The Thorn & the Thistle Page 20

  Megan sighed. She couldn’t blame the villagers. After all, she’d had the same feelings herself. Only as their laird, she was responsible for so much more. These were her people. Their fates were hers to decide. Weren’t they?

  She reached up to wind a curl of hair about her finger. It was too late to do anything about it now. She was already dressed in a long, flowing wedding gown of white linen with a high lace neck. To provide warmth from the cool spring air, a soft cloak of white with a fur collar had been draped around her shoulders. A veil of lace streamed down her back and was held to the top of her head by two large wooden combs. Her hair had been pinned up beneath the veil and small ringlets framed her cheeks. She wore no jewelry, nor had she wanted any. Abigail had agreed, stating the simplicity of the look suited her. Megan only hoped she wouldn’t retch all over herself or others before the ceremony.

  She exhaled, her eyes sweeping the courtyard for the hundredth time. What was happening down there? She had not seen any sign of Uncle Geddes, Robbie or the men of the other clans. Were they disguised as simple village folk? And where were Rolf’s men? Except for the handful that stood scattered about the courtyard, the majority of them seemed to be missing.

  Rolf had not yet made his appearance either.

  Presumably he was late or, if she dared hope, had changed his mind about marrying her. Or mayhap Robbie had discovered a way to steal into the castle undetected and kill Rolf before the ceremony.

  Closing her eyes to the grim possibility, Megan chided herself for such a thought. It was true that Rolf St. James was an Englishman and she wished him and his kind gone from Scotland forever. But the notion that he might be slain in a deceitful attack somehow sickened her. Continued deception and dishonesty from either side would only lengthen this confrontation, not settle it. And the truth of the matter was in some strange way, she had come to care for the Englishman.

  Megan pressed her hand to her stomach, hoping to settle it. Better not to think such traitorous thoughts. Besides, she didn’t know how much longer she could maintain this masquerade of calm. She was almost relieved when Abigail entered the room, announcing that it was time for the ceremony to begin. Taking a deep breath for courage, Megan followed the woman out of the room and down into the courtyard.

  The sun was blinding and Megan paused in the entranceway for a moment to let her eyes get fully adjusted. As she stepped outside, Peter and Andrew immediately met her, escorting her through the crowd.

  As Megan passed the guests, her eyes scanned for any sign of her clansmen. Most of the crowd did not look at her and kept their faces covered and gazes averted. Instinctively she knew that many were her own men and those of the MacDonnell and Chisholm clans. Only one man, a clansman named Allan Grant, looked at her. He was dressed like a peasant and his expression was grim, as if sending her a warning. Swallowing hard, she quickly shifted her gaze to the altar where Rolf awaited her.

  She gasped as she took her first good look at him. Clad in a splendid coat of burgundy and a crisp white linen shirt, he was nothing short of magnificent. His long, dark hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck with a velvet ribbon and he wore dark gloves on both hands. A gleaming short sword hung around his waist from a leather belt.

  Realizing that the sword was little more than ceremonial, Megan glanced up at his face, puzzled. Surely, he couldn’t mean to leave himself unprotected, especially after the warning she had given him. Dismayed, she frowned at him.

  Seeming to have read her thoughts, Rolf smiled and offered his arm. Megan took it, surprised to find herself trembling. He gently led her a few steps forward until they directly faced an English vicar and a local kirkman from a nearby village.

  With a sinking heart, Megan realized that Rolf had most likely arranged to have the kirkman at the ceremony to give legitimacy to the marriage in the eyes of the villagers. Yet at the same time, it also served to make the marriage all the more real to her. If she took these vows in front of a kirkman, it would bind her to Rolf forever.

  She swallowed hard, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He had left no stone unturned. Whatever happened between them today would be irreversible. She understood that now.

  The vicar began to speak, but Megan could barely hear the words over the thundering of her heart. Any moment she expected a cry to sound and a battle to begin. She was amazed that Rolf seemed so calm. Twice he smiled at her, squeezing her hand. Megan fumed at his arrogance, wondering if he might not get them all killed.

