Devil in a Kilt by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Chapter 32

Linnet woke to a room cloaked in semi-darkness. Weak sunlight filtered through the closed shutters, casting long blue-gray shadows across the floor and up the tapestried walls, letting her know it was late evening. Faith and mercy, but she’d slept many hours since her frightening vision in the solar.

An empty chair stood next to the bed, silent proof someone had indeed sat there, tenderly holding her hand, offering her comfort while she slept so fitfully, plagued by nightmares of a two-headed man surrounded by flames.

Could the compassionate soul who’d so lovingly looked after her truly have been her husband?

Dare she hope it?

Was Duncan Mackenzie, the formidable and mighty Black Stag of Kintail, capable of such great gentleness? She couldn’t know for sure as she only had vague memories of the dark hours following the ghastly vision.

Scooting up to a sitting position, she rubbed her throbbing temples and tried to think. Could Duncan harbor such concern for her or had she crafted a soothing lie to sweeten what happened after she’d lost consciousness?

A glance at the small table near her bed assured her the gentle hands, the loving ministrations she remembered, hadn’t been imagined. Someone had cared for her, for atop the table stood an earthen water jug, a drinking cup, and a small metal basin, empty but for a few damp cloths.

She’d imagined nothing, and it was indeed her husband who’d sat by her side, tending her so lovingly.

It had to have been him, for deep inside she knew his touch. A slow smile spread across her face at the revelation. She would know his caress, the feel of his hands, among those of a thousand men. Perhaps more. He did care. Heat stole into her cheeks, joining her smile, as warmth spread through her, bringing hope and banishing the lingering aftereffects of the disturbing visitation.

Slipping from the bed, she crossed the room and flung the shutters wide, eager to let in what meager light remained. But more than fading light and chill briny air came in through the opened window. The sound of men’s voices, deep and troubled, entered as well, drifting down from the ramparts above.

Men’s voices raised in anger, the words carried on the wind turning her blood to ice water.

“…butchered every last one o’ them, even the bairns. The laird’ll carve the bastard to pieces when he catches him…”

Linnet snatched her mantle from the back of a chair and tossed its warmth around her. With trembling fingers, she worked to fasten the brooch at her shoulder, gave up, and hurried from the room. Clutching the cloak about her shoulders as best she could, she made her way to the great hall as fast as her legs would carry her.

A swell of grumblings and furious shouts rose up to greet her as she descended the tower’s circular stair. Pounding noises and loud thumps, too.

And the unmistakable hiss and clatter of steel.

The nearer she came to the hall, the more fierce the ruckus sounded. It was as if the entire assemblage were either slamming their fists upon the tables, stomping their feet, or unsheathing their swords.

Perhaps all three from the frightful din they made.

“Cuidich’ N’ Righ! Save the king!”The clan war cry erupted suddenly, bursting forth, resounding and ferocious, from the lungs of what sounded to be a legion of MacKenzie warriors.

Each one filled with rage.

Then, again, rage was too paltry a word.

What she heard was bloodlust.

Pure battle joy: cold, unforgiving, and bent on revenge.

“Cuidich’ N’ Righ!” ’Twas a chant now, the fervent cry deafening as it bounced off Eilean Creag’s thick stone walls, echoing eerily in the stair tower as she rounded the last curve, finally reaching the great hall’s arched entrance.

There, she stopped short, drawing back into the shadows to access the sight before her.

In the center of the hall, her husband stood upon one of the long tables, his powerful legs arrogantly spread. With both hands, he held his sword high above his head as he led his kinsmen in shouts for justice.

Flickering light from scores of lit torches glinted off his black mail hauberk while little flames appeared to dance in the gleaming darkness of his wildly disordered hair.

Linnet’s fingers tightened on the edges of her cloak as she stared at him. He looked savage, fierce, with great waves of anger emanating from every taut muscle of his warrior’s body.

A bloodthirsty, brutal warrior demanding vengeance.

Repeatedly, he thrust his great sword upward, skillfully whipping his men into a frenzy. As one, they repeated the war cries he roared from his lofty perch.

Unable to move, frozen in place and transfixed by the spectacle before her, Linnet stared at him in awe. Every inch of him exuded sheer power. Light from the many raised torches reflected onto the steel mesh of his mail tunic, gilding his muscles and turning the close-fitting hauberk into a glittering shirt of flames.

Flames.Her breath left her in a rush and her heart slammed against her chest.

She’d near forgotten the two-headed man she’d seen standing in the flames. Terror seized her, chilling her to the marrow of her bones. The message surely pointed to whatever vile deed had unleashed such havoc upon Clan MacKenzie.

She had to warn Duncan, tell him about the two-headed man.

Perhaps he could make sense of it.

Shaking anew, Linnet forced herself to leave the shelter of shadows in which she’d been hiding. On legs that felt too wobbly to carry her through the crowd of angry, jostling men packing the hall, she made her way forward.

