Laird of Her Heart (Dundragon Time Travel Trilogy Book 1) Page 8

  If indeed it was a true meeting of the minds…and not an ambush.

  He thrust that thought aside and focused on his annoyance at her ploy.

  He was glad he’d decided not to take her with him. He was glad he was sending her back to Dar, to languish in the dungeon until he returned. He hoped it taught her a lesson. He hoped it taught her that no one betrayed Dominic Dundragon without paying the price.

  Although what he would do with her when he returned…?

  Hell.

  He had no idea.

  * * *

  She heard the horses coming and blew out a breath.

  She knew Dominic was angry, but she could also tell, from the falling shadows, that evening was upon them. It was too late for them to leave. They would not be in Urquhart in the morning.

  They would miss the massacre.

  That was worth any price.

  She hoped when he came in, settled down for the night, he would be calmer. He would be willing to listen to her once more.

  But he never came back.

  Night fell and silence settled over the camp and he never came to her.

  He left her there, tied to the pole in his tent. All alone.

  It was the longest night of her life.

  But morning was worse.

  She could hear the men rising, packing up, chattering. She could smell breakfast cooking. But no one came to untie her.

  Her wrists were sore, her arms, having been in the same position all night, ached. Her bladder was full.

  When Ewan came through the tent flap, she nearly collapsed in relief, but even though she called out to him, he ignored her, merely collecting Dominic’s things and carting them outside.

  He came in several times, until everything was gone except the pallet and furs on which she rested.

  Her belly went hard. Her blood went cold. Were they going to leave her here? The thought palled. When the sounds outside rose, calls of farewell, the thunder of hooves, she nearly broke into tears.

  She knew he’d left her.

  Felt it in the hollow core of her being. A coil of dread rose to take the place of hope.

  Yes, he was a grown man. He could take care of himself. But she couldn’t help thinking, he needed her. Needed her to keep him safe.

  It didn’t occur to her that she needed him for the same reason. Not until Ewan and Harry stepped into the tent. Their expressions were blank, but not blank enough that she did not sense their anger, their distrust of her.

  “Have they gone?” she asked, though she knew the answer. It hardly mattered that they didn’t answer. Her gaze fixated on the knife Ewan held. Trepidation skittered through her.

  Oh lord. How angry was Dominic? Or was it not anger? Was it mercy to send his man in to slit her throat? To save her from hanging?

  Fear clutched at her. She struggled to catch a breath. Sweat prickled on her brow. She was tied. Helpless. She couldn’t even fight—

  But Ewan strode past her to the tent pole and cut her tether. It wasn’t lost on her that he did not untie her hands. He jerked her to her feet and led her from the tent, while Harry collected the bedding and broke down the structure.

  To her shock—once her eyes adjusted to the glare of the sun—the camp was empty. Utterly deserted. Even the fire had been doused. All that remained was the cart filled with salted deer carcasses. Ewan towed her in that direction.

  She stopped short and braced herself for his tug when he noticed she was not obediently following him. He frowned at her.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” she said.

  He shot a look at Harry and then changed directions toward the woods. He didn’t take her deep in, but paused beside the first bush. When she opened her mouth to protest, his frown darkened. “Hurry up.”

  She blew out a sigh and tried to move quickly, but it was difficult with her hands tied before her. She knew better than to ask him to release her. His expression made clear he’d been commanded to keep her on a short leash.

  Literally.

  By the time she was finished, Harry had stowed the tent. Ewan led her to the cart and lifted her into the back. She could hardly complain—the seat in the front was barely big enough for the two burly Scotsmen—but seriously? Did they expect her to travel all the way to Castle Dar on top of dead meat? The smell alone was revolting.

  “I think I’m gunna barf.”

  “Be silent, woman,” Harry snapped.

  “Seriously. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “I told you we should have listened to Declan and gagged her,” Harry muttered.

  “The laird said to be gentle with her.”

