Twenty-Eight
“That’s it. Down the hatch,” Beathan chuckled as he tilted Arabella’s head back and pinched her nose, much like he had earlier that day. The whisky flowed down her throat as she struggled to swallow fast enough. He’d plied her with alcohol off and on the entire day, keeping her in a continued state of semi-consciousness. He’d tried to let his hand roam over her breasts, but she’d dug the nails of one hand into his forearm and pinched the back of his hand with the other. She’d drawn blood from his arm and left a bruise on his hand. Arabella was certain riding at a fast canter kept Beathan from lashing out at her.
He’d tried a second time, but she grabbed handfuls of the horse’s mane and yanked. She felt guilty abusing the innocent animal, but the horse shimmied sideways and shook his massive head. Beathan tried to spur him on, but the horse shook his head again. With several oaths, Beathan abandoned his attempt to fondle her. It was wasting time he didn’t have to spare. Instead, he kept her drunk and compliant. She prayed a litany of thanksgiving that the man’s sporran kept her from feeling anything that might have shown riding with her and touching her aroused him. Though it was foggy, she recalled what Lachlan told her. The sporran rubbed against her backside and made it sore, but she appreciated the barrier knowing now what she did. She supposed the conversation came in handy after all.
As she fought to keep from feeling like she would drown, her body felt like it weighed too much to support. She was pleased to see the other men making camp. She was sore from the long hours of riding and too intoxicated to remember any landmarks they passed. Even when she’d been able to pay attention, what she saw was of little use to her. The landscape all looked the same, and she wasn’t familiar with the Highlands. She knew they rode alongside a loch she’d heard called the Tay. They’d seen boats sailing near the shore, but they’d been too far away for her to see any faces. Her constant blurry vision didn’t help. There’d been a moment when she’d spotted movement on the ship’s deck, and Beathan snarled something in Gaelic. But the road took them away from the loch, and the water became a distant shimmer.
Now she sat tied to a tree while Beathan and his men moved around the camp. She wondered if they would feed her anything. She doubted it when one man took the rabbits on the spit off of the fire and divided them among the men. Arabella knew Beathan intended to keep her hungry, so she wouldn’t grow sober. He’d only feed her whisky to keep her going. As her eyes grew heavy, she welcomed the oblivion she used to seek. It was her only friend at the moment.
Arabella drifted in and out of sleep throughout the night. She heard Beathan’s voice as he spoke with the man who seemed to be his most trusted warrior. She couldn’t understand what they said because they used Gaelic the entire time except for when they gave her orders or doled out insults. During the middle of the night, she had a nightmare that Lachlan was on one of the boats she’d seen. She’d run toward him, but she was too unsteady on her feet to move fast enough, swerving and weaving as she tried to make it to the shore. Beathan caught her and held her up so Lachlan could see as he ran a blade across her throat. Lachlan hadn’t been able to get to her in time, and she hadn’t been able to escape. Even in her dream, she knew they’d been close to happiness, but her drinking tore them apart.
She’d woken with a start and mumbled in her drowsy state. Beathan crossed the camp and once more plied her with whisky until her eyes rolled back. She remained in a semi-state of wakefulness, aware of what happened around her for the rest of the night, but still asleep. When the sun peaked through the foliage above her, Arabella moaned and thrashed her head. She tried to block out the light by having her hair tumble in front of her face, but the liquid swilling in her stomach threatened to make a return. The ropes around her body, her wrists, and her ankles fell away as one guard cut her free. He reached out his hand as if he would cup her breast, but Arabella snarled and snapped her teeth at him like a feral animal. She felt like one: filthy, untrusting, and angry.
“Cease, or ye will feel ma hand across the other cheek. And I dinna mean the one on yer face,” Beathan barked.
“Then make your hound heel,” Arabella spat. She rubbed the rope burns around her wrist as she glared at Beathan. “You’ve filled me so full of liquid, I’m likely to float away. Unless you’d like to smell pish all day, I need a moment of privacy.”
“Nae bluidy likely. I stole ye while ye had yer moment of privacy. I’m nae aboot to lose ye like that fool Sutherland did. Hold it, or I come with,” Beathan offered.
