Starcatcher, page 32
Yet the man fighting Gavin seemed not to care that the odds against him were overwhelming. Instead, his attack grew more ferocious. Gavin was no mean swordsman, and he parried and thrust with competence. But his opponent was better. Gavin fell back a step, then another. In that instant, Patrick saw the enemy’s face—his eyes—and his heart leapt to his throat.
God’s blood! Foster!
It took every ounce of discipline Patrick possessed not to run immediately to Gavin’s aid. Only the certain knowledge that Gavin would be humiliated in front of his own clansmen held him back. Yet as it became clearer and clearer that Gavin could not win, Patrick prepared to finish it.
Gavin fell back another step, then stumbled on a rock behind him, falling to one knee. Patrick moved forward, sword raised. But he was too late. Foster lunged, grabbing Gavin and placing the blade of his sword next to Gavin’s neck.
“Do not move,” he told Patrick, “unless you want him to die.”
Several drops of blood dripped from Gavin’s neck. Patrick stood perfectly still, dropping his sword to his side. One movement from Foster’s hand, and Gavin would die.
“Go ahead,” Gavin said. “Kill the bastard.”
The sword pinched his neck tighter and the drops became a steady stream.
“What do you want, Foster?” Patrick could barely contain the rage in his voice.
“You,” Foster snarled. “But for the moment, I will take a horse. A good one.” He looked around. “That black over there looks just fine.”
Patrick returned his stare, hatred radiating from him. God’s blood, but he did not want to let the man go. As much as he had wished for peace, had wanted to put killing behind him, he could barely control his rage. This one man had caused so much pain, so much destruction.
But he would not—could not—sacrifice Gavin for vengeance. He nodded to one of his men. “Bring him.” Then he looked back to Foster. “You are only delaying things, Foster. I will find you. ’Tis only a matter of time.”
Foster shrugged. “Mayhap that is exactly what I have in mind. But not against such odds.”
“Release Gavin and fight me. I swear that if you win, these men will let you go.”
“Ah, but I am not as trusting as you, my lord.”
“Coward!”
“Oh, our time will come. Now I have another bone to pick with you. You brought these men?”
“Aye,” Patrick said. “I brought them. To put an end to your game—yours and Sinclair’s.”
Foster sneered. “Still playing the hero, Sutherland? Well, one day, I promise you, I will see you dead. But now I go to join a friend.”
The horse was brought within a few feet of Foster, until the villain barked, “Far enough. Now all of you move backward. And you,” he added, pointing at the men holding the horses, “let them go.”
Gunns and Sutherlands looked from Gavin to Patrick. Gavin managed a strangled “Nay.”
But Patrick nodded, his gaze still on Gavin.
“Scatter them,” Foster said. “The prisoners, too.” He turned to Patrick. “That should keep you busy for a while.”
But Patrick shook his head. “The prisoners stay where they are.” He was bargaining dangerously now, betting that Foster cared less about his unfortunate colleagues than his own skin. He must know that if he killed Gavin, he was a dead man.
And Patrick needed those prisoners. He needed them to convince Abernie of Sinclair’s treachery. Otherwise, all would be for naught.
Foster hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Scatter the horses. The prisoners are yours.”
His mercenaries began to shout as they realized his betrayal. But Foster spared not a backward glance for them. Instead, he kept his eyes on Patrick.
“Back off,” he ordered.
Patrick retreated several steps. Foster pushed Gavin to the ground, then swung into the saddle of the black, digging his heels in and galloping toward the woods.
Patrick ran to Gavin as several of his men started after the loosed horses. Blood was dripping from the neck wound, but it was not a fatal cut. He tore a piece of cloth from his bloodied shirt and tied it around the wound.
“You stay here,” he said. “I am going after the bastard.”
“I am going with you,” Gavin said, getting to his feet.
“Bloody hell you will.”
“We do not have time to argue.”
