Abigail knew when Ronan succeeded with the fleet. The crackling of the enormous fire was deafening, and she could hear little more than the raging flames devouring the wood birlinns. She emerged from the kitchens with two baskets slung over each arm as she hurried to where the injured gathered. Two baskets contained linen strips and pots of salve, while the other two carried waterskins. She handed the skins out to the men while others gathered the bandages and began tending one another.
“Move to the Great Hall. There’s water boiling in the kitchens. I found soap and whisky. I left them on the tables. I haven’t met your healer yet,” Abigail explained. “But I’ll do what I can to stitch wounds.” Abigail led the way through the kitchens, pointing to the supplies she’d left out. While many of her belongings sank along with the birlinn Ronan captained, the MacLeods left the other three untouched when they towed the MacKinnon birlinns to their docks. Since they were still moored there, the MacKinnons sailed their own boats back when they escaped. Abigail assumed that the MacLeods had planned to add the MacKinnon birlinns to their fleet, but she was grateful they’d ignored her belongings once she discovered that her childhood sewing kit—packed on a whim—survived the journey.
Abigail hurried up to her chamber to retrieve the sewing kit. By the time she returned to the Great Hall, the men were already helping the most severely injured onto tables. Bowls of steaming water appeared from the kitchens as the warriors scrubbed each other’s wounds, both the wounded and the hale taking healthy swigs of whisky beforehand. Abigail triaged the men in her head before carrying a candle to the man who looked to be in the worst shape but still likely to live. She didn’t want to turn her back on those who would likely succumb to their injuries, but she had to prioritize those she could save, lest the list of the dead grow longer.
She dipped her hands into a bowl of water before scrubbing them with soap. She hadn’t realized how filthy they’d become from scrambling along the barracks floor as she escaped the fire. Once she had as much dirt out from under her nails as she could manage, she dried them, then rummaged through her sewing supplies until she found a needle and sturdy thread. She passed the needle and thread through the flame several times before asking the surrounding men to hold down her first patient.
There had been little need over the years for her to practice her suturing skills at Stornoway. Adeline had been a competent nurse and able to tend wounds that needed stitching, but since she adopted few of the skills of a chatelaine, she neglected to make sure her daughters learned those duties. Luckily, her clan’s healer, Eara, insisted she and Madeline learn how to suture. As Abigail pressed the needle into the man’s skin, she said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for Eara’s persistent demands that she learned to stitch wounds.
Abigail moved from one injured warrior to the next for hours, until her eyes burned and her back ached from bending over. She wondered how the battle progressed, but she didn’t dare leave to find out. Her duty was to the keep—to the ailing and the dying. She swallowed her scream when the doors to the Great Hall burst open. Men in various conditions scrambled for their weapons until they recognized MacKinnon plaids flooding the gathering hall. Exhausted smiles greeted Abigail’s eyes as she searched for Ronan.
* * *
Ronan’s vision tunneled when he homed in on Cormag’s location. The man was barking orders as his men continued to attempt scaling the Dun Ringill walls. The MacLeod swung his sword as MacKinnons moved in to surround him. As Ronan ran toward his target, he recited his clan’s motto silently:audentes fortuna juvat.“Fortune favors the bold,” he reminded himself. The words brought Abigail to mind, and he couldn’t repress his grin. He was certain he looked like a madman charging through the fray while smiling. But his bonnie bride had been destined to be a MacKinnon because she was as bold as any man he’d ever met. She’d appeared demure at first, but she possessed the spirit of a lioness. He wouldn’t overlook discovering her on the wall walk, but he was not truly surprised to find her there.
MacKinnon warriors cut Cormag off from the rest of his men, some fighting off MacLeods to prevent them from rescuing their laird, while other MacKinnons kept Cormag in one place until Ronan reached them. The MacKinnons encircling Cormag shifted to allow Ronan to come face-to-face with his nemesis. With both hands wrapped around the hilt of his claymore, he raised it to shoulder height before launching himself forward, with the MacKinnon war cry “Cuimhnich bàs Ailpein” bursting from his mouth. His men echoed his battle oath, “Remember the death of Alpin.”
