She shook her head. “The Lady Sabrina is not Logan’s hostage, Andrew.”
Though he kept his back to her, she saw the way his head came up sharply.
“I heard him call her his wife.”
He did turn then. The look in his eyes was frightening to see. “He forced her into marriage?”
Gwenellen shrank from his fury. If she’d had any doubt about his feelings for his father’s widow, they were now gone. His hands were clenched into fists. His entire body seemed to stiffen with repressed rage.
“From what I observed, the decision was mutually agreed upon.” She turned away. “I leave you now, Andrew.”
He caught her arm and spun her around. “Are you telling me that she is not his captive, but his willing partner in this?”
When Gwenellen said nothing Andrew gave a curt nod of his head. “It’s as I’d suspected. She was the spy in our camp. She used me, and then my father, to further Logan’s ambition.”
Gwenellen could feel tears stinging her eyes. This time, she told herself, they weren’t tears of sorrow, but of anger. She lifted her head, determined to get through this with as much dignity as possible. “Now you know why your father fought so hard to keep you from running off to rescue her. I suppose this was also why he was so determined to keep you from learning the truth. He knew you were still in love with her, and he wanted to spare your poor heart from yet another blow.”
“Is that what you think?” He took a step closer. “I can see that you’ve been gossiping with the servants, my lady. They would know, of course, that my father and I had harsh words before his wedding. But they wouldn’t know what we fought about.”
“I should think that was plain enough.”
“Nay. They only think they know. In truth, I had learned that Sabrina had used me to get to my father. I warned him, but he was so besotted by her, he refused to listen.”
At a shout from his men he looked over.
A long column of warriors could be seen at the top of a distant meadow. The size of the army sent a ripple of fear among the villagers.
Andrew gave a hiss of impatience as he closed his fingers around her upper arm and drew her close. “I must join my men now. But before you leave me, I want you to know that with you I had finally found true happiness. And for that I will be eternally grateful. Now go, Imp. And know this. I do not fear death, now that I’ve tasted your love. Knowing that you’re safe in the Mystical Kingdom will make my dying easier.”
He brushed her lips with a quick, hard kiss.
And then he strode off across the meadow, the jeweled hilt of his sword glinting in the sunlight.
Gwenellen knew that she’d never loved him as much as she did in that moment. She knew, too, that she would carry the image of this proud, courageous warrior in her heart forever.
Chapter Eighteen
“Oh, my lady.” Mistress MacLean stood in the courtyard wringing her hands. “Where have you been? I’ve had servants searching the entire abbey for you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I even went to the old abbey library, thinking you might be there.”
“That was very brave of you, Mistress.” Gwenellen studied the woman’s flushed face. “Did you see anything…unusual there?”
“Nay, my lady. It was merely dark and dusty.”
“There was no book on the floor? Nothing glowing in the darkness?”
The housekeeper looked at her as though she were daft. “I saw nothing out of place, my lady. Now, as sad as it is for me to say this, you must do as the laird ordered and take your leave of Ross Abbey.”
“Aye. In a moment.” Gwenellen glanced toward the garden. “I would bid the old laird goodbye.”
The housekeeper shot a look at the village lad, who stood holding the reins of two horses. Before she could argue Gwenellen had caught up her skirts and was racing toward the graves.
The housekeeper started after her. “Please, my lady. The laird has said…” Mistress MacLean’s words trailed off as she saw Gwenellen pause beside the old laird’s grave and hold out her hands, as though greeting someone.
The older woman shrank back as she heard Gwenellen’s voice.
“Oh, my laird. At last.” Her tone became accusing. “Where have you been?”
Morgan Ross brushed a kiss over her cheek and squeezed her outstretched hands. “I’ve been resting, lass. It takes a great deal of energy to reach across our two worlds. I knew I had to save my strength for this day.”
“Right now Andrew is in the meadow, awaiting the arrival of Fergus Logan’s army. An army that outnumbers his ten to one.”
