It was Ronan who thrust his sword into the chest of Mumford, felling him instantly, while Ritchie spoke. “This has all been most informative, Laird Ogilvie. I do believe our allegiance has flipped. Our apologies, Mumford,” he said to the executioner, who was now on his knees, clutching at the sword that stuck out of his chest. Ritchie looked at me. “Roses, daughter of King William. Mackenzie. Our apologies to you, as well. We were resolute in our loyalty to Ogilvie, but enough is enough. I regret we did not stop this before the first blow was struck. Ogilvie promised us land and wealth, but ’tis not worth it.”
“Ritchie,” I gasped, my shock giving way to hope. “Ronan.”
Ritchie continued, “Treason is punishable by death, of course, and we have now most certainly condemned ourselves. I hope we can redeem ourselves by offering to secure your freedom. And if you find yourselves in need of two more warriors in your ranks at Ossian Lochs, I fear we are most definitely in search of a new appointment.”
And Ronan was cutting the ties of Wilkie’s bound wrists and ankles with a knife.
Ogilvie’s outrage had transformed into fear—and determination. He held my arm. I tried to shrug him off, but he clutched it more tightly, dragging me along with him as he attempted a getaway.
But Wilkie was free.
And he was upon Ogilvie before the beast could evendraw his sword. Wilkie seemed to have forgotten about his injuries. He had but one thing on his mind: using the only weapons left to him—his bare hands—to kill Laird Ogilvie.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AFAIRLYPOWERFULMANin his own right, Laird Ogilvie made several attempts to fight back, to roll Wilkie off of him, and finally to shield himself from the onslaught. But Wilkie was a wild thing. He had been pushed past his limits and was mindless with bloodlust. Damage accumulated. Ogilvie’s struggles weakened until it was clear he was having difficulty maintaining consciousness. And Wilkie was tiring, too. The combined effect of his own injuries were making themselves felt, and his fists were now bloodied along with the rest of him.
Ritchie finally stepped in. “Mackenzie.”
It took Wilkie a moment to respond; he was still hell-bent on destruction. His actions slowed, and he turned to see Ritchie holding out his sword. “Save yourself some trouble, man.”
Wilkie paused, then took the sword. He held it to Laird Ogilvie’s throat. Ogilvie’s swollen eyes could not hide his terror in his final moment. And without a word, Wilkie, with a single thrust, ended his life.
I turned my head to block out the sight of it. The minister stood next to me, and he was rocking slightly and mumbling a soft and endless prayer.
Wilkie stepped away from Ogilvie’s body, returning the sword to Ritchie. Then he walked over to me. I wanted to touch him, but the sight of his battered bodystopped me from reaching out to him; I didn’t want to hurt him. In the end, he quietly held my hand with the barest, gentlest grasp.
One of his eyes was ringed with a blue-black bruise, his lip was cut and still bleeding, his hair in disarray. The colors of him appeared extraordinarily intense: the red, blue and black of him, drawing all my undivided attention. Even in this ravaged, relieved moment, all I could comprehend was his aching, mind-numbing beauty.
Transfixed, we were, in this moment. Together. And alive.
And there, in the aftermath of many tragic, violent hours that had very nearly finished us, Wilkie kissed me. The soft touch of his lips to mine fed me a violent rush of joy that bloomed in my heart and leaked out my eyes. He deepened the kiss, and I could taste his blood on my tongue, sharp and metallic, and I drank of it willingly, wanting to entwine every part of his being with mine, and again, always.
But Wilkie’s soft groan reminded me of the severity of his wounds. He’d been sliced once again with a sword, beaten by no less than seven brutish guards, and lashed repeatedly by one of the most renowned executioners in the land. And he hadn’t slept for at least two nights. Even the night before that, I recalled, our sleep had been regularly interrupted by more sensual pursuits.
And we were still in grave danger. We’d just killed the laird of the keep. And Ogilvie’s men were now, and had been for some time, in conversation with Laird Campbell, a greedy, savage rebel.
I could read in Wilkie’s eyes that he was having similarthoughts. We needed to flee, and now. Wilkie turned to Ritchie and Ronan and said, “Men, I thank you for your assistance. It will not be forgotten, and I owe you more than I can repay. You are welcome to avail yourself of the protection and hospitality of the Mackenzie clan. I will be honored to count you among our ranks. And I must ask you now to accompany us, to equip us with horses and lead us to the nearest exit.”
“Aye,” Ritchie replied. “’Tis only a matter of time before Dougal announces Roses’s secret to anyone within earshot, and if Campbell learns that Roses is King William’s daughter, he’ll stop at nothing to take her for himself. It would ensure his ownership of Ossian Lochs once and for all.”
“We can escape through the kitchens,” Ronan said. “This way.”
Wilkie looked at the diminutive minister, who continued to sway slightly in the aftermath of all that had taken place. His fathomless internal chatter calmed. “Minister,” Wilkie said. “Can a marriage be officially consummatedpriorto a wedding ceremony?”
The minister looked thoroughly agog at the question and highly in need of a strong brew of ale. He paused, as though never having considered this particular question before. “I—I don’t believe so, nay.”
“In that case, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you accompany us. I’d prefer Roses to marry me in a somewhat more romantic setting than this, and as far away from Ogilvie’s dead body as possible. But if we have need to marry on the run, we’ll want you on hand.”
The minister’s watery gray eyes contemplated us both for a brief moment. “On the run?” he asked.
“Aye. We will take our leave immediately, to return to Kinloch.”
The minister decided not to argue with the big, aggressive warrior who stood before him. “Lass?” he said to me. “Isthisa marriage you would consent to?”
I looked at my warrior and uttered the truest word I had ever spoken. “Aye.”
With that assurance, the minister allowed himself to be swept along with our getaway party, led by Ritchie. I knew the way. Ritchie, Ronan, Wilkie, myself and the minister fled down a narrow back staircase which led to the small back corner of the kitchen that housed the healing quarters.
