by Tarah Scott
“Nay?” Iain snarled.
“Look outside.” Hockley stepped aside.
Iain sucked in a breath at sight of Victoria astride a horse.
He tore his eyes from her and focused on the earl. “You think to claim my wife?” He crossed his arms over his chest and called forth every ounce of energy he possessed to keep from giving into the sway of the spinning room. “You have what you want, why bother with me? Unless, you want to be sure I am unable to come for you, as you know I will.”
“I would gladly abandon you to your fate,” Hockley replied.
Iain gave a loud snort, but received only a hard jab to his back from the English warrior who shoved him forward.
* * *
Dawn’s rays filtered through clouds, illuminating Victoria’s hunched form atop her horse. Iain stumbled on a branch in his path and grabbed at the leather bonds that tethered him to an English mount.
“Fall, and I will drag your Scottish ass all the way back to England,” said the Englishman who held the other end of the tether. He tightened the leather in an obvious attempt to carry out his threat. Iain yanked hard, toppling the man from his horse.
Iain was upon his opponent and rammed his fist into the man’s jaw before he had fully risen. The man fell back and Iain lunged for his sword. Steel leaving scabbards rang in unison with Iain yanking the sword from its sheath.
“Iain!” Victoria called.
He looked up, stunned at the unexpected rush of emotion his name elicited.
Edwin stepped up beside him. “Here is where we part company.”
Iain looked at him, his mind barely focusing on the figure before him.
“I care not whether you live or die,” Hockley added.
Iain looked again at Victoria and let the sword slip from his grasp. His intended victim jumped to his feet and hammered a fist into Iain’s belly.
“Nay!” Victoria cried as Iain hunched over with the effect of the blow. Another blow caught him beneath the jaw, sending him onto his back.
Iain blinked up into Hockley’s face. “Why did you not leave me with Robertson?”
“Tie his feet,” Edwin commanded.
“I will come for her, Hockley.”
Victoria hurried to Edwin’s side. “You swore no harm would come to him.”
The statement fell into a deep pool of eerie silence that washed over Iain like ice water.
“Do not do this,” he whispered.
“Return to your mount.” Edwin said.
Iain shifted and the drawn swords closed in on him.
“Iain.” Victoria stepped forward, but Hockley grabbed her arm.
Iain looked up at her. “Why did you wait until now to use my name?”
“Do not come for me.”
“I will.”
She shook her head. “I want to return with Edwin.”
Iain looked at Hockley. “She is willing to sacrifice herself to the likes of you to save me.” Resentment welled up inside. “But I have had enough of selfless surrender to last a lifetime.” Long buried memories of his mother’s sacrifice wrenched hard on his gut.
“She has made her choice,” Edwin said.
Impossible, was the word Iain wanted to shout, but instead forced the only words he could believe, “She would lie to save me.”
* * *
How long since she’d left? Hours, days, weeks? Iain gave a mirthless laugh and, closing his eyes, leaned back in his chair in the great hall, keeping a tenuous grip on the mug balanced on the chair arm. Life had become one long, gray existence. Fate had used her most powerful of weapons and turned a single moment into a time without end.
He would not—could not—forget that moment engraved in time.
The look, carved like stone on her face.
His heart, lost in her good-bye.
Iain squeezed his shut eyes even harder against the memory of Victoria’s final words.
“Edwin offers me freedom.”
The memory brought with it the vague recollection of a meadow, her fingers tracing circles on his clean, white shirt…the sense that he had stepped into his father’s life. Iain opened his eyes, the vision in front of him of his father standing in the great hall, his relentless gaze fixed on Lily. Iain’s grip on the mug loosened, and he watched it crash to the floor.
The quiet of the great hall descended upon him. He looked up to find Thomas and Liam staring at him as they did all too often these days. Iain reached for a mug of ale belonging to one of his comrades. His muddled thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a guard reporting a visitor at the gate.
“Thomas,” Iain mumbled and emptied the mug.
* * *
Iain leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his desk. A bittersweet smile touched his lips. The resemblance between his wife and the woman who had arrived brandishing a tongue as sharp as any sword he’d had the misfortune to encounter was unmistakable. That the Englishwoman had weathered the dangers of the Scottish Highlands was but one more indication the aunt was kin to the niece. Bertrice Hall, great aunt to the Countess of Lansbury, clearly considered herself nothing less than avenging angel to her niece.
She eyed him. “A man who would allow his wife to flee into the arms of another man while she carries his child is no man at all.”
“Enough, madam,” Iain said.
“Nay, sir,” she replied in a brusque voice, “it is not.”
He rose. “But it is.”
Bertrice looked as if she would say more, but instead rose and quit the room.
Iain sank back into his chair. Christ, Victoria carried his child.
* * *
“Hockley land,” Bertrice said.
Iain didn’t reply or look at the woman who rode alongside him, and she fell quiet. The soft pad of hooves against English soil wore on his nerves. He kicked his horse and galloped ahead.
At last, time was on his side. The long journey had passed with no real memory and brought with it the belief that Victoria would return home with him where she belonged. He crested a hill. The sudden view of Hockley’s castle in the distance sent a jolt through him. He caught sight of his wife standing just ahead, absorbed in the view.