  As the cleric droned on, Megan felt ill. Her vision began to swim and she felt hot and suffocated in her gown.

  Feeling herself starting to swoon, she tried to brace herself against Rolf’s solid form, but instead swayed forward into the kirkman.

  As Rolf moved to catch her, all chaos broke loose. A primal cry arose from the crowd and the sounds of steel being drawn filled the air. Dazed, Megan watched as Allan Grant threw back his hood and jumped toward Rolf, brandishing his sword. She opened her mouth to scream, but Rolf had already anticipated the attack. He stepped sideways, depositing her into Peter’s arms and catching the sword Andrew drew from beneath his cloak and tossed him. In seconds Rolf and Allan were engaged in a furious swordfight.

  A protective circle of four of Rolf’s men, including Peter and Andrew, surrounded Megan. She tried to look over their broad shoulders to discover what was happening. From what little she could see, Rolf’s men seemed to be materializing from everywhere. Fully dressed in light armor and with deadly weapons, they cut off the only escape from the courtyard and herded the fighting men into a tight circle. With a gasp of dismay, Megan saw that Rolf intended to trap her men inside the gates of the castle until he could disarm them.

  “Och, my God.” Megan’s heart clenched.

  “Meggie, where are ye? Meggie!”

  Megan whirled around, recognizing the voice. “Robbie.” She screamed as soon as she saw the unmistakable red hair and beard of her cousin. “Look out behind ye.”

  Robbie turned just as one of Rolf’s men swung at his unprotected back. The big Scotsman managed to step out of the way of the deadly arc and bury his sword in the Englishman’s shoulder. An agonizing scream spilt the air. Shouting a curse, one of her guards stepped forward to engage Robbie. At the same moment, Robbie danced sideways, coming within an arm’s reach of Megan and tossing something at her. Surprised, she caught it, fumbling with the object until it was secure in her grasp. She had but a moment to meet Robbie’s determined gaze before he turned to engage the English guard.

  “Use it,” he hissed over his shoulder.

  Looking down at her hand, Megan saw that he had thrown her a dagger. Gasping, she thrust it into the folds of her gown just as Peter grabbed her and pushed her behind him for safekeeping. She didn’t think anyone had seen the exchange. She tried to follow Robbie’s progress, but the crowd swallowed up him and his opponent until she was no longer sure where they had gone.

  She frantically looked about the courtyard for any sign of a familiar face, including that of Rolf St. James. But all she could see was an occasional flash of the Chisholms’, MacDonnells’ and MacLeods’ plaids amid a sea of gleaming blades. Unarmed villagers ran about shrieking in fright while trying to stay clear of the fighting. At the same time, Rolf’s soldiers were making headway by tightening the circle and leaving the Scotsmen little room to maneuver.

  Too late, Megan realized the crux of Rolf’s plan. In addition to trapping the Scots in the courtyard without permitting them a chance to retreat and regroup, he was also forcing them to swing their heavy claymores in an increasingly confined space against men who were fully protected in armor and carried shorter and lighter swords. Even worse, none of the clansmen seemed to have a unified strategy, and they all were reduced to fighting single battles instead of combining forces to defeat the English. Rolf had known them better than she had thought possible. His strategy had been w
ell planned and brilliantly executed. She, like the rest of her men, had once again underestimated him.

  Tears filled her eyes. Numb, she watched as the fighting ebbed until there were but a few clanging swords. Rolf’s men began rounding up the Scotsmen, until they were all disarmed and stood hostile and dejected inside a well-armed circle of Englishmen.

  Those that were wounded lay were they fell. Megan turned away, unable to bear seeing the defeated and pained looks on the faces of her countrymen.

  A silence fell on the courtyard as the crowd parted and Rolf emerged. His burgundy jacket had been ripped in several places and he had blood spattered across his shirt. His hair was no longer tied back neatly at the nape of his neck, and instead hung in a disheveled heap about his shoulders. Behind him, he pulled a man. A gasp of dismay escaped her lips when she saw who it was.

  “Geddes,” she murmured, leaning against Andrew.