  “I doona think he meant it. He was glowering at the time.”

  “He’s glowered a lot…since she came along.” Ewan shot her a dark look over his shoulder. He slapped the reins and the cart lurched forward.

  Maggie’s stomach lurched too. She groaned. “Can you at least give me something to eat?” Maybe that would settle the bile churning in her belly.

  Harry blew out a sigh and pulled an oatcake from his sporran, handing it to her without a word. She took it and nibbled at it and tried to be grateful. Honestly. It could be worse. Couldn’t it?

  She tried to look on the bright side. She had managed to delay Dominic’s departure, possibly saved him from MacPherson’s perfidy. She hadn’t been hanged. That was always a positive. And it was a lovely day for a cart ride through Scotland. Folks at home would have paid big bucks for something like this. Probably.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. She hoped they were following the men to Urquhart, but she doubted it.

  Ewan confirmed her suspicions. “We’re going back to Castle Dar.”

  Yes. What she’d expected. But when Harry leaned back and shot her a malicious grin and added, “And you, wee lass, are heading for the dungeon,” she was surprised indeed.

  All of a sudden, the day was not so very fine after all.

  * * *

  They rode fast and hard, though Dominic took a care with their horses, making sure to rest and water them regularly. They made good time, but he knew they would miss the meeting. There was no way they could make it. If only there were a ferry across the loch. But there was not, and Loch Ness was large and deep. They had to ride through Glen Mor to the west, then north to Lochend, and then back down to Kilmore on the west bank.

  Evening was falling by the time they caught sight of the fluttering banners of the encampment, far in the distance. When there was such a gathering of clans, the influx was often too great for a castle to accommodate, so they made camp in the surrounding fields. These reunions were infrequent, as they all lived far from each other, so most stayed for days. There were usually games of skill, much drinking and excellent food. A fair-like atmosphere prevailed.

  Dominic was gratified to see that everyone had not left; perhaps he could still meet with MacPherson.

  If nothing else, he was more than ready to rest his bones, have a warm meal and a stiff drink.

  But as they came closer, something felt off. He slowed his mount.

  “What is it?” Declan asked.

  Dominic glanced at the sky, to the wheeling birds. He scanned the camp for movement. There was none.

  “Do you see anyone?”

  Declan frowned. “Nae.”

  No men. No women. No songs or laughter wafted to them on the wind, as they should. Only the caws of those birds.

  He glanced at his men, and as one, they drew their swords. They rode closer to the camp, splitting into two to circle at a distance. Ten large tents. No fires. No horses. Nothing.

  Dominic shot a glance at the castle, about a league away on the banks of the river. The castle itself was held by John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, a contender for the Scottish crown, but Comyn was rarely in residence here. The castle, too, seemed eerily deserted.

  He lifted a leg and slipped from his saddle. “Shall we investigate?”

  His men nodded and followed suit. But not one of them spoke.
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  They crept into the camp, moving slowly and silently, checking each tent as they passed. Oddly enough, they were all deserted. The first sign they had that something was awry, was a boot.

  Declan’s brow darkened as he bent to pick it up. He issued an eep and tossed it away, rearing back in revulsion.

  “What is it?” Dominic asked.

  His brother, who was normally as staunch as they came, vomited into the grass. “The leg…” A gasp. “Was still in it.”

  Holy hell.

  Dominic gestured to his men and they fanned out, looking for any more clues as to what had happened here. His gut tightened.

  Had Maggie been right about the ambush? Had she been right all along?

  “Here!” Liam cried from the large tent in the center of the assemblage. The others rushed to his side. “Here. They’re in here.”

  Slowly Dominic pulled back the tent flap. And he gagged himself. Not only because the first soulless eyes he saw were those of his friend Brody Ritchie. Not only because the tent was littered with bodies—and body parts—and bathed in blood. But because with the heat of the summer sun baking the corpses, the stench was horrific. It was surprising he hadn’t smelled this coming in.

