"Are you trying to tell me that our Lewis here actually attacked this savage warrior of yours?" demanded Thor, gazing at Roarke in bewilderment.

Roarke nodded.

" 'Twould seem I've misjudged ye, laddie," acknowledged Thor, shaking his head. "I'd have never thought you capable of such a deed."

"Of course Lewis is capable of such a deed," declared a hard voice. "As part of the Falcon's band he performs acts of great courage and daring all the time."

Roarke turned to see Melantha and Colin standing behind him, with young Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick lined up between them. Melantha was dressed in a coa.r.s.ely woven brown shirt, a dark leather jerkin, earth-colored leggings and deerskin boots, with her c.u.mbersome sword weighing heavily at her side. Evidently she preferred the unfettered movement this attire afforded her to the awkward constraints of a gown, mused Roarke. Either that, or her exploits as the Falcon had stripped her of any desire to appear even remotely feminine, at least where her garments were concerned. Her shapeless clothes could not mask the delicate beauty of her face, although her rigid expression did little to suggest that there might be a softer side to her.

For a moment Roarke feared she had learned of her brothers' clandestine visit to the great hall the previous night. It was impossible to tell from Daniel's expression, for the boy glared at him with the same disdain as his sister, which had the unsettling effect of making their resemblance even more profound. Roarke shifted his attention to Matthew. The youth uneasily latched his attention to the ground, but Roarke sensed Matthew was always uneasy, so there was no help there. Only red-haired little Patrick regarded him with a sunny, untroubled look, complete with a crooked smile. A peculiar sensation of warmth seeped over Roarke. Feeling somewhat fortified, he returned his gaze to Melantha.

The coolness was still there, but he detected something else in the depths of her eyes. Frowning, he tried to discern what it was.

She abruptly tore her gaze away, as if he did not merit further scrutiny.

"Well, then, it's all sorted out," declared Laird MacKillon happily. "Everyone back to work," he instructed once more, shooing at his people. "There is still much work to do on these mighty walls."

"Forgive me, Laird MacKillon," said Roarke, "but why are you spending so much time and effort repairing the walls of your keep?"

"Why, to keep the MacTiers out, of course," Laird MacKillon replied, as if the answer were obvious.

"You don't think we're so naive as to believe your greedy, black-hearted laird won't be tempted to attack us again, are you?" asked Thor. "But this time we'll hack his army to bits as it stands, strip the flesh from its bones, and feed it to the wolves!" he threatened grandly. "And then we'll grind it's bones for bread!"

"Well, now, I don't know about that," fretted Laird MacTier. "No offense, Thor, but I can't help but think that to grind the bones of an entire army would take an inordinate amount of time and effort."

"Besides, who wants to eat bread made out of MacTiers?" wondered Magnus. "It's bound to be tough."

"If it's tough, we can feed it to the fish," Thor suggested. "They won't care."

Hagar scratched the shiny top of his head. "That seems like an awful lot of work to go to, just to feed fish. Couldn't we just bury their bones?"

"The whole idea is to destroy them without a trace!" argued Thor. "If we're just going to bury them, then there's no point in stripping their flesh off either!"

Roarke struggled for patience. "What I am trying to say is, if Laird MacTier sends an army to retrieve us, you really don't have a hope of holding them off."

"Do you think we should just sit and placidly wait for your clan to arrive?" demanded Colin sardonically.

"Don't forget, we're going to enlist the a.s.sistance of the MacKenzies' army," said Hagar, "and they're as strong and nasty a group of warriors as one could ever hope not to meet."

"But we must do what we can to keep your warriors at bay, at least until Laird MacKenzie arrives with his army and makes your laird realize he should just pay your ransom and take you home," Laird MacKillon added.

"It is good that you are making preparations for the event of an attack," acknowledged Roarke, ignoring Colin's hostility. "Your clan should be better prepared to defend itself regardless of whether MacTier sends an army or not. But the preparations you are making will ultimately have little effect. You cannot stop an army by replacing a few shutters and repairing the holes in your keep with pink stones."

"Your concern for my people's welfare is touching," Melantha observed icily. "No doubt you think we should just release you and your men to prevent further bloodshed."

