Page 76 of Deception of a Highlander

No, she could not go there and lie in the darkness alone. The company she would keep turned her stomach.

A warm hand wrapped around hers, startling her from the draw of her despair.

Blair’s kind green eyes regarded Mariel with concern. “You needn’t worry about him. Kieran is very strong and an excellent warrior. He knows how to protect himself.”

Words that had meant to comfort squeezed Mariel’s heart like a fist of ice. Blair was a good woman, an innocent caught in a dangerous scheme.

“I’ll see you to your room. You can sleep—”

“No.” Mariel shook her head. “There has to be something else I can do.”

Blair cast her a wary look. “There are wounded to tend to. Are you sure you don’t want—”

Mariel touched Blair’s forearm. “I’m fine. Please, I’d like to help.”

Blair nodded and led Mariel through the doors of the great hall. The long tables had been cleared away and replaced with makeshift pallets. Men lay upon them, some with bloodied bandages and some with gaping wounds.

Mariel shoved Kieran from her thoughts and rolled up the satin sleeves of her dress. These men needed her, and she would not come to their aid distracted.

* * *

The wind ripped through Kieran’s heavy plaid as if he wore nothing at all. The hardtack he’d eaten several hours ago no longer staved off the gnawing hunger, and his stomach growled in protest. Exhaustion tugged at his heavy limbs, but he sat prone on his horse and pushed onward. What he was feeling was no different than what his men endured.

The sun had begun to rise and speared shards of crimson light through the dense copse of trees overhead, rendering the forest floor a brilliant shade of red. The effect was disconcerting. There had been too much bloodshed over the last two weeks to allow appreciation for the otherwise magnificent sight.

The MacLeods were hiding and had long since refused to fight face-to-face. Kieran and his men were relentless in their search. This was MacDonald land, and they would do more than defend. They would punish.

The warriors he’d lost in defense of the Caisteal Camus had been avenged. Still, Kieran would not cease until every last straggler was found. Scotland would know that Kieran MacDonald was not a man easily taken advantage of, just as Brennan MacDonald had not been or their father before them.

Only a few MacLeods remained—four by the looks of the tracks they made. And Kieran was on their trail, a predator closing in on his prey. He and his men had foregone sleep and hunted through the night with stealthy determination. They would bring the last of the MacLeods down and return home to their comfortable beds, warm food and willing women.

Home to Mariel.

Kieran’s gritty hands clenched at the thought of her smooth skin beneath his fingers. He wanted to erase the faces of the dead with her beauty and obliterate the odor of blood with her heady rose scent.

He thought back to the night the battle began, and a hollow ache filled his chest. Again. He had not been able to stop reliving it, damn it. She had been so desperate to speak to him, almost frantic. What she’d needed to say was important. He had no doubt of that. Hopefully, she would be as eager to speak with him upon his return.

A patch of blue shifted behind a cluster of bushes. Kieran stilled. His body honed in, focused fully on the enemy, his muscles tense in preparation to strike. A raw cry broke through the silence, and four MacLeods charged through the brush with their swords drawn.

The enemy’s efforts were in vain. They were struck down before Kieran reached them. His men outnumbered them , yet these MacLeods had still attacked in a valiant end to their lives, unlike their cowardly brethren who had run. They died with a battle cry in their throats and swords in their hand. A warrior’s death.

The poignancy of their courageous defeat struck Kieran’s men, and rather than cheers of success, their triumph resounded with solemn silence. Too many had died for this victory.

“To home, men,” Kieran said in a low voice and turned his horse around. The ride to Caisteal Camus was long, and they would arrive late in the night, but the final push through exhaustion, discomfort and hunger would be well worth it. They were going home.

* * *

Mariel wound a length of soft linen around a gash on a warrior’s torso as he waited in grumpy silence. Very few men remained in the great hall. Some had healed, some insisted they had never belonged there in the first place and others had stormed out, muttering about being coddled.

“You did well, Murdoch,” she said to the wounded man. She pressed a small loaf of still-warm bread into his hand. “For someone who can never get enough to eat.”

He gave her a rare grin and nodded his gratitude.

Mariel rose to leave and felt the familiar wave of desperation wash over her.

If Kieran did not return soon, she would be forced into action on her own. Her only hope was that she could somehow manage to free Jack before Aaron’s men caught her and killed her. But then there was the fate of Blair and Dougal to consider. If Mariel left, another assassin would take her place. One who was far more ruthless.

She scanned the room, anxious to start another task to occupy her mind.