Highlander Betrayed (Guardians of the Targe) (32 page)

“Rowan,” he whispered. “Rowan, we must stop this.” Those were the hardest words he’d ever spoken. “Love, this is not the way.” He released her and took a small step back. The wind immediately began to die down until it was but a sigh around the edges of the chamber.

A deep pink stained her cheeks and she would not look him in the eye.

“Love?”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Ah, Rowan, I am not.”

She looked at him, her eyes the brightest green he had ever seen. “Nay?”

“How could I be?” He reached for her hand, wanting to lay his heart bare to her, but he could not burden her. She was the Guardian, and no matter how much he knew he had been changed by his time here in Dunlairig, by her, he knew he would never be allowed to have her for his own. And he would have her no other way.

“I was as wanton as Scotia.” She looked away from him, toward the window, the charming pink of her cheeks growing rosier. “I did not want to stop.” Her attention shifted abruptly. “Where…” She hurried to the window. “The shoe. ’Tis gone!”

Nicholas grinned. The sweet torture had been worth it to hear the wonder and pride in her voice.

“I did it!” She leaned out the window, looking downward where the shoe must lay. She looked across the bailey at the same moment the scent hit his nose.

“Saints and angels,” she gasped. “Fire!”

A
RCHIE JOINED THE
stream of people flowing into the castle. The fire was roaring, just as he’d planned, pulling everyone’s attention
to the immediate problem of containing it, putting it out. As he entered the bailey he could barely see through the thick smoke that swirled inside the walls as if the wind sought to hold it all there. The sun was blotted out and but a faint glow compared to the golden flames that rose from the great hall. His nose burned and his eyes watered.

Thatch made for great tinder.

He could make out a bucket line forming by the well near the center of the bailey, but he’d set the roof of the large hall aflame and there was little they could do until it collapsed, bringing the fire closer to those who would put it out. He grinned on the inside, carefully keeping concern upon his face.

He kept away from the well and the bucket line, needing to see where everyone was before he moved to the next stage of his plan. A command bellowed from his right. The chief, unmistakable as much from his air of command as from Archie recognizing the steely haired man from that first day here. The day Nicholas made a fool of himself rescuing the women from the falling wall.

The day Nicholas had changed everything.

If the chief was here, his second—that great black-haired man—was sure to be close by. Ah, there he was. Now, where was Nicholas? The fool would no doubt be lending a hand to put out the fire, rather than working with Archie as his loyalty should dictate.

No matter. This way Archie alone would have all the glory of completing the mission. Archie alone would have the goodwill and appreciation of the king. And Archie alone would have the riches such appreciation would provide.

He was better off on his own. He didn’t need Nicholas to take what they had been sent for.

But he did not see Nicholas anywhere. A screech from near the burning building had the chief and the bear surging into the thickest part of the smoke. Now was his chance.

He made his way quickly to the tower, grateful for the thick, swirling, choking smoke that cloaked his passing. He eased the door open and slipped inside. Shouts sounded from above, moving
toward him. He melted into the deep shadow beneath the stair as Nicholas, Rowan, and another man rushed out the door. As soon as it closed again, he was up the stairs.

The Targe and the woman who kept it would soon be his.

R
OWAN SKIDDED TO
a stop halfway across the bailey. Nicholas managed to get around her without knocking her over and when he stopped and looked up she heard him gasp.

The fire had increased in the time it had taken them to alert Jeanette and race down the tower stairs. Flames licked high into the sky, the base of them obscured by thick, black smoke. Rowan dashed by Nicholas, running full out toward the inferno. Nicholas grabbed her arm, stopping her from racing into the chaos.

“Let me go!”

“Wait, Rowan!” he said.

“But Scotia… Jeanette said she had gone to the kitchens. The whole hall is aflame. We must find her, make sure she is safe!” Frantic, she pulled the edge of her arisaid up, holding it over her nose and mouth to keep out the choking smoke. “I cannot see her.”

Nicholas reached for her hand, and she was grateful for the strength she could feel, the concern that communicated itself in such a simple touch. “Is there aught you can do to stop the fire?” he asked.

His thought mirrored her own. “I do not know, but I must try.”

He nodded stiffly, his whole body leaning toward the fire. “I will stay here then.”

Gratitude and shame washed over Rowan. She was not a weak person and yet she had forsaken her strength, giving herself to the fear of the power invested in her as the Guardian, and Nicholas was trapped by his promise to keep her from hurting herself and others. How could she do her duty if she was afraid of it?

“Go,” she said, pushing him toward the fire. “I will do what I can. Find Scotia, please!”

“I will find her and bring her to you, here.” He pointed at the ground. “Do not leave this place unless the fire threatens you.” He gave her a quick kiss and sprinted toward the inferno.

Smoke swirled about him, swallowing him like some mythical beast. “Be safe,” she whispered, almost like a prayer.