“I know that, lass. Andrew makes me so proud. He’s the most fearless warrior I’ve ever known. Braver even than I was at his age.”
“But he’s going to die. As are all his men. Is there nothing we can do to save him?”
The old laird scratched his chin, as though thinking aloud. ”‘Twould take superhuman powers to defeat an army of that size. Now if someone could figure out how to make Andrew’s men fly…”
Her head came up. “Fly? What good would that do?”
“What good would it do, you ask? Think about it, lass. Logan’s swordsmen would thrust with their blades, only to find their opponents leaping out of the way, over their heads, and dropping behind them to attack. ‘Twould be hard to defeat such an enemy. Especially since there are those who would be terrified after witnessing such amazing feats of magic.” He chuckled. “I fear many of Logan’s brave warriors might flee in terror before facing such…gifted opponents.”
“Then you believe there’s a chance?”
“I do, lass. Of course, it would take powerful magic to make an entire village of men fly.” He winked. “Do ye know anyone with such power, who just might have as much courage as my son?”
Gwenellen thought about it a moment before nodding her head. “I might know such a person. Though she’s never before had any luck with her spells.”
“That’s my lass.” He gave her a dazzling smile.
She stepped closer and threw her arms around his neck. “Wish me luck, my laird.”
Against her cheek he whispered, “Luck has nothing to do with it, lass. All ye need is faith in ye’rself.”
When she stepped back, she could feel a soft, misty dampness on her cheek.
She turned and began to run. “Mistress MacLean.”
The housekeeper stepped from her place of concealment, fighting to school her features. The poor lass was addled. There was no other explanation for what she’d witnessed. Standing at a gravesite, speaking in excited tones to no one, and then throwing her arms out, as if embracing the air. “It’s time you did as the laird commanded, and took your leave of this place, my lady. For the sight of all this death and destruction has been too much for you.”
“There’s no time, Mistress.” Gwenellen’s mind was awhirl with plans. “I want you to summon the women to the courtyard with every bucket and basin and tub they can carry.”
“Whatever for?”
“Just do it, Mistress.” Gwenellen caught up her skirts and started toward the old section of the abbey. “I’ll be right back. There’s something I need to fetch.”
“My laird.” One of the lads shouted to Andrew, who stood in the midst of the village men.
“Aye. What is it?”
“There. Look, my laird.”
Andrew turned, and could do nothing more than gape at the sight that greeted him. Gwenellen was running across the meadow, with the village women and lasses dancing close behind. Sunlight glinted off the things they held in their hands.
“What the devil?” Muttering a string of rich, ripe oaths, Andrew strode forward. “You would dare to defy me a second time, woman?”
“Aye, my lord.” She paused a moment to catch her breath. “I had no choice.”
“No choice?” He pointed to the line of warriors drawing close. “Soon enough, you’ll have no life. Is this what you want for yourself and these helpless women?”
“The
y’re not helpless, Andrew. Nor are you. Look.” She held out the book.
While he stared in astonishment, the pages began flipping, one after another, until they suddenly stopped.
“What is this trickery…?”
“It’s magic, Andrew.” She touched a finger to the page. “Now gather your men around me.”
“And why would I do that?”
She smiled. Though her lips trembled slightly, it was from exertion, rather than from fear. A sense of calm had descended upon her the moment she’d agreed to accept the challenge offered by the old laird. “I spoke with your father, and he showed me the way to defeat the enemy. Now I will share it with all of you. Together we can win, even against these incredible odds.”
“Look, Fergus.” Sabrina pointed to the figures gathered in the meadow. “Andrew Ross is so desperate, he even has the village women prepared to do battle.”
Behind her the warriors broke into gales of laughter. As they drew closer and caught sight of the weapons, their laughter grew more raucous.
“Look at that. Buckets,” shouted a grizzled old warrior.
“Aye. And basins,” called a muscled youth.
“Farm implements,” sneered a bearded giant.
