"The MacKillons haven't the strength to dare try to attack us," scoffed Tess. "Anyway, the lads aren't being kept here. They're in one of the dungeons below the east tower."

Melantha's heart broke as she looked at the dark tower on the opposite side of the courtyard. Somewhere, deep within its dank interior, Daniel and Matthew sat huddled upon the damp earth, cold and hungry and terrified. Soon, my sweet lads, she thought, trying to impart the strength of her love across the bailey and through the thick walls of stone. Soon you will be free, and we will all be home, and we will sit together in the great hall and tell the clan the story of how wonderfully brave you were.

"Your pardon, milady, where would you like your bags?"

She turned to see Lewis standing in the doorway. "Put them over there," she instructed.

He scurried over to where she was pointing and dropped them on the floor.

"Take care, you lazy fool!" she snapped.

Lewis blanched. "Forgive me, milady."

"Have the horses been attended to?" she demanded, going over to her bags.

"Aye," said Lewis respectfully.

Melantha unlaced the flap of one of her satchels. "Look at this!" she cried, outraged. "You've shattered my precious bottle of rose oil, you clumsy oaf! Not only have you ruined my clothes, but now there is nothing to scent the water of my bath!" She stalked toward him with her hand raised, causing Lewis to cower.

"Your pardon, milady, I'm certain I can find you some fragrant oil for your bath," interjected Tess quickly, clearly concerned for poor Lewis's welfare.

Melantha hesitated. "Really?"

"We've all kinds of lovely scents for the bath," the girl a.s.sured her. "I'll just run and fetch you some."

"I prefer rose oil. Not too strong a blend, mind, or else my skin will itch."

"I'll scarcely be a moment." The girl gave Lewis an encouraging smile as she hurried from the room.

"They're in the dungeon of the east tower," whispered Melantha urgently. Any moment more servants would arrive bearing her bath.

"Are you sure?"

"That's what that Tess said-you had best confirm it before you attempt to free them."

Lewis nodded. "The ale will loosen the warriors' tongues before it puts them to sleep. Already Magnus is whetting their thirsts with talk of the fine brew we have brought as a gift for their hospitality. He will keep them drinking and distracted with gambling while Colin, Finlay, and I get the lads. When you hear Magnus singing his favorite ballad about the warrior and the dragon, you'll know we have the boys and are leaving. Meet us at the gate as fast as you can."

It was Edwina who had cleverly suggested the use of a drugged ale to help them steal the boys back. She had developed a potent sleeping essence that did not affect either the scent or the taste of the brew, but had the effect of reducing a man to a state of deep slumber after scarcely half a cup.

"Did you find out if Roarke and his men are here?"

"They left a week ago for Roarke's new holding," reported Lewis. "They are not expected to return for months."

Relief poured through Melantha. Ever since she had formulated her plan to rescue her brothers she had been plagued by the possibility that Roarke might be here. The fact that he was gone would make everything simpler.

"I am to dine with Laird MacTier and his wife in their private chambers," she whispered quickly. Already she could hear the sounds of men in the hallway bearing a bathing tub. "Once I hear your signal, I will tell them I am weary and bid them good night. Then I will slip outside and meet you at the gate."

Lewis nodded.

"Now go!" she urged.

He went to the doorway, then hesitated. Looking back at her, his eyes were filled with trepidation. "You'll be careful, won't you?"

"Of course I will," Melantha a.s.sured him. She had not shared her plan to murder MacTier with any of her men. If she had, they would never have permitted her to come. She forced herself to smile.

Lewis looked at her with penetrating clarity. "Melantha-"

"Here is my bath," she said, severing any further comment from him as two men arrived carrying a heavy copper tub.

Lewis cast her a final look of concern before disappearing into the corridor, leaving Melantha to face her enemies alone.

The laird's chambers were brilliantly lit with dozens of candles, gilding the rooms in flickering ribbons of gold.

