Page 136 of Bride of Mist
As they scrambled down the steps, he could hear Gaufrid’s petulant whining in the stairwell. “I’m not goin’ a step farther until ye tell me what’s happenin’.”
Fergus suddenly felt in full force the months of sycophantic fawning he’d spent on the laird. All the compromising and placating. Enduring Gaufrid’s tantrums. Easing his fears. Massaging his ego. Licking his damned boots.
It had all been for nothing.
And Fergus would suffer the fool no longer.
Elbowing his way down the steps to seize Gaufrid by the scruff of his neck, he slammed him back against the stone wall.
“Hear me well, ye pulin’ churl!” he snarled, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. “’Tis o’er. Ye’ve lost your keep. Ye’ve lost your clan. If ye don’t want to lose your life, I suggest ye keep your tongue in your head and obey my orders.”
His threat worked. Gaufrid stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth gaping like a landed trout’s.
Sneering in disgust and releasing the laird like the rotten fish he was, he slipped down the last few steps and peered out carefully.
At the moment, the mercenaries were holding their own. They might have been caught with their braies down. But once they engaged in combat, they were like wild boars. Murderous and merciless.
Still, there was no way to tell how long they’d survive. Rivenloch was rumored to be the most ruthless and rabid border clan in Scotland. If anyone could cut down the mac Darragh army, it was these warmongering Lowlanders.
Even before he finished that thought, a mercenary came staggering across the sward to fall at Fergus’s feet. The man clutched at his bleeding throat, then opened his maw in a silent scream as his eyes went glassy with death.
Fergus glanced past the fallen warrior. A lass with a long blond braid and a bloody sword nodded in icy satisfaction before wheeling to face her next foe.
Fergus shuddered, realizing Rivenloch’s reputation was earned. There was no way mac Darragh would escape unscathed. He needed to concentrate on self-preservation.
“Come on!” he barked over his shoulder.
As Gaufrid sidled past the fallen mercenary, his mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. Fergus felt a similar disgust for Gaufrid. The laird might have a taste for power, but he didn’t have the stomach to do what it took to gain it.
Fergus and Morris did. They had always done what was necessary to better their lot. From whipping that upstart mac Giric bastard so many years ago to kissing the arse of this worthless laird to burning the church at Kirkoswald, they had done what needed to be done.
And so they would now. Even if it meant stealing what resources they could, cutting their losses, and surviving to fight another day.
He wouldn’t give up on Castle Darragh. As long as he kept the laird alive, the keep belonged to Gaufrid. With Gaufrid in tow, Fergus and Morris could lie low for a while, bide their time, wait until Rivenloch left or grew careless, and return in triumph to take back what was rightfully theirs.
There was only one complication. They’d neglected to kill the rival laird. If Gaufrid left now, clan loyalty might swivel to Dougal. And that would be calamitous.
“Morris,” Fergus muttered as they edged along the inside of the courtyard wall, well away from the chaos of clashing swords and bloody savagery. “Go now. Kill the prisoner.”
Morris glanced at Gaufrid in concern. After all, the laird might have something to say about Morris murdering his brother in cold blood.
But the laird was too dumbfounded at the sight of a claymore-wielding Rivenloch warrior hacking the sword hand off one of his mercenaries to notice.
“Dougal?” Morris mouthed.
Fergus nodded.
Morris left to do his bidding, dodging his way across the courtyard to slip unseen through the doors of the keep.
Fergus tugged on Gaufrid’s sleeve. They too had to get to safety. The pair of guards accompanying them had keen eyes and naked blades. They would defend the laird with their lives. But that didn’t mean they were infallible.
Moving Gaufrid, however, wasn’t easy. He seemed stupefied by the battle raging before him. He stood frozen in place—his eyes wide, his jaw slack—as his men fell, one by one, under the swords of the invading army.
“Come on, m’laird,” Fergus snarled, wrenching at Gaufrid’s elbow. “There’s no time to waste.”
Privately, Fergus entertained the idea of throwing Gaufrid into the fray to see how long he’d last, defenseless against the towering warriors and vicious vixens who would love to see the Laird of mac Darragh chopped to bits.
They were halfway around the courtyard, heading toward the keep when Morris burst out of the doors. He was red-faced, sweating, and out of breath.
