by April Hill
The man faltered, and looked to his companions for aid. "The girl arrived alone but was joined later by two men. I hid from sight when they arrived, but one of the pair was a Scot. He rode a great gray horse, and wore the kilt—a plaided kilt."
Grymwald's eyes brightened and a look of new interest crossed his face. "Tell me, was it the garment of a McGregor?" he demanded, and the man shook his head, bewildered.
"I know not their patterns or colors, sire. 'T was naught but the kilt and the swag across his chest caused me to take him for a Scot. The younger man with him might have been one of that breed, as well, but he was not dressed in a like manner."
"Describe to me the older man!" Grymwald shrieked. "His age? Bearing?"
"He was old, and uncommonly tall," a third man volunteered nervously. "And he carried his right arm stiffly. And as to the pattern of the kilt, sire? I grew up in the North, where many of the heathens wear the wretched garment as a badge of sorts, to mark their Highland origins. His was of the clan that call themselves McGregor, sire. I am sure of it. A dark green, and maroon, it was."
"Damn your bloody eyes, cretin!" Grymwald raged. "You saw all this, and yet let them pass unhindered?"
"I was alone, sire," the man protested, "and they were...."
Grymwald sneered. "And your base cowardice kept you in hiding, and from doing your duty, is that what I'm to understand?"
The man said nothing more, but bowed his head, shamed and frightened.
"They'll travel northeast," Grymwald said. "McGregor won't sacrifice that stupid great animal of his to cross the Firth, and they're in no great hurry, now, having already witnessed the detestable cowardice of what I call my men! Take another six and go after them, and if the bitch isn't in my hands by tomorrow, you'll all curse to Heaven the day your fathers begat you! Kill the younger man, and bring the sniveling little Drummond bitch and Duncan McGregor to me alive— and in good health. I want them able to enjoy every moment of what I have planned." His voice had risen steadily, in a crescendo of fury, and it was now close to a scream. "Now, go!"
The men rode off, eager to spare themselves another second in their lord's company. When they were out of sight, Alric Grymwald made his way carefully across the ruined drawbridge, and walked slowly around the crumbling remains of the castle. Twelve years earlier, and just two days after Duncan had tried to bury them, Grymwald had disinterred the bodies of Edward and Juliana Drummond and scattered their charred bones among the pack of snarling hounds he kept as watchdogs. With that done, he had searched the burned wreckage, again, sifting through the debris until he found what he was looking for—further evidence of what he had most feared, but had been unable to prove to his satisfaction. Evidence that there had been a child—a female. And the accursed brat had escaped—a living Drummond whose burned corpse had not been found amidst the ruins with all the others. There was only one real possibility. She was with McGregor— wherever he was. McGregor— the old enemy Alric Grymwald hated most in the world. The same enemy who had managed to interfere with every great plan he had ever made. Yes, Grymwald thought, he would very much enjoy watching Duncan McGregor's slow, agonizing death. It was doubtful, however, that his old nemesis would enjoy watching the rape and torture, and finally the death of the simpering child he had spirited away to Scotland, all those years ago.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, the same, somewhat older child was again being spirited away to Scotland against her will, and without having been consulted even once as to her wishes in the matter. When she had begged Stephen for just one more day to explore, her plea had been met with stony silence. When she asked yet again, while they were camped for the night on the banks of the river, she was rewarded with a pair of solid swats across her rear end, and a threat of worse to come, should she mention the subject again. Since Stephen was watering the horses, the smacks had been delivered not by her husband, but by an annoyed McGregor himself, who, at fifty-nine years old, often allowed himself a certain latitude when it came to what was proper, and what was not.
"That is for what thy laggard husband appears to be too busy or too good-natured to give ye," he said affably, when Kathy complained about the blows. "The slow-witted lad has not yet learned to strike while the iron is hot, and while the whine is still on the tongue."
"I was not whining," she insisted sullenly.
