Page 88 of My Scot, My Surrender
“And I love you, husband,” she said, and after raising her chin to take his mouth in a fast kiss, she pushed him away. “Now go, and think only of the fight. I’ll take care of things here.”
She watched Brandt draw in a long breath, as if drinking in her face to carry with him into battle, and then with a short nod, turned to exit the great hall. As soon as he was out of sight, the sounds around her came into focus. The women had begun to plan their own positioning within the cavernous hall. Aisla was pointing out the alcoves on either side of the room where the children could crouch and hide for the duration of the battle. Catriona had gathered a group of women to prepare a corner of the hall into a makeshift infirmary, and Sorcha realized the wounded would be brought here as well.
“These tables and benches,” Sorcha said, seeing the places where the clansmen sat while taking their meals in a new light, “can be turned on their sides and put to use as barricades.”
The women were not weaponless. More than half of them carried bows and dirks, a few had crossbows, and even the children had baskets of stones. The room was a commotion of activity over the next several minutes as tables were upended and dragged across the stone floors. Outside the walls of the hall and beyond, Sorcha could hear the firing of rifles and the muted crash of swords, along with the muffled shouts of men. As the women positioned themselves behind the tables, and more used the hearth to boil water for cleaning future wounds, she tried to shut her ears to the sounds of battle. But try as she did, they seemed to grow only closer.
Sorcha found Aisla instructing two wide-eyed women on the bow and pulled her aside. “Is there somewhere else to send the children, should the fight reach this hall?”
Already the youngest of the boys and girls were taking shelter in the alcoves, but Sorcha needed another place to send them. A safer place, should they require it.
With a pinched brow, Aisla nodded. “Aye, there is, though it may be a bit tricky—and a risk. ’Tis a number of tunnels leading out to the southern walls of the keep, to the quarry. Callan and I used to play in them during dry seasons, though they’re usually half filled with mud and water during the spring. They could be bogged down right now, for all I ken.”
Sorcha’s relief swelled at the idea of the tunnels leading out. The southern end of the keep would be facing the craggy hills, and in the opposite direction of the current battle unfolding at the north and northwestern sides of the fortress.
“Send two women to the nearest tunnel to see if it’s passable,” she said as a rapid volley of musket fire sounded, much closer than before. It did not escape her attention that the tunnels could be a wayinas well, but Malvern’s men would likely not know of them.
Aisla nodded and started to turn away when she suddenly jerked to a stop, the flush of purpose and vigor draining from her face. Her eyes had gone wide as saucers, her pupils to pinpricks. A hush clamped down over the rest of the hall, and the small hairs on the back of Sorcha’s neck stood on end, even before she turned to see what it was the women were reacting to. She had not yet turned fully when already her instincts knew.
And they were dead on.
Standing within the side entrance to the great hall, in the doorway that led directly to the kitchens, were a handful of men dressed in chainmail armor, another scattered handful in leather and plaid. Two of the men stepped forward, and their faces drove the breath straight from Sorcha’s lungs.
“Lord Malvern,” she whispered, a shock of nausea slamming into her. The marquess’s upper lip pulled into a smug sneer.
To his right, his knight, Coxley, grinned viciously. “Miss me?” he drawled.
“Sod off, Coxley,” she hissed, even as her heart cinched tight.Ronan. What had become of her brother? She ordered the tears threatening her vision to retreat, and to her relief, they obeyed.
A third leather-and-chainmail-clad man came forward, and Sorcha’s pulse quaked. It was Rodric, his pale blue eyes fixed like bait hooks on Catriona.
“Ye traitor,” he seethed.
“I?” Brandt’s mother returned, holding out an arm to stay Aisla as the girl started for her side. “Ye’re the betrayer, Rodric, no’ I. Ye’ve led these men against yer own kin!”
The man tossed back his head and thundered laughter into the high ceilings. Beside him, Malvern and Coxley stood, emotionless, their somber glares reserved only for Sorcha. They’d used Rodric, she knew, and the ex-laird had willingly allowed it for his own benefit. The half-dozen enemy warriors were unbloodied, though they were not unstained. From their knees down, each man’s legs were coated in a dripping layer of mud. They had taken the tunnels Aisla had just spoken of, Sorcha realized. Rodric had known of them and had led the way. Malvern would not have breached the keep without his help.
“Ye are my wife,” Rodric said. “I own ye, Catriona, and ye’ll pay for standing up against me.”
With a twitch of Malvern’s wrist, his men surged forward. Screams erupted in the hall, echoing off the ceiling and bouncing off the walls as the women rushed to arm themselves. Sorcha’s entire body went cold. She held no weapon; nothing but the single dirk at her hip. She’d leaned her sword and bow against one upended table while she worked with the other women to build their barricades.
She palmed the hilt of her dirk and readied her grip, slicing at the first Scottish traitor who came at her. Her blade met its mark, carving into his jaw before she whirled to the side and slid the blade along the back of his ribs as well. The leather he wore parted easily and she heard his cry of pain and fury. Finished with him, Sorcha darted away, sticking her blade into the back of another man’s thigh as he was herding two of the Montgomery women toward the alcove where the children huddled and wailed. He growled and swiped behind him but Sorcha had already whirled out of reach.
As she moved, she saw Coxley’s mammoth form lumbering toward her. She couldn’t see Malvern and she didn’t care; at that moment, it was Coxley she needed to defend herself against. The man who had bested her own brother. Had hekilledRonan? She ground her teeth and let out a scream of rage as she gripped her dirk and prepared to meet him, head on, his sword at his side. He wasn’t planning to harm her—not mortally, at least. But before he could reach Sorcha, a small figure whipped in between them, a bow in her hands, one slim elbow pulled back as she nocked her arrow.
“Aisla!” Sorcha shouted, though her voice was more of a rasping and breathless cry. “Behind you. Coxley, no!”
Her warning came too late. Brandt’s sister screamed as Coxley’s immense arm slammed into her bow, knocking the weapon to the side and out of her hands. The arrow loosed without force and skidded along the stone floor.
A body slammed into Sorcha’s back and took her to the ground, her knees cracking painfully as she landed, her dirk knocked from her hand and spinning out of reach. She heard Aisla scream again and from the corner of her eye, she saw Coxley shoving Brandt’s sister against the laird’s table, one hand closing around her throat, his knees pressing her into a caged position. A pair of hands grabbed Sorcha’s arms from behind, restraining her as she was jerked from the floor and dragged forward.
Around her, all was screaming and chaos, and for the briefest of moments, her faceless captor was knocked off-kilter, his hands loosening around her arms. She twisted to make a lunge for Aisla and stopped short at a startling sight.
Her sister-in-law held the twin dirk Sorcha had given her days before, the blade buried to the hilt in Coxley’s side. The man’s body had arched away from her, a guttural cry ripping from his throat. Aisla stared in horror at Coxley’s face and screamed as she withdrew the dirk, only to plunge it in again, this time higher, in the unprotected gap in his chainmail armor, just below his left arm. From its angle, Sorcha guessed, the tip of it would have lodged right into his vile, black heart. She felt a moment of triumph, and no small amount of relief that Aisla had saved herself from such a monster.
It was then Sorcha’s captor returned, wrenching her arm and spinning her around. She lashed out with her leg, trying to kick his feet out from under him, but he intercepted her powerful kick, jamming his knee into her inner thigh. Bright pain flared, and she crumpled, her captor’s hands clutching at her as she writhed for freedom.
“You’ve avoided your fate for too long, Lady Maclaren.” Her limbs went numb with recognition.
