzie.
In a flash, MacKenzie warriors positioned on the outer wall turned and aimed their crossbows into the baily and fired on his men. Warriors, wearing his crest, crumpled to the ground. And then a rush of MacKenzie warriors surged from the stable and attacked his men at the gate.
“What are they doing!” he cried, shoving Fiona aside. Then he turned to Kenric. “Get down there. Kill the rebels. Kill them all!”
Ranulf stared in horror as more of his men fell. And then the grating of the gate wheel blasted his ears. “Stop them,” he shouted to Gregor who was now fighting his own kin, MacKenzie fighting MacKenzie. Ranulf leaned over the wall. “They are lowering the gate,” he screamed.
“Ye there,” he shouted to a cluster of farmers pressing against the wall to keep away from the fray. “Pick up a bloody pitchfork and kill those men.”
The farmers looked at each other, and then they sprang into action. But they did not heed Ranulf’s order. Some of the them rushed to the wheel to help open the gate while others did, indeed, take up pitchforks and sickles, but they trained their weapons only at the men wearing black, leather jerkins.
“Fergus, ye bastard, what is happening?” Ranulf shouted. His son’s eyes were wide. His hands gripped his hair.
“I do not know, father,” he cried.
“Stop it,” he shouted down at a dozen or more cottars who had Gregor surrounded. “Nay,” Ranulf shouted as the mob cut Gregor down.
Ranulf’s heart pounded. He spied Kenric swinging his sword, cutting down the treacherous farmers and MacKenzie warriors who dared defy him. “Get them, Kenric!”
The drawbridge touched down. A surge of MacLeod and MacDonnell warriors thundered into the baily with a massive swordsman in the lead.
“Jamie!” Lady Fiona cried out beside him.
“Shut up,” he snarled and brought the back of his hand against her cheek. She stumbled back, falling on her side.
He looked back to the battle below, grinning when he saw that Kenric was even larger than the infamous Laird MacLeod. With greedy eyes, he relished each blow of Kenric’s sword as he forced Jamie to retreat.
He reached down and yanked the lady to her feet. “Watch while yer beloved falls beneath the might of a true swordfighter.” Then he shouted. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners!”
Kenric swung his sword. Ranulf held his breath, but the MacLeod ducked. Again, Kenric lashed out, his blade glinting in the sun. This time Jamie blocked the blow. Still, Kenric trudged forward, using his greater strength to push his opponent back. Jamie’s feet slipped. He fell forward, but rolled quickly, avoiding Kenric’s sword that plunged down, driving into the earth rather than the MacLeod’s body. Jamie spun, swinging his blade. Kenric yanked at his sword, freeing it from the ground just as Jamie’s sword sliced through his neck.
“Nay!” Ranulf shouted as Kenric’s head fell to the ground, his body crumpling moments after.
Ranulf whirled around. “Ye,” he snarled at the lady.
Her eyes glinted, and a smile curved her lips.
“What have ye done?” he gritted, his fingers biting into her shoulders.
“Ye’ve lost,” she said, her voice deadly soft.
He growled, hearing the thunder of footsteps charging through the keep. He swung her back around, dragged her into the solar, then flung her to the ground. She struggled to sit up. Her hair fell in messy waves, obscuring her face. But she flung her head back, her hair cascading behind her, her chin raised with defiance.
“The people have taken their clan back,” she declared.
Rage coursed through him. “Shut up,” he shouted as he grabbed her. Lifting her feet off the ground, he threw her back, slamming her against the hearth. She cried out in pain. For a moment, she lay unmoving. Anger pulsed through him. He glowered at her and unsheathed the blade strapped to his back. She lifted her head. Her eyes widened. A thrill of desire shot through him. He wanted her blood. She fought to sit up, to scramble away, but her hands were tied. She no longer smiled at him. The arrogant glint in her eyes had vanished. Blood trickled down her temple, and she stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.
“Aye, that’s right. Be afraid,” he said. He slowly raised his blade above his head. Her weakened body squirmed. “If I lose, then so do ye,” he cried, swinging his sword, but the clash of metal rang out. He jerked his head around to see who parried his blow.
“Fergus,” he snarled.
“She is an unarmed woman,” his son gasped.
Ranulf sneered. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners. Remember, ye bastard.”
Fergus lowered his blade. “We’ve lost, father. ‘Tis not she who must now ask for mercy. ‘Tis ye.”
Ranulf seethed, but he lowered his blade and offered his son his hand. Fergus eyed him for a moment, then tentatively reached out, accepting his father’s hand.