They did not, and Patrick knew it. He had a good idea where Foster was going, and they could not waste time. Foster would destroy any loose ends. That meant Margaret, if she still lived. And Alex had gone to protect her.
But first, he had to make sure Abernie learned the truth.
His gaze moved to the men in Sutherland plaid. Those not lying on the ground had been tied and seated together, awaiting his pleasure. A few of his men stood guard over them.
One of the captives was already loudly blaming the attack on Sinclair, saying they were provided the Sutherland plaids by their laird.
Patrick moved to stand in front of him. “Where is Sinclair?”
The captive shrugged.
With calculated deliberation, Patrick walked over to where he had dropped his sword, picked it up, and walked back to the man. He brought the tip of the blade up to rip the edge of the plaid the man was wearing, drawing a fine line of blood.
“That you are wearing my plaid offends me,” he said coldly. “That you have dishonored my name offends me even more. I am not known for patience, nor for temperance. Now, where is Sinclair?”
The sword tip lingered at the man’s throat, and when he swallowed, the movement caused the tip to bite into his flesh. The flow of blood down his neck increased, and his eyes stretched wide with terror.
“In the woods,” he gasped. “Awaiting word.”
“Too cowardly to come himself,” Patrick said. “And what do you know of Creighton?”
The man blinked several times, swallowed hard again. “He will kill me.”
“Not if you are already dead.”
The man shuddered, but Patrick felt no compassion. The man and his fellow raiders had attacked the croft with the intention of killing and raping, and they had used the Sutherland plaid and name to do it. At that moment, Patrick thought he understood his father better than he ever had: His clan was everything, and it was his duty to protect it, along with its name and its honor, above all else.
Suddenly fearing what he might do, Patrick took a step backward. Still, his sword remained poised to strike.
“I want to know about Creighton,” he said again.
“I donna know,” the man said desperately. “I know only that men are sent there occasionally.”
“Why?”
“’Tis said a woman is kept there,” another captive said. “But none of the guards the laird sends to the keep ha’ ever seen her. At least, tha’ is what they claim.”
Patrick studied the talkative captive. “Are you a Sinclair?”
“Nay,” the man said. “A Macnab.”
“A mercenary?”
“Aye,” the man said hopefully. “Are you in need of one?”
“Not one that would kill women and children,” Patrick snapped. “But you will live if your information is correct and you are willing to give it to Parliament.”
The man nodded. So did another.
At that moment, one Gunn clansman who had been listening to the confessions fell to his knees and started babbling a prayer. Patrick looked around for the cause of the man’s odd behavior. When Patrick saw a man climbing clumsily to the ground from the back of a horse, he had the answer. But while his mouth curved into a crooked grin, the men around him gasped.
“A ghost,” one man uttered in reverence.
“Quick Harry,” said another in awe.
“He is dead,” said a third.
Patrick could see that Quick Harry enjoyed the attention.
“Be he or be he not?” a Gunn asked plaintively.
Quick Harry chuckled. “I be,” he stated with assurance.
“But … but …” one man stuttered.
Quick Harry did a little jig, smiling broadly. Patrick could guess how glad he was that he could finally go home. But Quick Harry’s smile faded as he looked at Patrick and Gavin. Marsali, who had ridden with Quick Harry, had run to Gavin’s side and was fretting over his bloodied neck. Patrick smiled briefly, afraid to even look at her when he knew he must leave here quickly.
Instead, he ordered Rufus and Hiram to take the prisoners to Abernie, curtly cutting off any dissent. He trusted only his two friends to make sure Abernie heard the truth.
Satisfied, he grabbed the reins of what looked to be the fastest of the retrieved horses and swung up into the saddle. Gavin jerked loose from Marsali and took the reins of another.
Patrick rode over to him. “Stay here.”
“’Tis only a scratch,” Gavin said, “and I have unfinished business.”
Patrick swore but dug his heels in his mount, galloping off in the direction Foster had taken—toward Creighton. He had no more time for further argument. He had already wasted precious minutes.
