This time, the castle was divided, and she felt no such inclination. Her heart drummed wildly against her rib cage. God help her. She was responsible for this.
Her mind swarmed with dread, for a battle was about to begin. The violence was already exploding all around her. Pray God it would be over quickly and end justly with as few casualties as possible.
Boom!The ram crashed into the gate, andcrack!The sound of wood splitting compelled her to the edge, where she looked out over the side.
What she saw made her breath catch in her throat. This was not the invasion she had expected. This was not Colonel Worthington’s army!
“Who is that?”she asked the clansman who stood beside her. “Who is attacking us?”
She had expected the English army, but these were Highlanders. Was this some other clan bent on possession of Kinloch? Was this a completely different vendetta she knew nothing about?
“It’s the Moncrieffe army!” the clansman shouted over the deafening sounds of gunfire. His cheeks were white with fear as he loaded his musket.
Moncrieffe?
Gwendolen rose up on her tiptoes to lean over the battlements again, just as the heavy battering ram pushed through the thick gate and shook the foundations below.
“Is the earl with them?” she asked.
“We don’t know, madam! All we could make out were the Moncrieffe banners and the MacLean tartan!”
Indeed, from this high vantage point, Gwendolen could make out no one’s face. But she would know Angus from any angle or distance. Was he among them? Was he invading again, just as he had done before? Had he found sanctuary with his old friend, Duncan, the Butcher of the Highlands, and enlisted his help? Many times she had wondered if that was where he had gone, but she had shared her hopes with no one, for it was information her brother would have used against him.
The clansman beside her fired his musket, and she jumped at the thunderous noise, while down below, the Moncrieffe army was pouring through the gate into the bailey. Gwendolen raced to the other side of the roof and watched the invaders enter the heart of Kinlcoh, where they met little resistance. No one seemed willing to defend the castle or fight for Murdoch. Both the MacEwens and MacDonalds were laying down their weapons or fleeing altogether. Some were fighting among themselves, arguing over conflicting loyalties.
Except for Slevyn—Murdoch’s witless ox, who was cutting down one Moncrieffe warrior after another… shouting like some kind of giant, ugly troll.
Where was Angus? Gwendolen wondered desperately, searching the bailey for a flash of golden hair. Was he even among the invaders, or was this something else? A political struggle? The Hanoverians against the Jacobites? Or was it a battle for retribution?
Then she spotted him—her husband, the great Highland Lion—riding recklessly into the castle atop a lathered black stallion, cutting a straight line through the center of the army, which parted for him like the waters of the Red Sea.
With a ferocious battle cry, he galloped toward Slevyn with his sword high in the air, gleaming brightly in the sun. Slevyn whirled to face him, while the thundering hooves pounded over the tough earthen floor. Angus swung his sword and knocked Slevyn’s shield from his hand, then dismounted in a run while the horse was still galloping.
Fear squeezed around Gwendolen’s heart, as she watched the two men meet and come to blows with their heavy claymores. The clang of steel against steel rang through the early morning air, while the warriors of all three clans looked on in a motionless hush of fascination.
Her eye was caught by Murdoch at that moment. He was late to arrive, rushing out of the Great Hall, while buckling his belt around his waist and adjusting his decorative dress sword. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.
Her attention swung back to the fight. Slevyn was a giant of a Highlander—bald-headed, muscled, and thick as a bull—but Angus was leaner and faster. His lunges and strikes were lightning flashes of movement. It was all too quick for Slevyn, who barely had a chance to turn before the point of Angus’s sword pierced him through the heart. Slevyn fell to the side like a big tumbling tree. He bounced heavily on the hard ground, then went still.
Gwendolen saw Murdoch back away and melt anonymously into the crowd.
Angus raised his sword and called out,“Murdoch MacEwen! Show yourself!”
No one moved or dared to speak. Gwendolen too was transfixed by the iron force of her husband’s will, while another part of her was rejoicing. Her husband was alive! And he had come here like the invincible conqueror she always knew him to be, and had triumphed over those who had wronged him.
She had never loved him more, nor had she ever felt such longing and desire.
Delirious with the need to be reunited with him, she raced down the tower stairs and burst forth into the crowded bailey, shouldering her way through the crowd. Three clans were gathered, waiting to see which leader would prevail.
She pushed her way to the center, where Angus stood with his bloody sword in his hand, turning in a slow circle, his fierce eyes scanning the rooftops.
“Murdoch MacEwen!”he shouted a second time. His deep voice echoed off the stone walls.“Come and fight me!”
Gwendolen pushed her way into the open circle. “He won’t come,” she told him. “He’s afraid of you.”
Their eyes met and locked. Her veins pulsed with awareness and sudden, unexpected terror. She had envisioned their reunion many times in her imagination, but it had never been anything like this. She had not expected to feel the same suffocating fear that she had felt the first day they met, when his eyes were as cold and hard as steel. But again today, his whole being was raging with bloodlust. He looked as if he might lunge forward and run her through next—for the mere audacity of daring to speak.
“Where is he then?” Angus asked.