"I am pleased that you are able to join me this evening, my dear," said Laird MacTier, laying his hand against the small of her back as he escorted Melantha into his private dining hall. He had dressed for the occasion in a splendid tunic of crimson wool edged with gold thread, over which he had arranged a generous swath of his clan's tartan, which was secured by not one but two elaborately jeweled brooches. "I have been eagerly antic.i.p.ating your visit, and hope you might be willing to grace us with your charming presence for longer than just one night." He pressed a lingering kiss to her hand, his lips slightly parted.

"Unfortunately, my dear cousin is anxiously awaiting my arrival," said Melantha gaily, restraining her impulse to tear her hand away. "We have not seen each other since she wed Laird Grant's nephew. I could not bear to disappoint her by delaying our reunion."

"Alas, then it is I who must be disappointed." Laird MacTier sighed, relinquishing her hand to seat her at the elegantly carved oak table. "Our visit will be brief, so we must be certain to make the most of it." He brushed his palms over her shoulders.

Melantha noted the table had only been set for two. "Is your wife not joining us this evening?"

"Unfortunately, my dear wife has taken ill," Laird MacTier replied, seating himself opposite her. "She sends her regrets, and hopes she will be recovered sufficiently to see you tomorrow."

"How distressing." Melantha was absolutely certain Laird MacTier had never intended for his wife to join them. "I hope it is nothing serious."

"Not at all," he said, closing the subject of his wife as he raised a magnificently worked silver decanter and generously filled her goblet.

Melantha swept her gaze over the table laid before her. Elegant silver platters offered what was easily enough food for ten people. Roasted venison, rabbit, partridge, and duck were flanked by colorful vegetables and blanketed in rich gravies, while plates of tender smoked salmon, heavy dark bread, tangy cheeses, and soft bannocks vied for their share of s.p.a.ce on the crowded table. At home Beatrice, Gillian, and Edwina would work hard to stretch this food to serve thirty or forty people, she thought furiously. The realization had the perverse effect of making her feel sick.

Laird MacTier frowned. "Is the meal not to your liking?"

"It looks wonderful," Melantha said, forcing a smile to her lips. She swallowed a mouthful of wine, then served herself a chunk of bread and a morsel of salmon. If she could just get that down, she might be able to make herself eat a little more. It was vital that she keep Laird MacTier occupied while her men drugged his guards and freed her brothers.

Once she heard Magnus's signal, she would unsheathe the dirk strapped to her calf and plunge it deep into MacTier's heart.

"Was your journey here without incident?" he enquired conversationally as he piled his trencher with food.

"Nothing untoward happened at all." Melantha sighed, feigning girlish disappointment. "After hearing all these tales about the Falcon and his dreadful band of outlaws, I was hoping he would try to rob us, just so I could see if he is really as terrible as everyone says!"

"You are fortunate that you did not encounter him. 'Tis well known that the Falcon and his men have been the ruin of many a beautiful la.s.s who had the misfortune to fall victim to their brutish ways." His gaze was vaguely predatory as he finished. "It is not a fate I would like to contemplate for one as lovely as you."

Melantha's eyes widened with appropriate shock. "The Falcon ravishes women? I had not heard that."

"You have nothing to fear, my dear, now that you are safe within my holding," he soothed, reaching out to lay his hand over hers. "However, you might consider delaying your departure to your dear cousin's home until I have had a chance to capture this depraved beast. I expect to do so within a day-two at the very most. Until then, I'm sure that I could find ways to keep you pleasantly entertained during your stay here." He languidly drew his forefinger along the flesh of her palm.

He paused suddenly, frowning at the thickened skin years of swordplay and archery had developed on her hand.

"I was told that you are expecting him," said Melantha, abruptly closing her fingers into a fist. "But with the scores of guards you have posted about the castle, do you really think he will just ride into your holding and announce himself?" She casually withdrew her hand to lift her goblet.

Laird MacTier took a swallow of wine and smiled. "He has little choice, I'm afraid. I have laid an exceptionally compelling trap."

"Because of the lads you have captured?" She was careful to keep her tone clean of contempt.

He nodded. "Until now, no one has been able to determine to which clan the Falcon belongs, or if he is, in fact, affiliated with any clan at all. That has made it impossible to determine his ident.i.ty. His relationship with the MacKillons will prove to be his ruin-for it will force him to deliver himself to me."