Iain pulled on the reins and gave himself a mental shake to combat the strange sensation that it had been but a moment since they had lain together in the meadow. The memory forced him to curb an impulse to charge forward and capture her as he had that day at Montrose Abbey. The horse that grazed nearby said she wasn’t the prisoner he had convinced himself she was. The possibility that the role of jailer had been his and his alone seemed the only real truth.
Victoria turned and looked in his direction. The imposing presence of the castle melted into the background, and his breath caught at sight of her stomach, still flat. He shifted his gaze to her face. Her brow furrowed. He waited in tense silence for a long moment before urging his mount forward.
Her hand covered her belly and she glanced about. Anger rose. Why was she alone outside the safety of her home? When he neared, her expression changed from confusion to recognition. Iain halted and slid to the ground, surprised when she retreated a step. Although he hadn’t expected a hero’s welcome, neither had he anticipated fear.
“You need not be afraid, love. I know of the child.”
She seemed about to deny the statement, but her gaze flicked past him and he glanced over his shoulder. Surrounded by his men, Bertrice had turned the bend behind him.
Iain looked back at Victoria to find her staring at him.
“You should not have come,” she said.
The quiet words awakened a fresh stab of alarm. “You expect me to walk away?” He glanced meaningfully at her midsection.
The sound of fast approaching riders filled the air. Iain’s warriors shot forward in his direction as a dozen men lead by Hockley topped the hill behind Victoria. Iain gripped the hilt of his sword as Edwin pulled up twenty feet from them. English men-at-arms jumped from their horses and faced Highland warriors.
�
�What do you think to gain by coming here?” Hockley’s gaze flicked to Bertrice. “Of course.” His mouth curved into a derisive smile. “I should have guessed.” He swung his gaze back to Iain and dismounted. “You warned me about coming to Scotland.” He reached for his sword. “Now taste of my warning.”
Iain pulled his sword free of the scabbard just as Edwin’s weapon cleared its sheath. The two lunged for one another, but Iain’s thrust went askew at the last possible moment when Victoria stepped between them.
“Nay!” he cried, but the warning came too late. Edwin’s sword pierced her midsection.
Time slowed. The earl’s mouth moved without sound, and Iain shook his head as if his ears were faulty, not Hockley’s vocal chords. Hockley’s sword slipped from his grasp and fell noiselessly to the grass as Iain threw his own weapon aside.
“Sweet God in heaven. No!” Iain caught Victoria before she hit the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A wind kicked up around Iain, but from where he lay in the darkness he couldn’t determine its direction. Speculation as to what ill-mannered spirit had deigned to cross his path seemed answered by a nudge in his side. He slid open an eyelid, then snapped it shut against the bright light that shadowed a dark figure standing over him. He shook his head, willing the ungodly apparition away. Another nudge brought a hard oath from him. Laughter followed, and the vaguely familiar tone of the voice stilled Iain. Christ. To know a son of Satan so well as to recognize his voice must mean he should have given more heed to the priests after all.
Daring another look at his tormentor, Iain blinked his eyes into focus. What he saw once they accustomed themselves to the sun’s bright light shook him far more than if he were standing before the ruler of Hell himself.
* * *
Victoria watched from the hill as men surrounded her husband. Perhaps it had been no accident that she had awakened to discover her horse missing. She needed the animal to reach Fauldun Castle in the ten minutes it would take to ride, instead of the hour it would take to walk. She crouched behind the oak tree she peered around and waited.
* * *
Iain shook his head—hard. The people, the place—the place should have been England with Hockley’s castle in view, not the meadow where the end had begun. He bolted upright, unable to control the shaking in his hands as he turned each one from palm to backside, to palm. His adversaries muttered amongst themselves as, again and again, Iain scrutinized his hands.
“No blood.” He looked up, shifting his stare from one to the other of the men. “No blood, at all.”
Iain jerked his gaze past them and scanned the forest, beginning left, then circling the entire woods. He twisted and looked behind him, but his wild-eyed search found things just as they had been when he and Victoria had fallen asleep. He glanced at the sky. Had it been but an hour?
Victoria. His gut twisted. Where are you?
“He is touched with the fever,” a man said.
“Get up.” David Robertson shoved Iain with a booted foot.
Iain blinked up at him.
“Are you deaf?” David demanded. Still, Iain didn’t move. David reached down and hauled him to his feet. Surprise twisted his features when Iain didn’t resist. “What trick is this?” the Robertson chieftain hissed.
“Christ,” Iain whispered, “that it be not a trick.”
Was this the dream, or was the place he had just come from the dream?
“Bah!” David growled and shoved Iain in the direction of their horses.
Iain glanced around the meadow once more. How many second chances did a man receive in a single lifetime?
* * *
Victoria pitched forward, the toe of her rullion catching on a rock. Her hands instinctively reached to break the fall. Her body jolted upon impact and pain shot through her hands and arms. Her knee smashed against a rock and she bit back a cry. Victoria gritted her teeth and forced herself to her feet. Blood seeped from gashes that streaked her hands and she wiped them on her dress and started forward again.
