"Attacks on holdings are different," Eric argued. "Surprise is a necessary tactic."

Donald was unconvinced. "So you think the Falcon's band should have given us some kind of warning before they trapped us?"

"They should have let themselves be seen and fought like warriors."

"Then they would have lost."

"It would have been a n.o.bler battle."

"I fail to see what's so n.o.ble about the smaller, weaker group being carved to pieces," Donald said. "By using the weapon of surprise and those nets, there was virtually no battle at all. Except for Roarke's swordplay with the Falcon, which resulted in his becoming intimately acquainted with an arrow." He grinned at Roarke. "How is that healing, anyway? Do you need fair Edwina to take a look at it?"

Ignoring his gibe, Roarke rose and began to slowly pace the width of the hall, thinking. The MacKillons needed to be able to defend themselves, but it would take months to complete the repairs to their castle. These repairs were absolutely crucial to fend off an attack.

Unless they tried to repel an a.s.sault in a totally unexpected way.

He turned to his men and smiled.

CHAPTER 5.

Melantha snapped upright and grabbed the sword at her side.

A hint of flat, gray light was filtering through the windows, telling her the curtain of night had barely lifted. She swiftly appraised the surrounding shadows, hunting for the least flicker of movement, preparing to spring from her bed with her sword raised.

The air was still.

She strained to listen beyond the blood pounding in her ears, but all she heard was the gentle breathing of the forms lying curled upon the floor beside her. Still gripping her weapon, she peered over the edge of her bed and counted.

One. Two.

Panic streaked through her.

A sleepy sigh drifted through the air. Slowly expelling the breath frozen in her chest, she turned and saw a thatch of hair peeping out from a small mound of blankets huddled next to her. She gingerly grasped the edge of the covers and peeled them down, then laid her hand with aching tenderness on the freckled velvet of Patrick's cheek. He nuzzled closer, clutching at the warm plaid that was draped over both of them. Melantha studied the shadows of her chamber once again. Nothing seemed amiss. Gradually permitting herself to believe that all was well for the moment, she eased herself against her pillow, one hand caressing Patrick's tangled hair, the other still clutching the hilt of her sword.

She could not remember what it was like to sleep without fear.

Of course she realized that she had not always been like this. There had been a time when she had floated into slumber with trusting ease, knowing that when she awoke everything in her world would be just as it had been the day before. But she could not recall the innocent sensation of feeling completely safe, of knowing that everyone she loved was near, and that the days stretching out before her would be filled with nothing but wonderful adventures.

Everything had changed when her mother died.

She had never thought of herself as sheltered-if anything she had always fancied herself more daring and experienced than most girls her age, a fact that had made her feel special and even slightly superior. Her father had hoped for a son to be his firstborn, but when Melantha arrived instead, he philosophically decided to make the best of it. He had cradled her on his horse when she was but a few days old, then seated her astride as soon as she could hold herself upright. Her mother would shake her head with gentle exasperation when she described it, saying that it was all she could do to make sure he kept a firm grip on Melantha's waist, so certain was he that his little la.s.s would ride before she could walk.

Melantha didn't know which she could do first, as her father proudly swore she rode first, and her mother a.s.sured her she most certainly did not. What her parents did agree upon was the fact that from the moment she could support herself on her wobbly little legs she had traipsed eagerly after her beloved da. He had loved to have his daughter with him, and his daily affairs were of far greater interest to her than the endlessly tedious domestic ch.o.r.es that occupied all of her mother's time. During the nine years it took for Daniel to finally arrive, Melantha's father seemed to decide that if she was to be his only child, then he was going to make sure she learned how to do anything a lad could, and he would make no allowances for the fact that she was a la.s.s. Melantha's mother could scarcely disapprove of her learning to ride well, and she even agreed that fishing was a valuable skill. But the day her da presented his five-year-old daughter with a tiny bow and quiver filled with smooth, slender arrows, her mother seemed less certain. Melantha's father had just laughed and said any daughter of his should know how to hunt and feed herself, and that seemed so reasonable her mother said nothing more.

