Page 135 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

The great hall fell silent. Roy remained kneeling for one moment longer, with his head lowered above the dead man. Then Donaldina crossed the blood-stained rushes and placed her hand upon his shoulder. He looked up at her.

Beyond them, the joined banners still hung above the ruined altar.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Outside, the garden still burned in places. Flames clung low among the broken hives, feeding upon spilled wax, dry heather and splintered timber. Smoke rolled over the eastern wall in gray sheets, stinging Roy’s eyes and carrying the heavy sweetness of scorched honey across the grounds.

The scent was wrong. Honey ought to have belonged to sunlight, warm bread and Donaldina’s hands moving carefully among living bees. Here, mingled with wet ash and burned wood, the sweetness had become almost sickening.

MacIver and MacNicol men formed a line between the well and the garden. Buckets were passed quickly, amid shouted commands. Red and green plaids moved in unison through the smoke, blending together under soot and water. One man used his cloak to beat out sparks on the grass, while another pulled a burning frame away from the rosemary hedge before the fire could spread to the outer wall.

A MacIver warrior slipped in the mud. Two MacNicol men caught him before he fell and shoved the emptied bucket back into his hands.

No one paused to consider which clan had given the command. They simply obeyed it.

Roy stood near the gate, his sword still in his hand. Blood had dried beneath his torn sleeve. The wound in his shoulder burned each time he moved, while a deeper ache had begun spreading down his arm. He ignored both.

Pain could wait. The castle could not.

“The northern ground is clear,” Malcolm reported as he crossed the courtyard. His hair hung wet against his forehead, and soot darkened one side of his face. “Two men fled beyond the marker stones. The patrol followed far enough tae see them enter the trees.”

“Nae farther.”

“They are wounded.”

“And may be drawing us from the walls.”

Malcolm’s jaw tightened. He looked toward the dark line of forest beyond the gate, plainly disliking the order. Then he nodded.

“Call the men back. Double the northern watch and place archers above the side entrance.”

Malcolm turned away. Hamish reached Roy a moment later. One sleeve had been torn entirely from his formal coat, and one eyebrow had been singed nearly away.

“Three attackers taken alive,” he informed him. “Five dead within the hall. Two more near the service passage.”

“The guests?”

“Being counted. One envoy is missing, though his horse remains in the stable.”

“Find him.”

Hamish glanced toward Roy’s shoulder. “And ye should find the healer.”

“I have.”

“Where?”

Roy looked toward the hall. Hamish muttered something uncomplimentary but followed his gaze.

The great doors stood open. Smoke drifted through them, thinner now, carrying the metallic scent of blood and the crushed-green smell of trampled rushes. Guards escorted shaken guests into the courtyard while servants carried the wounded toward the lower chambers. A woman knelt near the wall with a child pressed against her chest. Two elders stood beneath the archway, staring at their bloodied hands as though uncertain how they had come to hold swords.

Then Donaldina appeared. Malcolm walked beside her, though she required no support. Her green wedding gown was torn at one shoulder. Soot darkened the hem, and blood marked one sleeve, though Roy could not tell whether it belonged to her.

Her hair had almost entirely escaped its ceremonial arrangement. Winter heather still clung to one dark strand near her temple.

She looked across the courtyard. She found him at once. Something in her face broke not into fear, but relief so naked it struck him harder than any blade Cormac had raised.

Roy crossed the courtyard before thought could restrain him. Donaldina moved toward him at the same time. He caught her arms.