Kate Robbins - The Highland Chiefs Series 03 (19 page)

Oh, thank God!

“I am going to release you now. Do not scream.”

She nodded.

Niall released her and she turned back to him, relieved. She grabbed his hands and dragged him inside the chapel.

Once the door was shut, the bishop led them to the altar. He motioned for the men to move the platform aside and when they did, it revealed a stairwell. Freya gasped. It looked like the stairway to Hell, such pitch black as it was.

Without any better option, they followed the bishop down into the crypt and pulled the platform back in place.

They were only down a few steps when they heard the door to the chapel burst open. They all stopped dead in their tracks as Alexander Sutherland’s voice boomed and bounced off the stone walls of the chapel.

“Where the devil is she? I left her here and by Christ I want her found! Now!”

Freya’s heart pounded wildly as he cursed like she had never heard another person curse in her life.

“I want the castle scoured again!” he said. “And again! And again! Until she is found and brought to me!”

He let out a mighty growl then, causing Freya’s belly to lurch. She had so narrowly escaped spending the night in his bed at his torturous whims. She fought for control as her body quaked. His mere presence was enough to shake her to the core. Niall placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She placed her hand over his in thanks.

He might not be a trained warrior, but she believed him, all of them, when they said they would be loyal and that no harm would come to them.

“Freya MacKay! Where are you? When I find you I swear you will regret the day you ran from me! Do you hear me? I will make you pay and pay and pay for making me wait!”

Freya doubled over from fear that she was about to let her terror win this time. She clamped her hands over her mouth and squeezed her eyes tight.

Please, God, don’t let him find me. Please, oh, please!

Footsteps shuffled all around the altar above. They could not move any farther below for fear they might be heard. The monster was so close he sometimes blocked the thin shaft of light that came in from the crack between the platform and the floor.

Niall’s hands settled on her shoulders and he pulled her back up and close to him. For a moment, she allowed him to comfort her and help quell her shaking body.

“She is not here, my lord,” a voice said from somewhere a little farther away.

“I know that, you daft idiot! Do not test my patience, Allain. I thought you said you could deliver them both to me. You have done nothing I find of value. Perhaps I should take my frustration out on you this evening. Would you like that?”

“No, my lord. I would not like that. Please, tell me what it is you wish me to do.”

“I wish you to find Freya MacKay!”

“As is your wish, my lord,” he said.

His boot steps became fainter with each one until Freya heard the door slam.

“I will find you, Freya. And, oh, the delicious punishment you will receive when I do.” His boot steps clipped until they, too, faded and the door to the chapel slammed shut.

Chapter Twenty

“Is he mad or brilliant?” Kenneth MacKenzie asked.

“Perhaps a little of both,” Ronan said.

“That is why we could not punch through the lines,” Fergus said.

Ronan nodded. “And those same reinforcements will head back to their ships and sail straight to Edinburgh if they are not stopped.” Ronan paced the tent. “I sent Father Sinclair five days ago. He would have made it to Edinburgh by now, but even if he rode hard, will not return here for another day or so. It will still take many days before the king’s army can get here. How long can we last?”

“We can go as long as we have men, but we suffered great losses today. As did they. There are only so many men available to fight,” Fergus said. “If Sinclair and MacIntosh arrive tomorrow, we can breathe a little easier, though we are by no means anywhere near a resolution.”

Ronan weighed their options. The reinforcements prevented them from taking the castle. The extra two thousand men tipped the scaled heavily in Sutherland’s favour, and if they did not get help soon, they would not see their desired end to this confrontation.

The tent flap opened and a startled Father Sinclair entered. Ronan went to him immediately and grasped his shoulders.

“Surely, there was never a happier sight to a man’s eyes.”

Father Sinclair grimaced. “You may want to save your praise until you hear of the news I bring. Some good, and some very bad.”

Ronan brought him forward and offered him a seat and a goblet of ale.

“Father Sinclair, this is Fergus MacKay, and Kenneth and Rorie MacKenzie. They are aware of your quest.” Ronan placed his hand on the father’s shoulders. “Catch your breath, Father, and tell us everything. We are approaching desperation so we will be very grateful for even a small amount of good news.”

He shook his head. “The king is in Inverness. It was only by pure chance I discovered it. It is not as I had hoped. I saw the king’s council and gave them the bishop’s letter. They made me wait for hours until I was finally granted an audience.” He took a deep draught of the ale and emptied the goblet. Ronan promptly refilled it.

“Aye? And did he reverse the writ?”

