Even Arabella, so prim, serene, and — at times — so vastly annoying. Telve and Troddan, too. Her father’s enormous, impossibly shaggy, and best-loved dogs, always begging ear fondles and treats. Eilean Creag itself whirled across her mind’s eye, her beloved home filling her vision until her eyes burned and blurred.
“ Pah-phooey!” She blinked furiously, swiping at her cheek before she did something unthinkable.
MacKenzies didn’t cry.
And she wasn’t about to spoil that long-held tradition.
Ignoring the stinging heat making it so difficult to see, she hurried to her nearest coffer of raiments and flung open its lid. She grabbed the first gown she closed her fingers on, then dashed about the room, snatching up a few other necessities she’d let carelessly fall to the floor as she’d undressed the night before.
“Cuidich’ N’ Righ!” The MacKenzie battle cry split the morning. “Save the king!”
Gelis started.
Her fingers froze on the gown she’d been wriggling into, its finely wrought folds of bright blue and gold gathered in bunches about her hips.
“Cuidich’ N’ Righ!” Her father’s powerful voice sounded again, this time quickly followed by the enthusiastic echoes of his men.
Even Sir Marmaduke’s English-tinged roar.
Panic rising, she yanked up her gown, thrusting her arms into the sleeves.
The war cry was all she’d needed to hear.
MacKenzies only used the slogan in battle or when on the verge of an important leavetaking.
Nae, she corrected herself, in the very moment of such a farewell.
“O-o-oh, wait!” She dashed about, searching for her shoes. “You canna leave yet!”
Thrusting her fingers through her tangled, unbound hair, she concentrated, willing herself to remember where she’d pitched her wretched footgear.
But the answer didn’t come.
And her bluidycuaranswere nowhere to be seen.
“Hell’s bells and damnation!” She whirled in a circle, scanning the floor rushes, the great bearskin rugs scattered here and there.
Desperate, she dropped to her knees and peered beneath the bed, seeing naught but a welter of dust balls and smelly, matted rushes.
“Arrgghhhh! So be it!” Frustration welling, she leaped to her feet and ran from the room.
Any who looked askance at her because her hair tumbled loose to her hips and no shoes adorned her feet could, well . . . they could just take a flying leap into the nearest and most ripe dung pit!
A particularly vile and stinky one.
There were, after all, more important things in life than perfectly dressed hair and . . . shoes!
Feeling better already, she sprinted along the dimly lit passageway and tore down the winding turnpike stair, not stopping until she raced through the darkened great hall and burst onto the keep’s outer stair.
A thin drizzle of rain greeted her.
That and utter chaos.
Crowded and torchlit, the bailey swarmed. Stable lads dashed hither and thither and MacRuari guardsmen lined the battlements, their steel glinting and their expressions somber. Her father’s men were already mounted, the whole illustrious lot of them gathered near the entrance to the gatehouse pend, banners snapping and spirits high.
Everywhere, dogs barked and chickens squawked. A loose boar, escaped from his pen, ran underfoot, his zig-zag path across the cobbles increasing the madness. His curling tusks gleamed in the morning light while his squeals and grunts only made the castle dogs bark all the louder.
Most damning of all was the great ear-splitting screech of Dare’s iron-spiked portcullis clanking upward, the creak of wood as the heavy, double-hinged gates swung wide.