Arabella needed relief too badly to care what Beathan did. She jerked her head up and down, then turned away from the camp. She found a bush close to where they’d tied her. She made sure she angled herself to have the most privacy she could and did what was necessary. Her balance was still off, and she nearly tumbled forward as she tried to stand. Beathan’s none-too-gentle grip on her arm righted her. Manners drilled into her for years made her say “thank you,” but she spat on the ground beside his feet afterward. She’d spat twice in the past two days, which was more than she’d ever done in her life. But she would have gladly done it over and over to make her loathing clear to Beathan. He led her back to the horses and lifted her into the saddle. They were back on the road, and Arabella’s head was back to feeling like it was swimming. But the alcohol kept her from being terrified. It kept her from being furious. It kept her from being much more than numb, and that kept her going.
“Menzies,” Lachlan gripped forearms with Laird Cathal Menzies as the man greeted Lachlan warmly. It didn’t fool Lachlan into thinking it was a genuine welcome. He’d known Cathal since he was a young boy, and the laird was shrewd. It was how he kept his clan prosperous and out of feuds. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has, Lachlan. What brings ye to Comrie?” Cathal inquired.
“Beathan Gunn.”
Lachlan watched as Cathal struggled not to allow his disgust to show. He’d been at the last Highland Gathering that the Grants hosted, and he’d witnessed the standoff between Farlane and his son Arlan against the twins Ewan and Eoin Gordon. He’d learned what Arlan Gunn did to Cairstine Grant years earlier. Cathal had been one of the men to support Eoin’s demand for single combat when Arlan threatened Cairstine once again. The Menzies were among the clans that ensured the Gunns left without further trouble after the Gordon twins slayed their laird and heir.
“Apple doesnae fall far from that tree, does it?” Cathal asked.
“Nay, it doesnae. Beathan is proving to be more judicious in clan affairs than his father or uncles, but he is the same when it comes to how he treats women,” Lachlan explained.
“So this is aboot a woman?” Cathal studied Lachlan. “Yer woman.”
“Aye. He’s abducted Lady Arabella Johnstone. Her father was in the midst of arranging a betrothal, but King Robert favored ma suit over Beathan’s. He didna take defeat graciously.”
Cathal laughed. “Nay Gunn ever has. They have a propensity for kidnapping women. It’s nae as though nay other Highlander has ever committed bride stealing, but that clan doesnae think aboot who they go up against. Twice they’ve tried to take women from yer cousins and now yer own lady. Nay sense at all.”
Cathal passed an assessing gaze over Lachlan, and he knew the older laird wouldn’t make any serious offers until Lachlan stated what he wanted. But he was just as patient as Cathal was shrewd. He stood looking at the man. As the seconds ticked by, Lachlan cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the keep before returning his gaze to Cathal’s. They stood before one another, silent and contemplative.
“It’s only the wee hours of the morn, but I suppose ye’re looking for a place to catch some shuteye. Yer men can bed down in the barracks, and I’ll have Enid arrange a chamber for ye,” Cathal said as he made to turn away.
“Ye ken that isnae why I came. Why would I sleep now when ye ken I was on a boat all night with little to do but sleep?” Lachlan countered. “I have four men with me, and Beathan has six. The odds favor me, but where Arab
ella is concerned, I willna take any chances. Ye ken I’ve come to ask for help, and I ken ye willna turn me down.”
“Ye ken that, do ye? Upstart,” Cathal grumbled. He looked at Lachlan’s expectant face, and both men knew Lachlan didn’t need to mention the outstanding debt for Cathal to agree. “How many do ye want?”
“Half a score,” Lachlan responded without hesitation. “They’ll still be riding along the loch until at least midday. We should be able to meet them at the sharp bend in the river near Taymouth. I think that’s the best place to make our stand.”