  They covered their mouths and made their way around the perimeter of the tent and the extent of this atrocity became clear. The men had been gathered here. Drinking, perhaps. Laughing. Tossing dice. Their swords were all sheathed. They’d had no clue this was coming. No clue at all.

  They had, indeed, been massacred.

  “Who do you see?” he called out, but he knew, in his heart, he knew.

  “Laird of MacThomas here,” Declan called.

  “McCombies. And aye, Shaw by his side.”

  They found Cattanach, with his eyes gouged out and MacPhail and Farquharson as well.

  “Any MacPhersons?”

  Declan stood. Huffed a sigh. “Nae. No’ a one.”

  Bluidy hell. Bluidy fooking hell!

  Fury raged within him, but it battled with an undeniable sense of relief. Whatever or whoever she was, Maggie had been telling the truth. She had known the truth. Or seen it. She wasn’t mad. Or a traitor.

  But there was no time to reflect on that now. “We need to go,” he clipped. He needed to get home to Dar. No doubt who ever had done this—MacPherson, with Cameron at his back—had noticed he wasn’t here. If their intent was a complete annihilation of the Clan Chattan leadership, they would be assembling an army to attack him where he lived.

  He turned to Angus. “I need you to ride to Cattanach. Let them know we were late to the meeting, and what we found. What we suspect our enemies are up to. Have them notify all the clans of this treachery. We will all need to rally together to defeat these bastards.”

  “Aye, laird.”

  Liam stepped forward. “Let me go with him.”

  Dominic clapped him on the shoulder. “Nae, cousin. I canna spare you. When we get home, we will need your expertise.”

  Liam’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Because,” he said. “They will be coming for us. They will hit hard and fast.”

  And Maggie was there. Right in the middle of the danger.

  And there was no way to warn her.

  Worst of all? He’d sent her there.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The sight of Castle Dar rising on the ridge overlooking Loch Dundragon stole Maggie’s breath. It was large and magnificent, hewn of stones that glittered silver in the sunlight. The ramparts were high and crenelated; two turrets rose on either side. Banners, bearing the iconic family crest, a fierce dragon, flapped in the wind.

  As they’d followed the track in, past the crofts heavy with summer wheat, signs of prosperity were everywhere. Fat villeins, numerous chickens and healthy shaggy cows. The crofters all raised a hand to them and called greetings.

  They’d turned the corner on the top of the hill and the plains of Dar spread out before her. The little village, nestled at the base of the hill and there above it, the castle, framed by blue skies and puffy clouds.

  It could be a postcard, had they been invented yet.

  Maggie gusted a sigh. It was beautiful. It felt like home.

  As they passed through the village, everyone waved. Tall, braw lads and lasses dressed in the kirtles of the day. They were her people, far-removed, of course. But they were her people.

  They crossed the moat and rumbled over the bridge, beneath the gaping portcullis. Maggie tipped back her head and soaked in every detail. The well-oiled chains and the pulleys. The murder holes built into the passage. All exactly as she’d expected it to look. It was fascinating.

  The bailey of the castle fascinated her as well. They passed the guard house, the dove cote and the smithy. She could see the gardens and what looked like an apiary on the far side, and the stables to her left. Men and women of all ages bustled about their work. She took it all in with delight.

  But apparently, she was not to be allowed delight.

  The cart stopped and Ewan hopped out. “Come along, you,” he growled, grabbing her ankles and dragging her from the cart by her feet. As unseemly as this treatment was—and his continued use of her tether—Maggie tried to hide her outrage. She’d come to terms with the fact that these men didn’t trust her. It was the consequence of her situation and hardly their fault. They were simply trying to protect their people.

  Ewan took her arm and led her toward the north tower, but before they reached the steps, a horn blew. The activity in the bailey shot from busy to frenetic, like a beehive, nudged too hard.