“Where are your fae now, arselick?” Ronan sneered as he swung his sword toward Cormag. The latter blocked the blow, but it pushed him backwards. Ronan didn’t relent, with a bone-jarring strike immediately following the first swing. He pounded Cormag over and over; the MacLeod laird was never able to launch his own strike. He struggled to defend himself against Ronan’s prowess as a swordsman. Ronan battered Cormag again and again until he knew his enemy grew too fatigued to endure much more. “Lay down your sword, Cormag. Surrender with dignity. Your men will live if you do. You won’t, but they will. Refuse, and we will butcher you all and hang your entrails out for the crows.”
“You’re awfully boastful for a mon who doesn’t have his wife to protect him.”
“I can put my faith in Abigail because she’s real. I’m not the one whispering to imaginary creatures, praying they’ll come save my arse. Where’s your wee flag? Where are your wee fae? Nowhere to be found.”
“You’re no threat to Dunvegan,” Cormag spat. “We don’t need the fae to defeat you.”
Ronan almost stopped fighting to laugh. The MacLeods were falling as fast as the snow had that morning. There were no boats left to carry them home. And their leader was only moments away from death.
“You need something because you aren’t doing very well on your own. You ken all is lost. It’s a question of whether you cause all your men to die or if some will have the chance to limp home.”
“Limp home? In defeat? In disgrace? Never!” Cormag roared the last word as he attempted to take control of the fight. He slashed his sword toward Ronan, but pride made him reckless. When he raised his arms to gain leverage, he left his chest unprotected. Ronan plunged his sword into his enemy’s breast, just as he’d done when he discovered Gordon purloined his sword. Blood bubbled out of Cormag’s mouth as he tried to speak, but his knees gave out. His legs buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground. A cheer went up among the MacKinnons, and it spread to the men still fighting near the postern gate and on the battlements. The MacKinnons whooped and hollered, their victory uncontestable now that Cormag lay dead at Ronan’s feet. The surviving MacLeods lowered their weapons in defeat as they looked at one another.
“Take them to cells. They shall be our guests until spring, when they can walk home,” Ronan decreed. Without needing orders, the MacKinnons divided into groups that herded the prisoners through the postern gate, into the bailey, and down to the dungeon. Others moved among the injured and dead, searching for MacKinnon survivors and finishing off any MacLeods still breathing. Ronan searched the battlements, but he couldn’t see Abigail. He sighed when Angus leaned over the wall and nodded. “Abby?”
“In the Great Hall sewing up the injured,” Angus called down. Ronan breathed easier as he smiled up to his seneschal. The man had blood splattered across his face from the men he’d fought as the MacLeods tried to make their way over the wall. His hair stood out at all angles. He appeared the seasoned warrior he was, no hint of his bookishness apparent. Ronan noticed Timothy was near his father. He was the clan’s best archer, but he was still young. As Ronan joined the search for MacKinnon survivors, he considered promoting Timothy. When he walked past Willy, he stopped.
“Does your da ken you’re alive?”
“Aye, Laird. I heard him bellowing at Timothy to keep his wee brother alive unless he wanted Mama to take a rolling pin to him.” Willy grinned, and Ronan chuckled. While not as large as their father, Timothy and Willy were among the tallest and strongest men in Ronan’s guard. But all three of them would hide from Bethea if she had a weapon in hand. The men in Bethea’s family had a healthy fear of the fiercely protective woman, but they were just as devoted to her as she was to them.
