Page 11 of The Rise of the Highland King (The Last Celtic King #1)

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When Murtagh McKenzie himself arrived at the cell, Cailean had rallied again. His body was weak and broken from the fresh beating, but his mind was sharp once more, and defiance radiated from his every pore. He would not give himself up to this pathetic man. He would die if he had to, but first, he would live, his every heartbeat and every last breath dedicated to this country that he loved.

McKenzie did not enter the cell, but when his face came into view through the bars, Cailean saw that the chieftain had changed. Gone was the cruel sardonic smile that had adorned his face, that perpetual amusement based on the fact he'd always believed he had the upper hand. That facade had broken to pieces now, and instead Murtagh's face was a mask of fury. His features were distorted with anger, with disgust, and with the kind of rage that Cailean knew meant that his blood must be pulsing hot in his veins.

A thrill of satisfaction went through Cailean at the sight. If McKenzie was this angry, that meant the guards had not been able to find Flora. Even if it was not a huge blow, he had managed to make this terrible man suffer, even from inside this dungeon. He was not a fan of torture—as no sane man would be—but he believed in righteous vengeance when it had to be performed. And the fact that it had resulted in the freedom of an innocent woman—that was the best news of all.

"What have ye done?" Murtagh roared without any preamble, the noise of his voice almost shaking the walls. "Where is she? What have ye done?"

Cailean lifted his cold hand to his bruised face, wincing slightly as he examined the damage. He did not look at Murtagh directly, but he did answer. "Far from here, if she's wise. She may have been slow after all the years ye had her trapped in these dungeons, but her wit will see her through. Ye couldnae take her heart nor her mind, even after all this time."

Murtagh slammed his fist against the metal bars, causing them to shake on their hinges. "Ye worm! " he hissed. "Who do ye think we are? We'll find that old woman and put her back in her cage tae rot. She cannae harm me. I am the one with the power here!"

Cailean finally flicked up his eyes and met Murtagh's gaze, portraying nothing but cool indifference as he did. "Men with true power dinnae need tae announce it. Me father always said that, and now that I hear ye talkin', I ken that his words were as wise as they were true."

McKenzie's face contorted. "To whom do ye think ye speak, dirt-king?" he demanded. "Yer father's wisdom sent him and his wife and bairns tae the grave. A place ye yerself will likely soon follow, and I will dance on the freshly-turned earth."

Cailean was not deterred by his threats or by the insults to his family. Meeting with Flora had changed something in him. He would not let this pathetic character cause him to lose himself in fury or pain. Instead, he smiled, even though the movement hurt the damaged skin on his face. "Ye dinnae seem the type tae dance, Murtagh," he said in a faux-friendly tone. "Perhaps when I finally return tae the earth, it's more likely ye'll have gone long before me, no?"

Murtagh's fists clenched around the bars, causing his knuckles to pop white. He leaned his face closer, practically spitting as he replied. "Ye think yerself clever, do ye, lad? Ye think yerself better than me?"

"I think meself better than naebody. I ken, though, that God or man or whoever may judge us kens where people belong without me opinion." Cailean shrugged, ignoring the way that it made his muscles scream. "Have ye come here tae banter with me, Murtagh? Tae threaten me? Or simply tae peer at yer new pet since yer old one has so recently escaped?"

Murtagh spat on the ground. Cailean noted that the soldier before had done the same thing and wondered if all of the modern McKenzies were so disgusting. He knew enough of Grodric, and he'd learned enough of Flora in their brief interaction, to know that this kind of behavior was putting the true McKenzie name to shame.

"I could kill ye here and now, McNair. I could slaughter ye where ye stand, then send out me men tae recapture me sister-in-law and yer wee friends who escaped intae the forest. They cannae have gone far enough tae be free of the grasps of me men." The threat in Murtagh's voice was unmistakeable. "I could tear ye apart limb from limb and display yer remains as a warnin' tae the rest of yer pathetic rebellion."

Cailean knew it was true. If Murtagh decided to kill him now, there was no way that Cailean—now completely unarmed and physically hurt and exhausted—could resist. But he kept his expression neutral as he kept his eyes on the chieftain and said, "Do it, then."

"What?"

"Kill me. It willnae change anythin'." Cailean felt the hope rise within him even as he spoke. "If I die, the rebellion lives on." He believed it with all of his heart. Darren and Maeve would lead the way in his stead, not only gaining vengeance for his death. "So long as the light of hope burns on, so will the rebellion fight against the shadow of the False King."

" False King ," Murtagh sneered. It was obvious that Cailean's indifference was simply making him angrier and angrier. "As if it matters what is true or false, who has the right to rule and who doesnae. Power exists for those who take it. I took this clan from me worthless brother. The king took his throne from yer pathetic father. There is nae true or false—only those who win, and those who die."

