Page 22 of Highlander’s Captive Bride (Troubles of Highland Lasses #4)

22

W hen Bellamy left Daisy, he felt preternaturally energized, knowing she was going to stay and help him. With her promise and their kiss to seal it, the sorrow that had been weighing on him had lifted off his shoulders, to be replaced by the cool-headed, determined anticipation that always preceded a fight.

He ran up to the battlements, to the parapet walk, seeking out Jamie and his sergeant, Colin Moore. In his brief absence, the pair had already done much to deploy their well-drilled soldiers across the castle defenses to deflect any attack. Archers were stationed at every crenellation, with bows and barrels of fresh arrows and bolts to hand.

When Bellamy rejoined them, they were standing by the wall of the south tower, both looking out over the fields so recently filled with Beltane revelers. The lonely bonfires painted the night in garish, ruddy colors.

Jamie and Colin greeted him with nods, and after a few moments, they broke off their speculations on where the attack would begin and the tactics Lachlan Pearson would most likely use.

“I cannae believe it about Miss Nadia, M’laird,” Colin muttered darkly, shaking his head disbelievingly. “The only good thing about it is that we now have the element of surprise on our side. Pearson willnae expect us to be ready for him, the bastard.”

Bellamy nodded in hearty agreement, deeply grateful to Daisy once more. “Aye. I cannae think a man like Pearson would have many men willing to fight for him,” he noted, his eyes scanning the horizon.

“I thought we wiped out all the McGowans—bar Nadia, of course,” Jamie said. “If Lachlan survived, then it’s entirely possible more of their men escaped under the cover of the fires that broke out during our attack.”

“Aye, and he’s had years to build a fighting force,” Colin added.

“But if he’s been living undercover, likely without much money, no base, and few resources, he must have had some help from someone,” Bellamy said, baring his teeth like a savage for a second. “I cannae wait to have the man at the end of me sword.”

“Well, we’re ready for him. When he comes, he’ll get a nasty surprise,” Jamie said with an air of satisfaction.

“Grand. I’ll away to me chambers and get meself dressed for the fight,” Bellamy told them before taking his leave.

Once in his chambers, he crossed immediately to a tapestry hanging in one corner of the main room and pulled it aside. Behind it was a door. He opened it, revealing a small room whose walls were covered with bits of armor and various weaponry.

He picked up what he needed—his father’s breastplate of leather and iron, with its great central boss in the shape of a bull’s head, and a pair of thick leather vambraces that laced up to encase his forearms and wrists, lending his arms both strength and protection.

When he threw them on the bed, ready to put them on, he was surprised to see a piece of parchment resting on his pillow. A spear of fear went through him, setting his heart pounding. Was it possible Lachlan Pearson had gotten into the castle, into his very own chambers, by stealth?

He snatched up the parchment. Immediately, he recognized the handwriting, but if anything, his heart raced still faster as he scanned the brief message. Once he had read it, he stood for a few moments, thinking about what to do. Quickly reaching a decision, he folded the note and put it carefully in the breast pocket of his shirt, beneath his plaid, next to his heart.

Then, he went to his writing desk. Taking a fresh piece of parchment and dipping a quill in the inkpot, he wrote a few brief lines before signing off with his name and title. He sanded the sheet, rolled it up, and sealed the letter with a lozenge of red wax, impressing it with his family seal. He set it aside and went to ring for a messenger to come and went on with his preparations for battle.

When the messenger came, Bellamy briefly pondered the wisdom of what he was doing, which felt irrevocable. But then, he decisively handed the letter to the messenger, telling him to leave the castle immediately, before the attack began, and to make sure to deliver it as soon as possible.

The messenger sped off. Bellamy tried not to think about the likely consequences of the letter as he went on getting ready.

He was just lacing up the last vambrace, preparing to go and join his men up on the parapets, when the alarm bells signaling an attack began their urgent cacophony. Praying the messenger had gotten over the causeway before Lachlan’s men had approached, he ran out of his room, buckling on his sword belt as he went.

Though the attack was not the ambush Lachlan Pearson had planned it to be, when Bellamy joined his men by the battlements, he was surprised to see the number of men with him—a hundred or so at least.

He looked out over the force. There was a small cavalry waiting, and around fifty bowmen ranged along the banks of the loch, within arrows’ range. The rest of the small army had crossed the causeway and was now standing in formation on the stone pavement before the main gates.

Bellamy’s eyes fixed on a tall figure in battle dress leading them, directing his men with shouts, his claymore held high.

Pearson, ye bastard, ye’ll rue this day, for it’ll be yer last!

“Someone’s been helping him,” he told Jamie, who nodded his agreement beside him. “Looks like he’s hired mercenaries, and that costs a pretty penny.”

Arrows were already flying between the two foes when Bellamy had arrived, but his men had a big advantage, raining injury and death on the attackers near and far from above. Bellamy was gratified to see a gesture of frustration from Lachlan when he realized his ambush was no ambush at all and that the defenders of Castle Murdoch had been expecting him.