“Aye, I can see that. But mayhap there be another way.” A speculative gleam entered Cathal’s eyes, and Lachlan prayed he and his men would survive whatever Cathal plotted. “I’m guessing ye saw signs of ma patrols along the river. What if I send one out that happens to find Beathan and yer lass? It’ll be nearly sundown by the time they ride within spitting distance of here. Ma patrol extends our Highland hospitality to Beathan, and kenning him as I did his uncles, he willna turn down a bed and a meal paid for by another mon’s coin. Once he’s here—” Cathal shrugged “—ye have the entire Menzies army to back ye.”
Lachlan considered what Cathal suggested, and it made far more sense than trying to launch a surprise attack along a river that had little high ground. He loathed allowing Arabella to remain within Beathan’s reach the extra hours they would have to wait, but he knew it was the soundest approach. It was also the safest one for Arabella. He nodded his head.
“Fine choice, Lachlan. Come inside and have something to eat. Ye must be half-starved. The size of ye and only wee rabbits to fill ye. The woods between here and Stirling must be empty by now.” Cathal led the way into the keep, and Lachlan didn’t bother to mention the detour to Inchcailleoch Priory. The fewer questions asked, the better.
The morning passed into the early afternoon, and Lachlan paced along Comrie Castle’s battlements. He’d gone into the lists that morning at Cathal’s invitation. Swinging his sword helped ease his nervous energy and pass the time, but his mind was never far from thinking about Arabella. With every swing, thrust, and parry, he imagined running Beathan through. With every lift of his targe, he pictured shielding Arabella. The hours of the afternoon didn’t pass nearly as quickly as those of the morning.
It was Lachlan who spotted the approaching riders before the Menzies guards. Arabella’s hair shone like a radiant beacon as they approached. He rushed down the stairs before any of the Gunns or Arabella could recognize him. Cathal had already instructed his men not to mention the Sutherlands’ presence. Lady Enid Menzies knew her part. She was to fuss over Arabella like a mother hen until she could separate her from Beathan. She would take her to a chamber where Lachlan waited. If Beathan insisted on accompanying Arabella, then so would some of Cathal’s guards. They would detain him once Arabella was safely with Lachlan.
Once Arabella was abovestairs with Lachlan, assuming Beathan didn’t follow her, Enid would inform Beathan that she arranged a bath and food for Arabella but that the poor lass had fallen asleep before taking advantage of either. In the meantime, Cathal’s daughter Millicent would sneak them through the keep and out through the postern gate where his men and the half a score of riders Cathal promised would be waiting. The Menzies warriors would accompany the Sutherlands and Arabella until they were safely into the mountains. All the while, Cathal would ply Beathan with whisky until he was deep in his cups.
Twenty-Nine
Lachlan took the stairs by twos and threes as he hurried to reach the chamber Enid told him to wait in. He kept the door open a crack since the chamber offered a view of the Great Hall, and voices wafted up to him. He didn’t have long to wait before a commotion tempted him to leave the chamber. He strained to see and gasped when he spotted Arabella barely standing on her own two feet. Her head flopped from side to side, and she stumbled with each step. Lachlan knew whatever excuse Beathan gave, Arabella was dangerously intoxicated. He suspected Beathan had plied her with whisky to make her obedient.
“Been sick as a bluidy dog the entire ride. I didna ken ma bride canna sit a horse,” Beathan’s voice boomed. “The trouble with marrying yerself to a Lowlander. Weak they are.”
Lachlan heard laughter, but he suspected it only came from Beathan’s men. Lady Menzies was a former Armstrong and still held strong ties to her clan of origin. The Menzies knew better than to laugh at jests made at Lowlanders’ expense. Lachlan laid on the floor and pulled himself across the passageway on his belly. There was no light in the corridor, so he didn’t fear it giving him away.
“The lass looks nearly dead on her feet,” Enid fussed. “I’ll have her put to rights with a bath and some food.” The older woman reached out for Arabella, but Beathan pulled her away.
“A right bampot. Her father didna tell me the lass is barmy. She mutters nonsense and can be a right she-cat. Stuck with her, I am,” Beathan said woefully. “Best she stays close to me. She’s calm with me.”