Melantha regarded him over the rim of her cup. "But why do you believe he cares what happens to the lads? If he is as vile and depraved as everyone says, why would he sacrifice himself to save them?"

"If he doesn't come forward, then one of the MacKillons will reveal the secret of his ident.i.ty," he replied impatiently, brushing aside the implication that the Falcon was less than utterly despicable. "The boys probably have parents whose love for them exceeds whatever regard they have for the Falcon. Either way, I will capture this b.l.o.o.d.y outlaw. And when I do," he finished darkly, "I will see to it that he returns every G.o.dd.a.m.n item that he has stolen from me-down to the last sc.r.a.p of cloth."

No, it is you, MacTier, who has stolen from me, and from my brothers, and my people. And nothing you have could ever repay us for that which you have taken. She drained her goblet, feeling her pain and hatred begin to meld.

"More wine?" offered MacTier, smiling. It was clear he intended to get her drunk.

"Thank you," said Melantha breathlessly. If he believed her to be intoxicated, his own defenses would be dulled.

That would make him easier to kill.

Drunken laughter and singing wafted through the window. Melantha strained to hear Magnus's ballad, but could not detect his song above the chorus of raucous male voices.

Laird MacTier frowned. "What the devil is going on down there?"

"It sounds like your men are enjoying themselves," said Melantha dismissively, wondering why the MacTiers weren't falling asleep. Surely they had drunk more than a half cup of Edwina's ale by now? " 'Tis the reflection of a good laird when his men feel so inspired to indulge in song. Come, Laird MacTier, you have barely touched your dinner-"

"My men are not permitted to indulge in so much as breathing without my orders," he said in a scathing voice. "And at this moment they have been ordered to keep alert for the Falcon-which they can hardly do if they're blinding drunk." The singing and laughter grew louder as he moved toward the window.

Panic surged through Melantha. If Laird MacTier discovered that his men were either drunk or drugged, he might suspect the Falcon was within his holding, and immediately dispatch guards to bring Matthew and Daniel to him. Colin, Lewis, and Finlay were probably at the dungeon trying to free her brothers this very moment. If they were discovered, they would be slain.

She had to stop MacTier from reaching the window.

It was this simple, desperate purpose, rather than the painful web of her hatred and fury, that caused her to stand and wrench her dirk from its sheath. There was no time to consider the morality of her actions, no time to torment herself with vagaries of right and wrong. There was only the absolute need to prevent the man before her from murdering those she loved.

She hurled her dirk across the chamber.

The blade flew in a straight, true line, slicing a clean path toward her target. But Laird MacTier, perhaps distracted by the action of her rising from her chair, turned at the last instant, altering her mark. He did not make a sound as the dirk burrowed into his shoulder, but merely stared at it incredulously, as if he could not quite believe how it had come to be there.

And then his eyes met hers, and his incredulity turned to rage.

"Guards!" he roared, taking a step away from her as if he feared she might have some other weapon concealed upon her. "Guards!"

The chamber door crashed open and four warriors of awesome proportions tore into the room, their swords poised for ma.s.sacre. When they saw only Melantha standing there looking small and pale, they turned to their laird in confusion.

"Arrest her!" ordered Laird MacTier. "Take her to the dungeon and-"

"Escape! The prisoners have escaped!"

This new development had the effect of stripping Melantha of everyone's attention as both MacTier and his warriors raced to the window to see what was happening below.

"Stop them!" shouted a warrior who was staggering drunkenly toward the gate. After giving this directive he stopped, belched, then turned around and started to whistle, evidently satisfied that his contribution toward catching the prisoners was complete.

Another warrior gamely took a few faltering steps before collapsing to his knees. "Somebody close the gate," he murmured thickly. With that he fell facedown onto the ground and began to snore.

"Och, Ewan, ye're not lookin' very good, my friend," remarked a warrior who stumbled out of the stables carrying a jug. "Do ye want a drop more o' this fine drink?" When his friend didn't answer he drained the jug himself, then turned to relieve himself against the stable wall, singing at the top of his lungs, "Oh, there once was a la.s.s with a bonny round a.s.s...."

