Devil in a Kilt by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Chapter 41

Your brother has her.

Laird MacKenzie’s brother…

The stranger’s words drifted in and out of the darkness swirling around Duncan, cleverly weaving themselves into the confounding whirl of raised voices so he couldn’t decipher aught that made sense.

Gritting his teeth, he pressed the flats of his hands against the cold wooden planks of the trestle table and strained to concentrate.

Strained, too, against the iron-hard grip holding him down.

But his efforts were of no avail.

The din only increased, becoming a cacophony of discord irritating enough to drive the wits from a saint, blurring the elusive words dancing in and out of the shadows on the very edges of his consciousness.

And whoever held him to the table possessed the strength of ten men and didn’t appear willing to loosen their grip.

Duncan drew in a deep breath through clenched teeth and willed his agitation aside. He’d deal with the lout and his steely fingers soon enough.

After he’d made sense of the garbled jumble of words careening in and out of his aching head.

Keeping his eyes tightly shut, he fought to ignore the shouts of his men, the chaotic sounds of a hall filled with confusion, and focus on Murdo’s words.

He had to. They were important.

Vital.

He pressed his hands harder against the table, so hard his forearms shook with the effort. But, devil be damned, the words and their meaning kept eluding him.

His eyes still shut, he tried to swallow but couldn’t. His lips were dry, split and parched, and his tongue felt thick and swollen. More annoying still, the inside of his mouth tasted foul, as bitter as soured wine.

Duncan’s lips compressed into a tight grimace.

He was sour.

And he intended to stay that way until he could figure out what vexed him so, unravel the clue lurking in the outer fringes of his mind, tantalizingly close one moment, distant as the moon the next.

Your brother…

Murdo’s words penetrated the blackness again, repeating themselves like a monk’s morning chant, growing ever louder until the other voices and sounds receded into nothingness.

The two words pelted him like icy, needle-sharp rain, taunting him, pushing him to the brink of madness.

Then another voice chimed in, soft and gentle, sweet, but insistent in its urgency. His lady wife’s voice. Clear and bright as a ray of sun on a fine spring morn. Strong enough to dispel the other voices, powerful enough to chase away the fog clouding his befuddled senses.

I must warn you of a future evil…

It was not Kenneth…

Someone speaks with two tongues…

As quickly as they’d come, Linnet’s prophetic words faded, but he’d heard enough.

Suddenly he knew.

And with the knowledge came sanity.

Sanity and determination.

His eyes shot open. His scowl deepened. As he’d suspected, the hands holding him down were English hands. Those of his all-knowing one-eyed brother-in-law.

He fixed the lout with a fierce stare, one that would send most men scurrying for their mothers, but Sir Marmaduke merely stared back, his one good eye as unblinking as Duncan’s two.

“Release me at once.” Duncan pushed the words through his teeth, refusing to acknowledge the agony it cost him to move his lips. “I am well.”

The Sassunach quirked his brow and said nothing.

“I am,” Duncan insisted, temper giving him the strength to break free of Marmaduke’s grasp and sit straight up.

Nausea rose high in his throat at the sudden movement. By sheer force of will, Duncan squelched the hot waves of dizziness threatening to pull him back into a sea of grayness and pain.

“Can you not see I am fit?” he snapped, flexing his fingers, defiantly wiggling his bare toes.

“I see an unfit man borne on the wings of anger,” the Sassunach said, folding his arms. “Naught else.”

Duncan scowled darkly and eased his legs off the table. Doing his best not to wince, he stood, then leaned against the table’s edge.

Every muscle, every bone, in his body hurt. His head would surely burst asunder any moment, and his hall seemed wont to spin and dip around him.

But for naught in the world would he admit it.

Blinking to clear his vision, he searched the throng, looking for Murdo. To his relief, he didn’t need to search long. The accursed mucker still stood near the foot of the trestle table.

And he had the nerve to turn another of his yellow-toothed smiles on Duncan. “Be you hurting, Laird MacKenzie?” he wanted to know.

“Nae, but you will be,” Duncan fair growled. “Soon.”

Murdo’s nostrils flared. “Yer making a grave error. The MacLeod-”

“Is not your laird,” Duncan finished for him. “’Tis Kenneth’s man you are.”

The stranger’s coarse features hardened, and his hand stole beneath the gathered folds of his grungy tunic. His dagger flashed and gleamed for but an instant before Red James wrested it from him, then pressed the wicked-looking blade against the man’s throat.

Marmaduke positioned himself beside Red James, his own sword drawn and at the ready, the look on his scarred face, fierce.

Malcolm and Alec also drew near, both men looking equally keen to kill.