Melantha had loved the strong, supple feel of that little bow in her hands, loved the sensation of pinning her gaze upon her target, drawing back the string until it nearly shivered with tautness, then ultimately releasing her arrow to soar through the air. At first the arrows did little actual soaring; instead they darted crazily in every direction except the one she had intended. Undaunted, she would pay rapt attention to her da's instructions, and then devote the entire day to practicing. Many hours later her mother would finally come searching for her, telling her it was fine and well to learn to shoot, but she still had to come home and eat occasionally.

Once Melantha had mastered sufficient control over the direction her arrows took, her father began to take her hunting. This meant gloriously long days spent tracking all manner of birds and beasts in the fragrant, thick woods on the MacKillon lands. It was more than two years before Melantha actually managed to shoot anything, but in that time she learned much about moving in liquid silence across the ground, listening to the hundreds of voices chirping and whispering around her, and making herself merge with the ever-changing colors and contours of the forest.

When her father presented her with a tiny wooden sword, her mother really was bewildered. Melantha was all of six, and she was absolutely delighted with her new toy. Her da taught her the most basic skills of swordplay, and since none of the girls her age were permitted to play with swords, she quickly began to challenge the boys, including Colin and Finlay. At first they were near equally matched, but as the boys grew bigger and stronger, Melantha was forced to work harder to maintain her worthiness as an opponent. One day when she was about twelve Colin bested her in every one of their matches, and Melantha went home and angrily tossed her sword into the hearth. That evening she bitterly informed her father that she was never going to play with swords again, because it was unfair that Colin could win simply because he had grown taller and stronger than she. Her father responded with no sympathy whatsoever. Instead he made her another wooden sword, and began to train her in the elements of speed and surprise, which he a.s.sured her she could develop as well as any man.

"You can kill a man just as dead with a light sword as a heavy one," he would say, "and the same principle applies to the swordsman. 'Tis skill, sweet Mellie, not size, that is going to win the day."

Of course, he had never believed that Melantha would ever actually need to kill anyone.

She closed her eyes, her fingers tightening protectively on Patrick's thin little shoulder.

Darkness blew into Melantha's life on a swift, cold wind. At least that was how she remembered it, for her mother had never been ill before, and then suddenly it was winter and her mother could barely draw a steady breath, so painful was the cough that plagued her. At first Melantha took little notice. Her mother seemed tired, but still managed to perform the dozens of daily tasks needed to maintain their home and care for her three younger brothers. Of course Melantha was required to help with these ch.o.r.es, but she did so hastily, anxious to flee the drudgery of domestic work and join her father with whatever task he had engaged upon. Her mother did not complain, for she had long understood that Melantha was not a typical la.s.s. As for Melantha's father, he could not be blamed for not recognizing the severity of his wife's condition. Somehow her mother always managed to look stronger in his presence, and if she coughed, she a.s.sured him it was nothing.

But one day Melantha and her father returned home to find her mother lying amid a litter of shattered crockery, and they realized something was seriously amiss.

Her illness quickened then, racing through her body like fire devouring an arid twig. Melantha desperately tried to a.s.sume all the household tasks her mother normally performed, only to find herself ill equipped and overwhelmed. When her mother died, Melantha experienced a shock and an emptiness she had not imagined possible. All her life she had loved her mother from a distance, never taking the time to be close to her the way she was with her da. Yet once her mother's gentle, rea.s.suring presence was gone, Melantha found herself nearly paralyzed with grief. But there wasn't time to indulge in such weakness, because suddenly she had Daniel, Matthew, Patrick, and her da to care for, and their suffering and needs far outweighed her own.

