“He’s not alone,” Brodie bit out. “He’s found an ally in the McGrieves. They ride side by side with him, and they bring their army.”
Bowen swore. “How many?”
“I don’t know. They are but a fifteen-minute ride from the keep. The McHugh watchmen came in bearing the news that their laird returned. I had to tell the fools to prepare for war.”
Bowen ground his teeth together until they nearly snapped under the pressure. “Spread word that McHugh comes to battle his own kin. Remind them of all he has stolen from them, and of the dishonor that he bestowed on their name. Tell them he has a bounty, and that any who side with him are enemy not only to the Montgomerys and Armstrongs but to the Crown as well. Look out for any traitors—and watch your back, my friend.”
Brodie caught his arm as they clasped hands in a warrior’s shake. “Aye, and you as well.”
Bowen broke away and shouted harshly to his men to ready themselves. Then he called up to the tower watchman.
“Do you see them yet?”
“Aye, Laird!” the man called down. “They are topping the last rise to the keep, coming from the north.”
Bowen turned, sword in hand, raising it above his head as he stared at the assembled troops.
“No mercy!”
“No mercy!” they roared back.
Genevieve frantically pulled on a simple day dress, not bothering with any underclothing. Her hands and knees shook until she was a clumsy mess and she wanted to scream in frustration.
“Genevieve, we are under attack!”
Taliesan’s fearful cry from Genevieve’s chamber door gave Genevieve a start. She whirled around, nearly tripping as she attempted to fasten her dress.
“Aye, I know it. Help me,” she said grimly, offering her back to Taliesan.
Taliesan’s fingers shook as she fastened the dress. As soon as she was done, Genevieve broke away and went to the small trunk positioned close to her pallet. She’d managed to keep so few of her things. Ian had taunted her with the gifts from her parents. Not many had survived, but what did remain, she cherished greatly. He’d taken great pleasure in breaking or ruining an object when he perceived she needed punishing.
She opened the trunk and pulled out the bow and the quiver of arrows fashioned especially for her smaller frame by her father. She slung the quiver over her shoulder as Taliesan looked on, mouth wide open.
When she started past Taliesan, the other woman put her hand out, gripping Genevieve’s arm.
“Where are you going? What do you think to do?”
Genevieve squared her shoulders and looked Taliesan directly in the eye. “Listen to me. Go and seek refuge in one of the tower chambers. Make sure it’s a room with no windows—and bar the door. Seek as many of the women and children as possible, and encourage them to do the same. Do not allow anyone inside who is not known to you.”
“And you?” Taliesan asked fearfully. “What of you, Genevieve?”
“I will not be imprisoned again,” Genevieve said fiercely. “The Montgomery men are all who stand between me and the McHugh Laird bearing down, seeking to reclaim his keep. I’ll either aid the Montgomerys in defending their position or I’ll die trying. I’ll never again be subjected to the whims of a single McHugh.”
“Have a care, Genevieve. I beg you. Do not do anything foolish.”
Genevieve snorted. “I would hardly call killing a few McHughs foolish.”
“God be with you,” Taliesan said, pulling Genevieve into a fierce hug.
“And you,” Genevieve returned. “Now go and seek shelter in the tower.”
She swept past Taliesan and hurried down the hall to the stairs. As she descended, the sounds of battle could be heard echoing through the courtyard. The clash of swords and shields. The roars of rage and cries of pain.
As she stepped through the doorway, the smell of sweat and blood tainted the air and was oppressive in her nostrils.
The courtyard was a sea of chaos. It was hard to discern who fought whom. Her gaze sought out the now familiar Montgomery and Armstrong warriors, though their numbers were smaller than just a day before.
Patrick, being the coward he was, likely had set a watch on the keep and had attacked the moment the bulk of the Montgomery and Armstrong forces departed.
Her gaze halted when she found Bowen in the midst of a fierce battle with two of the McHughs who had departed with Patrick. He was holding his own, though, and didn’t need her aid.
She searched farther, looking for Patrick, though she didn’t expect him to be in front leading the attack. Nay, he’d be on the fringes, avoiding confrontation.