Fergus Logan turned in the saddle and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Do those peasants think to stop us with such as these?”
That brought another round of laughter as the warriors unsheathed their swords and removed small, sharp dirks from boots and waistbands.
As they formed a solid wall of bodies and began the final march, their laughter faded. Their faces reflected the seriousness of what they were about to do. Though they didn’t relish taking on women and old men, they would do the bidding of their laird. And they would, as day turned into evening, turn this meadow into a field of blood.
Andrew stood at the head of his ragtag army of men and lads, old women and lasses. He studied the line of warriors facing them. From this distance he could see the smirks on the faces of Fergus Logan and the stunning woman mounted beside him, who rode at the head of the army.
Surely, Andrew thought, he’d lost his mind. What else could explain the fact that he was exposing an entire village of good people to such a fate? They deserved better than this. But here he was, trusting their safety to a beguiling but muzzy-minded witch, who had never once managed a spell that would work. They might all end up floating in a loch. Or falling down some terrible, endless pit. Still, he had nothing better to offer them. The worst that would happen was that they would all die this day on the field of battle as they’d originally feared. Surely that was better than being enslaved by a monster like Fergus Logan.
He straightened his spine.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Gwenellen set the book down in a patch of heather before walking to his side and closing her hand in his. “Believe, Andrew.”
“I’ll try. But if I should die this day, Imp, there is something you should know. I really…”
Seeing a signal pass between Logan and his warriors, she shook her head. “There’s no time, my lord. It begins.”
Andrew used one arm to shove Gwenellen behind him. Then he faced his enemy. “Advance, Fergus Logan, and taste my sword. Or do you intend to hide behind your warriors?”
“I’ve no need to hide.” Logan held out his hand to the woman seated on the horse beside his.
With a smile Sabrina placed her hand on his sleeve.
Logan’s voice chilled. His smile faded. “The lady Sabrina and I are here to be entertained by my men.”
At a signal from him his army let out a fierce roar, guaranteed to freeze the hearts of their enemies as they raced toward the villagers, swords at the ready. For their part the villagers stood in complete silence, awaiting a sign from their leader.
Andrew waited until the first swordsman was upon him before giving a shrill whistle.
Gwenellen lifted her arms, chanting the words from the book. There was a sound, as though a great rush of wind, and Andrew, along with the entire company of villagers was lifted over the heads of their attackers.
For a full minute there was a stunned silence from their opponents. Then, as Logan’s men recovered their wits, they began screaming and shouting in fear.
“Witchcraft,” someone called.
“Aye. ‘Tis the work of the devil.” A bearded warrior crossed himself and dropped to his knees in terror. At that very moment one of the village women sailed past him and knocked him senseless with her bucket, which was weighted with water.
Several village lads used their farm implements like clubs, knocking warriors to the ground, before sailing out of reach.
A tall warrior managed to grasp Olnore’s foot as she flew over his head. At her cries a cluster of women swooped at him brandishing basins of sand which they tossed in his eyes. While he cursed and blinked, they pulled Olnore free and drifted out of reach.
A cluster of Logan’s warriors banded together and began tossing their knives at passing lads, hoping to bring them down. One of the lads, Paine, let out a howl, and began dropping to the ground. Before the warriors could grab him he was snatched up by Andrew, who handed him over to Lloyd.
“Carry him out of harm’s way and see to his wound,” he called before returning to the battle.
He turned in time to see Gwenellen sailing to the aid of Mistress MacLean, whose skirts had been snagged by the branches of a tree. As he aided in freeing her he muttered, “One of the pitfalls of flying, I suppose.”
“Aye.” The housekeeper giggled. “Though I must say I can’t quite believe what I’m doing.”
“Nor I,” he admitted before turning away.
Logan sat astride his horse, watching the scene of chaos unfolding before him. The smile of victory had long ago been wiped from his lips.
