“Once all the men inside gather around Father Brian, we’ll go in as quietly as we can,” he said to his father and Niall. “If Sileas is in the hall, we’ll take her and be gone before most of them notice we’re there.”
Or so he hoped.
“If she’s not in the hall…” Ian swallowed at the thought of what that would mean. “Then Niall and da will guard the stairs while I go up and fetch her.”
It was a poor plan, but he could think of none better.
Father Brian said a quick prayer for them, and they all made the sign of the cross. As Ian and the priest carried the cart up the steps of the keep, he turned to watch his father crossing the bailey yard. Seeing how slowly his father moved, he feared he was leading all the men of his family to their deaths.
“God is on our side.” The priest patted Ian’s arm as he spoke, then opened the door and wheeled his cart inside, calling, “Good evening to ye, MacKinnons!”
Ian waited a few moments, every muscle taut, before he eased the door open and slipped inside. No guard was posted at the door—or if there was one, he had left his post to join the throng of men gathered around Father Brian and his barrel. When Niall poked his head inside, Ian waved him forward and moved along the wall into the shadows.
He scanned the dimly lit hall, searching for Sileas. There were fifty MacKinnon men in the hall, to his four, but there were almost no women—and Sileas was not among them. His stomach tightened when he realized that Angus and Murdoc were also missing from the hall.
His eyes went back to one of the women. What was Dina doing here? Her gaze was fixed on him. His muscles tensed as he waited for her to give them away.
After glancing about her, Dina removed the torch from the wall bracket beside her and dropped the torch onto the rushes on the floor. Then she met Ian’s eyes again and nodded toward the stairs.
She was telling him they had Sileas upstairs.
As he ran through the arched doorway to the stairs, the rushes were already beginning to flame. The spiral of the stone staircase was built clockwise to give the advantage to the defender, who could swing his sword arm freely, while a right-handed attacker going up had his sword arm cramped against the middle of the spiral. The advantage was lost, however, when the attacker had taught himself to swing equally either way. As Ian sprinted up the stairs, he shifted his sword to his left hand.
Other footsteps echoed above him. An instant later, a huge man barreled into him, sending them both tumbling down the stairs. When Ian saw that the man on top of him was Angus MacKinnon, rage nearly blinded him.
“What have ye done to her?” he shouted, as he plunged his dirk into Angus’s gut.
Angus was strong, but he fought with wild, panicked punches, as if he were mad. In no time, Ian was sitting on Angus’s chest with his dirk at the man’s throat.
“I asked what ye have done with my wife.” Ian pressed his blade against Angus’s throat until he drew blood.
“I saw her ghost!” Angus cried out. “It was hovering over me.”
Ian’s heart stopped in his chest. He had feared they would rape Sileas, but he’d never thought they would murder her.
He heard an eerie, unnatural sound, and a coldness passed over him. God, no. Don’t let her be dead! Ian slashed his blade across Angus’s throat and ran up the stairs.
When he reached the next floor, the open door from the stairs led into a large bedchamber. Through it, he saw a man leaning over the bed, a woman’s bare knee, and a bit of bright blue fabric hanging over the side of the bed. The blue was the same shade as the gown Sileas was wearing when last he saw her.
White hot rage pounded through him. With a roar, he burst into the bedchamber swinging his claymore.
CHAPTER 39
Murdoc clamped his hand over Sileas’s mouth as she fought to get out from under him. She could not hear the Green Lady’s weeping over his harsh breathing.
Even the castle’s ghost had deserted her.
“Your mother was a weak vessel,” Murdoc said. “Poking her was dull work. But a lively lass like you will surely give me a strong son.”
Murdoc suddenly released her as a murderous war cry rolled through the room like a thunderclap. Relief washed over her.
Ian had come for her.
Murdoc spun and drew his sword with lightning quickness. Although he blocked Ian’s thrust from reaching his heart, blood seeped down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his shirt. The clank of swords filled the room as the two men moved back and forth.
Sileas hugged her knees to her chest as she watched and prayed.
Ian looked glorious, with his dark hair flying, and his blue eyes as piercing as a hawk dropping from the sky for a kill. The muscles of his body clenched and released as he swung the heavy two-handed sword in deadly, rhythmic arcs.
Behind the controlled violence, she felt Ian’s pulsing rage. Time and again, he attacked, his blade slicing through the air with lethal force. Another slash and blood ran from the top of Murdoc’s thigh, near his groin. Another, and his shoulder bled. Yet Murdoc fought his way back each time. He was a strong man and an experienced warrior, and he was fighting for his life. The men grunted with the effort of their swings.
Blood sprayed the bed as the fight moved closer. When Murdoc fell backward against the bed, she scrambled to get out of his way. But Murdoc’s arm shot out, and she shrieked as he caught her ankle in an iron grip.
“Arrgh!” Murdoc screamed as Ian’s sword went through his belly, pinning him to the bed. In quick successive moves, Ian grabbed Murdoc by the hair, drew his dirk across Murdoc’s throat, and pulled his sword from Murdoc’s