Ronan shook his head and carried on. Fatigue set in over the next two hours, as he helped men limp into the bailey or carried dead bodies to be laid on shrouds. Men helping with the wounded confirmed that Abigail was safe and busy within the Great Hall. But as much as he wanted to walk away from the death and destruction to find Abigail, he reminded himself that, as laird, he was the last man to find his family. He would see to his clansmen before he allowed himself to escape with his wife to their chamber.
When they recovered the last MacKinnon, and the MacLeods’ bodies were burned on a hastily constructed pyre at a safe distance from the keep, he trudged up the keep’s steps. His equally exhausted men followed, but another cheer went up as the doors swung open. The first cheer had celebrated their victory. This cheer celebrated their clan’s ongoing survival and the warriors’ return to their loved ones. Ronan stepped inside the Great Hall, his eyes a magnet to Abigail. She raised her head as she tied off her last stitch, spotting Ronan immediately. She glanced at the unconscious man on the table beside her before jumping to her feet. She hopped over the bench, lifting her skirts to her knees, before she flew toward Ronan. He rushed to meet her halfway, enveloping her into his embrace, neither caring about the blood and grime caked over Ronan’s entire body. They only cared that they were holding one another once again.
Thirty-Nine
“Abby,” Ronan groaned as he lifted his wife off her feet. Like a bear climbing a tree, she wrapped her arms and legs around her husband, clinging to him. Steel bands encircled her, pinning her to his torso. Abigail shuddered as her mind absorbed her husband’s presence, finally accepting that he was alive and safe. Neither husband nor wife needed anything more than to hold one another. They were oblivious to the world around them as women and children swarmed the keep from outside.
When Abigail finally lifted her head and looked around, she realized Angus must have opened the granary. She accepted she must release Ronan and go to the storerooms. The other women and children had a right to reunite with their men, just as she had with Ronan. But before she could release them, more women and children poured into the Great Hall. Abigail knew Angus had already done the task.
When Abigail caught sight of Angus’s Herculean arms wrapped around Bethea, who clung to his neck, Abigail knew the warrior-turned-seneschal had been just as impatient to find his family as she’d been to see Ronan. Abigail and Ronan turned toward a cry as a blur of russet hair rushed past them, and a streak of blonde hair flew like a banner as Maisie and Clyde found one another. During most battles, Ronan and Clyde fought side by side, but they’d had to split once more to lead forces in different directions. Abigail lowered herself to her feet before Ronan clasped her hand. They walked to where Angus stood with his family. While the men appeared battered and bruised, none received serious wounds. As Abigail wrapped her arms around Ronan’s waist, his arm pulled her against his side, keeping her close to him.
Witnessing his best friend and his most trusted advisor safely with his family created a powerful sense of security that nearly rivaled how he felt seeing Abigail when he entered the Great Hall. Abigail looked up at Ronan at the same moment he turned his gaze to her. The need to kiss drove them into a passionate embrace, the tenderness from only moments ago set aside. Their lips crushed together as Ronan’s tongue swept the inside of Abigail’s mouth. She sucked his tongue as he groaned, his cock hardening beneath his plaid. Were they alone, he would have rucked up her skirts and thrust into her until all their pent-up fear and need abated. The kiss drew on, no one caring as the Great Hall’s other occupants were too distracted with their own families.
Breathless, Ronan and Abigail pulled apart. They looked around the gathering hall, taking in the warriors’ conditions and the emotions displayed by their clan members. Abigail sighed as she looked at the many wounded who’d entered along with Ronan. She stepped away from her husband, a sad smile on her face. They both had duties to return to. She needed to tend to more wounds, and Ronan needed to check on his men.
“Abigail.” Ronan entwined the fingers of both their hands. “I love ye, lass.”
“Ronan, I love ye. I want to hold on to ye and never let go. Nae ever.” Abigail’s accent matched Ronan’s, their voices laden with feelings that consumed them both. Duty would draw them apart for the next several hours, but their gazes promised time alone after they’d seen to others first. They drifted in different directions as Ronan moved around the Great Hall, checking on one family after another.