“Not at first. It was not until I spoke with him and convinced him of the damage your uncle had caused and intended to cause that his demeanour changed. In short, he has agreed to reverse the writ and reinstate you as Earl.”

Father Sinclair reached into his robes and pulled out a piece of parchment with the king’s seal stamped in red wax upon it. Ronan accepted it and stared at it. Once again, the balance of power came down to a piece of parchment.

“There is more,” Father Sinclair said. “It appears the king took your uncle’s behaviour personally and he is amassing his army to travel north.”

Ronan’s head snapped up. “That is good; we need his numbers.”

“No, Ronan. He is not coming here to help destroy your uncle’s army. He is coming here so that you,” Father Sinclair pointed at Ronan, and then each of Fergus and MacKenzie, “and you, and you, swear fealty to him and him alone. He said he will claim any clan whose chief does not swear their immediate and absolute allegiance to him.”

Fergus was on his feet in a second. “He cannot do that. Without power we have no way to protect those under our banner!”

MacKenzie stood next. “’Tis a mad king he is. How does he expect us to rule through him when he is hundreds of miles away?”

Ronan shook his head. They were stuck in the middle between an over-ambitious man who wanted power and another who had power and wanted more.

“I fear ’tis the clans caught in the middle who will lose the most in the coming days,” Ronan said. “Did he say when he would arrive, Father?”

“Aye, he said in a sennight. That was three days ago. You have some time to plan, but not much.”

Ronan’s mind raced while Fergus and MacKenzie cursed the king. They had all attended Parliament a few years back when the king had introduced his then new laws on authoritative reform. It had ended in a bloody battle and this encounter would be no different. The only way for them to succeed in keeping some part of their power, the part that helped them protect what was theirs, was to ban together—all of them.

A clan uprising of that size and scope had not been attempted in many years. Sutherland, MacKay, and MacKenzie would need commitments from Ross, Munro, Sinclair, MacIntosh, and even MacDonald. Christ, that was a path he did not want to take. The MacDonalds of the Isles were very clear they would do anything to remove this king from his throne. The battle had raged between the Stewart and the MacDonald over the past few years. Ronan would have to engage the men after all this time, and he would rather stick thistles under their eyelids.

“Fergus, we need everyone in on this,” Ronan said quietly.

Fergus stopped and turned to him, frowning. He drew a great breath and let it out in a whoosh. Grimacing, he swiped his hand down across his face and stared hard at Ronan. He had heard Fergus sometimes referred to as The Hawk because of that stare, and he saw now that it was well earned.

“Like who?”

“Like everyone. MacDonalds even.”

“MacDonalds will jump at the chance to challenge the king,” MacKenzie said.

“Aye, they will. But they harbour ill favour for our Ronan here, since he did not see the plot through that he and Ronan’s father had put into place to destroy us and usurp the king. Add that the man thinks I murdered his sister, and he wants MacKenzie’s lands. I would say we three are not among his most favoured people.”

“All that being true, the man has an army that could rival yours, Fergus, and he will not stand for the Stewart’s tyranny,” MacKenzie said.

Ronan took the time while they argued over whether or not MacDonald would join forces with them or slay them where they stood, to crack the seal on the parchment he held. He unfolded the letter and read down through.

It was finally his again. All of it. Signed. Sealed. Delivered. By the hand of the king, he was now Earl of Sutherland again, and chief of his clan. That meant the men who they battled against were his to command. The king would be here in four days. In the meantime, they had to do something about Alexander, and find a way to prevent more of his men from slaughter. Those men were in a worse state than Ronan at this point for they had no choice but listen to the man they thought was their commander. Christ, how did this whole business become such a mess?

“Before we make any final decisions, I believe we have a more immediate problem,” Ronan said.

“And that being?” Fergus asked.

He waved the letter toward the man and said, “I am the Earl of Sutherland and chief of the clan. My men fight your men, and we need to put a stop to it.”

“Jesus in Heaven.”

“I will thank you not to blaspheme in my presence, Laird MacKay,” Father Sinclair said.

“My apologies, Father,” he said. “You must certainly understand the predicament we are in at the moment.”

“I certainly do, however, I do not believe our Saviour had anything to do with it or would appreciate your calling him out on it.”

Fergus stared at the man for a heartbeat before grinning. “You are right, Father. It will not happen again.”

“See to it that it doesn’t, Laird MacKay.”

“Fergus.”

Father Sinclair raised his brows and then nodded. “Fergus.”

“What are we going to do?” MacKenzie asked.

Rorie who had been relatively quiet all evening now stood. The young man would have a commanding presence like his father when he aged a little more. His steely gaze showed his determination. Ronan found himself waiting to see what the young man had to say.