“If you harm me, Kenneth will slit yerr lady wife’s throat – after he’s had his way with her,” Murdo swore. “You’ll never see-”

“You err!” Duncan slammed his fist on the trestle table. “You are the one who’ll ne’er see aught again lest you answer my questions, and dinnae ask what’ll happen if I don’t care for your answers.”

“I’ll tell you naught,” Murdo sneered.

“Think you?” Duncan’s lips curled in a sneer of his own.

He pushed away from the table and made straight for Murdo. One grueling step at a time. Only the heat of his fury enabled him to cross the short distance without his knees buckling, without giving voice to his pain.

Leaning so close to the craven’s face, the man’s hot, foul-reeking breath meshed with Duncan’s own, Duncan snarled, “There wasn’t a fire at John MacLeod’s keep, was there?”

Murdo clamped his mouth shut and stared fixedly at a point somewhere beyond Duncan’s shoulder.

“The fire was a ploy, a ruse to make me send my men on a fool’s errand,” Duncan said, his tone icy, his deep voice calm, without a trace of the raw anger coursing through him. Nor of the bone-jarring pain each movement, each word cost him. “Do not lie if you value your life.”

Murdo remained silent.

“Very well,” Duncan said, his voice low, his every nerve taut. “I grow impatient with you. Admit you lie.”

Murdo spat on the floor.

Duncan’s anger surged anew. “You are a brave man,” he said, then nodded once to Red James, who still held the churl’s own dagger to his throat.

“Now,” Duncan ordered.

Red James obliged, pricking Murdo’s throat with the sharp tip of the dagger. A dollop of bright red blood appeared, another followed, turning into a slow, steady trickle.

Duncan nodded again and Red James pressed the blade deeper.

Murdo’s eyes bugged and he wet his lips.

“Where did Kenneth take my wife and the boy?” Duncan asked coldly.

Murdo fidgeted, but when Duncan’s gaze slid back toward Red James, the miscreant lost his nerve. “I dinnae mean you harm,” he said in a rush. “’Tis following orders, I was, dinnae you see?”

“I see more than you ken. Where is my wife?”

“To … to the south,” Murdo stammered, trying to lean away from the knife. “To the south.”

Duncan feigned surprise. “Did you not say ‘by galley to the northern isles’?”

Beads of sweat dotted Murdo’s forehead. “’Twas as you say, a ruse. I was to escort you north, some of your men were to go to MacLeod’s, and while your men were scattered elsewhere, Kenneth meant to ride south without you on his trail.”

“And my lady? The boy? They are to be ransomed?”

Murdo gulped, his face paling.

“Speak or die.”

“I dinnae know,” the man blurted. “On my life, I wasn’t told what he means to do with them.”

“Your life is forfeit, but it is not here you will lose it,” Duncan said, his voice flat, toneless. “Take the pouch,” he bade the Sassunach, jerking his thumb toward the leather purse hanging from Murdo’s belt.

Marmaduke handed him the pouch and he peered inside it. John MacLeod’s brooch winked up at him, its red gemstone again catching the light of a nearby wall torch.

“This brooch was stolen.” Duncan closed the pouch and tossed it to Alec. “You shall return it. Alec and Malcolm will escort you. What John MacLeod does with you is none of my affair. If he does not kill you, be warned lest you e’er set foot on MacKenzie land again, for I will not hesitate to have done with you myself.”

Glancing at Red James, Duncan said, “Toss his dagger into the loch. It can join other tainted goods that rest there.”

“A pleasure, sir.” Red James lowered the blade from Murdo’s neck, then strode away.

Duncan turned to Alec and Malcolm. “Be off with him.” He jerked his head toward Murdo. “He’s sullied the air in my hall long enough.”

* * *

Duncan stoodramrod straight until his men and Kenneth’s churl disappeared from view, then he sagged against the nearest table and closed his eyes. His left arm throbbed and burned and he didn’t need to glance at it to know the wound had started bleeding again.

But the fire in his arm was nothing next to the smoldering flame burning inside him.

Rage over the taking of his loved ones and fear for their safety fired his blood, filling him with a fury so intense the pain of his wounds seemed paltry by comparison.

“I vow that whoreson was your lady’s two-headed man,” Sir Marmaduke said, resheathing his sword. “The one in the flames.”

Duncan cracked his eyes open and slid a sideways glance at the Sassunach. “Aye, and for once I didn’t need you to figure it out for me.”

“So I observed, my friend.” One corner of Marmaduke’s mouth lifted into a twisted smile. “Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

Duncan’s brows snapped together. “I am not a dull-wit. It was the his use of the word ‘brother.’ No friend or ally would dare grant Kenneth such status to my face.”

“Indeed,” Marmaduke agreed, then glanced at Duncan’s left arm. “Your arm bleeds.”

“Your arm bleeds,”Duncan echoed grouchily. “Think you I am not aware of that? ’Tis a wonder my whole body is not bleeding considering all the holes in it.”