"Close the gate!" roared Laird MacTier, watching in frustration as Colin, Lewis, Finlay, Magnus, and the boys suddenly burst from the stables on horseback and thundered toward the open portcullis. "Somebody close the G.o.dd.a.m.n gate!!"

"...so I gave her my shaft and she near left me daft, with a hey, ho, come lie with me...."

"What the h.e.l.l is the matter with them?" demanded Laird MacTier, watching in outrage as his prisoners escaped and the courtyard was littered with the staggering, falling, singing bodies of his finest warriors.

"They look drunk," observed one warrior.

"Maybe they've been put under some kind of spell," offered another.

Laird MacTier's face turned crimson. "I'll kill him! I'll catch that b.l.o.o.d.y Falcon and I'll see him torn to pieces-do you hear!!" He waved his arms in frustration, then inhaled sharply at the pain in his right shoulder. "You!" he snarled, his eyes narrowing at Melantha. "You're part of all this-and you know who he is, don't you?"

Melantha said nothing.

"Bring her to the great hall," Laird MacTier ordered brusquely. "And one of you find someone to take this G.o.dd.a.m.n dirk out of my shoulder!"

Misery was carved upon the face of every warrior who dragged himself into the great hall to face Laird MacTier's wrath.

Their laird's fury was awesome, but Melantha did not believe it could compare to the current effects of Edwina's powerful brew. Edwina had a.s.sured Melantha it would send those who drank it into a blissful slumber. What Edwina had failed to mention, however, was that once the pleasant euphoria began to wane, it would be replaced by a crushing headache and roiling nausea that might well make the sufferer pray for death.

It looked to Melantha as if an inordinate number of warriors were praying at that very moment.

"Fools!" barked Laird MacTier, his mood even nastier now that the dirk had been plucked from his throbbing shoulder. "Idiots! I should chain each and every one of you up by your wrists and leave you to rot in the dungeons!"

No one said anything. Either they were overwhelmed by their physical suffering or each had wisely decided it was better to remain silent in the face of their laird's rage.

"And you," he said, suddenly switching his attention to Melantha. "Just who the h.e.l.l are you, and how are you a.s.sociated with the Falcon?"

"It doesn't matter," Melantha replied coolly, enjoying his obvious frustration. "You'll never capture him."

Laird MacTier had tried to find some warriors who were not falling-down drunk to go after her men and her brothers. By the time he finally settled upon a handful who were still capable of mounting a horse, her men had the advantage of a lengthy start. She had no doubt they would be able to lose themselves in the shadows of the woods they knew so well.

"Your profound loyalty to this outlaw is as brainless as it is pathetic." Laird MacTier slowly circled her. "Don't you think it cowardly that he sent a mere la.s.s to keep his enemy distracted while he had a force of warriors to protect himself? What kind of a man would expose a maiden to such danger and then callously leave you behind?"

"What kind of man would take two innocent lads and put them in a dungeon, using their precious lives to lure his enemy?" challenged Melantha scornfully. "It could only be the same kind of man who makes a sport of attacking clans that are weaker than his, stealing every sc.r.a.p of cloth and morsel of food from them so he can drape himself in ridiculous robes and seat himself at tables ready to collapse beneath the weight of the food prepared solely for his gluttony!"

A horrified gasp rose from the stunned MacTiers.

Laird MacTier's face betrayed not a flicker of emotion as he clamped his hands on Melantha's shoulders. Slowly he began to squeeze, first bruising the tender flesh, then crushing against the bones until she thought they would shatter beneath his cruel grip.

"Beware the sharpness of your tongue, my little asp," he drawled, his breath hot and foul upon her cheek. " 'Twould be a shame to be forced to break such a pretty little neck." He released her shoulders to trail his fingers down her throat, his touch gentle yet menacing.

" 'Tis you who needs to be afraid, MacTier, for a man with nothing but enemies can never know an easy moment." She lowered her voice to the barest of whispers as she fervently vowed: "If the Falcon doesn't kill you, one of your own men will. That is the price of power wrought by tyranny and fear."

His hand froze against her.