Bellamy and Jamie watched side by side as Lachlan’s bowmen continued to let their arrows fly over the battlements, attempting to maim, kill, or at least keep at bay their Murdoch counterparts. But so far, Bellamy was pleased to see that none of his men had been hit, while Lachlan’s bowmen and some of his cavalry were dropping like flies, for they were terribly exposed from all sides.

“His resources are very limited,” Bellamy noted. “He’s goin’ to run out of ammunition soon, and there’s nae room for him to move.”

“Aye, he bargained on his main weapon being the element of surprise, and that hasnae happened,” Jamie said. “He’s in trouble, for sure.”

“Aye, he has nae chance,” Bellamy agreed, not letting himself think about what could have happened if Daisy had not caught Nadia and he had not known about the imminent attack.

Lachlan was urging several of his men to attempt to scale the castle walls with siege ladders. Bellamy and Jamie watched with satisfaction when they met a sorry end on the craggy outcrop on which the castle stood and in the waters of the loch.

Their shouts and screams split the air as they fell, either picked off by the Murdoch archers at close quarters or their ladders toppled from above by long wooden poles.

When he spotted a small team of Lachlan’s men trying to scale the gatehouse and climb through into the small apertures leading to the mechanism controlling the portcullis—an attempt to open the gates from inside—Bellamy directed the archers that way.

“I’m going down there!” he shouted to Jamie, dashing down the many steps to the courtyard, where a small force of mounted soldiers was stationed in front of the gatehouse to defend against any breach of the main gates.

That now seemed very unlikely, since Lachlan’s forces were quickly dwindling, his attempts to get inside the castle failed and at least half of his men injured or killed.

Bellamy was by now burning with vengeful hatred for his sly foe and eager to get outside and kill him himself. He wanted to be sure the man was really gone this time.

“Horse!” he yelled, rushing to the head of his men.

Almost immediately, a stableman appeared and ran over to him, leading his enormous black stallion. He rapidly passed the reins to Bellamy. Bellamy snatched them up and leaped into the saddle, drawing his claymore and pointing it at the heavens.

“Open up!”

The great chains of the portcullis began their squealing ascent, and soon, the great gates swung open.

“Pearson is mine! Hounds of Murdoch, come feast on yer foe’s flesh!” Bellamy yelled, standing up in his stirrups.

The battle cry echoed from the castle’s stone walls as he and his men rode out in close formation to immediately clash with Lachlan’s remaining men by the gates.

A fierce rout began, with a confident Murdoch force wreaking death and destruction on those of Lachlan’s men who were not already seeking to retreat across the causeway, clearly realizing they had lost the battle before it had even begun.

Warriors locked in mortal combat hacked and sliced at each other amid sprays of blood and the screams of horses and men. Bellamy stood up in his stirrups, his blade cutting through anyone and anything standing between him and Lachlan Pearson.

Lachlan was on foot, and when Bellamy reached him, he slipped from the saddle to face him on the ground. He slapped the horse’s flank, making it whinny and canter back out of danger.

“I could have finished ye quickly from me saddle, Pearson!” he roared, grinning. “But I want to prolong the pleasure of killing ye, ye evil scum.”

Bloodlust taking hold of him, Bellamy assumed a fighting stance, wielding his claymore before him as he closed in on his enemy.

Lachlan made a signal with his arm, and those of his men who could, and had not already fled, fell back across the causeway, clearly intending to rejoin the rest of their now depleted forces. But they were hounded by Bellamy’s soldiers, both on foot and mounted.

Many of the attackers fell screaming into the waters of the loch, to turn belly up and float away.

Apart from a few knots of warriors left slogging at each other near the gates, Bellamy and Lachlan now faced each other across a few yards of paved stone.

“Well, ye couldnae kill me the first time, Murdoch, so I doubt ye’ll be able to do it now!” Lachlan taunted, laughing uproariously at his own wit.

“Ah, but I didnae get to kill ye meself before. This time, I’ll make sure to do the job properly,” Bellamy yelled, moving closer so he could take a good look at his enemy. He wanted to look into Lachlan’s eyes when he twisted his blade inside him and make sure he understood he was doing it for Bridie and Elodie.

As if he could read Bellamy’s thoughts, Lachlan shouted, “A right bonny lass that sister of yers. Very pretty. Too pretty. I couldnae keep me hands off her. But it turned out she liked it in the end, the wee whore!”

He laughed mockingly, his eyes darting with fervid merriment as he weighed his sword in his hand.

Bellamy, his blood boiling at the slur against Bridie, knew his opponent was searching for any inroad for attack. “Ye’ll regret yer filthy words, ye cowardly poisoner of wee girls,” he bellowed, a red mist beginning to coat his vision. “I’m goin’ to carve yer guts out and hang ’em from me battlements along with yer head for the crows to feed on.”

