Until the Knight Comes (34 page)

Jerking round, Mariota saw the reason for his white-faced horror.

Wee Finlay had gone crazy-mad, too!

Mariota screamed as the little man raced toward them, Jamie’s own new battle-ax clutched in his hand.

Disbelief lamed her—not that she’d be able to run if she could. “Finlay, no! Dinna do this!”

But he kept coming, his mouth pressed tight, his face set with deadly purpose as he raised the ax and let it whistle down, slicing the rope tying Jamie to Mariota’s horse.

Half-winded, he thrust the ax into Jamie’s hands, seized a dirk from his belt and began cutting the binds at Jamie’s wrists.

He threw an apologetic glance at Mariota. “I’m cutting him loose first so his hands are free to protect you until your Keeper fights his way through yon men,” he panted, giving her one of his twisted, guilt-ridden smiles.

And then Jamie was free, vaulting up behind her. “I’ll not be forgetting you,” he called to Wee Finlay as he took the reins.

“Tchah! Get you gone—now!” Wee Finlay stepped back, waved them away. “Make haste—”

He got no further.

Ewan the Witty’s arcing blade silenced him, one flashing stroke and Finlay went down in a spray of blood, toppling full length onto the boggy, rock-strewn ground.

“No-o-o!” Mariota cried, horror squeezing her heart.

“You murdering whoreson!” Jamie struggled to control Mariota’s panicked, sidling horse.

“Good riddance!” Ewan glared at the little man’s crumpled body, wheeled round to glower at Jamie. “Come here, you flame-topped varlet!” he jeered, windmilling his blade. “I’ll send you to join the wee bastard—be you so eager to die!”

“’Tis you who shall die,” Jamie roared, raising his ax.

Ewan laughed. “Say your prayers, laddie, your hour is upon yo—”

“Cuidach N’ Righ!”

Ear-splitting loud, the battle cry rent the air, otherworldly in its eerie, thunderous echo, the dread slogan shook the gorge, turning heads, chilling blood and drawing eyes, upward.

Everywhere men froze.

Some dropped jaws . . . and weapons.

Others crossed themselves or whimpered for their mothers.

All stared in stunned wonder at the two men standing on the crest of ravine—one older but magnificently fierce-looking, the younger,
huge
in stature, and glowing with strength and vigor.

Truth tell, they both . . . glowed.

Garbed in full and chiefly Highland dress, their bright tartan plaids, mailed shirts, and flashy Celtic jewelry shone like molten gold—and the ground where they stood shimmered as if the sun itself had descended onto the ridge.

And of all the men who saw them, only the MacKenzies recognized the two and cheered, their joy complete when Ranald the Redoubtable and Cormac the Cowherd bent as one and lifted a huge boulder, hurled it down onto their gaping, stricken foes.

And just as the boulder came crashing into the Devil’s Glen, old Ranald and Cormac joined hands, raised their arms above their heads in bold salute . . . and vanished.

“Holy Saint Columba!” Kenneth swung round to stare at Sir Lachlan. “Did you see that?”

But his garrison captain had no time to answer;
other
Highland warriors were cresting the opposite ridge, men no less fearsome and led by an older lairdly-looking man of equally impressive build and magnificence as Ranald the Redoubtable, but nowise . . . luminous.

Or centuries dead!

Hot fury blazing in their eyes, these Highlanders, too, sent a barrage of rocks hurtling onto Ewan and his men, then tore down the steep-sided ravine in such endless number that Kenneth whooped with joy and arced his blade with even greater vigor, taking out two of Ewan’s sword-swinging churls before he could even raise his own battle cry to join the newcomers’ exultant shouting.

“By the Rood!” Sir Lachlan gave a great shout beside him, his own sword slashing endlessly.

“A Macnicol! A Macnicol!” The newcomers roared their slogan, the clash of their steel loud as their voices as they surged into the gorge, felling and smiting.

“’Tis old Archibald!” one of Kenneth’s men cried, awe in his voice. “I recognize him.”

But Kenneth only flashed a glance at the curly-bearded warrior laird, for the battle still raged—even if some might now only call it a skirmish.