  “Come here, Megan,” Rolf ordered when they reached the altar.

  When she didn’t move, Andrew took her by the shoulders and pushed her toward Rolf. As she stumbled forward, Uncle Geddes raised his head to look at her, his eyes weary and defeated.

  “This is the man who called himself Kincaid, and you his daughter.” Rolf’s tone was short, clipped. “Who is he really to you, Megan? I’d advise you not to lie to me again.”

  Megan exchanged a long glance with her uncle before gazing at the hostile English faces of those who surrounded her. “He is my uncle. My mother’s brother. I beg ye no’ to hurt him.”

  “And what would you have me do with him? He just tried to kill me.”

  “He is my kin and was trying to rescue me. If the tables were turned and your niece was captured, would ye no’ see it as your duty to try and help her?”

  “I would have never permitted my niece to be captured in the first place.”

  “Mayhap your niece is no’ as stubborn as I am. ’Tis no’ fair to hold him accountable for my sins.”

  “Then who shall I hold accountable? Your father, perhaps?” He turned to the huddle of hostile and captured clansmen. “Step forward at last, Robert MacLeod, and I shall spare your kin.”

  A surprised murmur sounded among the Scotsmen, but no one moved forward. His jaw tightening, Rolf turned back to face Megan. “So what else can I expect from your father, Megan? He refuses to save his daughter and hides like a coward behind his men to save his own skin.”

  “’Tis no’ so.” Her cheeks flushed with anger. “The Wolf hides behind no one. He has no’ come forward because he is no’ among the men ye hold there. ’Tis God’s truth.”

  Peter took a step toward Rolf. “Some of the Scotsmen did escape. Perhaps the Wolf was among them.”

  Rolf’s scowl deepened as he glared at Megan. “How long does your father intend to play this game of run and hide? Is he a coward now that he is without his magical cloak?”

  “What have ye done wi’ my father’s cloak?”

  “It’s gone, destroyed, just like your foolish struggle against us. It’s time to put these useless ideas of resistance behind you and start working for the future. Summon your father to come forward and face me like a man.”

  Megan matched his angry stare. “The Black Wolf will come forward when the time is right and all o’ our conditions are met.”

  “And what conditions might those be? A knife in my back? Another ambush? Or perhaps a slit throat while I sleep in my bed? The Wolf has already rejected my offers of peace—what else could he possibly want? By God, woman, I should force the answer out of you.”

  “Nay,” Geddes cried out. “Dinna harm the lass. She knows naught.”

  Megan threw her uncle a stern warning glance. “I can speak for myself, Uncle. My father’s concern for my welfare has adversely affected his judgment in regards to this situation. I am fully ready to make peace wi’ ye, Englishman, on behalf o’ my father and all the clansmen here, if ye agree to live up to your promises o’ land grants and pardons. We can start the process today.”

  An interested murmur rippled through the crowd as the villagers pressed close to hear more. The captured clansmen stood still as if hanging on to each word.

  “And why should I believe you now? Have you been nothing but deceitful with me? You were part of this planned ambush, weren’t you? Swooning just as your men jumped forward so that my hands would be full?”

  “Ye think I did that on purpose?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Nay, I did no’. I swooned because it was preferable to retching all over ye. ’Tis no’ every day that a woman faces the man she is to wed, knowing all the time that behind her is a crowd full o’ armed and angry men ready to slay him. Can ye really blame me?”

  Rolf studied her face. “So you weren’t part of this all along?”

  “O’ course I wasn’t. I tried to warn ye...to tell ye o’ the folly o’ such a ceremony, but ye didn’t listen to me.”

  “I’m listening now.”

  She moved toward him when Andrew lunged at her, grabbing her elbow and forcing her hand out from beneath her gown.

  “My lord, ’tis treachery, it is. She has a dagger.” He pressed on her wrist until her hand opened and the dagger fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

  Rolf looked in amazement at the dagger and then brought his disbelieving gaze to Megan’s face. “By God, woman, will your deceit never cease?”