"That would be the most prudent course of action," agreed Roarke. "But since you are so stubbornly committed to this notion of ransoming us, at least let me make a few suggestions for strengthening your holding."

"We're not interested in your suggestions."

"Actually, Melantha, it might be interesting to hear them," Laird MacKillon interjected. "After all, Roarke here is an experienced warrior, and has probably raided dozens of castles-haven't you, lad?"

"Of course he has," Melantha agreed caustically. "And our home counts among his many foul, depraved victories."

An uneasy hush fell upon the courtyard.

Roarke regarded her intently. "My men and I were not a part of the raid on this holding, Melantha. I swear it."

A bitter, half-choked laugh escaped her throat. "Even if that were true, it doesn't matter. You're still a MacTier."

"Yes," he agreed quietly. "There is nothing I can do to change that. But just because I'm a MacTier doesn't mean I can't offer your people a few suggestions on how you can fortify your holding."

"He's right, ye know, la.s.s," said Magnus. "There's no harm in listening to what he has to say."

"Quite so," agreed Laird MacKillon.

"This is absurd!" snapped Colin. "He has no reason to want to help us. He'll try to trick us into doing something that will actually help his army when it comes."

"You don't have to actually do anything that I suggest," Roarke pointed out. "Unless you think it makes sense."

"Now, that sounds fair enough," said Hagar. "What suggestions did you have in mind?"

"The walls of your keep will eventually have to be repaired, but for now you should be devoting your energy to preventing an attacker from ever reaching the keep." Roarke studied the gate a moment. The heavy iron portcullis appeared to be structurally sound, and the thick wooden gate beyond it had not been damaged by a battering ram. "How did the MacTiers breach the castle?"

"They crawled up the curtain wall on ladders, like bugs on a tree," Laird MacKillon explained. "Then they came down here and opened the gate for the others."

"Didn't you have men on the wall defending it?"

"We had a few," supplied Hagar, "but only enough to keep watch."

"The cowardly sc.u.m attacked in the middle of the night, and we weren't expecting it," Magnus added. "They just appeared out of nowhere."

"Like foul, murdering demons," growled Thor, "sent by the very devil himself!"

Laird MacKillon shook his head, his eyes shadowed with sorrow. "The lads on the wall head fought them as best they could, but they were no match for such a dreadful attack."

"By the time we realized we were being invaded," Hagar continued, "the men on watch were dead and the MacTiers were already swarming the castle."

Roarke absorbed this information in grim silence. It was a long-favored method among his clan: to attack an unsuspecting castle in the dead of night, quietly disposing of the guards and then entering the castle unchecked. Few strongholds could resist for long once the gate was open and the rest of the army surged inside. It was a technique he had used himself countless times.

Guilt gnawed uncomfortably at his conscience.

"If the warriors were able to take control of the castle with such ease, then how was all this damage done?" He gestured at the crumbling keep, the badly pocked curtain wall, and the charred remnants of the cottages beyond.

"Surely you recognize the handiwork of your own clan?" Melantha's query was laden with bitterness. "No? Then permit me to enlighten you. After slaughtering any man who dared stand in their way, the MacTiers occupied themselves by terrorizing everyone and stealing all they could lay their hands on before attempting to reduce our home to a pile of rubble. They slew every cow, goat, and chicken they couldn't take with them, destroyed our fields of grains and vegetables, then burned the cottages of those who had the courage to plead with them to at least leave something for the children to eat." Her voice was flat and void of emotion as she finished, "At the end of it twenty-six brave men lay dead or dying, our homes were stripped bare, and we were left to starve through the winter."

Her expression was composed, except for the loathing with which Roarke was becoming well acquainted every time she looked at him. But her hand was gripping the hilt of her sword and the skin of her knuckles was drawn so taut Roarke thought it might split and expose the bone. A terrible fury flailed within her, fury and pain and overwhelming hatred. Roarke could see it was taking every shred of her self-control not to lash out and kill him or simply sink to the ground and weep.