He leaped forward suddenly, smashing his shield into Lachlan’s to knock him off balance, striking down at the man’s neck with his blade. But his foe was fast and sprang backwards, avoiding the blow and answering with a long, thrusting stab at Bellamy’s chest.

Bellamy, powered by vengeful fury, spun adeptly, dodging Lachlan’s blade, which buried itself in his shield. Using the opportunity to destabilize his foe, he did all he could to prevent Lachlan from pulling his blade free, crowding him while at the same time hacking at his neck and shoulders. But Lachlan used his own shield to deflect the blows and managed to pull his claymore free.

“Did ye like the way I sent the lass back to ye, with me bairn in her belly?” Lachlan taunted, launching a fierce attack on Bellamy.

Bellamy hammered back every strike, forcing Lachlan on the defensive. But the man parried every blow with strength and skill that surprised him, standing his ground.

The two men glowered at each other, panting and sweating, locked in combat that would prove fatal for one of them, fueled by a mutual hatred that was palpable.

“Did ye like the way I smashed yer whole clan out of existence?” Bellamy countered with savage relish. “I enjoyed seeing yer faither’s blood running like a river, and I’ve enjoyed having that wee rat of a sister of yers around, too. She’s in me dungeons now.”

Lachlan only laughed, as if Nadia’s fate did not concern him. “Ye did me a favor killing me faither, and as for me sister, she served her purpose. I dinnae care what ye do with her. I only want me daughter.”

“She isnae yer daughter, ye dog. And ye’ll never have her,” Bellamy roared, incensed.

“She’s mine, and ye well ken it, Murdoch,” Lachlan screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “I’m goin’ to take her back with me, and I’m goin’ to rebuild me clan. I ken just how to look after the wee lassie.”

Clearly maddened, he suddenly struck at Bellamy, and the tip of his blade caught Bellamy’s wrist, partially slicing through the thick leather of the vambrace, drawing blood. He laughed, seeing his handwork.

Bellamy did not even feel the injury or see the blood. Lachlan’s horrible threats and his maniacal laughter sent a preternatural surge of strength flowing through his whole body, and he began an onslaught that gradually drove Lachlan back.

“Where have ye been hiding like a worm all this time?” he asked his foe mockingly.

“Closer than ye think, ye bastard,” Lachlan replied, his eyes glittering with triumph. “I got religion, would ye believe? The abbot at St. Tristan’s is a man who likes a sob story and took pity on me. Made a monk of me, he did. Did that pretty healer of yers nae tell ye she met that nice Braither Edmund at the market?” He cackled, seeing Bellamy’s puzzled frown. “Aye, that was me, a man o’ the cloth, hah!”

“They didnae guess they had the Devil in their midst,” Bellamy answered, stepping up his assault.

The pair traded repeated blows, hammering at each other, violently pushing and shoving with their shields as they struggled to land strikes with their blades. But while Bellamy’s almost unnatural strength continued to grow, he felt his enemy slowly weakening.

He began stalking Lachlan, laying back from the man’s strikes, letting him expend his energy, and then going on the attack. He sensed that the moment when he would have the pleasure of his final revenge was quickly approaching, and it spurred him on.

The moment came when Lachlan parried one of Bellamy’s hammer-blow sword strikes, and his wrist turned awkwardly, his grip instantly loosening. He tried to disengage, but Bellamy used the flat of his sword to exert pressure on the man’s weakening wrist until Lachlan’s sword was forced out of his hand and fell with a clatter to the ground beneath.

Lachlan snatched his dirk from his belt, ready to fight on, but he was a little too slow. Bellamy smashed him in the face with his shield, knocking him to the ground, and then he smashed it into his head. He grabbed the dazed Lachlan by the neck and got him in a headlock, punching him repeatedly.

Lachlan fought back as long as he could, but the onslaught was too much, and he soon weakened.

Bellamy dragged him to the castle wall and pinned him against it by the neck. Lachlan’s head rolled, but Bellamy forced it up until they were nose to nose. He stared into Lachlan’s eyes for several long moments, relishing his revenge.

“This is for Bridie,” Bellamy hissed, plunging his blade deep into the man’s heart. “And this is for Elodie.” He twisted the blade cruelly, enjoying the cry of agony that burst from Lachlan’s throat before the light in his eyes died away, and he hung limply in his hand.

Bellamy pulled his claymore free, released his hand, and the lifeless body of his enemy slumped to the ground.

Buoyed by elation, his sword dragging on the stone pavement and leaving a trail of his enemy’s blood behind him, Bellamy slowly turned on his heel and walked away.

It was as if he could breathe easily after what seemed like an eternity of pressure, finally satisfied that justice for Bridie had been served, and secure in the knowledge that Lachlan Pearson and Clan McGowan were extinguished from the earth, at last, by his own hand.