Finally, she found him and, as she suspected, he was lurking on the perimeter, sword in hand, but he wasn’t engaged, and two of his warriors were solidly in front of him.
Rage suffused her as she stared at the source of her torment for the last year. Nay, he may not have taken an active part in her abuse, but he turned a blind eye to Ian. He never once called his son down for his actions. Never said to him he was being dishonorable.
He’d stood by while she’d been repeatedly used, a means for Ian to slake his twisted desires. He hadn’t cared that she’d been broken numerous times. That, at times, she’d wanted to die. Or that her very soul had been forfeit to demons she could never hope to escape.
She reached over her shoulder to grasp one of the arrows by the fletching and quickly notched it. She raised the bow and set her sights on the man in front of Patrick. She would have to act quickly. Once Patrick sensed danger, he’d slink away like a rat in the darkness.
Rapidly taking aim, she let the first arrow fly. Savage satisfaction coursed through her veins when the warrior just in front of Patrick clutched his chest and toppled forward, her arrow embedded deeply in the area just above where his chain mail protected his vulnerable areas.
Patrick sent a panicked look, desperately searching for the source of the attack. He instantly hunkered down, cowering behind his shield, all the while hoarsely yelling for someone to come to his aid.
Her lips curling into a snarl, she notched another arrow and took aim, waiting patiently for the right opportunity.
Sweat beaded and rolled down her back. Her entire focus was on her target. Her arm ached from the strain of holding the bow at full draw, but she’d wait forever if that was what it took.
Revenge was sweet on her tongue. She didn’t spare a moment’s regret for killing another person in cold blood. It was nothing less than she’d done in her dreams time and time again. It was all that had sustained her over the last months. Dreaming of vengeance.
Her arm was starting to shake when Patrick made his move. He’d evidently decided that he was in too vulnerable a position and shot upward, holding his shield to guard his upper body. He fled toward the back of the keep, where less fighting was taking place.
Calmly, she took aim at his leg, knowing it would slow him and it would also likely afford her a kill shot when he was forced to drop his shield.
She shot the arrow and was rewarded by the sight of him stumbling and dropping to his knees, his cry of agony rising above the din of battle. It struck him just above the ankle and rendered him incapable of walking. She notched another arrow, never removing her gaze from his fallen figure. She drew and waited, and, as she’d hoped, his shield dropped. Just enough …
She let the arrow fly.
It struck him in the side of the neck, going all the way through to the fletching. His eyes wide and glassy with death, he pitched to the side, sagging pitifully, wilting like a flower too long in the sun.
For a long moment, she stood, bow held high, staring as the life faded from his body. Then, slowly, she lowered her bow, calm pervading her mind.
It was done. She may not have been the one to deal Ian his death blow, but she’d exacted vengeance against his weakling of a father. If she was supposed to feel guilt over the taking of a life, it was too bad. She wouldn’t spend a single moment being remorseful that Patrick McHugh had met such a violent end.
The continued sounds of battle seeped into her consciousness, and she turned, anxiously seeking the fate of the Montgomery and Armstrong forces.
Brodie was leading a group of Armstrong warriors, and they were steadily slashing a bloody path through the McHugh and McGrieve combatants.
Her gaze swung rapidly around the courtyard to determine Bowen’s fate. Her heart lurched when she saw him in the distance, engaged in a fierce sword battle with a huge warrior who could only be from the McGrieve clan. It was not someone she recognized.
But what made her chest tight was the McHugh man behind Bowen. He was not one of the ones who’d left the clan with Patrick. He had stayed behind and had since sworn allegiance to Bowen and the Montgomerys.
He was a traitor.
Clutched tightly in his hand was a dagger, and he was advancing warily toward Bowen’s back. The loathsome coward was going to plunge the knife into Bowen’s back, attacking him in the most dishonorable fashion.
It was a distant shot, and one she couldn’t be assured of making with perfect accuracy. This was too important to miss or fall short.
Kicking up her skirts, she notched an arrow and bolted across the courtyard, praying she would make the shot in time to save Bowen.