Lady Enid Menzies looked over Beathan from the top of his head to the tip of his toes and back up again. She stepped before the man who towered over her and put her hands on her hips. “That’s the greatest pile of pig shite I’ve ever heard. The lass is drunk as a skunk. I can smell it. I don’t know how she came to be that way, but she is.”
Enid grasped Arabella’s arm and gave it a little shake. Arabella’s head lolled back as her eyebrows rose over closed eyes. Arabella had heard everything going around her, but her head had weighed too much and she was too sleepy to say anything. She forced her eyes open a crack and took in the resolute woman’s expression. She tried to nod but moaned instead.
“That’s it. I don’t like liars, Laird Gunn. Hand the lass over to me, or I’ll have her taken from you.” Enid turned her attention back to Arabella and softened her voice. “Do you want to come with me? I’ll be sure you get food and a bath.”
Arabella tried to follow what the lady said, but only parts of it made sense to her. She tried nodding again, but she lost her balance. She tilted toward Beathan, making it look like she preferred him. Beathan cast a smug smile at Lady Enid.
“Tu es un morceau de bouse. Je prie pour que vous mouriez bientôt d’une terrible maladie qui pourrit vos intestins et vous fait chier,” Enid spat. Arabella pushed back her hair and stared at Enid, her eyes wide. It was the most sober she’d felt in days as she listened to the genteel looking woman spew, “You are a piece of dung. I pray you die soon of a terrible illness that rots away your bowels and makes you shit yourself.”
Arabella coughed as she attempted to swallow the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble forth. She pushed against Beathan’s side and took a step away from him. His arm around her waist kept her close, but she put some space between them. “Vous avez raison. Je souhaite la même chose au salaud.” Arabella told Lady Enid, “You are correct. I wish the same for the bastard.
“Votre homme vous attend dans une chambre. Il est là pour vous éloigner de ce porc. Vous devez venir avec moi.” Lady Enid hurried to explain to Arabella that “your man is waiting for you in a chamber. He’s here to take you away from this swine. You must come with me.”
Arabella blinked several times, trying to wrap her mind around Lachlan being so close but not coming for her. Her glassy eyes darted around the Great Hall and toward the stairs. She struggled to focus, but she was certain she saw the shape of a head on the floor of the landing. Even without seeing clearly, she was certain it was Lachlan.
“I don’t feel right. I think I shall be sick,” Arabella whispered. She looked at Enid, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod, which looked more like she turned her head to look more squarely at Arabella. She flexed the muscles in her stomach and throat until she gagged twice, then vomited on cue. Beathan pushed Arabella away as filthy Gaelic curses spewed from his mouth as though it was his turn to vomit, only it was words that came forth.
“Ye willna speak like that in ma home,” Cathal bellowed. “Ye change yer tone or ye will be out on yer arse. The l
ass stays with us.”
“Ye canna take a mon’s bride from him,” Beathan argued.
“Canna I?” Cathal’s gimlet stare made Beathan pause. Suspicion crept into Beathan’s gaze as it shifted to look around the Great Hall. But Cathal’s next words settled him. “Lady Menzies was set to marry another, and as ye can see, she is ma wife. I amnae opposed to bride stealing. Are ye?”
“Ye already have a bride, auld mon,” Beathan spat.
“There ye go again. Oaths and insults in another mon’s home. Ye test the bounds of Highland hospitality, lad.” Cathal crossed his brawny arms. Middle aged, but still fit enough to pose a threat to Beathan, he leaned forward. “I have a son yet to wed.”
As Cathal and Beathan argued, Enid eased Arabella away from Beathan. She wrapped her arm around Arabella’s shoulders and steered her toward the stairs. They were halfway across the Great Hall before Beathan called out for them to stop. Arabella stumbled as Enid pushed her forward, reassuring her that Beathan couldn’t get to her before the Menzies stopped him. As a guest, Beathan had left his sword and at least some of his dirks with a guard at the gatehouse. Beathan took a menacing step forward before he remembered he was virtually unarmed, while the laird’s personal guard waited nearby with hands ready to draw their swords.
A Beauty at the Highland Court: A Star-Crossed Lovers Highlander Romance (The Highland Ladies Book 7) Page 21