His army was in shambles. Men were dropping to their knees in fear. Others were tossing aside their weapons and fleeing to the nearby forest, with shouts of witchcraft and devilment on their lips. Even the bravest among them, who had fought in the cruelest of battles, were afraid for their lives, for this was a new kind of enemy, and they had no idea how to defend themselves.
He turned to his most trusted warrior. “This is madness. Call back our army.” To Sabrina he shouted, “We must join those who are fleeing, else we will fall under this witch’s spell.”
Sabrina had just taken up her reins when Fergus Logan saw the golden-haired witch rushing to the assistance of a village wench who had fallen to the ground.
Seeing his chance, he nudged his steed into a gallop and reached down, scooping up Gwenellen.
“Nay. Release me.” Though she scratched and bit and struggled, she was no match for this man’s strength.
In the blink of an eye he pulled his knife from his waist and pressed it against her throat.
His voice carried over the meadow, to the place where Andrew was just dispatching the last of the enemy warriors. “Andrew Ross. You will toss aside your own weapon and order your people to do the same, before kneeling in the grass, or the woman dies.”
Andrew looked up to see Gwenellen in his enemy’s arms. With a sense of horror he noted the knife at her throat, and the thin line of blood already staining the bodice of her gown.
The sight of it had his own blood freezing in his veins as he threw down his sword.
One by one, as the villagers saw what was happening to Gwenellen, they tossed aside their buckets and basins, their tubs and farm implements before floating to earth and dropping to their knees in the grass.
In quick strides Andrew made his way to where Fergus Logan sat astride his mount. “Release the woman, Logan.”
Fergus threw back his head and laughed. A cruel, chilling sound that sent fear through the hearts of all who heard it. “Aye. I’ll release the woman. When it pleases me.” His voice hardened. “But first you will taste my justice, for I have long awaited this day.”
He thrust his sword with such strength the tip passed through the fle
sh of Andrew’s shoulder, sending him staggering backward, where he dropped to his knees in the grass.
Gwenellen’s cry of horror pierced the silence.
With teeth clenched against the agony, Andrew pulled the weapon free, causing a river of blood to spill from the gaping wound. He was in too much pain and shock to do more than let the bloody sword drop from his nerveless fingers as he struggled to his feet.
Logan laughed again. A shrill, frightening sound of madness that was echoed by Sabrina, who seemed completely unmoved by the bloodshed.
His words were equally frightening. “Now, Andrew Ross, before I’m through with you and this woman, you’ll rue the day you ever heard the name Fergus Logan.”
Chapter Nineteen
The villagers, who had been so jubilant scant minutes before, now went eerily silent as they watched the horrifying scene unfolding before them.
All their lives they had heard tales about the monster, Fergus Logan, and his cruelty toward anyone who dared to defy him. They had no doubt he would enjoy killing the young woman who had caused his humiliation. Especially if her death should bring pain to his sworn enemy. And then he would complete the cruel torture of their laird until he joined Gwenellen in death.
Andrew swayed, determined to remain standing before his enemy. He pressed a hand to the wound. Blood spilled through his fingers and ran down his arm.
A boiling, impotent rage seethed within him. “Your war is not with this woman.”
“Nay. But I have the sense that she means something to you.” Fergus watched Andrew closely as he tightened his grasp on Gwenellen and pressed the razor-sharp blade to her throat until she cried out. Seeing the flare of nostrils, and the quick flash of quiet rage in his opponent’s eyes, he threw back his head and roared. “You needn’t say a word, Andrew Ross. Your face tells me all I need to know.”
He turned to the haughty woman beside him. “How quickly he changes allegiance, my love. It would seem the reason he didn’t come seeking your release is because he has lost his heart to another.”
“Only because she bewitched him. Look at her. How could any man lose his heart to the likes of her?” Sabrina tossed her head. “Not that I care about his foolish heart. Perhaps when you’ve finished with him, you should cut it out. It would make a fine feast for forest creatures. But before you kill him, I want him to kneel before me.”