by Cathy MacRae
The grips on her arms faltered, and Carys jerked free and straightened. Men stood in an arc to her sides and before her, hands spread wide, awaiting her next move.
“Dinnae make this hard on yerself, lass,” the leader admonished. “Ye are well and truly caught. Give up.”
Carys managed a grimace. “I imagine poaching carries a worse punishment than a chase through the woods.” She shook her head. “I will not come peaceably.”
The man nodded, a look of respect in his eyes. “I suppose ye willnae.” He glanced at one of his men. “Disarm her.”
Carys snatched her knife from its sheath, the blade winking as it wove gently back and forth before her. The first man who reached for her drew back a bloody hand, his palm sliced from wrist to fingertip. A murmur of displeasure rose from the men. Carys quickly counted the men arrayed around her.
Five. Saint Winifrede save me! Where is the sixth?
She could not risk searching for the last man and could only hope he’d remained behind to guard the stag and mayhap their horses. She sprang to her feet and feinted to her right. The man closest pulled back, then lunged toward her. But Carys was no longer there. Whirling about, she dodged the tree and branches at her back and leapt forward—and crashed into the solid wall of the sixth man’s broad chest.
His arms encircled her as she spun around, yanking her back tight against his chest. Her hand holding her knife flew open and she lost the blade in the scuffle. Using the force of his grip, Carys flung herself backward, lifting both knees to her chest, meeting the rush of her would-be captors. With a determined shove, she sent the nearest man reeling and staggered the man who held her. She bent her neck forward, then flung her head backward as hard as she could and was rewarded with a loud crunch, a warm spatter against her cheek, and the giant’s bellow, but he did not release her.
His arms tightened and Carys fought against the restrictive bands. Hands fumbled with her legs as she thrashed.
“Halt!” a stern voice ordered.
The men came to ragged attention and the giant’s grip eased. Carys sucked in a deep breath and blinked to clear her vision. Before she could send her cocked elbow into her captor’s ribs, a meaty fist tapped the point of her chin, and she slumped in a ragged heap in the large man’s arms.
* * *
Birk paced the parapet, his eyes fixed on the forest to the north. Waves crashed on the shore to the south, beating against the base of the castle’s wall. Pausing only long enough to solve a dispute over Eislyn’s use of a boat in a nearby cove and to change into a fresh leine, he’d traversed the castle and bounded up the stairs. With thoughts of his daughter swirling through his mind, he stared out over the wall and wondered what kept Iain.
But, Da! I want to learn to sail!
I thought ye had enough to do with a puppy to train.
Abria spends more time with her than I do. I want to learn to sail!
I dinnae think Abria liked dogs.
Da!
Hoping the woman he was determined to marry would take the task from him, Birk hastily promised sailing lessons for Eislyn.
Where is Iain?
Horses moved away from the forest along the trail to the castle. Excitement—or perhaps trepidation—rose. Had he done the right thing? He was about to put an end to the question of marriage—but was this the right woman?
Of course it was. She was everything the others were not. Brave, loyal, fierce. He admired her skills with bow and arrow and her kindness to the people she lived near. She would make any man a fine wife.
He didn’t know her name.
Whirling about, he stomped down the steps, timing his descent to mingle with the crowd that gathered as Iain and his men rode through the gates. He’d chosen his clothing to blend in, not wishing to be labeled as the laird until he’d taken stock of the woman and noted her reaction.
The men dismounted, dragging their captive from the back of one of the horses. Birk halted in surprise. Fully half the men sported obvious wounds. Kern’s hand was wrapped in a length of bloody bandage and Oran’s nose was misshapen and swollen, the front of his leine stiff and dark with what appeared to be a quantity of dried blood. Brody limped noticeably. Birk cut his gaze to Iain who caught his look and shrugged.
The woman staggered behind Iain, hands bound, black hair hanging loose about her face. Birk jerked his chin to the southern tower, an imposing edifice of thick stone built into the wall of the castle. Its fortified room on the upper floor boasted a single narrow window that overlooked the sea nearly a hundred feet below. With a curt command, Iain sent his two uninjured men to convey the woman to the tower. Birk waited as Iain approached.