He chuckled. "Aye? Well, it passed as that to these old ears, love. Ye've been told before, and I'll tell thee again—just once more. This is an evil place, and a dangerous one for thee, and for the pair of, as well. Ask again to go back, and if Stephen won't see to it, I'll take a strap to thee myself. Don't try my patience, lass, or his. We've all had a hard day of it, and tomorrow'll be no easier, I warrant. There'll be damned little rest for any of us 'til we're back at Gailleann and no time at all for foolishness."
"Ha!" Katherine erupted. "It was you that taught me to think for myself, Duncan McGregor, and you know me not if you think I'll be put off so easily. It's not foolishness, but an honest answer or two I want of you. I'll have a full explanation of all this or you can both ride back to Gailleann without me, and be damned! I'm not a docile child you can scold and spank, and then put in a corner and expect to stay there!" Kathy made this bold and possibly reckless speech with her head held high, daring him to do his worst, while sincerely hoping he wouldn't. Since childhood, there had been countless of these small wars between them—with Katherine stubbornly defiant, risking retribution, and McGregor secretly pleased by her bravery and intelligence, but still determined to have her obedience. Obedience was a thing he had always expected from men, and until Kathy appeared in his life, it was something he had demanded of women.
But since Duncan McGregor also prided himself on being a fair man, something approaching compromise had eventually been worked out between them— after much shouting, swearing, and a great many hurled and broken household objects. The compromise was a simple one. If Kathy could make her case, without resorting to tears and whining, McGregor would listen, and sometimes even agree to whatever seemingly outlandish request she had made. If, however, she lost the argument because of poor logic, or cheating (a frequent occurrence, unfortunately) or when she attempted to use what he referred to as her "female wiles," she could expect a sore bottom, and a full load of extra household chores.
During this same time, his concessions and Kathy's successes had included learning to use a longbow with precision, and to hunt— in moderation. He had also permitted her to ride astride, dressed shockingly in men's tights and tunic. She was also permitted to attend the parish school at St. Ebba's, to be instructed in the same lessons as the local boys—science, languages and mathematics. At twelve, when she was barely able to lift, even with both hands, the great claymore that McGregor carried into battle, and when she asked to learn how to use it, the request was adamantly denied. The following afternoon, she took the weapon from the wall without permission, dragged it to a nearby field and attempted to teach herself. The end result was that she gave herself a great thump on the back of the head, which resulted in a large, painful knot on her skull, and a spanking she could still remember in excellent detail, until this very day.
In the same clandestine manner, she had taught herself the rudiments of using the highland dirk, stealing McGregor's own weapon from a cabinet and practicing her murderous skills on a large pumpkin. When Duncan discovered her at the back of the garden, hurling his grandfather's dagger into tree trunks and using it to maim an assortment of vegetables, his initial response had been anger, but he was also struck by the astonishing degree of skill and accuracy the girl had developed in such a short time, and by herself. At just eleven years old, Katherine Drummond was a far better than average marksman with a longbow, and was now proving to be a quite passable hand with a knife. As he returned the razor-sharp dirk to its heavy scabbard, McGregor chuckled. Before long, the little assassin might very well be asking for lessons with the garrote.
"All right, then," he growled. "Th
is is how it will be, lass. Ye are never to touch this weapon again, or any other, without my permission, and in my presence. I would have ye reach womanhood with all ye'r fingers and both eyes. 'T will be hard enough to find a man to take ye off m' hands with all of yer parts intact, let alone one-eyed and fingerless. So, if ye'll make me that honest promise, and listen well as ye're taught, I myself will teach thee how to use the dirk without doing ye'rself permanent injury. But God help us both if Johanna Lachlan should learn that I've encouraged this folly! "
The following year, with some reluctance, he began instructing her in the basics of swordsmanship, calling it, within Johanna's hearing, "the fine art of fencing."
