No one spoke. They didn’t need to. They all knew their roles. Any necessary communication was done by hand signals.
Chief had won one small victory before they’d left. Bruce wouldnotbe the first man up the ladder; MacRuairi would go ahead of him. Gregor would be the first man up the second ladder to take his position along the wall.
Slowly—silently—no more than two men on the ladder at one time, they started to climb. MacRuairi was about five feet from the top, with the king a few steps behind him, when disaster struck. The rope on one side of their ladder snapped near the top. Both men barely managed to grab hold of the remaining side of rope as the boards under their feet dropped sideways, and they went careening into the wall—which was a hell of a lot better than landing on the rocky bank about twenty feet below.
The clatter of wood and metal against stone was enough to attract the attention of even the most lax of guards. From below, Chief whispered, “Arrow, on your right.”
Over halfway up the second ladder, Gregor didn’t have time to think. A soldier on one of the turrets had stopped to investigate. He was about twenty yards away, looking in their direction—a faint blur of a target in the darkness. Wedged against the wall with only his feet for balance, Gregor let go his grip on the ladder, notched an arrow, and sent it careening into the darkness in seconds. The shot was more prayerful than realistic, and given that one wrong move would have him careening backward off the ladder, one of the most difficult he’d ever attempted. But there was no way in hell he was going to let this attack fail. Before the soldier could shout out a warning to the rest of the watch, he fell harmlessly to the ground.
MacRuairi had managed to pull himself to the top. The king was still hanging from the broken ladder with the men in position below to catch him if necessary. But Bruce didn’t fall. Like MacRuairi, he climbed the broken ladder up and over the wall. Thanks to Gregor, disaster had been averted.
With Chief cursing the whole time, in the kind of valiant act that earned Bruce the heart of the people and the admiration of his men, the king led the small party of warriors in a surprise attack. Though Gregor wanted nothing more than to go in search of Cate, he held his position at the wall overlooking the bailey to ensure that no one was able to alert the rest of the garrison before the castle could be taken and the gate opened.
Gregor didn’t have to notch another arrow. The garrison was woefully unprepared, and Bruce’s men met little resistance. Within the space of a half-hour the castle and city were theirs, and Robert the Bruce had added one more improbable feat in an improbable reign that was quickly becoming legend.
But Gregor wasn’t ready to celebrate yet. Unable to wait a moment longer, he turned to Campbell. “I’m going to find Cate.”
“I’ll go with you.”
He nodded. “We’ll check the guard towers first.”
They had just started down the stairs of the rampart when Gregor heard a shout. Recognizing the voice as Bruce’s, he turned to the bailey below. In one glance, Gregor took in the situation and cursed. Bloody hell, one of the English soldiers was using a woman as a shield, and Bruce—who never could forget his knightly roots—was going to go to her damned rescue and get himself killed!
Not hesitating, Gregor notched his arrow, raised his bow into position, and drew back his hand. It wasn’t a difficult shot. The bailey was lit with torches and the soldier was only about twenty yards away. As soon as the woman got out of the way…
His gaze flickered back to the woman, and his stomach dropped.Bloody hell. It wasn’t just any woman; it was Cate.
Cate recognized the man coming toward them an instant before Fitzwarren did. Most of his face was hidden behind a helm, and his skin seemed to have been darkened with something, but the arrogant swagger and aura of confidence and authority were the same as they’d been the last time she’d seen the handsome young Earl of Carrick ambling away from their small cottage fifteen years ago.
For fifteen years she thought she’d hated him. But all it took was one look—one moment when their eyes met—for her to realize that no matter what her father had done, she would not be the instrument used to destroy him. Instinctively she knew that was exactly what Fitzwarren would try to do.
Frustration and rage tangled inside her. By all that was holy, it never should have come to this. She’d been ready. All day she’d been waiting in her chamber for someone to come so she could put her plan into motion. She would have had plenty of time to find Fitzwarren and exact her vengeance before attempting to escape the city.
She’d even had a backup plan. If escape proved impossible, she’d intended to take sanctuary in a church. Sir William’s honor as a knight would not let him violate it—as the Earl of Ross had done when taking Bruce’s queen, sister, daughter, and the Countess of Buchan—or trick Gregor into surrendering without having her as leverage.
But her anxious pacing all day had been for naught. For the first time since her imprisonment, no one had come to take her on her walk or even to bring her food. From the sounds of revelry outside, they were too busy celebrating.
Of all the days to be forgotten! She’d banged her fists on the door, cried out, and pleaded for someone to come for her until her voice was hoarse. She’d almost given up hope when the door had finally opened—well after midnight—and the very man she’d hoped to find came bursting in.
Shocked to see the elder Fitzwarren standing there, it took her a moment to react.
“You didn’t think I would forget you, did you?” He laughed cruelly. “It took me a while to remember Bruce’s whore and her mongrel.” Frozen with shock that he knew who she was, Cate gasped as he stepped toward her. For a moment she was the young girl in the cottage again, seeing her mother raped and then murdered by this evil man. “Did you climb out of your tomb? I should have let them fill it with water as they wanted. But I thought it would be more fun for you to starve.” He shrugged indifferently. “I knew there was something about you that was familiar, but it wasn’t until one of the serving maids proved a little resistant tonight that it came back to me. I never forget a screaming woman I’ve fucked, especially one as pretty as your mother. You look like her. Who the hell would have guessed the scrawny whelp would grow so fair? Bruce had good taste in whores, I’ll give him that.”
Cate cried out like a wounded animal. “She wasn’t a whore, you murdering bastard!” Hatred for the man who’d killed her mother and thought to taunt her with the memory of it consumed her. The shock of his recognition—and the realization that he knew who she was—fell away, and her only thought was to kill. She forgot her training and let emotion lead.
But in a horrifying repeat of the past, her effort with the knife proved just as unsuccessful as it had with the hoe. Fitzwarren saw the knife a fraction of a second too early. Before she could sink it through the mail into his gut, he slapped her hand away. The tip of the knife caught on a bit of mail before falling harmlessly to the ground.
She hadn’t killed him, but she’d pricked him—surprised him—and given herself that second she needed to get away. Yet she couldn’t just let him go. He had to pay. He had to. She couldn’t have come this close only to fail.
She reached for the knife on the ground. It was a mistake—a huge one. Fitzwarren kicked the dagger away and brought his knee up hard against her chin, momentarily stunning her. Her head swam as the ground swayed under her feet. She recovered, but not fast enough.
“You stupid bitch!” He hauled her up against him, wrapping one arm around her neck, cutting off her breath before she had a chance to tuck her chin. “If I didn’t need you, you’d be dead for that. But my men and I are getting out of here.”
He dragged her outside, still squeezing her neck with enough force to cut off her breath. She grabbed his arm and pulled, fighting for air, but his steel-clad arm was unrelenting. The last thing she remembered was thinking that the chain mail digging into her throat hurt.
When she came to, they were in the courtyard. Fitzwarren was dragging her in front of him like a shield with one arm around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and the other digging the sharp tip of a dagger into her back. Men were moving all around them. She recognized the younger Fitzwarren and some of the other English soldiers gathered in one corner.
It took her a moment to realize that the castle was being attacked and that the English and Sir William’s men were surrendering.
