The Niece of His Highland Enemy by Alisa Adams
13
“Would you care for more wine, Laird Fergus?” Ronald asked.
Fergus smiled, trying to mask his discomfort. “No, thank you, Laird Ronald. Though it is kind of you to offer.”
“You have barely touched your supper, lad!” the older man pointed out. “Is it not to your liking?”
No, in fact, it was not to Fergus’s liking. The surface of the stew was clotted with large blobs of yellow fat, the potatoes were pitted with eyes, and the dried meat was so oversalted that the surface of it was hard, white, and brittle. Fergus had been afraid to touch anything that was on the plate the servant had placed in front of him, and not just because none of it looked appetizing.
Moire had urged him to “keep his sword at hand.” But what if she had not been speaking literally? What if there were potential danger in the food before him as well, in the form of some gruesome poison?
But if poisoning me was his goal,Fergus thought, would he not have simply done so when we dined last night? Why wait an additional day?
These suspicions collided in his head, causing it to ache even more sharply than before. He desperately wished to make sense of the situation he found himself in.
“I find that I do not have much appetite tonight, thank you,” Fergus said.
“Perhaps your appetite has retreated due to what you saw in the fields earlier today?” Ronald replied, raising a bushy white eyebrow at him. “Moire mentioned that you had a rather strong reaction to it upon witnessing it. I see how that might be the case, and I do not blame you for your reaction to what is doubtless an oddity to you. However, might I suggest that it would be better to honor their efforts by eating what they have labored to put on our plates?”
“That is one way of looking at it, perhaps,” Fergus conceded. He snuck a glance at Moire and found that her emerald eyes were fixed on him intently.
It was as though she was trying to signal him, to tell him something without words.
But what?
His frustration and bewilderment made his stomach turn, and he suddenly remembered that Ronald had put a question to him, one he had taken far too long to answer. “In truth, Laird Ronald,” he replied, “I am put off my food by thinking of how Moire will have to toil for it in a day or two. I have no stomach for her sweat or sacrifice, sir.”
“Ah, but what if she were to become your bride, young man?” Ronald answered with a wink. “That would spare her from the calloused hands brought on by scythe and sickle, eh?”
“I suppose it would, yes,” Fergus admitted.
“And I hope you will agree, Laird Fergus,” Moire interjected, “that there are many other compelling reasons for such a blessed event? As we discussed before?”
He was beginning to feel uncomfortably pressured from both sides, uncle and niece both. “As I conceded before, such a thing had occurred to me. I am open to the notion, certainly, if it will bring peace to our clans.” He paused, then added, “I have greatly enjoyed your company, I must admit, and could see myself appreciating it in the longer term.”
There was a peculiar expression on her face at his words. It was as though she was suddenly unguarded, as though that last sentiment had penetrated her practiced facade and touched the very core of her.
“Well, then mayhap we might begin to speak of dowry and the like tomorrow!” Ronald said heartily. “For now, though, please, I beg of you, eat! I will not have a guest of mine perish from starvation under my very roof, and certainly not one who is to be considered a prospective groom to my niece!”
Fergus forced a grin and ate the food before him. Although the vile cooking certainly tasted like poison, it seemed to be free of it.
“So, Laird Fergus, tell me of your father,” Ronald went on, spearing a piece of limp brown meat on his fork and raising it to his mouth. Some of the gravy dripped into his beard, and it was hard for Fergus to focus on much else. “From what I have heard, he was a mighty laird, was he not? He won many battles on behalf of his clan?”
Fergus’s mouth tightened into a straight line. “Just as you have, yes, though he did not live quite long enough to match your victories in number. I like to think that he would have if he’d been afforded a bit more time on this earth.” He paused, then added, “Including, perhaps, the one that transpired several days ago.”
Ronald chortled. He still had not wiped the gravy from his beard, and the sight of it was slowly driving Fergus mad. “Yes, mayhap he might have triumphed against my forces, at that. Not the most auspicious start to your tenure as laird, was it? I would say I am sorry for that, but given the circumstances, the sentiment would be somewhat less than truthful.”
