Highlander Undone (Highland Bound Book 5) (20 page)

Standing in Emma’s solar, hands clutching the sill of the stone window, Moira vied for viewing space in the center the other two women.

She was also experiencing what she thought could have very well been a panic attack.

Her palms were sweaty; knees were locked. She was light-headed, hot but also cold. Her teeth chattered, so she kept them tightly clamped, which was not only giving her a headache, but she couldn’t draw a decent breath. Her heart beat so fast, she was certain it echoed through the window to sound like thunder in the clouds.

“Why is he doing this?” She spoke the words, but she didn’t really expect an answer, and both Emma and Shona seemed to know that.

The two of them simply placed their hands over hers, keeping her anchored, their presence holding her upright when she wasn’t certain she had the strength the stand on her own.

Ranulf’s sword skittered across the bailey grounds when he tossed it. He and Rory had divested themselves of their weapons, a pile of metal glinting in the sun by several guards’ feet. Their fists were raised and they walked in a circle, assessing one another.

Question after question stormed Moira’s mind, but she refused to pay any of them attention. Refused to take her mind off of Rory and what was happening below, other than to whisper a prayer up to the sky to keep him safe. She might not have been from this century, but she knew a murderous look when she saw one and Ranulf, Laird of MacLeod, had murder in his eyes.

Rory on the other hand, didn’t look at all disturbed. He looked resigned. As if this were a chore, he’d known he’d needed to complete, like when she had to do her laundry on Sunday night, and then, inevitably fold it when it was finished.

But this wasn’t laundry, this was a brawl. This was a duel, and if movies were going to serve her now, they wouldn’t simply punch each other a couple of times. There would be no rules, and Ranulf could kill Rory.

“Rory has the advantage,” Shona murmured. “He is a seasoned warrior.”

Seasoned
. Made him sound like a hunk of beef. Moira tasted blood on her tongue, realizing too late how hard she’d been biting the inside of her cheek. “But Ranulf is younger, more agile. How can Rory compete with that?”

“Age and agility won’t necessarily trump skill and experience,” Emma said, she graced Moira with a gentle smile and squeezed her hand. “Physically, Rory can win. It’s the mental side I’m worried about.”

“Mental?”

Emma nodded. “Your Rory believes he deserves this. He’s a man of honor and men of honor always take their punishment.”

The first punch was thrown, and not by Rory. Ranulf flung out his fist—and Rory just stood there, letting the young laird hit him right on the cheek. The sound of his knuckles hitting flesh cracked through the bailey, ricocheting up the side of the castle and into the window.

Moira shuddered, her cheek feeling phantom pains from that punch.

Rory remained still, his head barely moved even with the force of the blow. Ranulf took his chance, wrenching back his fist and letting another crack fly. Again, Rory was still, but this time Ranulf’s fist hit against his lip, splitting it, and a small amount of blood dribbled down Rory’s chin.

Moira’s heart lurched. She wanted to fly down the stairs and into the courtyard. To tell the two of them to grow up, that men didn’t behave this way.

“Do something.” Moira nervously tapped her booted feet on the wood-planked floor, her fingers digging into the stone. “Move.”

Emma disappeared for a moment, returning with a glass of strong-smelling whisky. “Drink.”

Moira wrinkled her nose. “I can’t. It smells horrible.”

“It will ease your anxiety. Just a little sip at a time.”

“Maybe ye shouldn’t watch.” Shona looked very concerned. “I won’t watch either. We can go read a book.”

Moira gave her sister a look that said
over my dead body
. As painful as it was to watch Rory get beat up by the overgrown brat, it would hurt worse not to know what was happening. She took a sip of the whisky, feeling a raw burn edge its way down her throat, and kept on watching.

Rory let Ranulf get in another rough hit, which opened up a cut on his brow, before he caught the man’s fist in one hand, holding him still. When Ranulf couldn’t get free, he swung his opposite fist, only to be caught by Rory again. Rory leaned close, his large hands swarming Ranulf’s smaller fists, and murmured something in Ranulf’s face that she couldn’t quite hear.

