“Marsaili!” he roared, straining against the four men who were now holding him.
She winced at the blood that dripped down his arm and the raw pain that twisted his features. He loved her. She would have that knowledge in her heart for the rest of her life, no matter what was to come.
“Marsaili!” he bellowed, his voice buffeting her back like a violent wind as she was led away.
She trembled as she walked toward her father and her son. It was her child; she was sure of it. His cherubic cheeks were red from crying, his big, dark eyes glistened with tears, his brown, curly hair was a tussled mess.
He was perfect. And he had Callum’s eyes—they hadn’t remained blue as they were at birth—and she was grateful for it. Her heart clenched with a strange mixture of love and pain. As she was stopped in front of her father, she tried to recall exactly what she’d seen in Broch’s gaze right before he had thrown his other dagger at Callum. Broch’s eyes had pleaded, she thought. His look had beseeched her not to fight what he was doing. Doubt battered her, but she trusted Broch. He was honorable to the core. He had, she was sure, known instantly what she had when Callum had charged toward her father: Callum was going to die. Fear had frozen her mind and her body, rendering her useless.
She prayed now as her father’s cold eyes swept up over her that Broch had a plan that would save Callum’s life and somehow enable Callum to rescue their son. As for her, as long as her son was safe with Callum, she could withstand anything. She would do her part.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Broch as he strode up and stopped to stand beside her.
“What business have ye here, Broch MacLeod?” her father growled. It did not surprise her that her father recalled Broch. They had met briefly at the Steward’s home, not long ago, and her father had an excellent memory for people.
Broch stepped as if to move toward her father, and the guards who had pointed the swords at her before, swiveled them to Broch. He offered an indifferent look, and with a shrug, he said, “Ye may nae wish others to hear what I have to say, but if ye dunnae care…”
Her father waved his hand at his men. “Stand down. If the man so much as flinches as if he means ill, kill him.”
The guards nodded and moved away. As Broch stepped forward, Marsaili took advantage of not having the guards trained on her and followed Broch. She would know what he was going to say and what his plan was.
“The MacLeod sent me to retrieve yer daughter to come before him in reckoning for her crimes of betraying his clan and the king.”
Her father’s face remained expressionless. “I dunnae have any notion what ye speak of.”
“Ye do, and we both ken it. Yer daughter did yer bidding to retrieve her child, whom ye hold in this verra moment. Ye asked her to betray the king’s mission, and she did. She must be punished for her crimes.”
Broch gave her a hostile look that she prayed was all part of his plan. In that hope, she returned his look with a narrow-eyed scowl, then faced her father once more. Fear rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back, sensing the importance of the next few minutes.
“She will be punished,” her father replied. “She is to marry an English earl and will be parted from her son.”
“’Tis nae enough. She owes much for her sins. The MacLeod will wage war on ye if he dunnae receive compensation for her betrayal.”
“Take the child,” her father tossed out, as if he were offering a bag of coin. Marsaili clenched her hands into fists. “He can suffer the sins of his mother.”
“That is a start,” Broch agreed with a nod of his head. “I wish to take the Grant prisoner, as well.”
Her father’s eyes widened at the news. “What crime has he committed against the MacLeods?”
“He feigned to want an alliance and then killed some of my laird’s favored guards,” Broch lied. “He will be staked at the castle for all to see what happens to those who dare to cross us.”
“Fine.” Her father waved his hand negligently toward Callum. “Take him and kill him as ye will, but hear me now, if he somehow lives and comes to bring me trouble, ye can tell the MacLeod that I will nae hesitate to wage war with yer clan myself.”
Broch bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “I’ll be sure to relay yer message.” Broch held his arms out toward her father. “The boy.” His tone was commanding, and Marsaili feared her father would become angry and change his mind about giving her son to Broch.
“I would hold my son before ye take him,” she blurted as much in desperation to do so, as in a bid to distract her father from becoming angry that Broch had dared to command him.
Her father settled an impassive gaze on her. “Ye’re verra predictable, Marsaili. Though I will say I am impressed with how resourceful ye have proven to be escaping the castle and getting yer stepmother to confess to the whereabouts of my grandson.”
She gloried for a heartbeat in the confirmation that the boy was hers. Not that she had needed it, but hearing her father verify it, made it that more real. “I want to hold my son,” she demanded, stepping closer only to have the guards upon her in a flash. One drew his sword and pointed it at her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Broch tense, and behind her, Callum’s bellow of rage echoed. She longed to turn to him, to assure him with a look that she was not scared, but she dared not. “I will go with ye peacefully, Father, if ye but allow me to hold my son before ye hand him over to Broch.”
She did not bother to ask to take the child with her; she knew well her father would deny the request, and at least she knew he would be safe with Broch and pray God above, Callum, if all went according to plan. When he simply stared at her, but did not refute what she asked, she knew him well enough to understand he was contemplating her request.
“Just once,” she said softly. “Let me hold him just once. And then I will go with ye to the earl.” If Callum could not come for her, or did not reach her in time, she’d become another man’s wife. It was a thing that could not be undone. She inhaled a long breath to steady her nerves. She had to have faith that Callum would come for her and that he would reach her before she belonged to another in the eyes of God and of the king. She raised her arms toward her son. “Give him to me.”
Her father’s eyes widened a fraction, and a slow satisfied smile pulled at his lips. “Finally, ye are becoming a Campbell, Daughter.”
She clenched her teeth on the desire to tell him that she was a MacLeod, instead saying, “I’m glad to finally please ye. My son, if ye will.”