“Aye, laddie, and Elspeth will want to re-dress your wounds, especially your arm. It doesnae look good,” Fergus agreed, stepping up to them. He tilted his head to the side and peered at Duncan’s injured arm. “I’m thinking we should cauterize-”

“And ‘thinking’ about it is all you’re going to do,” Duncan groused, pushing away from the table’s edge and fixing Fergus with his most intimidating glare.

Undaunted, Fergus affected a look he’d used with much success in Duncan’s childhood.

It didn’t impress Duncan the man.

“You cannae walk about with that arm spewing blood all o’er you,” his seneschal pressed.

“I can and I shall.” Duncan stood firm. “Now cease blethering on over a few wee drops of blood, you grizzle-headed old graybeard. If you wish to be useful, see our swiftest horses saddled and made ready to ride.”

Fergus’s bushy brows shot upward. “Mounting a horse will be the death o’ you, boy, and your men need to rest their bones,” he protested. “We’ll send out a party of our most braw warriors at first light.”

“First light is too late. We ride now, through the night,” Duncan vowed, refusing the notion he might not have the strength to carry out his plan.

Searching the throng for his first squire, Duncan signaled the lad to come closer when he spied him. “Lachlan, fetch my clothes and weapons,” he ordered, his voice surprisingly strong.

“And dinnae drag your feet,” he added, glancing irritably at the irksome yards of linen around nigh every inch of his aching body. “I tire of being swaddled like a newborn babe or a corpse awaiting burial.”

Rather than dashing off to do Duncan’s bidding, Lachlan remained rooted to the floor, worriedly seeking out Marmaduke with his eyes.

Scowling, Duncan planted his balled fists on his bandaged-wrapped hips. “I am laird, not Sir Marmaduke,” he said, the harshness of his tone smothering the gasp of pain he’d almost let loose. “Do as I say, or would you have me ride out garbed in naught but rags?”

Two spots of color appeared on Lachlan’s pale cheeks, but he inclined his head and took off at a run.

Duncan watched him go, then blew out a shaky breath, releasing some of the tension coiled within him.

Turning back to Fergus, he said, “Send a party of men to my bedchamber. Behind the largest tapestry, they’ll find the door to a hidden passage. It leads to the base of the tower. Be sure they seal it at both ends. Permanently seal it.”

Beside him, Marmaduke drew a quick breath. Duncan couldn’t resist flashing the all-knowing lout a triumphant smile. “Aye, my good friend, it would appear there were a few things you didn’t know.”

To the rest of his men, he said, “Lads, I know you are weary, some of you wounded. I will not ask those too fatigued to join me. Nor can I promise you will return whole if you ride with me. Kenneth is a daring and able warrior. His men are no less adept as we’ve seen. Any of you who choose to stay behind, I bid you seek your pallets now so you are well rested and can best protect these walls in our absence.”

He paused, waiting.

No one moved.

Then, from the back of the hall, someone called, “Cuidich’ N’ Righ! Save the king!”

Others joined in, and soon the MacKenzie war cry filled the air until the walls fair shook. Duncan clasped his hands behind his back and nodded in approval.

The saints knew he couldn’t do much more. Not with his throat painfully tight and the backs of his eyes afire, so moved was he by his men’s stout showing of support.

When the ruckus died down, a firm hand grasped his elbow. “Let me lead the patrol,” Sir Marmaduke offered, leaning close to Duncan’s ear. “No one will look askance if you stay behind. It would be madness for you to ride out. Fergus is right, you are in no condition to-”

“My lady and my son have been taken,” Duncan said, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel. “I mean to fetch them.”

Gasps came from those gathered near, then low mumbles spread throughout the entire hall, followed almost immediately by stunned silence.

To a man, his kinsmen stared gog-eyed at him, their fool mouths hanging open as if they sought to catch flies.

And Duncan knew exactly why they gawked.

What he didn’t know was why the words had slipped so easily from his tongue. He hadn’t meant to say them, still doubted Robbie had sprung from his loins.

But of a sudden, now that the wee lad was gone, his true parentage mattered naught.

Only his safe return.

Then the silence was broken – someone sniffled.

A loud and sloppy wet sound, made louder by the awkward silence hanging over the hall.

The noise came again and to Duncan’s amazement, he saw it was Fergus. The bandy-legged seneschal rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve and turned quickly away.

But not before Duncan caught sight of the telltale moisture glistening in the old man’s eyes.

Heat crept up Duncan’s neck and he swept the lot of them with a furious glare. “Cease gaping like witless varlets and make ready to ride,” he chided them. “And dinnae think to start telling tales about me going soft. Naught has changed.”

To his great annoyance, his men didn’t look like they believed him.