* * * * *
Late that evening, while Duncan and Stephen made camp, Katherine went down to the river to bathe. She dipped one bare toe in the rapidly flowing water and shivered. It would be some months yet before it was warm enough to bathe with any sort of comfort. Still, she wanted and needed a bath, and it was this or nothing. Hurriedly, before she thought better of her decision, she slipped off her cloak, and then her kirtle and long tunic, and pulled the linen chemise up and over her head. Trembling with the cold, and dreading the first shock of the freezing water, she dropped her clothing behind her and stepped out into the shallows, kneeling down quickly on the pebbled bottom to submerge herself in the icy current as far as her chest. Almost immediately, she regretted it, but spread out her arms and sank in up to her shoulders, groaning with the cold, but determined to finish what she'd begun.
With the camp set up and the fire started, Stephen walked down to the river to look for Kathy, his mood sour. It was late, and they would need to leave before dawn. He was still angry with her for running away and in no mood to have to search for her again.
As he parted the bushes on the riverbank, he saw her in the water, and before he could announce his presence, she stood up. Her back was to him, and as so often happened when he came upon his wife in this sudden manner, he was startled anew by her loveliness. Drenched in moonlight, Kathy's wet body gleamed like polished ivory, and the unexpected sight took his breath away. She turned then, and came up the bank, wrapping her arms about her against the chill. As she bent to reach for her discarded clothing, her breasts swung softly free, their chilled nipples dark and taut against her fair skin. She looked up and saw him, and quickly drew her cloak up to her chin.
"I'm just coming," she snapped. "You needn't have come looking for me, as if I were a sheep that wandered off!"
"I didn't mean to…" Stephen stopped, unable to finish his sentence. Kathy had wrapped the cloak around her, refusing to come nearer to him and shivering violently. "You're cold," he observed. "Come back to the fire to dress."
"No, thank you," she said brusquely. "I will be there shortly— when it suits me."
Stephen extended a hand. "Please, darling, you're turning blue, as we speak." Kathy slapped his hand away and tried to move around him. As she passed, Stephen took her by the elbow and pulled her to him, very conscious, now, that she was entirely naked beneath the cloak. He slipped his arms underneath the heavy garment and around her waist. Kathy swore, but struggled for only a moment before sinking against his chest with a weary sigh.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'll not do such a foolhardy thing again, I promise. It was wrong of me and dangerous for all of us."
"Yes," he agreed, trying to dry her body within the folds of the cloak. "It was. And now, you're wet and cold and may have made yourself ill, as well. What's to be done with you, my love?"
Katherine smiled. "You could have me annulled, I suppose," she suggested, pressing closer to him. "It's the fashion, I understand, among the nobility—of which I used to be a member, before someone burned down my poor castle and made me a pauperess. With me gone, you could find yourself a docile new wife—an obedient one, who could cook."
"A docile and obedient cook would be an agreeable thing to have about the house," he murmured, "but the fragrance of onions would grow quickly tiresome. Besides, my own dear wife has just promised to be more obedient, though docile is no doubt too much to hope for." When he opened the front of the damp cloak and lowered his head to kiss her breast, Kathy trembled with pleasure and parted the cloak wider, to fold him inside. For several long moments, they stood together, their mouths and hands exploring one another eagerly. As Stephen's strong fingers began to move briskly up and down her flanks, warming her, she basked in the warmth of him, and longed for the soft, wide bed in their own sweet cottage in distant Cala.
Ignoring the cold, they spread her cloak on the damp ground, covered themselves with his cloak and made love by the river, grasping at one another with a demanding urgency brought on by a separation of more than a fortnight. Spreading her thighs to slip his fingers between her inner lips, Stephen stroked and probed the lush velvet softness of her until Kathy began to moan with a delirious pleasure and begged him to enter, quickly. And when he cupped his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her to do as she had asked—plunging firmly and deeply inside—the sheer, almost forgotten size and force of him caused her to gasp with delight. As he thrust again and again, she groaned, and wept, and would have made a great deal more noise had Stephen not placed one hand firmly across her mouth, laughing softly. "Shhh!" he whispered. "Duncan will hear!" And then he drove into her one final time, silently, but deep enough and hard enough to bring a cry of muffled ecstasy from Kathy, and the first sumptuous, compelling, almost unendurable spasms of long-overdue rapture.
