Claimed by the Highlander, page 24
Her attention swung back to the fight. Slevyn was a giant of a Highlander—bald-headed, muscled, and thick as a bull—but Angus was leaner and faster. His lunges and strikes were lightning flashes of movement. It was all too quick for Slevyn, who barely had a chance to turn before the point of Angus’s sword pierced him through the heart. Slevyn fell to the side like a big tumbling tree. He bounced heavily on the hard ground, then went still.
Gwendolen saw Murdoch back away and melt anonymously into the crowd.
Angus raised his sword and called out, “Murdoch MacEwen! Show yourself!”
No one moved or dared to speak. Gwendolen too was transfixed by the iron force of her husband’s will, while another part of her was rejoicing. Her husband was alive! And he had come here like the invincible conqueror she always knew him to be, and had triumphed over those who had wronged him.
She had never loved him more, nor had she ever felt such longing and desire.
Delirious with the need to be reunited with him, she raced down the tower stairs and burst forth into the crowded bailey, shouldering her way through the crowd. Three clans were gathered, waiting to see which leader would prevail.
She pushed her way to the center, where Angus stood with his bloody sword in his hand, turning in a slow circle, his fierce eyes scanning the rooftops.
“Murdoch MacEwen!” he shouted a second time. His deep voice echoed off the stone walls. “Come and fight me!”
Gwendolen pushed her way into the open circle. “He won’t come,” she told him. “He’s afraid of you.”
Their eyes met and locked. Her veins pulsed with awareness and sudden, unexpected terror. She had envisioned their reunion many times in her imagination, but it had never been anything like this. She had not expected to feel the same suffocating fear that she had felt the first day they met, when his eyes were as cold and hard as steel. But again today, his whole being was raging with bloodlust. He looked as if he might lunge forward and run her through next—for the mere audacity of daring to speak.
“Where is he then?” Angus asked.
His lips curled contemptuously. It was as if he did not know her. As if they had never met, never made love or held each other in the tender silence of the night. He was looking for his enemy. That was all that mattered to him.
She pointed toward the powder magazine. “I saw him go in there.”
Angus glared intently. “Is this a trap? Do you lie to me, woman?”
“No!” Her distress mounted to the surface. Her husband loathed her. She could feel it like a bitter winter wind. He blamed her for this, and he believed she had betrayed him.
Suddenly, her courage failed her. She could see in his eyes that he wanted only to fight. He needed to face her brother, who had taken his home and thrown him from the rooftop.
Angus was going to kill him. There was no escaping that fact, nor was there any possibility that Murdoch would defeat him. Her brother was not a skilled swordsman. That was why he kept Slevyn so close—to fight his battles for him.
He was a coward in many ways, and yet, she did not want him to die. Despite everything, he was still her brother.
“Please don’t kill him.” The words spilled softly over her lips, even while she knew it was the worst possible thing to say. But she had to say it. She had to plead for her brother’s life. She couldn’t simply send her husband to the powder magazine to hack him to pieces.
Angus’s pale blue eyes narrowed. A muscle clenched at his jaw, and his fist tightened around the hilt of his sword. He pointed at two Moncrieffe warriors. “Seize her. Take her to the prison in the South Tower and lock her up.”
“No, Angus, please!” She struggled against their hold, while a few brave and loyal MacEwen clansman rushed to defend her. They were quickly subdued, however, by Moncrieffe men, who held knives to their throats.
“Let me explain!” she shouted, while they dragged her away. “I didn’t know this was going to happen. I didn’t betray you. I didn’t know the wine was poisoned. It was all part of their plot, and they used me!”
Angus pointed his sword at her from across the distance. A harsh loathing darkened his voice. “I don’t wish to hear it. Not now. Take her away.” He started to go, but turned back. “Do not harm her! She carries my child!”
He strode off to find Murdoch, while Gwendolen was dragged in the opposite direction. She fought hard, struggling the entire way. In the end, it took four burly men to get her up the curved tower stairs and into the cell, where she finally collapsed to her knees on the floor and wept uncontrollably with frustration and despair.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Angus strode with steely purpose to the powder magazine, all his muscles flexed, his mind sharp and ready for another fight. He would not think of the agony he felt at seeing Gwendolen again. Not now. Not at this crucial moment.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, but stopped dead at the sight of Murdoch standing over a powder keg with a burning torch in one hand, his fancy jeweled sword in the other.
“One step closer,” Murdoch said, “and I’ll blow this entire castle into the clouds.”
Angus eyed him shrewdly for a few tense seconds, then boldly marched forward. Murdoch sucked in a breath. His eyes grew wide with fear.
Before he had a chance to even contemplate the smallest defensive move, Angus snatched the torch out of his hand.
“You bluidy fool,” he growled. He returned to the door and handed the flaming torch to one of his men. “Get this out of here.” He faced Murdoch again. “I ought to run you through right now. You’re too stupid to live.”
Murdoch lifted his sword and lunged forward.
“What the fook is that?” Angus asked. “Have you been play-fighting? Did you think you’d be ready for me?” He shook his head with disdain, strode forward again with his heavy claymore, and knocked Murdoch’s decorative weapon to the floor with a light, bouncing clatter. Murdoch raised both hands in the air and stumbled backward along the wall of powder kegs.