Chapter 15
Bowen ignored the pain radiating from his side and his shoulder and fought with more savagery. This was his toughest opponent thus far, and the man showed no signs of tiring. Bowen would have to end it quickly or all his reserves would be used up, and he was already injured from his previous battles.
Their swords hissed and clanged, the sun bouncing off the blades in a rapid dance. Bowen drove him back, but then the bigger man charged, swinging like a crazed person, bellowing the entire way.
Bowen retreated but managed to slice his opponent’s upper arm, drawing blood and momentarily halting his progress. As the other man warily stepped back, pivoting to ensure Bowen didn’t gain position, movement caught Bowen’s eye and he glanced beyond his opponent to see Genevieve a short distance away, holding, of all things, a bow with an arrow notched. And she was pointing it directly at him!
Before he could react or think to avoid the coming arrow, she let fly. His snarl of fury over the betrayal roared from his throat just as the arrow sailed past him. A cry of pain sounded behind him.
Thrusting his sword upward to ward off the coming blow, he drove forward, determined to end the fight here and now. His mind was ablaze, and he was confused as hell as to what Genevieve had done.
He never had the chance. Before he could deal the killing blow, Genevieve notched another arrow and sent one into the back of his opponent’s neck. The arrow plunged directly through his Adam’s apple, coated in bright red blood.
An odd, sucking noise gurgled from the McGrieve warrior, and blood seeped from his mouth just before he toppled forward like a felled tree.
Bowen instantly spun to see that a McHugh clansman—one who had not fled the keep with Patrick—held a dagger in his hand and it was obvious that he’d planned to plunge it into Bowen’s back.
Genevieve’s arrow had struck him through the forehead—an impossible target at best—and yet she’d made not one but two lethal shots with her bow.
The McHugh betrayer was suspended in air for the longest time, his eyes glazed and gray, until finally he sagged and folded like a dropped blanket, the knife slipping from his grasp just before he hit the ground.
The earth shifted beneath Bowen’s feet and he swayed precariously, his head spinning. And then Genevieve was at his side, shouting for aid.
She drove her shoulder forcefully under his, fitting it into his armpit as she valiantly kept him from tumbling to the ground. Jesu, but he must have lost more blood than he’d imagined.
He nearly toppled them both, but her stubbornness prevailed. He heard her muttered oaths and smiled at the lass’s colorful language. She had quite the saucy mouth.
“Give aid to your laird!” she bellowed in a voice that carried across the courtyard.
One of his eyebrows went up at her forceful command. The lass would do well leading troops in battle. A man would have to be a fool to gainsay a woman with a growl like hers.
“Ah hell, Bowen, you’ve gone and managed to injure yourself.”
Brodie’s aggrieved voice echoed close to Bowen’s ears, but he lacked the energy to look up and find Brodie’s position.
“The lass saved me,” he said faintly, thinking that if he were to die Genevieve should at least be credited with prolonging his life a few more minutes.
“You’ll not die,” Genevieve snapped. “ ’Tis a paltry wound at best.”
“Now she mocks my pain,” Bowen said mildly.
Brodie’s face appeared in front of Bowen, worried, his eyes crinkled with concern. “You’re not making any sense. Babbling about like a drunken sot. And you’re bleeding like a slaughtered pig.”
“Am I?”
He looked down, surprised to see the entire front of his tunic turned scarlet. Then he tightened his jaw, bracing himself against the pain.
“I’ll not rest until every last McHugh is driven from this place,” Bowen vowed.
“They are retreating,” Brodie assured. “We suffered minimal losses. When ’twas obvious we were well represented, despite our smaller numbers, the McHughs and McGrieves beat a hasty retreat. Our men are pursuing them to our borders now.”
The matter-of-fact accounting soothed Bowen’s agitation and pain. The world was spinning with increasing frequency, and he feared losing consciousness before he could ask the most pressing question.
He opened his mouth, but it had gone dry. He licked his cracked lips, sudden thirst gripping him.
“Patrick,” he said hoarsely. “What of Patrick?”