Page 51 of Wild Highland Rose (Time After Time #4)

T he passageway was dank and dark, but fortunately it wasn't long. There was a faint light at the end, its pale glow at least partially illuminating the path. Cameron made his way forward, claymore drawn.

Marjory followed just behind him, her hand resting against the small of his back.

A shadow flickered across the patch of light.

Cameron stopped abruptly, pushing Marjory back against the earthen wall.

"I think I saw someone." He peered at the open doorway.

It was actually slightly above them, the path slanting steeply upward towards the storage room.

Nothing moved except the faint waver of light.

"'Twas naught but the torch light."

Cameron shook his head. "It was more than that." As if to substantiate his words, the shadow moved across the opening again, and this time they were close enough to make out its distinctly human form. "Looks like Torcall left a guard. Stay here."

Cameron waited until the shadow disappeared again and started inching forward, his sword gripped tightly in his hand.

He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to get himself into this position, but the memory of Grania's battered body immediately reminded him and he clenched his jaw in determination.

He would not let her death go unpunished.

Reaching the entrance to the tower, he was relieved to find the doorway empty. He crouched low in the corner of the passage, holding his breath, waiting. A slight movement in the still air surrounding him warned him he was not alone. "I told you to stay put."

"I thought you might have need for me."

He sighed with resignation. She was a willful woman. "Well, at least stay here until I dispatch Torcall's henchman."

"The thug."

Cameron could detect the smile in her voice.

She was actually enjoying this. Or whistling in the dark.

He turned back to the light, as the man stepped into the doorway, his back to them.

It was one of Torcall's soldiers; Cameron recognized the plaid.

With one swift movement, he swung upward, claymore flashing in the torch light.

The Scotsman died with a look of astonishment on his face. His lips moved, as though he were trying to say something, but instead, he crumpled to the floor of the storage room, his mouth open, his eyes lifeless.

One down.

Cameron grimly stepped over the body, eyes scanning for other intruders. The room was a replica of the solars on the two floors above, except that it had only tiny slits for windows.

"He's dead." Marjory announced matter-of-factly, stepping gingerly into the room.

Cameron was already in place against the wall abutting the door leading into the kitchen. Holding a finger to his lips, he motioned her to the opposite wall. They waited in silence, Cameron straining to hear noise.

The kitchen, usually a busy place, full of people, was ominously quiet. Keeping his claymore ready, he swung into the room. Releasing a breath, he relaxed his sword arm. The kitchen was empty.

A fire burned at the hearth, licking at the bottom of a large iron pot. The smell of stewing meat filled the room. Marjory edged around the transom behind him. "Where is everyone?"

"Hiding, I assume. I think it's a good sign that there aren't any bodies.

" Cameron heard her sharp intake of breath.

"Let's check the other rooms." The sleeping quarters adjacent to the kitchen were empty, no sign of any occupants, living or dead.

The same was true of the pantry. It was as deserted as the kitchen.

Abandoned trenchers were lined up on a table ready to be filled with food.

The thick stone walls and ceiling insulated the ground floor from the rooms above. It was impossible to tell what might be happening upstairs. "Where next?"

Marjory pointed to a connecting door between the pantry and another room. "The buttery, and there's another storage room."

They cautiously stepped into the buttery. Like the other rooms, there were signs of recent activity, an open keg of ale and several pitchers clustered around it, but the room was silent and empty. A door at the end of the buttery was closed, a heavy bar in place across its wooden door.

"Is that the storage room?"

Marjory nodded. "Aye, 'tis." She stared at it, her eyes wide with concern. "I've ne'er seen it barred before."

Cameron frowned and moved cautiously toward the door. Handing his weapon to Marjory, he struggled to remove the bar. It creaked loudly as he lifted it from its brackets. Seeing Marjory's nod of encouragement, he swung open the door. The room was tiny, and jammed full of chests and crates.

Taking the claymore from Marjory, he edged cautiously into the room. She followed closely behind, her breath tickling the back of his neck. "There's no one here." Marjory's softly whispered comment seemed loud in the silence.

