What was not quite as beautiful, however, was the sight of his sword slicing neatly through the neck of the Ogilvie warrior, separating his head from his body, both of which thumped heavily to the ground.
Almost simultaneously, Kade thrust his own sword into the chest of the last Ogilvie invader, who fell to his knees, propped up only by the force of the metal that skewered his heart. He was looking at me, as the life seeped from him along with his blood. “He’ll continueto hunt you,” he said. Then he crumpled and was still. His statement disturbed me greatly.
And Wilkie, too, it appeared. He grasped the head of the decapitated Ogilvie warrior by its long matted hair and threw it over the wall. “Take that to your laird,” he muttered, thrusting his sword back into its scabbard.
As foul and underhanded as those particular Ogilvie warriors might have been, I regretted their deaths. And I regretted that the Mackenzies were now as deep into this battle, if not more so, than I was.
But I could not regret that I was still here, inside the Mackenzie walls, with Wilkie with me, now kneeling beside me, touching me carefully.
“Roses? Are you all right?” He was feeling my arms for broken bones, then my legs. “Did they remove your shoes?” he asked gruffly, noticing my bare feet.
It pained me slightly to speak. My throat was sore, and my jaw bruised. “I removed them. In the birch grove.” I read his train of thought, and I reassured him. “They didn’t hurt me, warrior.”
His eyes burned with anger. The aftermath of conflict clung to him and shone out of his eyes. He looked big and mean and severely powerful, his muscles dusted and flexed from the fury of battle. I could feel the brutality of him lurking behind his grip as he fingered my body gently, checking for bruises and sources of blood, which there was much of. I didn’t believe any of it was mine. I’d been spooked, that’s all. And my face was sore, as well as my ribs, but they were minor bruises, I thought.
Kade stood behind Wilkie, looking equally ferocious. His light blue eyes were wild with a barely calming aggression. “There’s more to this than a prick witha kitchen knife,” he said. “There must be. He’s asking for war.”
I returned his turbulent gaze and thought about his statement. That Laird Ogilvie was taking extreme measures to get me back into his clutches was now clear enough. And I agreed with Kade: the lengths Ogilvie was taking to seek me out seemed overblown compared to my small crime with the knife, which had surprised him more than injured him. I had no way of deciphering his motives, nor his actions, but I wondered if his devotion to carrying out his revenge, and on me in particular, might have stemmed from a quarrel with my parents. Perhaps he harbored a residing anger over some wrong my father had committed. Or a lingering resentment over the vehement refusals of my heartbroken mother. I knew of nothing else. Fleetingly, I thought of his muttered words as he’d attempted his violent act upon me. His fingers on the skin of my shoulder blade. The amazement in his voice and another note, too. Greed, perhaps.It looks like a seal of some description.
I had no solution to offer. I had purposely avoided contemplating the significance of my inked mark. Ogilvie’s quiet fascination had offered no clues to the residual mystery of its—and my—origins. But something about that faded memory of Ogilvie’s reaction to it, combined now with the very real danger I had brought upon the Mackenzie clan, shone a light on the connection. If showing the mark to Wilkie and his family could somehow provide information that might protect them, then that, rather than my own self-interest, seemed more crucial at that moment. I decided then and there to reveal my secret, once and for all.
“I want to show you—” I began, struggling to move.
“Nay, Roses,” Wilkie insisted, interrupting me and putting his hand on mine. “Lay still for a minute. You’re hurt. Your cheek is bruised, and you may have other injuries.”
Ailie and Christie returned, wide-eyed, and they knelt beside me, alongside Wilkie.
“Roses made the men release us, Wilkie,” Christie said. “They were going to take us, as well.”
Wilkie’s eyes flashed. I was stunned by the fierceness of him, and the gloriousness of his face. I wanted only to look at him and watch him. I wished I could hold him and shield him from war, and calm away his ire. I vowed to show him the mark, later. But my precarious courage on that one hidden point faded, overshadowed once again by my fear; I wanted so badly to keep him.
“I’m going to lift you, very carefully,” he said. “And take you to Effie.”
Such was the strength of him that the movement barely jostled me, and he carried me through the gathering throng of curious onlookers, not caring if I was seen. Word would surely be out soon, if not already, of the fight and what caused it. And there was no hiding the three dead Ogilvie soldiers who lay on the ground.
The crowd parted for us, but I took little notice of them. My attention shone in one all-focused direction: my warrior, who’d saved me in so very many ways. I placed my hand against Wilkie’s chest, to feel his heartbeat.
“Warrior,” I murmured, having nothing else to say, just wanting to speak to him. And he seemed to instantly understand this.
“Aye, lass. I’m with you.”
He was with me. And I with him. And that was everything and the only thing I wanted or needed in this great wide world.
* * *
“WILLTHELASSREMAINhere for her rest, Wilkie?” Effie inquired. “She is fatigued.”
I was tucked up in my bed in Wilkie’s antechamber, carried here by Wilkie, who refused to leave my side, and fussed over by Effie, who would administer one more round of medicines before we slept. Christie was due to come to me soon. Wilkie and I had been tended to in the healing quarters, fed and questioned. I had light bruises along one side of my face, which was mildly swollen. And my ribs were purpled but not broken. Wilkie had opened his wound, which Effie had restitched a portion of and rebound.
“Aye. I will watch over her until Christie arrives,” he directed her, in a tone that was almost bored; it was the tone of a man who was used to being obeyed and had never known any other way of it.
But as soon as Effie made her leave, Wilkie very gently lifted me, still wrapped in furs, and carried me to his bed. “What about Christie?” I asked him.
“She will return to you in the morning, when you are safely back in your bed. Until then, I will be your chaperone.” There was no humor in his pronunciation this time, just tenderness and resolve.
Laird Mackenzie was irate over the attack and had ordered his men to double their efforts in safeguarding the keep. A party would be sent to carry a message to Laird Ogilvie, to meet and to negotiate, before more blood was spilled. I silently prayed that the negotiationswould be successful. I tried to suppress thoughts of what might happen if they weren’t.
I had worried that Laird Mackenzie would be angry at me, for introducing this conflict into his peaceful world. I’d apologized to him for this very reason. And in his typically abrupt manner, he’d informed me that his world was far from peaceful, that peace was hard-won, this day and every day. Instead of anger, what he showed me was curt concern, promised protection and surprisingly humble gratitude over the well-being of his sisters, who had relayed their tale to him. Ogilvie, I decided, had wildly misread Laird Mackenzie; Mackenzie’s sternness stemmed from a single-minded drive to maintain the safety and success of his family and clan. Under the admittedly thick top layer of his brusque manner, he was, in fact, brimming with kindness. And I found this a heartening discovery, one that drew me deeper into my emotional attachment to the Mackenzie clan.