The field already won.

So long as his lady was yet safe!

Indeed, amidst the turmoil and fierce, hand-to-hand fighting still going on in places, he saw Archibald Macnicol swing down from his garron and shove his way through the melee, straight toward his daughter.

“Lass!” the puissant old warrior cried, his booming voice filling the gorge, the urgency and
love
in that one word sealing the day’s fate.

“Hold you fast, lassie!” the man shouted again, running now. “Remember your blood!”

Kenneth leapt down from his horse and ran, too.

So fast as he could with the bed of the ravine now clogged with fallen boulders, and dead and wounded men, those few still on their feet and fighting.

“By God, lass, show the bastard you’re a Macnicol,” a younger man running near Kenneth shouted then—a great stirk of an auburn-haired warrior who could’ve been Archibald himself, but younger.

“Aye, a Macnicol lass, and soon-to-be wife to a MacKenzie!” Kenneth called, and the young man threw a quick look at him, flung out an arm and gave him a comradely whack on the shoulder as they ran.

“Donald,” the young man panted, without breaking stride, “her brother. Her
favorite
brother!”

Soon-to-be-wife.

Her brother?

Mariota heard the beloved voices through a red haze of terror and stared into the madness, half fearing one of Ewan the Witty’s sword swipes had felled her and she’d wakened in some strange netherworld where her most secret dreams might seem reality, only to be wrest from her before she could reach for them.

Clutch them to her heart and never let them go.

“Lass!”
Her father’s voice came again, reaching her through the mist, and her Keeper’s.

“Drop your blade, Ewan!” Kenneth roared, so near her heart split with joy.

“’Tis over, man!” he shouted again. “Have done, lest you wish to meet your Maker without a chance to plead your mercy!”

Over?

Mariota blinked, tried to hear above the pounding of blood in her ears, struggled to see through the swirling mist, the hot tears near blinding her.

Jamie still held her crushed against him, and he still brandished his ax with lightning flourishes, holding off Ewan the Witty’s every approach. But young Jamie was wearying, the strain of one-handedly fending off the other’s attack while holding her secure, taking its toll.

And still she saw nothing.

Not what she longed to see . . .
needed
to see.

Only Ewan the Witty’s sneering grin and flashing steel, Jamie’s ceaseless parries, and the red haze that threatened to blot all she held dear.

But then, without warning, those she loved most appeared out of the mist.

Her Keeper, her father, her brother Donald, and countless others.

They surged forward in a mad whirl of steel-weaving menace, swords, dirks, and maces flashing, her father’s famed battle-ax gleaming the brightest, the look in his eye as he lunged at Ewan the Witty nigh as deadly.

Too stunned to cry out, Mariota stared as her father raised his arm, took aim. But before his ax found its mark, Kenneth slashed at Ewan with his blade and that one’s arm went limp and his sword dropped to the ground.

“Such fury . . . for a whore,” Ewan bellowed, still on his feet, glaring round.

“Vengeance for the lady who shall be my wife,” Kenneth returned, unbuckling his sword belt, thrusting it into the hands of a startled-looking Donald. “And—”

“And for Finlay,” his lady cried, her tear-filled gaze going to the bloodied body of the little man lying nearby. “He freed us,” she said, swiping a hand beneath her eyes. “Then Jamie . . . Jamie—” she broke off, unable to finish.

Having heard enough, Kenneth flexed his fingers and shoved up the sleeves of his tunic. “You—to the death,” he challenged Ewan. “Fists or dirks? If you are man enough to take me on without a yard of steel in your hand?”

Ewan spat, glanced at his fallen blade—and whipped a sparkling, bejeweled dirk from his belt the instant Kenneth followed his gaze.

Lunging, he made to ram the dagger into Kenneth’s gut, but Kenneth only smiled, clamped an iron grip around the other’s wrist before that one had a chance to splutter.

“One of the first lessons a man learns in seaport taverns,” Kenneth said, seizing the dirk and driving it home, “is to expect a feint. In especial, from a bastard of your ilk.”