  Megan flushed, a stricken look crossing her face. “Nay, ’tis no’ as ye think. One o’ my clansmen...he threw it at me to protect myself.”

  Rolf took a step forward, bending over and picking the dagger up off the ground. He looked at it for a long moment before flipping it over in his hand and thrusting it toward her handle first.

  “Very well, Megan, then take it. If you wish to kill me, have the courage to do it while I watch. For I’ll not have you planning any more deceit or murder in our home.”

  Andrew gasped and moved forward, but Rolf gave him a dark, thundering look that froze the young man in his tracks. “I said take it,” he ordered, turning his attention back to Megan. When she did not move, Rolf pushed the dagger into her hand, closing her fingers over it. Keeping his eyes on her face, he grasped the front of his shirt, ripping it open and revealing his bare chest.

  A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd. Uncle Geddes stared at Megan with wide eyes, while Andrew’s hand tightened on his sword. Everyone in the courtyard seemed to be holding their breath.

  “Come now, Megan. What are you afraid of? Let’s settle this matter between us once and for all.”

  Megan took a shaky step forward, lifting her hand with the knife. She kept her eyes on his face, amazed that he neither blinked nor moved a muscle. He watched and waited for her to do what he expected her to do.

  Kill him.

  Megan’s hand began to tremble. Exhaling a deep breath, she tossed the dagger aside.

  “I’ll no’ kill ye, Englishman, and ye know it. I wish for peace between our people. Let us work toward that end and no’ engage in any more senseless killing.”

  Rolf held her gaze for a long moment. “Are you saying then that you, Megan MacLeod, will take the vows to wed me in good faith?”

  She again looked over at the captured clansmen. She started as Robbie burst forward from the prisoners, knocking one of the English guards to the ground.

  “Nay.” He lunged toward her. “Dinna do it, Meggie.”

  One of Rolf’s men tackled Robbie from behind. The big Scotsman went sprawling face first to the ground. Megan screamed when one of the guards raised his sword, intending to use it against her cousin.

  At the same time, Geddes shouted, rushing toward his son. Peter stepped in front of the old man, stopping him with a firm hand on his chest.

  “Stop!” Rolf commanded, putting an abrupt stop to the spectacle.
“Bring that man to his feet.”

  It took four men to drag Robbie from the ground. The flame-haired Scotsman stood, arms pinned behind his back, glowering at Rolf.

  Geddes looked at Rolf. “Please, dinna harm him, I beseech ye. He is my son.”

  “Dinna beg him for naught, Da. ’Tis time he and I faced each other, man to man.”

  Rolf looked back and forth between the Scotsmen before crossing his arms against his chest and studying Robbie. “So, you are Megan’s cousin.”

  The big Scotsman spat on the ground and then glared at Rolf with hate blazing in his eyes. “Ye sully Megan’s name by speaking it on your tongue. Dinna say it again.”

  A dark scowl crossed Rolf’s face. “Megan is going to be my wife.”

  “She’ll never belong to ye or to any o’ your kind.”

  “You are wrong about that.”

  “Then show me just how wrong I am. Fight me, Englishman. Just the two o’ us. Let’s end this quarrel right now.”

  “Nay.” Megan clutched his arm as he reached for his sword. “Ye don’t have to fight anyone. Please, I will wed ye peacefully, Englishman.”

  Rolf looked at the imploring expression on her face, and his grip on the hilt of his sword eased.

  “Dinna give in to his threats, Meggie,” Robbie protested. “I’ll no’ let ye wed him.”

  “I’m afraid you are in no position to stop us,” Rolf stated. “Megan will be my wife within the hour and we both know it.”

  “Ye black hearted bastard.” Robbie lunged toward Rolf. “I’ll kill ye if ye dare to touch her.”

  Rolf sidestepped the lunge, grabbing Robbie’s arm and twisting it behind his back. He aimed a savage kick at the back of the kneecaps, rendering the big Scotsman flat on his back in one fluid movement.

  Robbie scrambled to get up, but froze when Rolf pressed the tip of his sword to his throat. Megan flew to Rolf’s side, grasping his arm.