She had failed to mention that her father had been one of those brave men who had been slain that night, but Roarke could see by the wash of pain filling her eyes that she was thinking about him. Perhaps she did not want to ascribe more importance to her loss than to those suffered by the rest of her clan. Or perhaps she did not want to reveal this personal detail to Roarke and his men, for fear she might be exposing a weakness that could later be used against her. Daniel moved protectively to her side, as if he were trying to shield her from Roarke and his men. Roarke understood the lad was really trying to protect her from the agony of her own suffering.

"Come, Melantha," Daniel said, casting an accusing look at Roarke. "We don't need to stay here and listen to the lies of these thieving MacTiers. It's time to go, Matthew and Patrick." He gestured to his younger brothers.

Roarke watched helplessly as the boy took Melantha's hand and led her away, powerless to protect her from what had already happened, or change the fact that he was a kinsmen of her tormentors.

"If you ever do that again, I'll kill you," vowed Eric.

"I don't see why you're so upset," objected Donald, languidly stretching back against his pallet. "I thought she was perfect for you. After all, she had the broad hips and stout legs with which you and Myles are so enamored. I'm quite sure she could birth a brood of little Vikings with no trouble whatsoever."

"She had the face of a sow."

"You never mentioned the face as being important," he protested. "You just went on about strength. There's no denying she was strong-no weak-armed woman could carry six heavy pitchers of ale at once."

"She was a shrew," objected Myles. "And she should have dumped the ale on you, not Eric. You were the one who insulted her by commenting on her girth."

"I was merely trying to let her know that Eric found her attractive," Donald explained innocently. "And she poured the ale on Eric because she likes him. Women always abuse the men they are attracted to-that's how they get their attention."

"I've no desire for her to like me," Eric snapped. "Now my shirt and plaid are sodden with ale and my hair reeks!"

"Lewis offered to bring you a change of clothes and you stubbornly refused," said Donald. "I can't imagine why he keeps trying to see to your comfort. Every time you glare at him he trembles so hard I think he will shatter into a thousand pieces."

"I will not wear the clothes of my enemies."

"I don't know why not, since they're all wearing clothes that have been stolen from others. I'll wager they probably could have found a MacTier plaid and shirt for you to wear."

"How much longer are we staying here?" demanded Eric, turning suddenly to Roarke.

Roarke sighed. It was clear his men were getting restless. "I'm not sure."

"You know we could leave at any time," Eric pointed out, wondering if perhaps Roarke had somehow overlooked this fact. "Since Laird MacKillon ordered that we no longer be kept bound, it would be easy to grab a few swords and fight our way out."

"I doubt it would be as easy as that," objected Donald. "After all, these MacKillons are rather annoyed with our clan. I don't think they would hesitate to shoot us if we tried to escape."

"Then we take a hostage," Myles suggested. "They won't shoot us if they think we're about to cut one of their throats."

"True enough." Donald sat up and briskly rubbed his hands together, filled with sudden energy. "What about it, then, Roarke? Are we leaving, or do we stay and endure the supreme humiliation of MacTier sending out a party of warriors to rescue us?" He laughed.

"We stay."

His men looked at him in astonishment.

"A few days," Roarke elaborated. "No longer. Just enough time to help these MacKillons organize their repairs and work on a defense strategy that will help them fend off an a.s.sault."

"You want to help them against our own clan?" asked Donald, confounded.

"I want to help them defend themselves from any clan," Roarke responded. "MacTier will never pay a ransom for us, so they can't hope to buy an alliance. Which means they must learn to protect themselves. Once the preparations for their defense are under way, we will escape and intercept the MacTiers before they arrive." He leaned back against his pallet and wearily closed his eyes. "Then we can go home."

"What about the Falcon?" Eric demanded.

Roarke said nothing.

It was a matter of great pride to him that he had never failed in his duty to Laird MacTier. Not once in over twenty years of dedicated service. If he chose, he could keep that stellar history of achievement unblemished. Laird MacTier had long promised to reward Roarke, his most accomplished and favored warrior, with his own holding when his days as a warrior were finished. It was his payment for a lifetime spent aggressively expanding his clan's power and influence, and enriching MacTier's coffers at the same time. When this reward was first offered, Roarke had been unable to imagine any life beyond the one he had chosen, and had imperiously a.s.sured MacTier that he would die in battle with a sword in his hand.