Moire suddenly rose from her seat stiffly, holding her goblet high. “A toast, then, to the prospect of unity rather than more fighting and bloodshed!”
Ronald raised his own goblet, and after a moment of hesitation, Fergus did likewise, more certain than ever that he was dining with a pair who were conspiring against him in ways he could not yet begin to imagine.
Then he excused himself, assuring Ronald that they would indeed converse further the next day regarding the prospect of a marriage between their clans. He bade Moire goodnight as well and did his best to read her eyes as she wished him sweet dreams. She was smiling broadly, but something was lurking behind her eyes, like a rustling behind a curtain.
Was she silently urging him to be cautious? To heed her earlier words and keep his sword at the ready?
As he climbed the steps to his chamber and shut the door behind him, another idea occurred to him.
When she had whispered those words, she had been teasing him, provoking him with her closeness and her alluring demeanor. Moments before, she had spoken of the prospect of their marriage as something she desired.
What if her admonishment to “keep his sword at hand” had a double meaning? A ribald one?
What if she had been trying to communicate her plan to come to his chamber that night?
This prospect sent his mind spinning in an entirely different direction. If her plan was to seduce him, was it because it was her own design or that of her uncle?
Either way, he knew that as much as he longed for her, he could not submit to her. To do so might place him in a vulnerable position, for if he compromised her maidenhead and her uncle found out, all of Fergus’s hopes for peace and alliance would be dashed upon the rocks.
Was that part of Ronald’s plan, then? To send his own niece in, to gain the upper hand?
Fergus let out a frustrated growl, throwing himself down on the bed and trying not to sneeze too much at the cloud of dust that rose as a result.
All he could do, he decided, was try to prepare for anything—which meant keeping his sword at hand as literally as possible, and trying not to succumb to sleep. He needed to be watchful above all else.
I am determined not to die this night,he decided inwardly. I will not spend my final hours in this miserable place, nor will I leave my corpse to be ravaged by the spiders and other vermin which stalk this room. I will lie here with my weapon at the ready and be prepared to fend off the unwanted advances of swordsmen or Moire, as the case may be.
Well, perhaps not “unwanted” in Moire’s case, but the principle was still sound.
Fergus was lying in his bed, and every small sound he heard was amplified a hundredfold by his vigilant ears and overactive mind. With each tiny creak or quiet footfall passing by outside his chamber, he imagined a legion of assassins about to break in and murder him, armed to the teeth and with a frenzy of bloodlust in their eyes. At one point, he heard the faint groan of the roof above him, and his eyes were fixed upon the ceiling for the next hour or so, as he was convinced that his murderers would drop upon him from above like spiders.
And, of course, there remained the unsettling presence of the spiders themselves.
Fergus kept catching glimpses of the bloated arachnids in his peripheral vision, but whenever he tried to focus on them directly, they were gone, leaving a few strands of webbing, twitching, and vibrating in their wake.
Finally, a few birds began to sing outside the window of Fergus’s room, signaling the approaching dawn.
Just as he was about to congratulate himself on surviving the night, he heard several footsteps clustered outside the door and some faint murmuring. This time, the sounds were unmistakable.
Someone was about to enter unannounced. Or, more accurately, several someones.
Could they not have attacked earlier?Fergus lamented silently. Now I have been an entire night without sleep, and I fear I will not be at my best in defending myself.
But alas, even at his tender age, he knew from bitter experience that death waits for no man’s convenience.
He took his sword and stepped behind a heavy tapestry. As he did, he felt more spiders, centipedes, and other many-legged horrors scrabbling all over his face and body, and it took every ounce of self control for him to remain still. It was not much of a hiding place but then, there were not many in the small chamber to choose from, and he only needed a few moments to conceal himself so that he might confuse and surprise his would-be assailants.
He hoped his plan would work. Otherwise, he would be trapped and stabbed to death instantly like a rat in a closet.