Gone forever were the days spent innocently practicing swordplay or dreamily wandering the forest. There were five mouths to feed, and clothes to wash, and food to be prepared for today and tomorrow and next month. Never in her life had she imagined how much hard work it was to keep five people clean and fed and clothed, to say nothing of making sure her brothers didn't jump out of a tree and smash their skulls open, or wander down to the loch and drown themselves, or toss pebbles at the cows and end up trampled to death. Life became utterly exhausting and endlessly worrisome, and each night when she collapsed onto her bed she would weep silently into her pillow, tears of weariness and worry and loss. She thought that G.o.d had been unspeakably cruel to steal her mother from all of them, leaving a bleeding gash in their lives that would surely never heal.

How could she have known the worst was yet to come?

"Melantha," called Gillian, rapping softly against the door, "are you awake?"

"Aye," said Melantha, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the boys. "Come in."

The heavy wooden door opened slightly and Gillian crept inside. The light from the windows had advanced to a pearly haze, etching her friend's delicate form in ghostly luminosity against the dark stone wall.

"Is everything all right?" asked Melantha.

"Everything is fine," Gillian whispered. "But Laird MacKillon has ordered everyone to gather in the courtyard for an important announcement."

Frowning, Melantha glanced at the window. "It's barely dawn."

"It is peculiar," Gillian agreed. "Obviously whatever he wants to tell us is of great importance."

Melantha tossed back her covers and scrambled out of the bed, taking care not to stumble over the sleeping forms of Daniel and Matthew. If Laird MacKillon was summoning his people at this time of the morning, it could only mean that something terrible had happened. She heard no sounds of battle, so she didn't think they were under attack.

"What else did he say?" she demanded, hastily pulling on her leggings. A dreadful thought occurred to her. "Did the MacTiers escape?"

Gillian shook her head. "I pa.s.sed through the great hall on my way up here, and they were seated at a table."

"Eating, no doubt," said Melantha contemptuously. She had never seen men consume as much food as those four. Granted, they were huge warriors and there was little in the way of meat to fill their bellies, but even so it made her furious to think of how much they were ingesting. Every morsel in their mouths meant someone else in the clan had to be satisfied with less. She would have to be sure to add the food they ate to the price of their ransom.

"Actually, they were discussing some drawings with Laird MacKillon."

Melantha squeezed her foot into a boot. "What drawings?"

"I'm not sure, but they seemed to have something to do with the defense of the castle. The dark one, Roarke, was saying something about the curtain wall, and the short, brawny one named Myles was shaking his head and arguing that it was impossible. Then the comely one got angry and said that they should just forget all this and go home."

"You mean Donald," supplied Melantha, pulling her leather jerkin over her head. It irritated her enormously that they talked about going home as if it were up to them. When would they understand that they were prisoners there, not guests?

"No," said Gillian, shaking her head. "I meant the Viking."

Melantha looked at her in surprise. "Eric?"

She nodded.

"You think he's comely?" Melantha demanded, her disbelief apparent.

The light was muted, but it was enough for her to see a faint cast of embarra.s.sment rise to Gillian's cheeks. "I don't think he's...unsightly," she ventured shyly.

"Sweet saints, Gillian, the man hurled your posset all over your gown," Melantha reminded her impatiently. "He glowers at everyone who goes near him and has the manners of an oaf. How could you possibly find him attractive?"

" 'Twas his features I was commenting on, not his manners," Gillian responded, sounding mildly defensive.

Melantha stared in surprise at her friend, unable to comprehend what had come over her. Gillian was so shy she nearly started at the sight of her own shadow. How could she possibly be attracted to that scowling Viking?

"He is a MacTier, Gillian," she reminded her sternly.

"Roarke said he and his men were not part of the raid on our home."

"It doesn't matter if they were or not," Melantha argued, although she had secretly been relieved to learn that they were not. "He is our sworn enemy. You must not let yourself think foolish thoughts about him."

Gillian bit her lip and studied her feet, causing the coppery gold cape of her hair to fall forward. It was a gesture she had adopted as a little girl, and she did it when she felt embarra.s.sed and no longer wanted to partic.i.p.ate in a conversation. Melantha instantly regretted her adamant tone. Gillian rarely adopted this defeated stance when the two of them were together. She did not like to think that she had caused her gentle friend any distress.