“I said no bruises,” he growled in a tone meant for Iain’s ears alone, brows lowered in displeasure.
“She may have one or two,” Iain admitted. “But none were intentional, and my lads fared far worse.”
Birk tilted his head. “How are the men handling it? They arenae usually on the receiving end of such abuse from a lass.”
Iain shrugged. “Oran and Brody will survive the ribbing from the other men. Kern may lose the use of his hand. He approached her whilst she still had her knife.”
Birk grunted. “Ferguson said she was a warrior. Mayhap a few hours alone in the tower will settle her.”
“She did warn us she wouldnae come peaceably,” Iain replied. “But none of us thought she’d actually make use of the knife.”
“Ferguson’s tale seemed a wee bit fanciful. I thought mayhap he had embellished the story. He spoke of six ruffians dead by her hand when they attacked his ship in port and a pirate ship sunk because of her strategy and skill. He said she escaped Wales ahead of Longshanks and is rumored to have fought his army for two years.” Birk rubbed his chin. “She has seen more strife than most women her age.”
Iain’s brows shot up. “A fair tale, but I will add she’s tough and doesnae back down from threats nor challenge.”
“She is but a woman,” Birk growled. “Once she is wed, she will find her place in the household. As long as she warms my bed and gives me an heir, I will call it a bargain well met.”
He nodded with satisfaction. “I willnae breed a bairn on a flighty wench—no lad of worth would come of it. But this woman has enough strength and bravery to give me a house full of braw lads.”
“Do ye still plan to bring her into the clan, then? It seems, begging yer pardon, but, after a contentious lady like yer late wife—rest her soul—ye would seek one who wasnae likely to defy ye so often. Mayhap one who would be a real ma to those bairns of yers, teach them to be proper ladies, not train them to be warriors.”
Birk’s gaze drifted to the door at the foot of the tower. “I dinnae want Eislyn and Abria to become proper ladies.” A grin threatened the tilt of his lips. “She is exactly what this clan needs.”
CHAPTER TEN
Carys stumbled into the room as a shove from a large masculine palm between her shoulder blades propelled her forward. One of her captors sliced the rope from her wrists with a sweep of his knife, then followed the other man from the room. The heavy wooden door slammed shut. She peered about the stone chamber. Aside from a pallet on the floor and a bucket in a far corner, the room was empty. Air blew crisp through an arrow-slit, much too narrow to consider an escape route. She rubbed her arms in an attempt to erase the feel of strong hands manacling them, then, unable to help herself, tested the door. It was securely latched.
“Ffwl!” she spat. Fool. Caught doing nothing more than providing food to hungry people.
She stormed about the cramped space, her boots thudding across the wooden floor. “MacLean deer! MacLean people!” she snarled, targeting the absent laird. “Twmffat!” Idiot.
Carys leaned against the window, the aperture scarcely wide enough to sight through with more than one eye. Waves broke upon the rocky shore far below, an invitation to tempt death. A reminder of the ship’s wreckage in another cove a fair morn’s travel from here.
Tully.
> Had Dewr reached him? Would he remember their arranged signal? For Dewr to return without her meant Tully should abandon the cave, take his belongings, and shelter with Fergal and Lorna. But what if Tully forgot? What if, because he was already at Fergal’s house, he did not understand to swiftly gather his things from the cave before searchers found it?
And what if he did not remember the small chest of coins they’d buried?
Carys peered down into the frothy churn of water about the boulders at the foot of the castle, measured the width of the window with a hand splayed within its opening.
“’Tis a fair drop.”
Pivoting on her heel, Carys faced the man at the door, amazed he’d entered unnoticed. His bulk filled the entry and he ducked as he stepped inside. He fastened the latch behind him, the click echoing in the nearly empty room, reminding Carys she was trapped.