With great effort, she pushed through the MacKenzie warriors to where Duncan loomed heads above them, now brandishing his sword in the air, jabbing ferociously at an unseen enemy.

“Hear me, MacKenzies! Let none among us rest until the lives of those taken from us have been avenged,” he swore, his outraged voice reaching even the farthest corners of the massive hall.

“Tomorrow, before first light,” his booming voice rang out, “we shall descend upon the camp of the bastard Kenneth and have done with them before they’ll ken ’tis their time to take their places in hell!”

Resheathing his sword, he planted his hands on his hips and raked his men with a fierce stare. “No quarter! We’ll slice every last one of the miscreants to ribbons. All save Kenneth. Sir Marmaduke alone shall have that honor.”

He paused to draw a breath, his angry gaze sweeping the hall. “Cuidich’ N’ Righ!” he shouted again, his fist thrust high in the air. “Save the-”

The war chant froze on his lips when he spied his wife teetering through the crowd, her fiery tresses cascading unbound to her waist, her amber-colored eyes wide in a face gone deadly pale.

What the devil was she doing up and about? He’d ordered a watch placed on her door.

Hers and the lad’s.

But instead of his orders being heeded, none had stopped her and she now struggled toward him through the tightly-packed hall. The sheer terror in her eyes made her gut clench.

Blood of Christ, he’d meant to spare her hearing details of the butchery wrought upon his people, meant to know her safe in her chamber, far from this gathering intended to stir the fires of revenge in his men.

Saints, but he’d not wanted her exposed to such madness.

The lad neither, his seed or nae.

Not that he’d admit any greater concern for the child than he felt for any of the other bairns under his protection.

Scowling, he dragged his arm over his damp brow and watched her approach. As if they’d only just become aware of her presence, his men parted before her, clearing her way through their midst.

Unfortunately, Duncan’s mood worsened with each faltering step she took forward. Holy St. Columba preserve him, but as she neared, he imagined he saw her not as she appeared, healthy and whole, but mangled and bloody.

Violated.

Her creamy skin streaked and crusted with blood, her lush curves horribly mutilated in the heinous ways his patrol reported Kenneth and his band had massacred his crofters’ women. And the poor crofters themselves. Their innocent bairns, too.

No one escaped their butchery.

Closing his eyes on the imagined horrors, Duncan threw back his head and let out a bellow of sheer rage. When he opened his eyes again, Linnet stood directly beneath him, her hands clutching the edge of the table for support.

“My lord, I must speak with you,” she stammered, the words trembling as much as her body. “’Tis a matter of grave importance.”

Seeing her so close, so near he caught the freshness of her scent rising up to him, pushed Duncan’s control beyond its limit. The very thought that something could happen to her made his blood run cold. The possibility terrified him and undid the last vestige of his already waning discipline.

“I dinnae believe my eyes!” he roared, glaring at her. “Are ye full mad?”

“Nae, I-”

“Gods save me!” Jumping from the table, he landed mere inches from her and clamped his hands down hard on her shoulders. “Whate’er possessed you to hie yourself down here?” he shouted, his words echoing in the vastness of the vaulted hall. “Can you not see this is no place for a woman?”

Her trembling increased at his outburst, but she stood her ground. “Sir … husband … you did ask me to warn if ever I foresaw danger.”

“Lady, ’tis because of danger I ordered a guard on your door. I willnae have you underfoot here, jostled about and hearing tales not fit for a lady’s ears!” he raged, his voice rising with each word.

“But-”

“No buts,” he cut her off, half-crazed from the silky feel of her hair beneath his fingers, for as he spoke he imagined her shining tresses brittle and matted with dried blood. “The time is past. Nothing you can warn me of matters now.”

“Nae, but it does.” Linnet shook her head. “What I must tell you has nothing to do with whatever wickedness has caused you to raise a hue and cry.” She paused to wet her lips. “I must warn you of a future evil, a foretoken I beg you to hear.”

Duncan swallowed his irritation. He didn’t want to learn of more ill tidings. What he wanted was to know her safe in her chamber.

“Lady, I dinnae ken what fouler deed can befall me than what already has. A full score of my kinsmen and their families have been killed, butchered as they slept,” he told her, his voice ragged, drained. “Simple farmers who work the outlying reaches of MacKenzie land. Kenneth’s doing, and an even worse devastation than he’d wrought upon the Murchinsons. In the wee hours, I’ll ride out with a party of my best men. God willing, we’ll find them before they can escape us.”

His wife blanched upon hearing his words, but didn’t lower her gaze. Instead, she slowly shook her head once more.

“It was not Kenneth I saw,” she insisted, digging her heels into the rushes when he tried to propel her from the hall. “’Twas a stranger, a two-headed man surrounded by flames.”