Fergus got himself situated just as the door burst open. He heard the grunts of confusion as the intruders searched the room, unable to find him. Part of him was tempted to simply remain behind the tapestry and hope they would leave on their own, but he knew he could not risk such a thing in case one of them got the idea to check there and ended up discovering him.
Better to leap out at them with his sword swinging.
He threw the tapestry aside with a roar, stabbing at the nearest man. There were three of them, and he vaguely wondered whether they might have been the same swine who had tried to drown Moire. They were dressed like palace guards. Had they stolen those clothes so they could sneak in and murder him, or were they truly in the employ of Ronald Campbell?
More questions, and once again, he was too immediately occupied with moment-to-moment reactions to his situation to properly grasp for answers.
The blade of his sword went through the belly of the first guard, who yowled with pain and fright, looking down at the weapon that suddenly protruded from his guts. He was armed with a dagger, as were the others.
Fergus withdrew his sword, rearing it back to attack the second guard but the blade connected with the wall behind him and the low ceiling overhead, limiting the arc and power of his swing. These quarters were too close for him to use the sword properly, and he suddenly understood why his adversaries had chosen to arm themselves with shorter and more utilitarian weapons.
Well, nothing for it now. He’d simply have to do his best.
The strike chopped into the upraised forearm of the second guard. It was not a hard blow, but enough to make him drop his dagger and recoil. The first guard was lying on the floor, mewling and staring down at his own exposed entrails.
The third was advancing quickly, the knife traveling from hand to hand almost too fast for Fergus’s eyes to register it. This man was more canny and dextrous than his cohorts by far, and Fergus felt a flash of panic as the point of his opponent’s blade aimed for his heart.
Fergus had neither the time nor space to effectively swing his sword and hit his target.
Instead, he simply jabbed the base of the hilt up toward the third guard’s face, smashing him in the nose with the pommel.
The man’s nose crumpled, and blood fell from his nostrils. He tumbled backward, unconscious, perhaps even dead for all Fergus knew. The first guard had passed out from shock and was rapidly bleeding out, so no worries there.
But the second guard was proving far more stubborn.
He had regained his knife with his undamaged arm, and he was lunging with it and snarling like a ravening wolf.
Fergus did not have adequate time to gauge whether the sword would clear the narrow confines of his chamber’s walls if he lifted and swung it, but he hoped for the best, and he found himself rewarded. The blade’s edge smacked into the side of the guard’s skull, and he dropped like a stone, dead before he hit the floor.
There was an eerie stillness in the aftermath, with just the sound of Fergus breathing hard as he looked down at the bodies of the men he’d slain.
What in the world was going on? How was he supposed to explain this? Who would believe him?
Moire.
She had warned him, hadn’t she? Whatever the nature of the threat he faced, she knew it was real, and she had the answers he needed. He resolved to go to her chamber at once and question her.
What if this is part of the scheme against you?he asked himself. What if Ronald is counting on you to go to her room so that he might catch you there and accuse you of indecency?
He felt his brain-twisting into knots, and he knew that the longer he stood contemplating the whys and wherefores of his plight, the less safe he was. He had to act decisively. Better to do the wrong thing than to do nothing.
He cleaned the blood from the blade of his sword, then sheathed it.
Fergus stole a furtive glance out his door to make sure no one was observing him, and then he slipped out, skulking down the steps and across the corridors. Now he felt like a spider or some other crawling creature… sticking to the shadows and corners, determined not to be seen and squashed without pity.
He made it to Moire’s chamber, looked around one more time to be sure he was alone in the hallway and rapped his knuckles on her door gently. “Moire, it’s Fergus. I must speak with you at once.”
Fergus did not wait for her to answer. In truth, he had only alerted her before entering so she would not think he was someone else and panic. If he caught her while she was in her bedclothes, well, so be it. Matters were pressing enough to outweigh that minor awkwardness, and more to the point, he needed to get out of the corridor before he was seen lurking there.
When he stepped inside, he saw that Moire was indeed in her nightgown. However, it did not appear as though he had disturbed her from sleep. She seemed wide awake, and she was standing stiffly in the center of the room as though she had been expecting company.