She glanced up from his hands, now hanging peaceably at his sides, to his face. Dark eyes peered at her from beneath half-lowered lids, thick brows pulled together above his slightly arched nose as he studied her. His nearly black hair hung loose to his shoulders, a bit of curl softening his wide forehead and hard, chiseled features. She was startled to realize her head would likely reach no higher than his shoulder, for she was tall for a woman, and had found it easy to pass for a man. This giant would have been a more familiar figure stepping from a Norse longboat, had his coloring been the pale blonde of that race. She surreptitiously checked his hands for signs of an axe or sword.
A hint of metal glinted from his wrists and at the top of his boot, doubtless hidden sheaths with daggers. Carys’s fingers itched with the need to somehow gain one of the weapons.
And do what? Doubtless the man was an accomplished warrior. His light step and sure balance told her as much. Relieving him of one weapon left him at least two more, and likely others she had yet to discover.
“A short sword at my back, two dirks in my belt, three throwing blades at wrist and boot, and a sgian dubh in the other boot,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
Carys shrugged. “I do not like being a prisoner.”
“Killing me willnae get ye released. ’Twould be another feat to fight yer way down the stairs and out of the tower. Plenty of men would be anxious to stop ye before ye traveled far.”
“I wish to be released.” Every muscle thrummed with the urge to flee. For more than two years, she’d remained a step ahead of an English prison, aware a princess of Cymru would not simply be discarded as unimportant. She’d spent every waking moment—and many that should have been spent in much-needed rest—avoiding capture. Being a woman in the hands of an enemy held its own special peril. Fear roiled like an angry snake in her belly, sending the acrid taste of bile to her mouth.
The big man crossed his arms over his broad chest, bulging forearms corded with heavy muscle and overlaid with dark, crisp hairs. Carys was impressed, despite herself. With a mental shake of annoyance, she discarded the urge to touch him.
“Ye have been brought here on a serious charge,” the man said with a frown, his voice rumbling deep and ominous.
Carys matched his stance, not bothering to hide her disgust. “Feeding the hungry should not be a crime.”
“’Tis the fact ye poached on land that doesnae belong to ye.” He tilted his head. “Ye are a stranger to our shores. Why did ye not present yerself to the laird’s man when ye arrived?”
A myriad of emotions flushed through Carys, diluting her anger. Loss. Homesickness. Grief. Loneliness. She quickly tamped them down, shoving the sentiments into the deep space inside where she hid them away. She set her jaw stubbornly. What kind of honor did the MacLean laird have if he punished those who fed his people? He sounded no better than Edward and the cursed English.
“I did not see the need. I asked nothing from the clan—neither food nor lodging. Or protection.”
The man gave a short nod. “Tell me how ye came here. There was rumor of a shipwreck, yet no survivors were found.”
Carys’s eyes narrowed. “You must not have searched very hard,” she scoffed, though she knew she’d covered her tracks well. Once away from the foundered Seabhag, she’d not returned, nor allowed Tully to do so. Precisely because of the fear someone would stumble upon the wreckage. She had not wanted to risk anyone discovering a well-worn path to the cave they called home.
The man shrugged. “’Tis possible, yet the captain was known to us and an effort was made to discover what happened to him and his lad.” His gaze pierced her. “Do ye know if any others live?”
“The men were all lost,” she replied curtly, not placing thirteen-year-old Tully in the same category. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms against the threatened return of grief.
Her captor studied her at length. “How is it a woman came to be a hand on the ship? Did they not object? Sailors are a superstitious lot. A woman is said to bring naught but doom to a ship.”
“They welcomed me after I foiled an attempt to rob the ship whilst at harbor one night,” she answered with a tilt to her chin.
“Ye earned their goodwill?”
“Is it difficult for you to imagine I could be an asset?” Temper flared, warming her skin as it crept from her chest up her neck.
“Women have their place,” the man agreed.
Carys snarled.
“Mayhap ye are an uncommon woman. Ye gave Iain’s men a bit of trouble. Have ye skill with more than a knife and bow?”