“Killing ye will solve everything!” The brat’s bellowed response gave her at least some indication of the conversation.

At a minimum, it was reassuring to know that Rory didn’t think fighting or killing was the answer. He might have been from the sixteenth century, but it appeared the man had good sense.

Moira gazed from Ewan to Logan. Why did neither of them step in? Why did no one try to convince MacLeod this was wrong? All the men below, Logan and Ewan included, simply stood by, stone-faced, watching as blood poured from Rory’s face and MacLeod struggled to unlock himself from Rory’s grip.

There was a certain measured control within Rory. A power that he held in check, that MacLeod should fear if it became unleashed, but the young laird did not seem to notice, and no one warned him either.

“Get off me, ye coward,” Ranulf shouted, still fighting against Rory’s hold. “Ye shamed my mother!”

What? Shamed his mother? Moira stared at Rory, willing him to answer, so she could know what that possibly meant.

Rory did let go at MacLeod’s words, giving a slight shove against the young man’s unleashed hands, which caused Ranulf to stumble backward. Still, his expression stricken, Rory did not advance.

“I cared for her, ye know, Ranulf. I did.” His lips were pressed in a firm line, sadness in the creases of his eyes.

“Bastard!” Ranulf flew at him, but this time, Rory dodged him and stuck out a leg, tripping the overeager, furious, laird.

Words spoken of a past woman, Ranulf’s mother, seemed to have woken
Moira’s
Rory to finally take the brat in hand. What had happened? Did Rory mourn her when she died? Did he mourn her still? Was it love? He said he cared for her. He had to have loved her. Rory wasn’t capable of anything less. She’d never experienced such love as she had with him. Intense. Heated. Full of amazement.

Tears sprung to Moira’s eyes at the thought of Rory having loved another, though it must have been a long time ago, before he met her. The way it felt as though a cold, gauntleted hand squeezed around her heart, spoke volumes.

Moira didn’t want to let him go. Didn’t want him to love another.
She
loved
him
. He was supposed to be hers. And he’d offered her his love and, though she desperately wanted to take it, she’d shunned him.

This was all wrong. He was hers and she was his. She couldn’t go on without telling him how she felt, especially if he were to be murdered, beaten to death, by the puny MacLeod.

Moira chugged the rest of the whisky and then whirled from the window, prepared to enter the bailey and shout just how she felt, that the fighting had to end, but both Emma and Shona held onto her.

“Ye cannot,” Shona whispered.

“I have to.”

Emma shook her head. “It is not like modern times. You will not be welcomed. You will be removed. Forcefully. Trust me. It’s happened to me before.”

“I have been carried over Ewan’s shoulder enough times to know that this is true,” Shona added.

“Like a sack of potatoes?” Moira managed, then she was lurching back to the window. If she couldn’t be down there with him, than at least he could know she was there, watching from above.

Rory had the young laird pinned to the ground on his stomach, hands behind his back, while he knelt on the base of Ranulf’s spine, keeping him restrained.

“Ye shame your mother with your vile words. Ye shame your clan and your own verra existence.” Rory’s bellow could be heard as clearly as though he was in the room. “Your laird would not be proud of ye in this moment.”

“My laird is dead because of
ye
.”

“Nay, lad. Your laird is dead because of
ye
.”

There was a collective gasp in the crowd.

“Lies! Lies ye spill.” Ranulf writhed beneath Rory’s hold, working frantically to get free.

Fury consumed Rory’s countenance. “Damn ye, lad! If ye’d not been off shagging the Mackenzie’s daughter they’d not have come seeking war!”

Suddenly, Ranulf stopped fighting. He remained so still, Moira thought he might have passed out from the pressure of Rory’s hold. But then he said something she couldn’t quite catch, and Rory nodded.

“There is so much more to this than we can hear up here,” Emma muttered. “Maybe we should go down to listen.”