"Ye're the one who is pathetic. Ye have nae love for anythin'—nae yer family, nae yer country, nae nothin'. Even yer own daughter is nothin' but a tool for ye." Cailean shook his head sadly, though the movement sent a pulse of agony through his skull. "Ye have nae hope. Nae honor. Nae anythin'. Every victory ye have is hollow."

"How's this for hollow?" Murtagh demanded, venom dripping from his voice as it sunk to a furious near-whisper. "I willnae be the one tae kill ye. Ye're tae be a gift tae me greatest benefactor."

Cailean remembered the words. Ye're better as a livin' gift. So it was true, then—Murtagh was to use him as a pawn. Cailean found himself laughing, almost deliriously. "Ye've already lost one prisoner today—and now ye'll just hand another over as a way tae protect yer own skin!"

"Ye ken nothin'!" Murtagh shouted again. "Just because I'll nae kill ye doesnae mean I cannae hurt ye further. O'Sullivan just wants ye breathin'. Anythin' beyond that doesnae matter, nae tae me."

O'Sullivan? That gave Cailean pause more than anything else. James O'Sullivan, one of the greatest traitors to his father who had led to the demise of the McNair clan and the fall of the rightful Scottish kingdom. A traitor, a warlord, a tyrant—and beyond that, he was Maeve and Breana's terrible father. The man who had made their lives a living hell from their youth on, the man who had sold Maeve to a marriage that had almost destroyed her and then did the same with her sister.

Disgust flooded him at the thought of being given to that man. Cailean was not an executioner unless he had to be, but O'Sullivan was a man who deserved to die for his crimes against his country and its people.

If he got the chance, would he be able to do it, just as he had dealt with Kyle Darach? The thought of Eoin's struggle in the aftermath of Kyle's death gave him pause. Would Maeve be able to survive knowing that Cailean was the one to dispatch her father, even with all his crimes?

Then reality hit him like a falling stone from the ceiling. He was not a threat to anyone, not now. He was physically weakened, bruised and broken, weaponless and tied up. His friends were hopefully far away, and his love, his light, would be there to guide them now—which meant she could not be here with him. Even if he got face to face with O'Sullivan, he would have no chance of acting in any way.

Cailean was a prisoner, trapped and alone.

But then Flora's voice echoed in his mind. "Be strong, lad! Ye're nae alone!"

The memory vitalized him, and he managed to look at Murtagh and speak to him with the same cool expression on his face and voice before. None of his fear or uncertainty showed on his face or sounded in his tone, and indeed it must have seemed to Murtagh like the declaration of O'Sullivan's name had not affected Cailean at all.

"How much?" Cailean asked.

Murtagh seemed caught off guard by the question. "Are ye tryin' tae bribe me intae not sendin' ye?—"

"Nae. I just want tae ken how much was a price steep enough tae be worth yer honor as a man," Cailean taunted. He laughed, seeing the glint of rage again in Murtagh's eyes. "Is the gold worth it?"

Murtagh turned and walked away, then returned moments later with a key. He inserted it into the lock and the cell door flew open. He rolled up his sleeves threateningly, a knife glinting in one hand. "As I said, he wants ye alive. That doesnae mean I cannae teach ye a lesson."

This would hurt, and Cailean knew it. But he closed his eyes and thought of Maeve, calm flooding through him despite the circumstances. Let Murtagh do as he would. Cailean knew that his enemies thrived on fear—and he would not give it to them. Not a drop.

Maeve had spent a lifetime hiding, and while she had found a way to break free from that shell over the past months, it was a skill that came in handy now. She found a way to hide herself neatly away between a couple of trees and a large boulder just on the outskirts of McKenzie Castle, enough that she could see the outside of the stronghold and even witness who was coming and going from the main entrance. The guards who were patrolling the perimeter even came close enough occasionally that snippets of their conversation could be overheard, though Maeve, of course, shrank back further into her hiding place each time to avoid detection.

At first, her determination blazed fiercely. She was sure that she'd find a break in the guards and be able to flit across the night, unnoticed, until she'd found a way inside. Then, she'd break into the dungeons, and break Cailean free.

But it didn't work out that way. As Maeve waited, her fear grew. The guards patrolling the perimeter did not have gaps; in fact, to her horror, she watched as they doubled, then tripled in number. The number of guards just kept growing, and with a sinking, sickly feeling, Maeve realized that there was no way she'd be able to infiltrate the castle now. Not without being recognized. Not without being caught. And while she didn't really care what happened to her right now, she knew she would be no use to Cailean as a prisoner herself—nor would she be able to provide the light that the remaining rebels needed to see them through.