At last, she broke free of the forest and Fauldun Castle came into view against a dusky sky. An indistinguishable shout went up when she came within sight of the guards on the battlement. A moment later, the gates swung open and a lone rider shot toward her. Even before he was close enough to distinguish his features she knew it was Thomas.
“My lady,” he said, sliding from his horse before the animal stopped moving.
“They have him, Thomas.” Victoria faltered. He gripped her shoulder, steadying her. “Nay.” She pushed away. “There is no time. David Robertson has captured him.”
“Where?”
“The meadow this side of the mountain, before the ascent up to Dawilneh.”
Thomas hoisted her into the saddle, vaulted up behind her, and sent his horse in a gallop toward the keep.
* * *
A steady murmur rippled through the great hall as the men left behind to guard the castle ate in relative quiet while awaiting word from the party gone in search of their lord. At the sound of the postern door opening, Victoria hurried from the kitchen. Liam’s eyes met hers and she stood motionless as he strode toward her.
“Do not worry, lass,” he said. “It is early yet.”
“It is past midnight.”
“Aye.” Taking her hand, he led her to the table. “But it is unlikely they will harm him just yet.”
Victoria allowed herself to be gently pushed into a chair. “That is not so, and you know it.”
Liam seated himself and looked away, calling for ale.
Her heart skipped a beat. “Hide your expression as you will, my lord. That does not change the facts.”
Liam sighed and squeezed her hand. “Do not give up on him just yet. Never a more stubborn lad graced God’s earth.”
She laughed, despite her worry. “Aye. Let us pray it works to his advantage.”
They both looked up when the postern door again opened. At sight of Thomas, Victoria rose.
“We lost the trail, my lady,” he said when he neared. Thomas clasped Liam’s hand. “The party split in two a few miles south of the meadow. Our men separated, but the trail east was lost in the rain.”
“And the other party?” she asked.
“I do not know,” he answered. “We rode back as far as we could, but their trail, too, is gone.”
A surge of dizziness assailed Victoria. A strong arm encircled her waist, and Liam eased into her the chair.
“Do not despair yet,” Thomas said. “If the others do not return by sunrise, we will begin again.”
Liam nodded. “I will fetch men from Talturn to help.”
“We must talk.” She stood so quickly, a spasm of pain knotted her knee.
“What is amiss?” Liam demanded.
Victoria gave a harsh laugh. “How am I to answer that?” She looked at Thomas. “You are cold and wet and surely hungry.” She motioned to a lad leaning against the wall. “Fetch Thomas a bath.”
“My lady—” Thomas began.
“Nay,” She held up a hand. “The refreshment will stand you in good stead through the night. When you finish, we will speak in the library.”
An hour later, Victoria sat with Thomas and Liam in Iain’s study. She fixed her gaze on Thomas, who sat behind Iain’s desk. “What are the chances he still lives?” she demanded.
“Good. They must have plans. Otherwise, they would have killed him immediately.”
“Then he is in no real danger?”
Thomas’s expression grew cautious. “I did not say that. I only meant you need not despair—just yet.”
“The bastards have hatched a plot in revenge for the lad keeping their kinswoman,” Liam cut in.
Thomas leaned forward on the desk, pushing aside the plate of food that lay untouched. “I agree.”
“Do they mean to ransom one for the other?” Victoria asked.
Thomas shook his head. “They know Iain would retaliate once he was free.”
“I
do not understand,” Victoria said. “If they plan to make him pay, why not kill him when they found him?”
“Lass,” Liam said, “mayhap you should let us deal with this.”
“Nay.”
Liam sighed. “All right, then.” Taking her hand in his, he said, “Chances are they did not kill him because they mean to make the most of the task.”
Victoria swallowed, but the action did nothing to halt the wave of nausea sweeping through her. “You mean they intend to torture him.” She looked at Thomas. “Thomas.”
“Aye, my lady.”
“My horse has not returned,” she said.
“I was not aware of that.”
“Would she not have come home?”
Thomas nodded. “Unless something stopped her.”
“Or someone,” Liam interjected.
“Is it possible they knew I was there?” Victoria intercepted a look that passed between the two men. “You think they wanted me as well—why did they not search for me?”
“They probably feared being too close to the keep,” Liam said.
“If only Edwin were here.” Victoria felt Liam’s fingers tighten around her hand. “My lord.” She pulled free and rubbed her hand vigorously. “How far could he have gotten?” She looked at Thomas.
“He?”
She frowned. “Do not be obtuse, sir. Edwin. Where is he now?”
“I have no idea.”
She ceased rubbing her fingers. “I assume you mean you have no notion where he is at this moment. However, that does not mean you do not know where he was last seen.”
For the first time in their association, Thomas’s eyes reflected suspicion.
She lifted her chin. “It is a simple question, sir.”
“What does that matter?” Liam thundered. “We have no time to worry about where the English dog is.”
“That is where you are wrong,” she said. “Edwin may be the one person who can help us. After all, who else but an Englishman with a grudge against Iain MacPherson would David Robertson trust?”