Exasperated with the inquisition, Carys flung her arms wide. “I have no more answers for you. Tell me my penalty for slaying your laird’s deer—which I am certain you have gathered for yourselves—and let us be done. I will waste no more time on your land.”
He arched a brow, though in arrogance or anger she could not tell.
“The penalty for poaching the laird’s stag is death.”
Even as he said the words, something rose inside Birk, shaming him for his duplicity. The woman did not cower from him, did not dissolve into tears meant to sway his opinion or rebuke him for his brutishness. Her eyes flashed and a flush stained her pale cheeks. Two thin streaks of crusted blood, remnants of her flight through the forest, slashed across one side of her face, and the dark stain of a recent bruise blossomed beneath her chin.
Her face was too slender, her eyebrows too straight for classic beauty, but it was the force of her nature that called to him. Tall and willowy, her body nonetheless quivered with power and life. Not calm and poised as one raised to be a lady, but agile, strong—and fierce.
Birk bit the inside of his lip to hide his pleasure.
“I could have yer sentence reduced—mayhap erased all together. ’Twould save yer life if ye agreed.”
The woman shifted her balance slightly forward. Would she attack? Did she actually believe she could win against him?
“’Tis not what ye think,” he drawled, one hand raised to pat the air, signaling her to settle. To his surprise, the action seemed to infuriate rather than calm her. He scowled. “I may be strong and intimidating, but I dinnae force women to my will.”
Her challenging glare softened to one of belligerent disbelief, but she did not reply. Birk’s small store of patience abruptly dried.
“Marry me. The charges will be dropped. There isnae penalty for a MacLean to hunt our lands.”
Her chest rose and fell, breaths deepening as her jaw set firm.
Frustration warred with anger. “Will ye do naught to help yerself? Do ye have naught to say?”
In a lightning move, she gripped his outstretched hand, surprising him with her strength. Her other hand snatched the throwing knife from the sheath at his wrist. She leapt beyond his reach, the blade held lightly between her fingers, positioned slightly behind her ear.
“Cer i grafu,” she snarled.
Birk ducked to the side as she released the blade. He swept one leg out, catching her off balance. Plucking the blade from where it protruded from the doorframe, he yanked the door open and left the
room.
Dugan’s footsteps matched Birk’s as he thundered down the stairs.
“I take it she dinnae agree to wed ye.” He danced lightly to the side as Birk whirled.
“She hasnae the sense to help herself,” he growled.
“I dinnae think commanding her compliance would work,” Dugan mentioned. “Did ye not think to try a more inviting approach?”
Birk grunted. “What difference should that make? Invite her to live? Sparing her the hangman’s noose should be incentive enough.”
“What is her name?” Dugan’s voice softened, pointing to Birk’s failure to attend to anyone’s process but his own.
“Shite.”
“I dinnae think that is a common name among the Cymry, so I’ll ask yer indulgence to believe ye dinnae ask.”
“I dinnae have time for nonsense. The council has hounded me for too long and even Dairborrodal isnae safe from their meddling. The castle nears completion and I have business in Morvern in a fortnight.”
He shoved his fingers through his hair, battling against Dugan’s rebuke. “She is a woman. She should know her place.”
“She has been a soldier,” Dugan countered.
“Then she should know how to follow orders.”
“Yer lady has survived battle, killed men. She has likely given orders, been asked for her advice. She bested Iain’s men—though six were at last enough to subdue her.” Dugan raised his eyebrows. “I dinnae believe she will meekly follow orders, my lord baron. She is made of sterner stuff.”
Birk braced a shoulder against the wall. “What would ye suggest?”
* * *
Carys picked herself off the floor, not bothering to batter her fury against the closed door. It would be a futile act with her energies best used elsewhere.
Marry him? Who does he think he is? His clothing and bearing do not suggest he is an ordinary soldier. Nor the gaoler looking to make an easy conquest of a helpless prisoner.
She paced the room.