She stayed crouched in place, frozen in indecision. What should she do now? Should she wait here until morning, hoping that the large number of guards would shrink? Maybe she would be able to sneak in at the change of guards? But guilt gnawed at her at the thought; she had snuck out without letting Darren or the others even know where she'd gone. What would they do if she was gone for so long without a word? Would they assume she had been captured too?

She could not allow them to come find her. Perhaps, even though it went against everything that her heart told her to do, she should retreat for now. Eoin and Darren had both seemed certain that getting reinforcements was the better plan, so maybe…

Her mind raced with this circular thought, her desperate worry for Cailean warring with the massive responsibility that now weighed on her shoulders and the reality of the situation in which she found herself.

It was pitch black, but she would estimate it was morning now, just pre-sunrise. She thought she should feel exhausted, but instead her whole body felt alight and more awake than she ever had. She felt that the adrenaline coursing through her could have kept her going for days or even years.

Just as the first rays of sun started to shine over the horizon, though, Maeve, still torn in indecision, saw something that made her whole body turn rigid in shock and terror.

New people were arriving at McKenzie Castle through the main gates. A whole troop of soldiers, fully armed, marched into the castle and waited in the front courtyard, staring at the door as though they were expecting something.

The arrival of the men themselves was not what made Maeve so scared, though. It was the sight of what adorned these men—the unmistakable tartan they wore, noticeable even in this dim light and from this distance. It was a sight that Maeve would have recognized anywhere in the whole world, because it had been haunting her dreams for as long as she could remember.

Those colors. Her father's colors. These men were O'Sullivan men.

Maeve's heart rushed at the realization, the sudden panic choking her and making her dizzy as she struggled to remember how to breathe. How were they here? Why were they here?

She knew it was irrational, but her first instinct was that they were here for her— or for Breana. Could her father somehow know that both sisters were here? Had he come to reclaim his wayward widowed daughters and bring them back under his thumb? She would rather die than allow such a thing to happen again.

No. There was no way that he could know. She forced herself to breathe, forced herself to understand the rational truth that whatever the O'Sullivan men were here for, it had nothing to do with her or Breana. Slowly, her heartrate began to return to normal.

But it didn't last long. The doors opened, and several of the McKenzie guards came out to meet the approaching O'Sullivan guests.

Maeve watched in horror, paralyzed, as some part of her understood what was about to happen even as it did. She could not move as the worst part of her most dreadful nightmares unfolded before her very eyes.

The McKenzie men dragged a figure in their midst, a tall man being pulled along the ground on his knees as though all of the fight had gone out of him. Maeve knew that wasn't the case; she knew it was Cailean she was seeing, and she believed in her heart that he would have fought every second until his last breath. She felt sick to see him so vulnerable, obviously unconscious, or…?

No, he couldn't be dead. Not only would her heart know it, but if it was a corpse the men were dragging, she was sure that there wouldn't be so many of the guards around. A flicker of pride warmed the ice in her veins only briefly—Cailean was such a threat to these pathetic monsters that they sent a fully armed escort over his unconscious form.

But the pride soon froze out into deeper horror as she understood the full extent of what she was witnessing. Helpless, she watched as Cailean was handed over to the O'Sullivan men, his limp body carried by three of them into a waiting carriage.

Every cell in her body screamed at her to reveal herself, to run across the short distance between them and fight every last man until Cailean was free. She had thought that having him captured by McKenzie was the worst-case scenario, but this was worse by magnitudes.

Her father. The living monster who had been the direct cause of every horrific moment of her life until Senan, Cailean, and the rebellion had set her free. The man who had sold both her and Breana off to be manhandled as pretty little birds in gilded cages with awful men who had been unafraid to hurt them. The same Laird O'Sullivan who had betrayed the McNairs and been part of causing the whole country to collapse in the first place.

And now, he had Cailean. Maeve might have been free of him, but now he had her heart, her soul, in his possession. And she could do nothing about it.

Tears ran down her face at the extreme effort it was taking to stay put as she watched this travesty unfold before her. It felt wrong, more wrong than anything else in her life, to just stay rooted in place while the door was slammed shut and the carriage began to move away. But she knew that if she allowed herself to act on what her gut was screaming, she would be killed in an instant.

It tore her to pieces, but she stayed where she was and watched while Cailean was taken away from her, maybe forever. She stayed while the McKenzie men retreated back into the castle. She stayed there, frozen as a statue, as the sun completed its rise above the horizon.

And then the ice cracked, and she turned and ran back into the forest, back toward the farmer's house, back toward help. Because no matter what, there was no way that Maeve would be helpless, not when he needed her, not when the world needed her. Never again.