But during these past few years it had become harder to rise each morning from the damp, hard ground and ignore the stiffness and aches plaguing his battered body. The thought of being comfortably ensconced in his own home began to beckon to him. At first Roarke had rejected his musings in disgust, telling himself he had many long years of journeying and battle left in him.

That was before he had been wounded.

He remembered the day with perfect clarity, although already a year had elapsed. It had been a glorious summer morning, and the air was hot and thick with the promise of rain. Roarke preferred cooler days for battle, because the heat made it difficult to maintain a solid grip on the hilt of his sword. He was leading a force of some four hundred men against an insurrection in Moray, in the name of King Alexander. The battle had begun well enough. After disabling or killing at least a dozen men, Roarke found himself surrounded by three warriors on horseback. He disposed of two of them without an inordinate amount of difficulty, enabling him to focus his attention on the third. His remaining opponent was a steely-muscled young warrior with a powerful arm, who looked to be some ten years Roarke's junior. Amazingly, the lad managed to deflect every slice and thrust of Roarke's sword, until finally Roarke's weapon grew heavy and his breathing became labored. The need for absolute concentration to fight this arrogant pup prevented Roarke from sensing the attacker behind him.

The first blow only slit the muscles of his back.

It was the heavy chop of the ax into his right shoulder that rendered him helpless.

As he fell from his horse Roarke knew a moment of perfect, almost dreamy astonishment, unable to believe that he could have failed so completely in this final conflict. That he was about to be disemboweled by his young opponent seemed less disturbing than the incomprehensible fact that he had actually been overcome. The warrior gave him a triumphant smile as he raised his blade, not disdainful or malicious, but merely an acknowledgment that it had been a challenging contest between two able warriors, and he was genuinely pleased to have emerged the victor.

Then the point of Eric's sword burst through the warrior's chest.

It took months for Roarke's back and shoulder to recover adequately enough for him to wield his weapon once again. Even when he impatiently declared himself recovered, he knew in fact he was not. When Roarke finally summoned the humility he needed to speak to MacTier about his long-promised reward, his laird listened to his request with a vaguely disappointed expression, as if he had not actually believed the day would come when Roarke would accept his offer. Ultimately MacTier had said he would honor his word, but first Roarke had to complete one final mission.

He was to seek out the notorious Falcon's band and destroy it, and bring the Falcon himself back to MacTier for execution.

It was unthinkable.

"We never found the Falcon." He regarded his men with steady calm.

"MacTier won't like that," ventured Myles.

"I know."

"You realize that even if we leave her here, MacTier will immediately dispatch another group to find the Falcon," said Donald. "Eventually she will be caught."

"She won't be caught if she stops this foolishness of dressing up like some wandering horseman in a rusty helmet and robbing every stranger who crosses her path."

"Maybe not," allowed Donald. "But I don't think she is about to abandon her pursuits as an outlaw. Despite their weaknesses individually, she and her men are actually quite good at their game, and therefore have no reason to stop."

"The only reason they haven't been caught or killed yet is because they have been extremely lucky," argued Roarke. "And that luck is bound to run out."

Donald shrugged. "You could say the same thing about us."

"We are skilled, deadly warriors," Eric objected. "Luck has nothing to do with our survival."

"If we're so skilled, then why did we stumble blindly into the trap the Falcon set for us?" challenged Donald.

"Because we're accustomed to fighting our battles in the open, against an enemy who is not afraid to show himself," Eric replied, "not old men and children who drop from the trees like acorns."

"It doesn't seem that our clan was being overly conspicuous on the night the MacKillons were attacked," reflected Donald. "Scaling the walls in the dead of night and attacking these people as they slept."

Roarke shifted uneasily on his pallet. Only a few days earlier he and his men had been contemptuous about the Falcon's band attacking a group of MacTiers as they slept, dismissing it as a cowardly way of overcoming one's enemy.

Melantha had only been subjecting the MacTiers to their own methods.