“We must approach this problem with logic,” he said. “What stands in the way between where we are and what we want?”

Put like that, it was obvious.

“Alexander Sutherland.”

“Exactly. If your uncle were not in the picture, you could reclaim the Sutherland portion of the army, and together we could drive the reinforcements back. It seems to me the first step is to dispose of your uncle.”

Ronan grinned as Fergus and MacKenzie stared at Rorie who merely raised his eyebrows at them. “Well, ’tis true, is it not?”

MacKenzie slapped him hard on the shoulder. “You will make a find laird someday, lad.”

“Aye,” he said. “I will.”

He certainly was not lacking in confidence, Ronan noted. But his words were the truth. The very first thing that needed to happen was removing Alexander from the equation. Then his men needed to pledge fealty or be disposed of, only then could they properly prepare for the king’s arrival.

The tent flap raised again, allowing Neville entry. His face was drawn with concern.

“What is it?” Ronan asked.

“Our scouts say Sutherland and his men are scouring the grounds, but they could not tell what they sought.”

Freya.

“What do you think, Neville?”

“I think your sister has escaped somehow and Sutherland is on the hunt for her. One of the men heard him yelling from the chapel but could not readily capture his words.”

“We must get to her before he does,” Ronan said. He was on his feet and heading toward the entrance before anyone else moved.

Fergus caught up with him and was tight to his heels as they left the tent. “I am not sure where to begin,” he said.

“We begin with the closest structure, which is the stable and work toward the castle from there.”

It was a plan. Good or bad, Ronan did not have time to care. It was the only one they had and he prayed to God that he and Fergus found her first.

* * *

The burning torch offered enough light for them to find a place on the floor that did not house someone’s corpse. Freya had never liked visiting burial places and so being cooped up in one now was only bearable because the only other option was to face being put in her own burial box.

She glanced around to see how everyone else fared. They had been in the crypt for a few hours now. Their guards took turns walking up the steps toward the altar to listen for anyone, and though others had come back a couple of times, no one had figured out where they were yet.

Freya clasped her hands together. She was weary, hungry, and thirsty. They had not had opportunity to arrange provisions for their hideaway and opportunity would not present itself for many more hours to come. She swallowed hard on her parched throat. At least they were in good health. Well, most of them anyway. The bishop had taken to lying down in the corner. Morag had seen to him and suggested he get some rest. The man was well up in his years, though Freya supposed his ill health had more to do with too much mead rather than age.

Just then, Malcolm raced down into the lower chamber. “Someone’s coming,” he said. They all collectively moved to the inner chamber where they had to stand very close together to fit, but if whoever it was only came to the bottom of the steps with a torch, they would not be detected.

A small, delicate hand found hers and squeezed as the sound of scraping stone met their ears. The altar had been moved. They would be within the outer chamber in seconds! She squeezed the hand back and held her breath.

Footsteps descended and drew closer. Freya, standing behind the three guards could not see anything, but could hear whispers. There must be more than one person out there.

“They’re not here,” a voice said. That voice. She knew that voice! Fergus.

“Do not be so sure,” a second voice said. Ronan!

Freya struggled to break through Hamish, Malcolm, and Niall’s front line but unknowing her purpose, they held her back.

“Let me go!” she said.

“Freya?” Fergus called?

“I am here,” she said and broke from their grasp. She emerged from the inner chamber to discover Ronan and Fergus standing in the middle of the outer chamber with torches. Freya flung herself into her brother’s arms and held tight.

“You are alive,” she whispered.

“Aye, lass,” he said in her hair. “I am alive. You are safe now.”

Behind her, she heard a similar reunion between Ronan and his mother and sister. Freya released Fergus and held his face in her hands. “Do not ever scare me like that again. Do you hear me?”

He chuckled. “I hear you and I promise not to ever scare you like that again.”

“Good. Now can we please get out of here? This place is making me ill.”

When she released Fergus, she found herself being swung around and warm lips pressed against hers. Ronan backed her away from the others and ravaged her mouth. Her mind battled with her body in that moment. She should be furious with him, but she was so relieved he had found her, she could only kiss him back. His tongue swept inside in search of hers. When they met and tangled, a surge of need washed over her. Ronan held her tight and branded her with his mouth, his fingers digging into the back of her neck and her hip, where he held her.

Finally, he broke free and gazed into her eyes. “Will you ever forgive me?”

“I do not know, Ronan. You ask so much of me.”

“I know,” he said. “I had no other choice. I had to find out what he was up to.” She could almost feel the pain seeping through his voice.