Page 90 of My Scot, My Surrender
A distant scream tore her from encroaching relief. It had come from within the keep.
“The women and children…they’re in the great hall—” she started to say.
Her father strode up to her, his forehead bloodied, though it only made him look even more fierce. He was a warrior through and through, and had not softened with age.
“Go to them,” he said, tossing her a bow and a quiver of arrows from his own back, “and protect them. Ye’re better with a bow than all of our archers combined. Niall, go with her.”
She felt Niall go rigid at her side, knowing her brother felt the order as a dismissal.
“No,” she said, pushing her brother’s arm from her waist. “I can go alone. You need all your warriors with you, Papa, and naught but a few men are back in the great hall to contend with. Go!”
She trudged through the marsh, back toward the dark tunnel, thinking only of Catriona and Rodric. Of Aisla and the children huddling in the alcoves. By then, the women and children might have scattered throughout the keep in escape. Sorcha’s only hope was that she’d find Brandt’s mother still alive. She gripped her father’s bow, nocking one arrow as she plunged back into the tunnel.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Brandt plowed through the half-dozen ragtag Scotsmen surrounding him with nonlethal strikes. He did not wish to murder his countrymen because they’d fallen for Malvern’s gilded promises. Still, he recognized that they were mercenaries, hired to fight for coin. Malvern’s men, who were hardened killers, were a different story. They did not deserve one iota of mercy. Neither did their leader. Though there was no sign of him. Or Coxley. Or Rodric, who Brandt had expected would have returned to Montgomery swaggering at the marquess’s side. A grim feeling of foreboding filled him.
One that was suddenly compounded by his sister, racing down the hill in a billowing blue shirt and screaming his name.
What the devil was she doing out of the hall? And where was Sorcha?
His eyes scanned the courtyard behind Aisla, but there was no sign of his wife. Swamped with a coldness that dug into his bones, he rushed to meet her, leaving bodies strewn in his wake. He was so focused on getting to his sister that he almost lifted his sword against his brother and halted just in time.
“Where are ye going?” Patrick asked, kicking a Scot in the stomach and plunging his sword into one of Malvern’s soldiers. He, Feagan, and Callan were single-handedly fending off the small portion of Malvern’s army that had managed to breach the pass and the men defending on the front fields. They were the last line of defense before the keep.
“It’s Aisla,” Brandt said, not breaking his stride. “She’s not in the keep, which means something has happened.”
“We’ll take care of the rest of these,” his brother said. “Ye go and make sure they’re safe.”
Nodding, Brandt sprinted up the hill behind his brothers, knocking Aisla to the ground just as a rogue arrow whizzed past where she’d been standing. Belatedly, Brandt noticed that Aisla’s clothing was damp, and it suddenly registered that the dark fabric was drenched in blood.
“What’s this? Are you hurt?” His heart shrunk, even as his eyes searched her for signs of injury. Sorcha would have protected Aisla and Catriona with her life, and the understanding made his breath hitch painfully in his lungs.
“’Tis no’ mine,” she gasped, fighting to catch her breath from the tumble they’d both taken to avoid the arrow. “’Tis the blood of a man named Coxley. Shoved my dagger between his ribs just like yer wife showed me.”
Brandt grabbed his sister by the arms and drew her upward. “Sorcha, is she alive?”
“Aye, I think so,” Aisla said, her eyes widening. “But she was fighting a tall man with pale blond hair and a cruel face when I ran to find you.”
Malvern.The very thought of his wife in that sadist’s clutches made every hair on his body vibrate in rage. This time, he vowed, when Brandt saw the man he would not hesitate to put him down like the dog he was—if his wife hadn’t already finished him off. He did not doubt Sorcha’s skill to defend herself, but she was on her own, and Malvern was a seasoned man of war.
“Is he alone? The marquess?” Brandt asked, belatedly grasping that Coxley was no longer a threat. Because of his sister. The small lass he was interrogating had taken down one of the most repugnant men Brandt had ever met. How the hell had he gotten so close to her?
“He’s with Rodric and some other soldiers,” Aisla said. “They came through the tunnels.”
“Tunnels?” Brandt asked with a frown, pulling her toward him before he decided to make a wild dash for the keep.
“The ones that lead to the loch. Usually, they’re filled with marsh water this time of year, but somehow, they managed to crawl through.”
Malvern and his men must have killed the men Brandt had ordered to be placed on watch and had found some way down the quarry to use the tunnels Aisla spoke of. No wonder they hadn’t been at the front leading the army—they’d been sneaking in from the rear. And with Rodric’s help, they had managed to brave the keep. If they held the women and children hostage there, the battle would be over. The men would not risk the lives of their families. Nor would he, for that matter. Sorcha and Catriona were still in there.
A part of him raged that he hadn’t been told of the bloody tunnels in the first place, but like Aisla had, Patrick and Feagan would have likely assumed them to be blocked and impenetrable. He dimly recalled Seamus saying as much. A scream from the keep had him bolting toward it. Aisla kept pace with him.
“Go to the stables,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You’ll be safe there.”
She shook her head. “I want to help.”
“Aisla,” he began, slowing to face her.
