Page 95 of Wild Highland Rose
"How many altogether?"
"There's nine o' us, no' counting the bairns." Cook looked over her shoulder at the gathered women, sending a terse nod in the direction of a shadowy corner. Four children emerged from behind a large chest.
Cameron frowned. "So fifteen counting the babies?"
"Aye." This time she met his gaze and he noted that some of the hostility had been replaced by guarded hope.
He nodded. "Are there other women in the tower?"
"There's only us. We're shorthanded today. Some o' the girls stayed home." Cook ducked her head, avoiding Marjory's eyes, her cheeks stained a deep red. "'Twas a late night and there was so much excitement, I told some of them to take the day fer rest."
"Dinna fash yerself. If I had thought o' it, I'd have sent them home myself."
"We've got to get them out of here." Cameron spoke to Marjory, but there was a titter of relief from the assembled women. "Do you think you can get them through the passageway and around the wall?"
"Aye, but dinna you think I'd be o' more value here with you?" She looked up at him with an expression he was beginning to recognize as mutinous.
He chose his words carefully. "Of course I'd rather have you here." Actually he'd rather have her safe somewhere on the other side of Scotland, but to say that was a sure invitation for trouble. "But right now, it's far more important to get these ladies to safety." He glanced at the group. They were silent, hanging on his words as if their lives depended on them. Which, he sighed, they probably did.
Marjory chewed on her lip, and then, obviously coming to a decision, nodded. "All right then. I'll lead them out o' here. What are you going to do?"
Cameron grimaced, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. "I'm going to find Allen and Torcall."
Cameron leanedagainst the cold stone of the tower wall, listening to the sound of sword play in the great hall. The women were on their way out of the tower. Hopefully, they would soon be safely outside the walls and away from danger.
He inched toward the opening of the service passage. It was just as Marjory described, a tunnel from the pantry to the great hall. He wasn't sure what he expected to do. It wasn't as if he had training for this kind of thing. But his desire to avenge Grania burned brightly, and if he could help Marjory in the process, then so much the better. He'd spent his life taking the high road, avoiding emotional commitment of any kind. But all that had changed.
With a deep breath, he tightened his grip on his claymore and cautiously stepped into the great room. A great carved screen kept him hidden from view, but allowed him to see.
There were men everywhere. The noise from their weapons was almost deafening. They battled fiercely, standing on tables and benches as well as the floor. Across the room, Fingal, bandage and all, was twisting expertly to and fro, avoiding the sharp blade of a huge man with bright red hair. Fingal faked a lunge to the left and when the man followed the lead, shifted right, and brought his sword in for the kill. His opponent died instantly.
With a grimace of satisfaction, Marjory's captain turned to help another man who had been backed into a corner. It was hard to tell who was who, but it looked like the Macphersons had the upper hand, at least for the moment.
Cameron searched the room for Allen and Torcall. There was no sign of either of them. Fingal had moved to engage Dougall in front of the fireplace. Even with his injury, the man was more than holding his own. The two Scottsmen danced around the edge of the room, coming within a few yards of the screen. Dougall resembled some prehistoric reptile, his big headbobbing slightly with each jab and thrust, his body programmed to fight.
Cameron cautiously stuck his head around the screen. Fingal gave a slight nod in recognition. Cameron mouthed the word 'Allen'. Fingal parried a thrust and jerked his head toward the spiral stairs leading up to the family chambers. With a terse nod of thanks, Cameron headed for the stairs, keeping his back to the wall.
Dougall seeing an opportunity, leaped at Fingal, his sword in one hand and a lethal looking dagger in the other. Almost without thinking, Cameron swung his claymore in a high arc over his head, the force of blade reverberating up his arm. Dougall fell to the ground.
Two down.
Fingal nodded once in thanks, then turned back to the battle.
Cameron crossed the remaining distance. The quiet of the stairwell was unnerving after the din of the great hall. He stopped for a moment, blowing out a breath in an effort to calm his jangled nerves. He felt a moment's anguish at the thought that he had actually taken two human lives, but it was short lived. Dangerous times called for dangerous actions.
At the top of the stairs, Cameron hesitated. If Allen was up here, he wanted to be ready. There was no question who the better swordsman was. If he had a prayer, it would only be if he kept the element of surprise on his side.
Unbidden, the thought of Marjory's father's shield popped into his head. A shield would go a long way toward helping him defend himself, although he wasn't certain he could manage the claymore with one hand. Still, he thought, better to have it available, than to dismiss it entirely.
All he had to do was make it across the hall undetected. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his courage and dashedacross the corridor into the bedroom, immediately dropping into a low crouch, claymore at the ready.
Shifting slightly to survey the room, he relaxed his sword arm. The room was empty. Trying to keep noise to a minimum, he crossed to the chest and opened it. The shield was lying on top, wrapped in a square of plaid. Shifting the claymore to one hand, he lifted the shield reverently from the chest. Holding it aloft, he was amazed at how little it weighed.
Carefully balancing the shield in his left hand, he made a practice swing with the sword in his right. It was heavy and more awkward than a two handed thrust would have been, but he thought he could manage. Maybe. He practiced a few more times, shifting and dodging as though he were fighting an imaginary opponent.
"Are ye ready fer a real fight, then?"
Cameron jerked around. Allen leaned insolently against the door frame, his claymore extending from his body almost as if it were an extension of his arm. "I knew if I waited long enough ye'd come to find me." The feral gleam in Allen's eye was unsettling.