"Forgive me, Gillian," she said, putting her arm around her. "I did not mean to berate you. It's just that the MacTiers are our prisoners, and as soon as their ransom is paid, they will be returning to their clan. I just want you to remember that."

"I know," Gillian said softly. "And I would never dream of actually speaking to the Viking-he frightens me. But I didn't think there was anything wrong with noticing that he has a strong, handsome face, even if his eyes are always burning with fury."

"Of course there isn't," Melantha conceded.

How could she say there was, when she had often thought the same thing about Roarke? She despised him and everything he and his men represented-of that there was no doubt. Yet each time she found herself in his presence it was more difficult to look upon him and not notice his powerful form and uncommonly fine features. His was the face of a warrior-hard, fearless, and on the day she had battled him in the forest, he had even looked cruel. His bronzed skin told of a life spent outdoors, his body heated by the sun and cleansed by the clean, sweet winds that blew across the Highlands. Deep lines creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes, a testament to his advancing age, and an existence that had exposed him to sights most people only feared in their most hideous dreams. And yet there was an unaffected elegance to him, a straightness of carriage and a calmness of bearing that seemed almost rea.s.suring. His body was granite hard, and she had matched swords with enough men to know that he was every bit as powerful as his size suggested. But there was a gentleness to him as well, and even compa.s.sion, although he was loath to let anyone see it. Melantha had felt it the day she had fallen from her horse. He had cradled her head in his lap and called her name, the low timbre of his voice drawing her from the swirling clouds of pain and into the exquisitely rough heat of his kiss.

Shame whipped through her, making her feel small and sullied.

"Are you going to rouse the lads?" asked Gillian.

Melantha fumbled clumsily with her belt, then finally succeeded in strapping on her sword. Her cheeks sufficiently cooled, she lifted her gaze to her three brothers. Part of her wanted to let them sleep, because she knew they were growing and needed their rest. But the possibility that something was wrong dictated that they should be with her. She could not protect them if they were separated from her.

"Wake up, lads," she called softly, kneeling down to stroke Matthew's cheek.

Daniel groaned and pulled the covers over his head. Matthew rubbed his eyes with his knuckles before opening them to smile at her. And little Patrick continued to slumber peacefully in her bed.

"Come, now, 'tis a wonderful new day and we've lots to do." Melantha moved to the bed to rouse Patrick. "After breakfast you can all practice your swordplay, and later you can help the men with the repairs to the keep."

Daniel reluctantly pushed down the covers. "Will you give me a lesson in shooting today?"

"We shall have to see. Right now you must get dressed and come down to the courtyard with me. Laird MacKillon wishes to address the clan, and we have to hurry."

Patrick sat up and smiled at her with sleepy eyes. His hair was a charming mop of red tangles, and Melantha wondered if she had time to take a comb to it. "Why does he want to talk to us so early?" he wondered.

"Have the MacTiers escaped?" demanded Daniel, sitting upright suddenly. His hands balled into angry fists and his rail-thin body tensed for action, as if he meant to spring from his bed and find them.

Melantha tossed Daniel his tattered plaid. "No," she replied, not surprised that his first thought had been the same as hers. She and Daniel had long been alike in countless ways, and as the eldest male in their family, he saw himself as far more of a man than his thirteen years would permit.

"Then what does Laird MacKillon want?" wondered Matthew, his little brow puckering.

"The sooner you're dressed, the sooner we shall find out," said Melantha airily, trying to soothe his fear. She sat beside Patrick and began to attack the nest of tangles with a comb. "Splash some water on your faces and get your plaids on. Gillian, please help Matthew, he has trouble with his."

A few minutes later the little party stepped into the cool early morning light of the courtyard. Despite Melantha's and Gillian's best efforts, the boys looked rather disheveled. Their plaids were untidily arranged with their shirts rising out of them, and all of their hair had stubbornly resisted the efforts of her comb, until finally Melantha had seriously contemplated taking the scissors to them.