Fergus had no time to contemplate what this might mean. “Moire, three men just attempted to butcher me in my room! Do you know why they would have done such a thing? Mayhap you can come to my chamber and tell me if they were the same men who attacked you?”
“Oh, I believe I can answer that question easily enough without Moire going to the trouble of accompanying you,” a familiar voice answered from behind the door.
Fergus’s heart plummeted into his boots. Those words had effectively confirmed his worst suspicions with regard to his host.
Ronald Campbell stepped out from behind the door, sneering at the young laird imperiously. “Those men were indeed the very same ones who accosted my niece. Expendable fellows, thankfully, else I would be far more cross with you than I am at the present moment.”
Fergus stared at Moire incredulously. “What the bloody hell was all of this? Some sort of trap?!”
“Very much so, yes,” Ronald gloated.
“I am so terribly sorry, Fergus—” Moire began imploringly.
But he did not allow her to finish.
Instead, he darted forward, seized her by the waist, and flung her over his shoulder.
Clearly, she had the answers he required, and if he had been reluctant to use her as a hostage before, he found the prospect far more agreeable to him now that it seemed she had been involved in betraying him. Either way, he was determined to remove himself from this sinister place at once and to take her with him.
There was just one problem—or rather, what sounded like several dozen problems, all wearing armor and clanking their way up the stone steps to Moire’s chamber. Once they reached the door, there would be no way for him to fight them off. He would die in this room, bleeding from scores of dagger wounds, and he had absolutely no intention of letting that happen.
There was only one other way out of the room: the window.
The previous morning, he had noticed that large quantities of hay from the field had been rolled up into bales beneath Moire’s window. They appeared capacious enough to break their fall and keep them from injuring themselves too severely.
And if not, well, it seemed to him like a better death than stabbing would have been.
Fergus dragged Moire over to it, peering down as the sound of the approaching soldiers grew louder and more insistent. As he did, he could not help but notice that Moire was not struggling, protesting, or beating her fists against his back to be released. She seemed to be quite willing to accompany him wherever he might choose to take her.
Where did her true loyalties lie?
He was determined to discern that soon enough, once he had gotten them both to safety.
Fergus leaned out the window with Moire on his shoulder, and Ronald cried out, “No! You will perish from the fall, and so will she!”
The young laird curled his lip at Ronald scornfully. “I saved her life, did I not? This seems like as good a time as any to call that debt in!”
Fergus had just enough time to see the expression of shock and horror on Ronald’s face before he flung himself out the window with Moire in his arms. Now she did make a sound and emitted a thin, high, quavering shriek.
He positioned his body so that it would shield her from the brunt of the impact. Sure enough, he came down on his back, and her slender form was safely cradled and cushioned. Fergus groaned in pain, his back and hips aching sharply. Still, it did not feel as though anything within him had been broken or badly damaged, which was a relief since he knew they would need to make haste to the stables if they were to have any hope of escape.
Fergus pulled Moire to her feet and took hold of her hand. “Come on!” he yelled, yanking her behind him as quickly as he could. Again, she did not resist or protest.
Thank heaven for that, at least,he thought. If I had to drag her kicking and screaming the entire way, I am sure Ronald’s guards would catch up with me straightaway.
The stables came into view, and Fergus saw an old, stooped man with wispy white hair stagger out, brandishing a lantern in a claw-like hand. “Here!” he croaked. “Have you gone mad? What is the meaning of this? No sensible man need rouse his steed at such an hour!”
Fergus shoved the doddering fellow aside and found his horse. It was not saddled, but he had no time for such things. He shoved Moire up onto the mount, then joined her and dug his heels into the creature’s sides.
The horse reared up just as the first few guards entered the stable. When its hooves kicked forward reflexively, they struck the lead guard squarely in the center of his forehead, killing him on the spot.
It was enough to make the other guards fall back a few steps, which was all Fergus needed to ride through them and beyond, carrying Moire off into the pale gloom of the morning horizon without a look back.