“What?” Moira gaped at her. “Ye just said we’d be removed.”

“Not if we hide well enough.” Emma winked. “I should have thought of that sooner. Pregnancy brain. There is a balistraria alcove by the front doors where guards can sit with their bows swords to injure anyone trying to break through. It will give us a great view of the bailey—and the sound will be infinitely better.”

They hurried down the stairs, but not too fast for Emma’s pregnant shape, quickly locating the recess. They peered through the cross-shaped opening to see that Rory stood with Ranulf before him looking utterly dejected. The men of the MacLeod clan had all knelt, their hands over their heart.

“What’s happening?” Moira asked.

“It looks like they are pledging their loyalty to Rory,” Shona mused.

“But why?” Moira asked.

Emma shook her head. “I don’t know.”

But soon, they had their answer as the men began to chant to Rory, their “rightful laird.”

“How is that possible?” Moira asked no one in particular.

Ranulf did not bow. He seethed. He jostled past the men, grabbing his sword from the ground, his intent obvious. But he didn’t make it more than six inches before finding several blades at his throat.

“Ye’ll not get away with usurping me!” Ranulf shouted. “I dinna care who ye are! Ye’ll never be my laird, or my father! I hate ye! I loathe the verra ground ye walk on, the air ye breathe and with every last breath of my body, I will see ye dead!” His outburst over, Ranulf fled through the gates.

Rory started to go after him, but Logan held a hand to his chest, murmuring what sounded like,
Let him go
.

Moira leaned back against the wall. Her heart pounding. Hands pressed to her face, uncertain she’d heard correctly. Mind whirling. Shock made her dizzy. “Did MacLeod say
father
?”

Emma and Shona both nodded at the same time, their eyes as wide as Moira’s felt.

“Rory has a son.”

Watching his son storm through the gates tore at Rory’s chest. He wanted to race after him, to make him see reason, but Ranulf was beyond sense at the moment.

Rory had never meant for any of their past to come out, but the lad, when he started to berate his dear mother, that was the last straw for Rory. His mother had never done anything to harm the lad, only spoiled him rotten, as was her want.

Ranulf’s rage had only blown to the surface more when the men realized Rory was their rightful laird and had bent to their knees to pledge their loyalty to him. His son had told them nay, had shouted it, but still they rested. They could not support a lad like Ranulf, so bent on hatred and revenge, and so obviously in pain that he was lacking in judgment. There were also the tiny matters of the lairdship being Rory’s in truth, and Ranulf’s adolescent lust that brought war to the MacLeod’s doorstep in the first place.

Rory would accept the title if need be, but only until Ranulf was ready to take the position himself.

“Follow him,” Rory said to several of the guards. “Make sure he does not do anything rash.”

The men nodded and hurried to catch up.

“I think that could have gone better,” Logan said, sarcasm leaping from his words.

Rory crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the cloud of dust following in Ranulf’s wake. “Ye think?”

Ewan clapped Rory on the back. “He’ll return. As soon as he’s licked his wounds.”

“I dinna think so.” Rory had seen the hatred in his son’s eyes. “I believe him. He’ll not rest until I’m dead.”

“Temper-filled words, nothing more,” Logan said.

Rory swiped at his face, blood coming away on his palm. “I’m not so certain. I do not deserve this position. It is his and he has held it for many years. How could I take something from my own flesh and blood?”

“When your flesh and blood wants to kill ye?” Logan shrugged. “I’m not a Da yet, and I know ye’ve not quite considered yourself one, but it is the duty of every parent to lead their children toward their best self. He has been lacking in leadership. If ye owe him anything, it is that.”

“He’s a grown man.”

“Not quite.” Logan chuckled. “How old is he?”

“Nineteen last month.”

“Ye see, he’s practically still a pup.”

Rory chuckled. “I was a Da at that age.”

“Ye’re the exception.”

Rory let out a low growl of frustration.