Page 80 of Highland Storm

Here, there were no ramparts to hide behind, no rooftops from which to set loose missiles. The hallhouse itself sat high enough on the motte that any men firing from the three-foot rampart surrounding the keep would have an advantage for but a very short time. There was little time to prepare if they meant to fight and hold what was theirs. Even if she were inclined to, it was too late to send riders to Kinneddar, and there was little assurance fitz Duncan would aid them anyhow. For all she knew it could be him out there, though she wasn’t about to lose what she’d fought so hard to win.

“The men to arms,” she commanded the steward. “Women and children to the hallhouse. Gather everyone straightaway.” If the attackers should ascend the motte, they would protect themselves by setting fire to the ditch. “Go and tell my brother—quickly!” she urged Balloch.

“Aye, m’lady!”

By the rood, if Lael and her sisters could dress themselves for war, so then could she! Bound to protect her people, Lianae raced up the tower stairs to the lord’s chamber to don the lord’s armor—not much more than a boiled gambeson and tunic, but the tunic bore Dunràth’s sigil so that her men might easily recognize her in battle.

She knew little about how to wield a sword, but she would try nonetheless—if only as a show of strength. Alas, but she tried to lift the heavy claymore displayed upon the wall, and it sank to the floor with a mighty thud, hacking pieces from the floor. Muttering curses beneath her breath, Lianae abandoned the sword where it lay, cursing it to rot, and snatched up her trusty little blade from the bedside where she’d left it.

Hurrying over to the cold brazier, she dirtied her fingers with ash. It wasn’t the same as woad, but this too would have to do. She swiped two fingers across her cheeks and brow and hurried out into the courtyard, shouting for the men to bring around her mare.

Cailleach have mercy, she would soon discover how well Una’s horse could handle blood and gore. But then suddenly, before she had the chance to mount, she peered down the motte to spy the approaching horde.

At the foot of the hill, twenty men riding without banners spilled from the woods and fell upon a smaller band of eight. Of those eight, she recognized the leader at once—his hair black as midnight and his coat dark against his snow-white mare.

Keane.

Having fled Carlisle so swiftly, Keane had abandoned more than half his promised men. He was ill prepared to meet more than twice his number on the field of battle. But the attackers came not from the motte, he realized, unsheathing his sword, and placing himself between his men and the assailants, to give his men precious seconds to prepare. But seconds was all the time he could buy, for they flew at Keane, one by one.

“To the laird!” his men cried, rallying themselves to fight.

“To the laird!”

The clash of swords rang against the twilight. Metal struck metal. Sword against axe. Axe against sword. Men shouted battle cries unto the heavens and Keane felt the cold bite of steel pierce his shoulder...

“To the laird!”

“To the laird!”

Riding hell-bent through the pinewood forest, the dún Scoti sisters heard the cry to arms and spurred their mounts to greet the battle, with Lachlann and Luc close at their heels. They reached the melee as the battle engaged.

There were no banners flown, but Lael had no need to know whose blood she would spill to defend her brother. “To Keane!” she shouted, unsheathing her great sword along with a nine-inch blade from her belt.

Standing in her stirrups, Cailin drew her crossbow, slamming the butt against her shoulder.

Crying out in vengeance, Sorcha, drew her sword.

Together, the dún Scoti sisters shouted the dún Scoti war cry. Painted in woad, and ready to die for their kin, they joined the battle at the foot of Dunràth’s hill.

By the gods above—every last one—Keane had never been more relieved to see three women in all his days! He recognized the war cry of their ancestors and grinned—for the sound was no less terrifying coming from a woman’s tongue. He heard Lachlann’s shout as well and knew the battle would be turned.

If he’d been surprised by his sisters’ arrival, the assailants were all the more so and their momentary stupor was their undoing. Keane felled one, and cut down another as Lael came galloping by, wielding her long blade alongside him, cutting down another.

Already, his arm was covered with blood, making it difficult to wield his sword. He gritted his teeth and fought through the pain, struggling to retain command of the heavy blade. Lachlann flanked him on one side, Lael on the other, and together they fought, parrying every blow. Cailin’s arrows came whizzing by. Unlike Keane’s hunting bow, hers was made for war. Each and every arrow met their marks with deadly thunks. He lost two of his numbers before another thirty warriors came marching down the motte, and another ten circled, attacking from behind. “To the laird of Dunràth!” they shouted to a man.

“To the laird!”

Like rats before a torchlight, the assailants fled into the woods.

So swiftly, the battle was done. But in the space of minutes, more than twenty men were felled—a few of his own. The mottled snow was strewn with bodies and peppered with blood. Dismounting, Keane saw to his fallen men. Only one of the assailants remained alive. He lifted the man to his feet and hurled him toward Lachlann. His brother’s captain held a blade to the man’s throat before he could take a step. “Take him to the gaols,” he commanded. “Find out who sent the bastards and why.”

And then he turned and saw her.

His wife.

Mounted upon a snow-white mare, like the ones his sister rode, she trotted down the motte, with ten more men at her rear. She wore a heavy gambeson over a bright green dress, but the look did not suit her. And still, she was lovely to behold. Overcome with emotion and relief, Keane sheathed his sword and went to her. Without a care that his men—and sisters—might witness a grown man cry, he went to greet his Moray bride. Spilling into his arms from her saddle, Keane swung Lianae jubilantly, covering her with his blood.

She didn’t seem to care. Her amber eyes were liquid. “Ye’re hurt!” she cried.