“You won’t kill me,” he said in a shaky voice.
“You don’t think so?”
“Nay.”
“Why not?”
“Because of my sister. If you lay one hand on me, she’ll curse the day you were born, and everyone knows you are obsessed with her.”
“Move away from the wall,” Angus warned.
Murdoch moved to the center of the chamber. “All right,” he carefully said. “Let’s talk then. Clearly you have the advantage in a swordfight, but I have the advantage of social connections and the right politics. Your father was a known Jacobite. Surely you’ll consider joining me. We can rule here together, and when England’s war with Spain begins—”
“England’s war with Spain?” Angus replied irritably. “I want no part of that.”
“It’s a chance for Scotland to have a king again,” Murdoch insisted.
Angus looked him up and down from head to foot. “Nay, it’s a chance for you to wear a coronet on your head. That’s right. I learned of your treachery just this morning. You’re dreaming if you think you’ll ever be a duke, and I won’t let you use Kinloch, and the blood of my clansmen, to seek your fortune.”
Angus touched the point of his sword to Murdoch’s chest.
His brother-in-law frowned at him. “If you’re going to do it, do it now. Then everyone will know which side of the border your sword falls on.”
Angus clenched his jaw and felt the old familiar fires of violence and vengeance burning through his body. It was a darkness unlike any other, and he wondered suddenly how many men he had killed in his lifetime, without a single thought to repercussions. The death of one man had never mattered to him before, because he had had no regard for human life, not even his own. Especially not his own.
But this man was Gwendolen’s brother. He was Onora’s son.
Without lowering his sword or taking his eyes off Murdoch’s, he stepped back and said to his men, “Lock him up. But take him to the West Tower. I don’t want him anywhere near his sister.”
Murdoch offered no resistance as three clansmen quickly escorted him out. He looked as if he fully expected to triumph in the end.
Angus secured the powder magazine, then returned to the bailey where dozens of clansmen—MacEwens, MacLeans, and MacDonalds alike—all stood in fearful silence, staring at him.
Were they judging him? he wondered, as he moved to the center of the crowd. Did they think him weak for sparing the life of his enemy?
He stood before all the men and said nothing for a long time as he looked into their eyes. He turned a full circle, scrutinizing each one of them individually, challenging anyone to voice disapproval, or raise a sword against him.
No one uttered a word. They simply watched him, waiting for something to happen.
He looked up at the morning sky, then at the four corner towers of Kinloch, and thrust his sword into the dirt.
“I am Angus Bradach MacDonald,” he shouted, “and I am chief and laird here! If anyone standing in this bailey is a Jacobite, so be it. You may fight for the Stuart King if that is your choice. But Kinloch is neutral ground. All wars will be fought on distant battlefields. Not here.” He turned around. “Men of Moncrieffe! I thank you for joining me in this fight today! Remain and feast with us tonight, then you may go home to your own laird, your wives and your children, knowing that you have an ally in me, Laird of Kinloch. Everyone else—pledge loyalty to me now, or begone!”
The Moncrieffe clansmen began to back away while all those who remained got down on one knee. There were none who were willing to fight him, nor did anyone turn away.
Angus spotted Gordon MacEwen standing in the arched doorway to the Great Hall. The old steward met his gaze, nodded at him, then dropped to one knee.
Afterward, Angus pulled his sword from the ground and moved through the crowd to address Gordon. “You’re that quick to desert your MacEwen chief, when I locked you up like a turncoat and accused you of treachery?”
Gordon met his gaze directly. “Murdoch MacEwen wanted to drag us all into the war between England and Spain. Even me. He told me I had to fight, or he’d have my head.”
Angus studied the man’s stricken face. “Your head has better uses elsewhere, Gordon. You’re a good steward. You work well with numbers. The treasury needs you, and I’ll have you back in that position if you’re willing.”
Gordon’s eyes warmed to him. “I am, sir.”
Angus rested a hand on his shoulder. “Good. Now tell me something. Where is Onora?”
He needed to know the situation here at Kinloch and make certain that she would not try to free her son, or seduce other men into doing it for her.
Gordon’s face paled. “I’m afraid you won’t find her.”
“Why not?”
“She fled the castle two days ago. She ran off to marry your cousin and Laird of War.”
Angus dropped his hand to his side and regarded Gordon questioningly. “Lachlan is alive? And you say he intends to marry Onora?”
No, that was not possible. It was a trick. Angus knew Lachlan too well. He would never marry Onora, or any other woman. Marriage was not for him. Never again in this lifetime.
“Aye, it’s true,” Gordon insisted. “Onora freed him from the prison and wrote a long, poignant message to her son, informing him of their love for each other and begging him not to come after them. She said her happiness depended on it and promised they would not interfere with his plans. Imagine that.”
Angus was exceptionally pleased to hear that his cousin and friend was alive.
As for his unlikely marriage—it was a clever ruse and means of escape, nothing more. Angus was confident that time would soon prove him right.
