Angus stood to his full height, and Abigail thought he was Goliath to her David. She prayed she could convince him without a stone between his eyes. If she hadn’t known the man would never harm her, his size and the air of power surrounding him when he set his shoulders back would have terrified her. He studied her for a long moment before nodding.
“I dinna trust ye nae to find yer way up there. Like I said, ye’re like Bethea.” Angus raised the arm that carried the targe, the forearm through the two leather loops. With his sword arm raised behind Abigail, ready to ward off anyone who approached from behind, he angled his body to walk sideways up the steps, his shield blocking Abigail from sight as they rose higher.
Abigail peeked over the wall as they arrived at the top of the steps. She was unprepared for the carnage she found. Dozens of men lay dead, covered in layers of black sludge. Blood pooled around them and the snow beneath them. Mud tracks and churned grass showed through where patches of snow melted from the heat as the pitch rained down. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat from the scent of burned hair and flesh. She didn’t dare flinch or turn away after demanding Angus bring her up. He guided her until he spotted his son. Abigail noticed that most of the fires were out, and the tar no longer bubbled along that portion of the wall.
“Ma lady? Da, the laird will kill ye if he spots Lady MacKinnon up here!”
“Dinna tell me what I dinna already ken, lad.”
“Timothy, can you hit the boats?”
“Hit them? Aye, at least several.”
“How many men do they still have aboard them?”
“Only one or two each, ma lady. And that’s only on a few.”
“Timothy, do we have any more tar or oil left up here?”
“Oil. We havenae heated it because the pitch has worked so far.”
“Can we get the oil to the laird and his men? Could they make it to the boats?”
“Mayhap.” Timothy’s eyes widened as he looked at Abigail and then his father. Abigail knew her idea registered with Angus when his expression matched his son’s. “Aye. If the laird can make sure they douse the boats with oil, they’ll go up faster. But even if he canna, I’m nay the only mon who can hit those targets. A volley of flaming arrows will sink many.”
“Angus, can you find Laird MacKinnon?”
“Abby!” A roar rose from below, making Abigail cringe.
“I think the laird found ye instead,” Timothy snickered.
“Dinna laugh, son. He’s seen us both talking to Lady MacKinnon. Mayhap he’ll give us neighboring cells.”
Abigail ignored Angus and Timothy as she edged closer to the wall and looked down. She gasped when she took in Ronan’s blood-drenched clothes, face, and hair. She couldn’t tell if any of the blood was his. Sweat and dirt mingled with the blood he wore. With his blond hair peeking through the blood and grime under the sunlight, he looked like an avenging St. Michael.
“Can you get men to the docks?” Abigail called down.
“Abby!”
“Aye. Bellow at me later. Can you get men to the docks? Get them to pour oil on the birlinns?”
Ronan looked back over his shoulder. He’d sent half his men around to the postern wall from the opposite direction. He was running past the waterfront wall when he glanced up to see how his warriors fared above. He stumbled and nearly lost his footing when he recognized Abigail’s dark hair. When she turned toward him and looked out at the battlefield, he hadn’t thought twice before yelling up to her. He wanted her nowhere near the fighting. As he swept his gaze over the MacLeod fleet docked within his harbor, he wanted nothing more than to send them all up in smoke.
“Aye. Angus, get the vats lowered now. Timothy, get your men to dip their arrows before you light them. Don’t wait. As soon as we get the oil on them, fire. We’ll worry aboot getting ourselves back on land. For God’s sake, Abigail, get down.”
“Timothy, light the arrows from the barracks’ flames licking up the inner wall from the armory,” Abigail suggested as she turned back toward the steps. “Have they abandoned trying to force down the gates?”
“Aye. The laird defeated the men prepared to storm the gate, and Cormag ordered the next wave in the other direction. They didna bring up the battering ram.”
“I’m going to the kitchens then. There are bandages and salves there that the men need.” She moved forward, Angus once more protecting her. When they reached the ground, Abigail picked up her skirts and hastened to the kitchens while Angus went back onto the battlements to help lower the massive oil vats.
Ronan and his men tipped them on their sides and rolled them along the path until they reached the docks. Three men carried each cumbersome, awkward barrel once they pried the lids off and once more tipped them on their sides. His men made their way to the end of the MacLeod fleet, dousing them in the combustible liquid. When the last boat they could reach had the flammable oil poured onto its deck, Ronan waved his sword in the air. Abandoning the barrels, he and his men sprinted back up the dock as the lit arrows arced through the air before pummeling their targets. The boats erupted in flames, the wood and canvas catching immediately. Ronan raised his arms to shield his face from the heat as he and his warriors charged back toward the keep.
MacLeods turned toward the water as they watched the lit arrows land among their boats. They took in the horror playing out before their eyes. One boat after another caught on fire. The ones without oil poured on them ignited from those already on fire. Their only means of escape were sinking beneath the water’s surface and crumbling into ash.
Ronan searched for Cormag, intent upon slaying his enemy. He’d left Cormag alive for the sake of politics. He knew King Robert wouldn’t overlook the MacKinnons slaying all three MacLeod brothers, so he’d ignored his intuition that he should have killed Cormag back at Dunvegan. But his right to end Cormag’s life was irrefutable the moment the MacLeods sailed into MacKinnon water and then set foot on MacKinnon land. With a renewed sense of purpose and deadly intent, Ronan set his sights on Cormag.
Thirty-Eight