Fortunately, most of the clan had not fared much better in their haste to get dressed at such an untimely hour. Most were yawning and making only perfunctory attempts to improve their appearance-a quick rake of fingers through sleep-tousled hair, a minor adjustment to a loosely draped plaid that threatened to drop to the wearer's ankles at any moment, a smoothing of a gown that had accidentally been donned backward. The entire a.s.semblage looked tired and grumpy, and could probably have done with a little ale and bread to fill the emptiness in their stomachs before being summoned out there.

Laird MacKillon, Hagar, and Thor were seated on a platform at the end of the courtyard, waiting for the MacKillons to a.s.semble. Thor had his sword placed upon his lap and was lovingly running his fingers along its edges, testing its sharpness. Laird MacKillon and Hagar were intently studying a diagram on a piece of paper. They frowned at it for a long moment, then turned it on its side. After some animated discussion, they turned it on its other side. This did not appear to improve matters at all. Finally Laird MacKillon called to Roarke, who was discussing some problem with the curtain wall with his men. At Laird MacKillon's bidding he abandoned his discussion and mounted the platform to study the unintelligible piece of paper. He looked at it barely an instant before turning it upside down. Comprehension crept slowly across the elders' faces. They began to nod their heads and congratulate each other, pleased that they had sorted it out.

Melantha watched as Roarke strode from the platform and resumed his conversation with Eric, Donald, and Myles. His limp was gone, and he walked with easy, confident purpose. Unlike the rest of her clan, he did not appear to be the least bit weary. His saffron shirt and red-and-black plaid were immaculately arranged, and his dark leather jerkin was tightly laced across the solid expanse of his chest. He gazed up at the battlements and pointed out something to Eric, who was adamantly shaking his head. But Roarke did not agree with his warrior. He continued to gesture at the parapet, and then to the towers, until finally Eric seemed to be swayed by whatever argument he was making. Roarke nodded with satisfaction and turned to regard the crowd.

Power emanated from his very core as he surveyed the group, and the lines of his face were set with rigid determination. Melantha stared at him in fascination. She had told herself that Roarke was her prisoner-a dangerous warrior who had been captured in the woods and was now completely at the mercy of her and her clan. But as he stood with his muscled legs braced apart and his powerful arms folded across his chest, she could not imagine him being at anyone's mercy. A faint breeze was blowing through the long black strands of his hair, causing them to brush lightly against the bronzed plane of his freshly shaven jaw. Melantha found herself recalling what it was like to lay her hand against his cheek, how it had felt warm and strong and rough all at once, like a fine layer of sunwashed sand. When Roarke had bent his head and tasted her with his lips, she had longed for the masculine roughness of his skin next to hers, setting her flesh afire as he flushed her senses with heat and pleasure.

"What's the matter with you, Melantha?" asked Daniel, frowning. "You look kind of funny."

"Nothing," she replied, tearing her gaze off Roarke.

Gillian looked at her with concern. "You do look a little flushed. Perhaps you should sit down."

"I'm fine," Melantha insisted, feeling as if her face were in flames.

"You're all red," observed Matthew.

"Do you feel like throwing up?" chirped Patrick, sounding excited by the possibility.

"No-I'm fine," Melantha insisted, wishing they would all just leave her alone. "I probably just need to eat something."

Gillian and the boys looked at her in astonishment. Too late Melantha realized that she had just succeeded in making them more concerned, for she almost never felt hungry anymore.

"Shall I run inside and fetch you something?" asked Gillian, eager to feed her.

"I could go," Patrick offered.

"I can run faster," argued Daniel.

"That's just because you're bigger," Patrick informed him. "It doesn't make him better than me, does it, Melantha?"

"I never said I was better," objected Daniel, "but I can run faster. That's just a fact."

"But I want to go!" insisted Patrick.

"I'm really not hungry," interjected Melantha.