“What about your wife?” Gordon carefully asked. “If you truly want peace here, sir, you cannot keep her locked up. Her clan won’t take kindly to it. How long will you hold her prisoner?”
Angus opened his eyes and gazed toward the South Tower, where Gwendolen was being held. Where was her heart at this moment? he wondered with a wretched pang of dread. Had she indeed done the worst and tried to poison him so that her brother could be a duke? If she had, he would have no choice but to divorce her and take custody of their child.
Or was there some other end to all of this? Had she spoken the truth when she claimed she did not know the wine was poisoned?
All he knew was that he had to proceed with caution, for he wanted, more than anything, to believe her. But how would he ever know for sure? If he spoke to her now, he might take one look into her wounded eyes and believe anything she said, for he loved her still. There was no denying it. He knew, however, better than anyone, that love had a way of clouding one’s judgment.
He regarded Gordon MacEwen with sober eyes and resheathed his sword. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I believe I will need to think on it a while.”
Chapter Thirty
Gwendolen wiped the tears from her cheeks, gathered her skirts in her fists, and rose to her feet. She was thankful at least that she had been taken to the South Tower prison and not the dungeon in the West Tower, which was damp and infested with rats. Here, she at least had a shuttered window and a chair to sit upon, and the floor was planked with dry wood that had been swept clean recently.
None of that helped to lift her spirits, however, for here she stood, powerless to save her brother from the steely blade of her husband’s wrath. Nor could she explain herself to Angus and make him understand that she had not betrayed him. At least not intentionally. There was no one who could confirm her story. Her mother was gone from the castle, and nothing had worked out as she’d hoped.
At least not yet.
She moved to the chair and sat down, folded her hands together on her lap, and did her best not to think about the dark and bitter hatred that had burned in her husband’s eyes when she faced him in the crowd just now. No matter what happened, she could not lose hope. If there was justice in the world, he would learn the truth and forgive her for all that had gone wrong. And if he could not, perhaps she would need to consider the possibility that the love they shared had never been real in the first place.
She looked down at her hands on her lap and fought hard against the sickening wave of anguish in her belly.
There was still hope, she told herself. This was not over yet.
Gwendolen rose from the chair and went to the window, and kept her eyes fixed on the horizon.
* * *
Angus sank down into the hot tub in his chamber and rinsed the grime from his aching body. It had been a grueling two days, traveling through dark glens and dense forests with the Moncrieffe army, and an even more grueling morning, breaking down the gates of his own home, not long after he had just rebuilt them.
He had faced his brother-in-law and come very close to killing him, but he’d chosen to spare him and was still reeling over that decision. Six months ago, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. He simply would have rid Kinloch of the enemy. Love for a woman would have played no part in it.
But he was not the same man, and indeed, he did love a woman—even though it was possible that she had deceived him and colluded in the attempt to have him executed.
She had told him it was a lie—that she had been used and had not known the wine was poisoned. Did he believe it?
He wanted to. There was nothing in this world he wanted more than to feel the way he had felt with her before Murdoch’s arrival. In his wife’s arms, he had experienced some sort of rhapsody and had begun to believe that he was not cursed or destined for hell. He had never known such joy was possible, or that he could feel such pleasure with a woman.
But not just any woman. His wife.
He leaned his head back over the rim of the tub and closed his eyes, knowing that he was going to have to see her very soon. He needed to know the truth. He needed to look into her eyes and determine what was real.
A short time later, with his hair still wet from the bath, he stood in the South Tower, outside the door to the prison, watching the guard raise the iron bar. The door creaked open and he stepped inside.
Gwendolen faced him from the opposite side of the room, her hands at her sides.
He had come here intending to remain objective, but the moment he saw her, he felt a jolt. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he desired her—even when he knew he should be wary. All he wanted to do was drag her to his bed and prove that she belonged to him and could be conquered like everything else inside these walls.
Another, less familiar part of him, however, wanted to get down on his knees and beg her to swear that she had always been faithful, and that she loved him, despite the fact that he was her brother’s enemy.
“Did you kill my brother?” she quickly asked.
The breath sailed out of his lungs, as a harsher reality came crashing down. “Nay.”
“Did someone else kill him then?”
“Nay, he still lives. I placed him in the dungeon.”
Was that all that mattered to her?
The intensity in her eyes relaxed slightly, and she seemed to breathe for the first time since he’d entered the prison cell.
“I am relieved,” she said. “I realize, of course, that you had every right to fight him to the death after what he did to you. So if your answer had been different, I could not have blamed you. But I am pleased. Thank you for sparing him. I am…” She paused and her gaze dropped to the floor.
“You are what, lass?”
Say it, dammit! Say again that you were innocent in all of this! That you never stopped caring for me. And look me in the eye when you say it!
But she continued to look at the floor. “I am grateful.”
“Grateful?” He moved closer to her as his blood began to simmer. “Is that all? Do you have nothing else to say? You gave me poisoned wine, and I’m lucky to be alive. I should be beating you to a pulp right now. It’s what most husbands would do in my position.” He hesitated a moment, then began to pace back and forth in front of her. “You said in the bailey that you didn’t know it was poisoned, and that they were using you. Is that true? And if you tell me it is, how can I ever know for sure?”