A woman's wail suddenly filled the room. Cameron raised his sword, stepping.

"He's got our Marjory." The fierce-faced figure of Crannag Mhór's cook emerged from the shadows, holding what looked like a rolling pin threateningly in one large hand. The other was planted firmly on her more than ample hip. "Let her go, ye fiend."

Cameron tipped back his head and laughed, as much from relief as from humor. Marjory shot him a look that clearly indicated she thought he'd gone 'round the bend. Pushing him aside, she rushed over to the agitated woman. "I'm fine. Cameron is here to help us, no' cause us further harm."

The woman lowered her arm, but her narrow-eyed gaze never left Cameron, and she didn't release her grip on the rolling pin. Evidently as far as she was concerned, once Torcall's son, always Torcall's son.

"Are you alone in here?"

The woman glared at him, then softened her gaze as she turned to address Marjory. "Nay, most o' the lasses who work in the tower are here as well." Several women, two holding small children, emerged from behind the crates. Their faces were pinched with fear.

"How many altogether?"

"There's nine o' us, no' counting the bairns." Cook looked over her shoulder at the gathered women, sending a terse nod in the direction of a shadowy corner. Four children emerged from behind a large chest.

Cameron frowned. "So fifteen counting the babies?"

"Aye." This time she met his gaze and he noted that some of the hostility had been replaced by guarded hope.

He nodded. "Are there other women in the tower?"

"There's only us. We're shorthanded today. Some o' the girls stayed home." Cook ducked her head, avoiding Marjory's eyes, her cheeks stained a deep red. "'Twas a late night and there was so much excitement, I told some of them to take the day fer rest."

"Dinna fash yerself. If I had thought o' it, I'd have sent them home myself."

"We've got to get them out of here." Cameron spoke to Marjory, but there was a titter of relief from the assembled women. "Do you think you can get them through the passageway and around the wall?"

"Aye, but dinna you think I'd be o' more value here with you?" She looked up at him with an expression he was beginning to recognize as mutinous.

He chose his words carefully. "Of course I'd rather have you here.

" Actually he'd rather have her safe somewhere on the other side of Scotland, but to say that was a sure invitation for trouble.

"But right now, it's far more important to get these ladies to safety.

" He glanced at the group. They were silent, hanging on his words as if their lives depended on them. Which, he sighed, they probably did.

Marjory chewed on her lip, and then, obviously coming to a decision, nodded. "All right then. I'll lead them out o' here. What are you going to do?"

Cameron grimaced, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. "I'm going to find Allen and Torcall."

Cameron leaned against the cold stone of the tower wall, listening to the sound of sword play in the great hall. The women were on their way out of the tower. Hopefully, they would soon be safely outside the walls and away from danger.

He inched toward the opening of the service passage.

It was just as Marjory described, a tunnel from the pantry to the great hall.

He wasn't sure what he expected to do. It wasn't as if he had training for this kind of thing.

But his desire to avenge Grania burned brightly, and if he could help Marjory in the process, then so much the better.

He'd spent his life taking the high road, avoiding emotional commitment of any kind. But all that had changed.

With a deep breath, he tightened his grip on his claymore and cautiously stepped into the great room. A great carved screen kept him hidden from view, but allowed him to see.

There were men everywhere. The noise from their weapons was almost deafening.

They battled fiercely, standing on tables and benches as well as the floor.

Across the room, Fingal, bandage and all, was twisting expertly to and fro, avoiding the sharp blade of a huge man with bright red hair.

Fingal faked a lunge to the left and when the man followed the lead, shifted right, and brought his sword in for the kill. His opponent died instantly.

With a grimace of satisfaction, Marjory's captain turned to help another man who had been backed into a corner. It was hard to tell who was who, but it looked like the Macphersons had the upper hand, at least for the moment.

Cameron searched the room for Allen and Torcall.

There was no sign of either of them. Fingal had moved to engage Dougall in front of the fireplace.

Even with his injury, the man was more than holding his own.