“Ye’re right, son,” Ranulf said. “’Tis not Lady Fiona who must beg for mercy.” He thrust his sword, catching Fergus beneath his ribs. “’Tis ye,” he growled.
“Nay!” Fiona screamed.
Fergus’s eyes widened. He sputtered, pressing his hands to his wound. “Father,” he gasped before he fell forward, his body sprawled on the floor.
“Ye always were weak,” Ranulf growled. “Now, ye’re dead.”
Turning back to take care of the MacLeod wench, he growled. She was gone. He turned about, not knowing by which door she had left. He charged for the closest door and threw it open just as a throng of servants, armed with pitchforks and spades, came rushing down the hall at him. He scurried back and slammed the door before scrambling across the room to the next door, which he swung wide. Lady Fiona held a sword at the ready. Behind her a dozen warriors bared their teeth at him.
She glared at him. “Ye’re finished, Ranulf.”
Ringing filled his ears. His heart pounded as he stumbled back. Climbing to his feet, he charged for the final door, but it swung wide before he could reach it. Jamie MacLeod filled the doorframe and took aim at Ranulf with a crossbow. Before Ranulf could duck, an arrow lodged in his shoulder. He turned away from the fierce Highland chieftain right into Fiona’s blade. Turning back around, he growled at Jamie. “Aren’t ye going to finish me?”
~ * ~
Jamie reloaded his weapon, wanting nothing more than to put an arrow through Ranulf’s skull.
“Are ye too soft?” Ranulf taunted, his eyes wild and desperate. “What if I told ye, I took her over that table.” He cupped his manhood. “I rode her good and hard.” He smelled his fingers. “I still have her juices on my hands.”
Fury ripped through Jamie. He raised the crossbow.
“He’s lying,” Fiona shouted.
“Finish me,” Ranulf snarled. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners!”
Jamie stormed toward the villain and pressed the crossbow into his skull. He wanted to end him, then and there. He wanted the satisfaction of being the one to send Ranulf MacKenzie back toHell.
His hands shook with rage. He slowly lowered his weapon. “Ye do not deserve a quick death,” he spat. Jamie backed away, fighting every instinct in his body, which longed to spill the enemy’s blood. He took a deep breath. “Take him,” he told Alasdair who seized Ranulf’s arms from behind, placing him in shackles.
“Ye will stand before the council of the Clan MacKenzie.” Jamie circled around, meeting the gaze of every MacKenzie farmer and warrior filling the room. “These people, who ye have robbed of their laird and his heir, they will be yer judge.” Then he turned back and locked eyes with Ranulf. “Ye’ve lost, but do not worry—I am certain yer kin will show ye the same courtesy ye’ve shown them.”
“No quarter,” Ranulf cried, his eyes wide and ablaze with desperate fury. “No quarter!” Alasdair dragged Ranulf from the room, his screams of rage fading down the hallway.
Jamie turned away, locking eyes with Fiona. She rushed into his arms. He crushed her against himself, savoring the feel of her soft curves and the smell of her hair. A knot gripped his throat. He had kept his fear at bay, giving himself over to the battle, knowing only victory could save the woman he loved.
And how he loved her.
He drew back to see her face. He cupped her cheeks. “Are ye all right?”
She threw her arms around his neck. “I’m in heaven.” She held him close. After a few minutes, she pulled away and met his gaze, her eyes bright with excitement. “It worked,” she cried. “Our plan worked!”
He looked at her sternly. “Aye, it did, although ye surrendering yerself as a guarantee was not a part of our plan.”
“I had to, Jamie. Captain Tormod thought we had attacked him. He thought we were the enemy. He never would have trusted us had I not offered myself as collateral.”
He cupped her cheeks. “Never again. Ye must promise that ye will never sacrifice yerself again—no matter the cause.”
“But Jamie, I am lady to our people—I must do what is right to care for them.”
“Nay, ye must listen to yer husband—ye owe me yer allegiance and yer obedience.” He pulled her close. “Please,” he whispered in her ear. “I thought I had lost ye, and it near killed me.” He drew back and cupped her cheek. “Have faith that I will always find another way. I need ye to be safe, Fiona. Promise me.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I promise that I will never offer myself as collateral to another clan again.” She kissed him hard on the lips. “And I promise to love ye and never stop as long as my body draws breath.”
“Breathe always.” He kissed her cheek. “Love me always.” His lips grazed her forehead. “And know I will always love ye.” Then his lips claimed hers, and he kissed her with all his love. He scooped her into his arms and carried her from the room. He had no intention of putting her down until he could lay her on his bed and show her how much his soul burned for hers.