  “What is it?” she asked, but everyone ignored her. Really ignored her. Ewan and Harry ran back to the portcullis, leaving her standing in the yard. They gestured madly at the villagers who were now streaming into the castle.

  One old woman bustled past her, with a basket of vegetables. Maggie grabbed her arm. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

  “’Tis the Camerons,” she said. “They are approaching from the east. “It looks as though they’ve brought an army.”

  And that quickly, her delight at finally seeing her ancestral home deflated.

  They were under attack.

  As the last of the villagers scuttled into the keep, the portcullis rolled down in an ominous clank and the men pulled up the bridge over the moat. Men and women—farmers and milk maids, scuttled to the armory and began carting arrows and spears up to the ramparts.

  It seemed well-ordered and practiced. Dominic had, perhaps prepared his people for such an event. Or it had happened before.

  Pushing through the crowd making their way into the castle proper, Maggie headed for the rampart steps; she took them two at a time.

  The men stationed on the wall shot her odd glances, but said nothing as she made her way to Ewan’s side. She watched in silence as a wave of armed and mounted men in blue plaids swept across the plain.

  It was a breathtaking sight, but not in a good way. They pounded closer and then halted, about three hundred feet from the castle wall.

  “What do they want?” she asked in a whisper.

  Ewan frowned down at her. “You shouldna be here.”

  “Why not?”

  She expected him to spew some nonsense about women being helpless and frail, but he just said, “The Macintosh would no’ like it. He wanted me to keep you safe.”

  “I’m perfectly safe.”

  His nostrils flared. “This is an attack, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “I have noticed. I’ve also noticed they stopped out of range.” While the Macintosh arrows could not reach them, the enemy, in turn, could not hit the broad side of the castle…at least, not from that distance. “Besides, I’ll have you know, I wrote an entire chapter in my Masters thesis on siege warfare tactics of the Middle Ages.”

  “The middle what?” His brow rumpled. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “It means I can help. So quit bugging me and let me think.” She thrust her hands out. “And untie me.”<
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  He frowned at her, but he complied. Then he turned to his men and began barking orders for them to finalize their defense. Maggie studied the movements of their enemies, as they surrounded the castle in a semi-circle and started setting up camp. Several large carts followed them at a distance. One carried the familiar lines of a trebuchet and another, with a domed wooden roof, was undoubtedly their battering ram machine.

  It was the beast that followed that made her heart lodge in her throat. These Camerons were serious. An enormous siege tower rolled onto the plain. It moved slowly on lumbering wheels, but that didn’t make it less ominous. She knew the damage a siege tower could wreak on a castle.

  As menacing as the battering ram and the trebuchet could be, the tower was the real threat. They had to incapacitate it at once.

  She turned to Ewan. “Do you have a ballista?” Like an overgrown crossbow, a ballista had tremendous force and could catapult lethal bolts much farther than a bow and arrow. It was usually used in offense, sapping walls and taking out castle defenses. But a weapon was a weapon. She would use everything they had to fight off this incursion.

  “Aye.”

  “Excellent. And a marksman with very good aim?” At Ewan’s nod, she pointed at the siege tower. “Have him target the wheels.” They were large, to carry the weight of the wooden tower.

  “The wheels, my lady?”

  She ignored the fact that he’d accidently granted her a title of respect. There was hardly time to gloat about winning him over. “Yes. If we can send several bolts straight on into those wheels, they won’t be able to move it. The tower will be useless to them.” As useless as a booted car in impound. “And get some more oil up here. We’ll need it when they drop their ladders.” They would likely be dampened, or covered with wet hides, but oil burned through hides. Men burned too. If they tried to breach the walls, she had no compunction about giving them a hot oil treatment.

  She scanned the woods in the falling evening, mentally calculating distances between targets and cover. “Ewan, do you have escape tunnels?” Most castles did. Escape tunnels, sapping tunnels and secret sally ports.