“You are the bastard,” Ewan wheezed, his eyes already glazing, his knees buckling. “I’ll—”

“You’ll ne’er harass an innocent woman again,” Kenneth finished for him as he fell. “And ’tis apt you met your end on
that
dagger,” he added, and heard his lady’s gasp, knew he’d guessed correctly.

He hoped the appropriateness of Ewan’s ending might help lay her ghosts.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Jamie helping her dismount, saw her fierce-looking father and her brother gather her in their arms, heard the choked sobs and joyous cries of a reunion long overdue.

“Lass, lass.”
The old warrior crushed her against him, cradling her like a bairn, stroking her hair. “Can you e’er forgive a stubborn old man?”

“Forgive
you
? Do you even need to ask?” Mariota’s voice broke on a sob, her heart so full, the swelling heat in her throat so constricting she could only stare at the beloved faces through a blur of tears.

“Do you not ken I ne’er stopped loving you? But you—” She broke off, smoothed back his gray-shot hair. “Whate’er moved you to be here, I would know how you are faring? I’d heard you were so ill—”

“Ill?”
Archibald stepped back, planted his hands on his hips. “Do I look ailing?”

And he didn’t—much to her surprise, and delight. “But—”

“Languishing away o’er losing you is all that wore me down,” he said, looking anything but feeble. “That, and mayhap life being far too peaceful in the north of late.”

Kenneth watched them, his own throat thick with emotion, but his feet suddenly too heavy to carry him forward.

Nay, not his feet . . . his doubts.

Every last one of them surfaced now, rising up like wraiths from the bloodied ground to twine around his legs and hold him in place.

But so magnificent, so
lairdly
did Archibald Macnicol strike him, the older man’s sheer power of presence seemed to humble every man gathered round, his authority even taming the Devil’s Glen itself, leaving it only another mist-hung ravine, freed of menace and threat.

Frowning, Kenneth slid a glance at the opposite hill crest, sought reassurance, but Ranald and Cormac were gone, their hill-shaking battle cry only an echo in Kenneth’s heart.

Archibald Macnicol’s booming voice was real, though, and the old chief raised it now, bade Jamie to hold out his battle-ax. “To be notched,” he explained, eyeing the young knight from beneath shaggy, beetled brows.

“A notch for helping to safeguard my daughter!” he decried, using the head of his own many-notched ax to mark the haft of Jamie’s. “May it be the first o’ many!” he added, lifting his voice above the cheers of the men standing near.

Cheers and . . . assorted babble.

Murmurs of speculation that included Kenneth’s name.

And hearing the whispers, Kenneth stood straighter, took closer measure of the aging chieftain who carried a reputation as far-famed as his uncle.

But the old warrior felt his stare and turned, surprising Kenneth with the wetness of his cheeks, the
welcome
lighting his hawk-like eyes.

“So you are the man who would make my daughter an honest woman at last?” he boomed, striding forward to clasp Kenneth by the shoulders. “Well met, well met—’tis long I’ve waited to see her wed and happy!”

Kenneth swallowed, held the older man’s appraising stare. “Ewan the Witty spoke true,” he said in a rush, amazed his tongue let him form the words. “I am indeed a bastard, sir. But—” He broke away from Archibald’s grip to gather Mariota into his arms. “—I shall be the most blessed bastard in these hills if I might marry my lady with your blessing?”

Archibald Macnicol threw back his head and laughed. “My blessing? Ho—did you no hear me just now? I’ve longed for this day. Burn to bounce my grandbabes on my knee! Och, aye, you have my blessings, son. I ne’er thought to see the lass wed, to know her happy and with a good,
deserving
man.”

But at her father’s words, Mariota stiffened in Kenneth’s arms, and the joy spinning inside her stilled, replaced by a cold fear that stopped her heart.

How fitting that her past would claim her now—at the very moment when her happiness should be bright enough to light the heavens.

She pulled back from Kenneth’s arms, touched a hand to his cheek. “I must tell you—I should have sooner, but was afraid,” she began, the words bitter gall on her tongue, “I am not widowed, was ne’er married. The Bastard of Drumodyn was—”