Foster and Sinclair could not guess that he knew about their hideaway. And Alex was there. Patrick rode harder, barely aware of Gavin at his side, of the sound of other horses behind him.
Chapter 26
Alex reached the coast with his two friends at daybreak. He had roused both Jock and Rory from their beds, telling their families their laird had need of them. He had met with no objections, either from the families, who were proud that their sons were chosen, or from his friends, who craved adventure. Before they came in sight of the derelict keep, they dismounted and tied their horses to a stunted, sea-swept oak. Keeping low, they snaked their way through the tall grass.
The keep loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, stark against the sea that had swallowed chunks of its foundation.
Alex gestured for Jock and Rory to stay down, and the young men flattened themselves on their bellies as they inched their way to the very edge of the grass, where the beach began. As one, they peered through the tall stalks. Alex had never seen Creighton. He had only heard of it, and at any other time, he might have enjoyed studying the place. It was, after all, one of the oldest keeps in the Highlands. But this was no time for a history lesson.
With a less appreciative eye, he forced himself to note the fortifications. Only a small strip of sea separated it from the beach, but the sea was rough and the currents strong. They would need a boat if they were to cross.
But the shore was bare.
“They must have a boat,” Alex said.
“Perhaps it comes from the keep,” Jock guessed.
Rory asked, “How would they know when to come?”
“A signal of some kind,” Alex offered.
Jock looked puzzled. “What do we do now?”
Alex was at a loss, and for a moment he wished Patrick were there. But Patrick was not there, and Alex needed to stop wishing and start thinking. In answer to Jock’s question, he said, “We keep out of sight until we see someone approach. Then mayhap we can learn the signal.”
“Hide where?” Jock said dubiously.
The three of them looked around. Trees were sparse on the windswept coast, as were rocks large enough for their purpose. They had probably all been taken to build Creighton.
“We will dig holes,” he said. “Shallow ones.”
The other two looked at him askance.
Alex said, “And cover ourselves with grass.”
Jock and Rory considered for a moment, then nodded.
Still crawling on their bellies, they searched for a place soft enough to dig. They found one several yards away from a path carved through the grass by horses’ hooves. Using their dirks, they shoveled out three shallow holes in the ground, and Rory and Jock stretched out in two of them. Alex crawled to the path and checked for riders in both directions. He saw only the long grass waving in the cold Scottish wind. Returning to the others, he stretched out in the third hole, worrying about what was happening on Gunn land, fretting over whether Marsali had reached Patrick safely, and wondering how long he and his friends would have to wait.
And what on earth would they do if a troop of men approached?
He had the two pistols from the armory, and his friends both carried dirks. Jock and Rory had started training and knew how to use both dirk and pistol, but none of them was really proficient with any weapon. More than ever, Alex realized they would have to rely upon stealth and wits if they were to succeed.
He kept his eyes on the path. He did not want to think of Margaret in the dank, desolate keep. Mayhap she was not there at all. Mayhap he was endangering himself and his friends needlessly. But then, he wondered for the hundredth time since his meeting with Rufus, why would Sinclair guard an empty, crumbling heap of rock?
Aye, Sinclair was hiding something. And if it was not Margaret, it was something else of value.
Alex felt a chill and knew it was not from the cold ground beneath them. The cold came from inside, from the fingers of dread creeping up his spine. The excitement he had felt when Patrick had asked for his help had long since faded. He was more frightened now than he had ever been in his life.
Yet he was committed to seeing this through. He would not turn back. He finally understood what Patrick had meant the night of the cattle raid when he had said, “Bravery has nothing to do with the use of arms.… Real courage is being true to yourself and what you believe is right.”
Did real courage mean risking your life even though you were shaking through and through?
He did not know the answer. He only knew the fear.
Edward Sinclair’s horse grew restive beneath him, and he cursed, too impatient himself to calm the animal. He had been sitting on the bloody beast all morning, waiting in a wood at the edge of his land where it bordered the Gunns’. Waiting for news from Foster.