Quickly she pulled the ermine sack into her hand, opening it so that it lay over her palm, the stone exposed, settled over the center symbol. She closed her eyes and reached for the energy, finding it easily this time, pulling it into her as she muttered the blessing prayer Jeanette had tried to teach her, determined that even if she didn’t get it exactly right, it might still help.

Nothing happened.

She tried again, and again, nothing happened.

Her eyes popped open. The fire burned hotter than even a few moments before. She had not changed anything. Frustration had her in its grip and Jeanette’s words came back to her. She needed to
guide
the power of the stone, not try to control it or force it. She focused on the fire and allowed the energy to flow through her. The wind rose around her, clearing the smoke from the bailey but also fanning the flames that roared over the great hall. They needed rain. She scanned the horizon, spying storm clouds in the distance. Could she bring them here? Clouds moved on wind. She could raise wind.

Holding the stone high, she opened herself to the energy, letting it flow through her without resistance, guiding it through the Targe stone, directing the wind to rise, to widen its reach. She focused on the distant clouds but could not see any change in them. She fed the energy, determined to bring the rain to the fire.

A shout went up, a woman’s voice, screeching, sharp with fear. “She is still inside! Mistress Scotia is still inside!”

Rowan looked away from the clouds, to the crowd near the blaze. She stared in horror as Nicholas disappeared into the undercroft that led to the kitchen. Smoke billowed out around him, swallowing him whole.

A
RCHIE FOUND THE
tower was empty on the first two floors. Clearly any able-bodied person who might have been here was fighting the fire. When he reached the top floor he stopped at the top of the stair, hugged the wall, and listened.

A rustling sound came from his right. He carefully peered into the corridor. The door to his right was open and he could see a bed. A frail older woman lay there, her eyes closed. A younger woman moved into view. Her blond hair and slender build told him this was the one called Jeanette, the one who had been summoned to see to Rowan’s hurts the day the wall fell. The younger daughter, the hellion, did not appear to be here. He pulled his dagger and slipped into the chamber.

Jeanette was folding a blanket, her back to him. He grabbed her, setting his dagger to her pale neck.

“Do not move or call out or I will slice you open ear to ear.”

She did not move.

“Do you understand?” he growled, pulling her more tightly against him.

“Aye,” she whispered. “What do you want?”

Everything, that’s what he wanted, but for now he would be content with what the king wanted. “The ermine sack, and your mother.”

He could feel her swallow but she said nothing.

“Where is the sack?” he demanded as he pushed her to sit on the wooden chest at the end of the bed. He brandished his dagger with one hand while he pulled a length of rope free from where it was wrapped around his waist. “Where is it!?” He shoved his dagger back in its sheath and grabbed her wrists, wrapping them tightly with the rope.

“They are not for you, Archibald of Easton,” she said, her voice surprisingly hard.

He backhanded her, flinging her from the chest onto the floor with a crash. She lay there, stunned.

He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her upright. “Where is the sack?”

“Not here!” There was fear in her voice now.

Archie smiled, pleased by her fear. “You lie.” He yanked her head backward, extending her neck as he placed his dagger against it once more. An odd grunt sounded from behind him. He pivoted, only to find the old woman flailing an arm toward him, an almost animal growl coming from her. He threw Jeanette to the floor again and turned his attention to Elspet.

“Speak, woman. Your daughter’s life is in the balance. Where is the sack?”

She glared at him but said nothing.

“I spoke the truth,” Jeanette said. She was sitting up, scooting backward, away from him. “The sack is not here. It is not in my mum’s keeping anymore.”

Archie looked from one woman to the other, assessing the situation. “Who has it?” He held the dagger to the old woman’s throat this time as he pinned Jeanette with his glare. “
Who?
”

Jeanette pushed herself to her feet against the wall. She looked at her mother, as if seeking counsel, though no words were spoken.

Archie pushed the dagger in enough to draw blood. The old woman never so much as whimpered but Jeanette reached her bound hands toward him as if to stop him.

“I must, Mum,” she said quietly, then turned her airy blue eyes to him. “Rowan. Rowan has the sack. She left here with your friend just a few moments ago.”

Fury sliced through him. Disbelief curdled in his stomach.

“Aaaah!” he screamed. “You lie!” Rage consumed him, turning everything red. It could not be true. Nicholas could not have the ermine sack and its keeper.

Who was not the old woman.

It was Rowan.

Nicholas had lied to him again and again. He’d betrayed everything, taking everything for himself and leaving Archie with nothing. Archie’s wrath took over as he plunged his dagger into the useless old woman’s chest.

Jeanette screamed and flew at him. He backhanded her once more, flinging her halfway across the large chamber, where she fell hard to the floor and didn’t move.

Archie tore the chamber apart, sure that the woman had lied to him, that the sack, and whatever it sheltered within it, was here, that somehow Nicholas had devised this lie and they were so much in his thrall, so charmed by him, that they had conspired against Archie. They lied. The sack must be here.