The two Scottsmen danced around the edge of the room, coming within a few yards of the screen.

Dougall resembled some prehistoric reptile, his big head bobbing slightly with each jab and thrust, his body programmed to fight.

Cameron cautiously stuck his head around the screen.

Fingal gave a slight nod in recognition.

Cameron mouthed the word 'Allen'. Fingal parried a thrust and jerked his head toward the spiral stairs leading up to the family chambers.

With a terse nod of thanks, Cameron headed for the stairs, keeping his back to the wall.

Dougall seeing an opportunity, leaped at Fingal, his sword in one hand and a lethal looking dagger in the other. Almost without thinking, Cameron swung his claymore in a high arc over his head, the force of blade reverberating up his arm. Dougall fell to the ground.

Two down.

Fingal nodded once in thanks, then turned back to the battle.

Cameron crossed the remaining distance. The quiet of the stairwell was unnerving after the din of the great hall.

He stopped for a moment, blowing out a breath in an effort to calm his jangled nerves.

He felt a moment's anguish at the thought that he had actually taken two human lives, but it was short lived.

Dangerous times called for dangerous actions.

At the top of the stairs, Cameron hesitated. If Allen was up here, he wanted to be ready. There was no question who the better swordsman was. If he had a prayer, it would only be if he kept the element of surprise on his side.

Unbidden, the thought of Marjory's father's shield popped into his head. A shield would go a long way toward helping him defend himself, although he wasn't certain he could manage the claymore with one hand. Still, he thought, better to have it available, than to dismiss it entirely.

All he had to do was make it across the hall undetected. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his courage and dashed across the corridor into the bedroom, immediately dropping into a low crouch, claymore at the ready.

Shifting slightly to survey the room, he relaxed his sword arm.

The room was empty. Trying to keep noise to a minimum, he crossed to the chest and opened it.

The shield was lying on top, wrapped in a square of plaid.

Shifting the claymore to one hand, he lifted the shield reverently from the chest. Holding it aloft, he was amazed at how little it weighed.

Carefully balancing the shield in his left hand, he made a practice swing with the sword in his right.

It was heavy and more awkward than a two handed thrust would have been, but he thought he could manage.

Maybe. He practiced a few more times, shifting and dodging as though he were fighting an imaginary opponent.

"Are ye ready fer a real fight, then?"

Cameron jerked around. Allen leaned insolently against the door frame, his claymore extending from his body almost as if it were an extension of his arm. "I knew if I waited long enough ye'd come to find me." The feral gleam in Allen's eye was unsettling.

"Where's Torcall?"

Allen's mouth split into a thin lipped imitation of a smile. "He's no' here." He advanced a step into the room. "'Tis just you and me, brother ."

"That's all o' them then." Marjory stood with Cook as they watched the last of the women wade into the water. "You're next."

The older woman turned, her eyes wide with concern. "Aren't ye coming?"

"Nay, I'll be of more use here."

"But yer a woman."

Marjory smiled. "So they say, but I can wield a sword as well as most men and, at this point, I dinna think they're likely to stop the battle because a woman has joined the fighting." Her smile faded. "Besides, there are people I love in there. I canna just walk away and leave them."

The woman laid a firm hand on Marjory's arm. "But he willna thank ye fer putting yerself in danger."

She shook off the hand. "I've no care what he thinks. 'Tis Aimil and Fingal I'm speaking of. They're still in there somewhere and I owe it to them to try and make sure they're all right. And I owe it to myself to try and protect the land my father left me."

"But 'tis only land, Marjory, surely it isna worth dying fer." Cook peered anxiously into her face.

"'Tis my legacy. My father would expect me to keep it safe. Now, off with you. You canna change my mind and you'll only be in the way here."

She hesitated, indecision marring her normally pleasant features.

"I said, be gone."

With a sigh the older woman hoisted her skirts and waded into the water. The first of the women had already disappeared around the end of the wall. Satisfied that they were as safe as they could be.

With a sigh, Marjory turned back to the tower.

It was time to avenge her father.