Gannon glanced around. A blood-spattered battle-axe was on the ground. Grabbing it, he pumped it in the air. “Dunstans! Open that gate! Show our laird that we are men of honor. That we know where he belongs. With us!” A roar of renewed purpose erupted just before a loud crack filled the air.
MacCuaig’s men gathered near the gate heard the Dunstan cry followed by a thunderous sound they assumed to be a lightning bolt. Moments later crazed Dunstan men and women came from nowhere attacking with a wild vengeance. Anything that could stab, puncture, or slice was being used. Realizing their numbers would not hold the gate, MacCuaig soldiers attempted to retreat, only to discover that Conor and his men had already breached the troops securing the broken portions of the wall.
Within minutes, Dunstans freed the gate and pulled the portcullises open. Riders from allied Lowland clans crossed the threshold. As understanding of their circumstances crept into their awareness, MacCuaig soldiers tried to flee or surrender. Those who decided to fight the impossible odds died quickly.
Ending the last skirmish, Conor looked around. No more MacCuaigs were in sight. He joined the other lairds to discuss the next move.
“MacCuaig’s men have vanished,” Boyd said, stating the obvious.
“They are here,” Moncreiffe countered with conviction. “And they are numerous.”
“Aye,” agreed Conor. “I saw masses of them pour out of the outer gate as I was fighting.”
Crawford took a deep breath and exhaled in disgust. “They must have seen our numbers and are hiding. They are just biding their time to attack or flee.”
Conor smiled and said, “Then I suggest we change our style from fighting to hunting. Just remember the inner walls of Lochlen are to be untouched until Colin says it is time.”
Boyd moved his men to skirt the western town wall, Crawford did the same for the east, and Moncreiffe guarded the openings so that Conor and Donovan could skirt the northern and southern portions of the town wall. Once all were in place, Conor gave the battle cry and they moved forward investigating every house, every recess, every hiding possibility. The MacCuaigs had a choice—immediate surrender or death.
Leon was at the Pinnacle Tower about to appraise his new wealth in goods when he heard the battle scream. That was no thunderbolt.
He had assumed the distant ongoing clanking of metal swords to be a few Dunstan clansmen fighting for their lives. He glanced up as lightning streaked across the darkened sky, followed by an icy wind. The battlements on two of the towers were empty of men. Instinct told him they had not retreated because of the impending storm. Not a drop of rain had yet fallen, but soon it would be pouring from the sky.
Leon headed toward Canmore Tower. So the Highlander had not left the Lowlands as he had led everyone to believe. It mattered little. Leon still possessed what he had come for. He had Makenna.
“You!” Leon screamed at one of the guards standing in front of the main entrance to the great hall. “Go tell those not standing watch to close and bar the main gate!”
The man scurried away, and Leon continued toward his destination. He was just passing the Black Tower when the wind kicked up and his senses came alive. He stopped cold and his heart began to pound. He was too late. McTiernay was already inside. MacCuaig turned and disappeared.
Conor surveyed the last group of MacCuaigs captured and ordered them to be brought outside the town wall and held with the others. The men obviously had not supported their laird’s decision to attack their neighbor. Too many of them had surrendered rather than fight to their death.
Hearing a rider approach, Conor turned around, whipping his claymore into position. Immediately, his arm slackened at his seeing Drake.
Drake swung off his horse. “Colin sent me to find you.”
Following Conor’s lead, the other lairds dismounted and circled around the young commander as he used a stick to outline Colin’s plan.
Easing back to a standing position, Conor rubbed his chin and then nodded. “Seamus, go tell the men we advance on Lochlen. Colin is ready.”
Makenna wiggled her numb fingers, feeling the coarse rope of her bindings against her wrists. She drew a lungful of air and exhaled. Her breath was briefly visible before it disappeared. She thought about shouting at the guards stationed just outside the door to light the hearth but decided she would rather wait for MacCuaig. Having him delay his intentions until the room was warm might give her the time she needed.
A shout filled the air, then another. Then came the screams. The battle being fought was clearly one-sided and coming from the great hall. Something had changed MacCuaig’s mind about keeping her people alive to be used against her as leverage. They were dying.
Makenna resumed her struggle against her bindings. Tricking MacCuaig into sending her to the solar seemed like a brilliant plan. She could retrieve the sword Camus made for Colin, and with some luck, use it to kill MacCuaig.
Luck, however, had different plans.
First, MacCuaig had not brought her to the solar, but a huge nameless brute. Luck continued to desert her when the soldier conducted an infuriatingly good search of the room. Upon finding a hidden halbert in Colin’s chest, he decided to bind her to a chair rather than leave her free until MacCuaig arrived. After ensuring that the rope could not be untied, he left her to freeze.
She still had hope. The guard had not found the true reason behind her desire to be brought to the solar. Colin’s sword was still hidden. But, unless she could find a way to loosen her bonds, there would be no way for her to retrieve the heavy weapon and attack an unprepared MacCuaig.
Pain shot through Makenna’s arm as more skin ripped against the ropes. She knew her efforts were in vain. Her struggles seemed only to tighten the knots binding her.
Approaching footsteps caught Makenna’s attention. She stilled and prepared her mind for what was about to come. She could hear the door behind her swing open and refused to turn around.
“You are a monster, and Colin will send your soul to hell for what you are about to do,” she promised.
Heavy footsteps approached, and Makenna felt her bindings loosen. A rich-timbred voice vowed softly in her ear, “Aye, he will.”
Suddenly, she was free and in Colin’s arms, his mouth covering hers. Makenna clung to him as he crushed her to him with a savage intensity, seeking proof she was alive, and still his. He moved his mouth over hers, devouring her softness.
Finally, Colin eased his lips from hers. His love for her was abundantly clear in the depths of his blue gaze. She was safe and loved. Colin had come for her, just as she knew he would.
Lifting her hand, she brushed a dark lock freed from its leather bonds and tucked it behind Colin’s ear. There were tears in his eyes. “Colin?”
He planted a gentle kiss across her forehead. “Forgive me. I never knew such terror as I have known these past hours. I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love another. When I saw MacCuaig…with you…I…”
Makenna held his head between her palms. “I wasn’t afraid. I knew you would save me. And you did, Colin. You did save me.”
Colin’s eyes swam with doubt. “The baby?” he barely choked.
“Fine. We are fine.” She kissed him briefly, reassuring him that what she said was true.
As she pulled her hands away, Colin was reminded of her bloody wrists. He grabbed her forearm firmly and examined the damage. Suddenly his face contorted into a cold nightmare. Makenna remembered him telling her that she had never seen him angry. He had been correct. For never before had she seen him thus.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked, his voice low and strained.
Makenna pulled free and took a step back. “I did this, Colin. I was struggling against the ropes to get free and I…” Makenna stopped talking. Her explanation was not mollifying Colin, but only inflaming his anger. It suddenly occurred to her that it sounded as if she were defending MacCuaig. “He bound me, but only my wrists were injured. We need to save Doreen and the others. I heard them screaming…”