Exhausted, if not thoroughly sated, they fell asleep where they were, by the river. McGregor found them there later and smiled, but didn't wake them.
Their evening by the river had been indescribably lovely, and would have been a perfect way to end their quarrel, but as she lay that night in Stephen's tender embrace, listening to the soft rush of the river, Kathy began to grow restive—and more than a bit resentful. They would be back in Scotland soon, where she would once again take up her role as a country wife. And now that she had spread her wings and flown away on her own—against her husband's wishes— she would be a very carefully watched country wife. She had come all these miles, spent several uncomfortable and frightening nights sleeping alone in the woods, and had barely begun her exploration of Drumannach before being snared like a helpless rabbit.
And to makes matters worse, her own husband— who had promised to love and cherish her— had administered an excruciatingly painful and humiliating whipping to her, and then threatened to do it again. And for all of the effort, pain and eventual embarrassment involved in her one short flight to freedom, she was now being dragged home having accomplished absolutely nothing for her trouble. Surely, if she explained to Stephen, slowly and calmly, with well-reasoned arguments how important all of this was to her, he would understand. He loved her, after all, and wanted to see her happy. She would ask him if they might please return to Drumannach—just for a day or so— to search for answers.
Stephen responded with a speed that genuinely astonished her. They were still curled warmly together under his great woolen cape and an extra blanket, when she nudged him awake, and asked her question— calmly, and very reasonably.
Within ten seconds— perhaps even less— Stephen had pulled the blanket off her, rolled her rudely onto her stomach, and began to wallop her bare buttocks with his bare hand. Kathy kicked and shrieked, outraged by how quickly he had forgotten their night of ecstasy.
"STEPHEN!" she wailed. " I beg you to….Owwww! Stop it! I promise, I won't ….Owwww! Ouch! PLEASE!"
Stephen only smacked harder, and for the second time in as many days, Katherine Elspeth Drummond Lachlan, presumptive heiress to Drumannach Castle, found herself getting the sort of blistering spanking that would have guaranteed— in a different sort of woman— absolute obedience.
So, when she decided she would endure no more, and that it was time to mollify her husband's temper, Kathy began to weep, and to plead in her most piteous manner—and to promise precisely that sort of absolute
obedience.
And had Stephen Lachlan been a different sort of man, he might have believed her, and desisted— but he wasn't, and he didn't. Instead, he pulled his beloved up onto her knees, with her sweetly-tousled red head resting on the blanket and her lovely, already reddened bottom at a much more advantageous angle. Then, with one last, firm warning to discourage future mention of this forbidden subject, he began to smack her raised rump with the wide, flat leather scabbard of the hunting knife he always carried at his waist. Kathy squirmed and howled with pain and disbelief as the coarse leather rained hellfire across both cheeks and the tender backs of her thighs.
The spanking was brief, but the noise of it had left little doubt as to what had happened on the riverbank. As Kathy strode angrily back into the campsite, having dressed quickly and carelessly, Duncan had already broken camp, and begun saddling the horses. When she walked by him without a word, he shook his head and chuckled merrily.
"Ah," he murmured, to no one in particular. "Young love in bloom—enough to make a man glad to the soles of his boots that he's old and gray, and past it all."
CHAPTER FOUR
The following morning, in the village of Thurlestone, in the North of England
Aware that they were in the very heart of the region over which Alric Grymwald held sway, McGregor and his two companions traveled north with extreme caution. If they had been seen at Drumannach, Grymwald's spies would be looking for them not merely on the main road, but in the villages and hamlets the road passed through, as well. Duncan's plan was to attract as little attention as possible by riding not as a group, but separately, and some hundreds of feet apart, on alternating sides of the road. He had foresworn the kilt that morning, dressing instead as a nondescript peasant, and ordered Katherine to keep the hood of her cloak close about her face when they came upon other travelers. It was market day, and as the morning wore on, the numbers of people on top of the road increased, forcing the trio to leave the highway completely and make their way whenever they could through fields and forest.