At midmorning, when Foster had not arrived, he had dispatched one of the two men with him to the crofts that were targeted for attack. It was now past midday, and no one had returned.
Something had gone wrong. Edward was certain of it. But how could anything have gone wrong when everything was planned to the last detail? He had sent his best men—his very best—with Foster. Men he knew he could trust. Men without consciences. The combination was not easy to find. When he had inherited the keep fourteen years ago from his cousin, he had discovered, to his disgust, that the fealty of the men-at-arms was attached, blood and bone, to the Sinclair name, not to himself. His coin had bought mercenaries, but not his clansmen. And it had been those well-paid mercenaries whom Foster had taken on the raid.
What in bloody hell had gone wrong?
Foster never made mistakes. In truth, though he disliked the man personally, Edward admired Foster a great deal. To him, the madman had been a godsend—and indeed, he was mad. But he was brilliant. While Edward had tried for years to devise a way to relieve the Gunns and Sutherlands of their rich grazing lands, Foster had come along and, in no time at all, nearly solved the problem. He had even suggested a way to include the fair Marsali as part of the victory when Edward thought there was no hope of having her. After all, she had been betrothed for years to Patrick Sutherland.
It had all seemed quite simple, really: Divide the clans, then reap the rewards. Make them hate each other, watch them kill each other off, leaving their lands for the taking. By offering to “help” the Gunns, he could have Marsali, who by that time surely would no longer be betrothed to a Sutherland. In the end, he would have the land and the woman. Foster would have the revenge he wanted on Patrick Sutherland—which was to his own liking, as well.
Edward admitted only to himself that, when Foster had suggested how they could cause strife between the earl and the marquis, he had paled. He did not mind making the marquis believe that his wife had cuckolded him, but kidnapping her had seemed a very risky thing to do. Frightening, the thought of getting caught. And charged. And hung.
But Foster had assured him it would work. And it had. Exactly the way Foster had said it would. Hatred born of anger and grief flared between the two old men like fire in a dry forest. Marsali’s betrothal to Patrick Sutherland had been cried off. And Sinclair had stepped in with gifts and offers of assistance to the Gunn in his feud against the Sutherland clan—in exchange for Marsali’s hand in marriage, of course.
The earl had agreed. Everything was set. Then Patrick Sutherland had come home and ruined everything.
He was the reason Marsali had abandoned him at the altar. He was the reason Cecilia had disappeared. And he was certainly the reason Marsali was a hostage at Brinaire. And somehow the accursed Patrick Sutherland had brought the feud Foster and he had brewed to a grinding halt. Cattle raids. Och! Where was the blood?
Still, all had not been lost. The clans were still at war, a war helped in no small measure by the burning out of the Gunn crofters. And while he might not have Marsali, he would, if it came to it, have another Gunn to marry.
Because he still had Margaret. Poor Margaret, who believed it was her husband who kept her prisoner.
Foster had wanted to kill her immediately. But Foster was a rash man, and he was not. It had been a risk to keep her alive, but Edward was willing to take it. For what if Marsali were killed in the feud? Or what if he had not been able to convince the earl to give him either of his daughters in marriage? Then he could have waited, and when the earl of Abernie and the marquis of Brinaire had killed each other off, he could have “rescued” Margaret and married her. Such a union would have strengthened his petition to the king for the Gunn and Sutherland lands.
Edward did not find the thought of marrying Margaret Gunn Sutherland pleasant. She had been neither young nor beautiful when they had kidnapped her, and he imagined two years of imprisonment had taken its toll. But it could be done. If necessary.
For two years, he had stood firm against Foster and kept Margaret alive. But as Edward sat on his horse and looked at the sun sinking toward the western horizon, he began to think the time had come to let Foster have his way.
At three hours past midday, Edward heard a rider approaching. He strained to see movement through the thick forest but was not relieved when he saw Foster. Especially when he reined up and Sinclair saw his mottled, enraged face.
