by Cathy MacRae
“Where are we?” His voice creaked hoarsely.
“Thankfully, in the land of the living, Laird,” Finlay replied. “Welcome back.”
Ranald sighed. “I dinnae remember . . ..”
As he struggled with the fog in his brain, the men gathered close, in various states of injury, all with grim determination on etched on their faces.
Memory returned, and with it, bleakness and anger. Ranald adjusted his eyes to the dim light, giving himself a moment to formulate a plan. Pale morning sun wafted in the window on dusty beams, but the deeper edges of the stable remained dark. Slowly he identified the shapes of individual stalls lining a central hallway. Scurrying sounds echoed in the far corners.
Ranald was about to order the men to spread out and assign a watch, when another sound reached his ears. He stopped, listening intently for the noise to repeat itself. To his disbelief, it did.
“Finlay?” The sweet young voice was so soft he almost missed it, but he homed immediately in on the sound and sidled into the stall directly across from the doorway.
“Gilda? Are ye in here?”
He exchanged a look with Finlay who appeared to have heard the faint sound as well. “Gilda? Say something, dearling.”
“Da?”
Ranald choked at her reply. “Where are ye, lass?”
She did not answer, and Ranald fought the sudden fear that rose in his throat.
“Gilda, lass. Are ye here?”
Silence.
“Gilda. Answer me.”
A faint reproof reached his ears. “I nodded my head.”
Ranald sighed with relief and spotted the slight movement in the corner beneath the feed trough. “I couldnae see ye nod yer head, lass. But I see ye now.” He crossed the floor, several inches of rotted manure and straw cushioning his step.
Squatting carefully before her, he offered a smile. “Come on out, lass. I’m verra glad I’ve found ye.”
With a tiny cry, Gilda left her hiding place and launched herself into Ranald’s arms. He hugged her close, inhaling her sweetness. Stinging tears flooded his eyes as she trembled against him, and he burned with the need to avenge her fear.
“Ye’re fine, lass,” he crooned against her hair. “I willnae let anyone hurt ye.”
He felt a presence at his side and looked up. Tavia stood beside him.
“Here,” she murmured. “Give me the lass. Ye need to see to the others.”
Reluctantly, he handed Gilda over to Tavia. The child clung to him for a moment before climbing into Tavia’s arms.
Finlay moved closer to gain his attention. “Where is Riona?”
Ranald replied bleakly, “MacEwen has her.”
Finlay’s face reflected worry as he turned to give his orders to the men. “Set two watches, one at each end of the stable. Relief every two hours.” He handed a sword and two of his knives to Ranald.
Ranald hefted the sword in his hand, testing its balance. Finding it adequate, he tucked the knives into his belt and boot.
He pinned Finlay with a grim stare. “The MacEwen is mine.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
Riona paced the floor. Energy drained from her as surely as water through a sieve, though she continued to pace, unable to rest.
Sunlight broke through her window, pale and cold as ice. Riona shuddered, too consumed with worry to stir the embers on the hearth again.
Gilda, mo chroi, where are ye? Are ye well?
Apprehension left its sharp tang in the back of her throat. She pushed aside the pointless questions. Unless Morgan decided to regale her with the truth, she would have to find it for herself. And that meant escape.
She studied the window. This room was on the third level and it was folly to consider escaping that way. The door stood barred against her, and even if she could open it, she knew men guarded the portal and beyond.
With a heavy sigh, she sank onto the edge of the bed. There was no hidden passageway, no secret door. Scaurness had never been taken by force, and only once by treachery . . . yesterday.
Her head pounded and her eyes ached. She’d had no sleep and long hours of riding had brought only aches. Fear crept around the edges of her control and she determinedly battled it back. She would need all her resources for what lay ahead. Once Morgan entered her room, no amount of pleading or demanding would sway him, of that she was certain. She’d been at his mercy once before. And received none.
Why did I think to endure it this time?
Because she’d wanted nothing more than to save the lives of both Gilda and Ranald. Her life in exchange for theirs seemed a noble thing at the time, and the only bargaining tool she possessed. Now, she didn’t know if either remained alive.
She’d last glimpsed Ranald lying senseless on the ground. Her breath caught on an unexpected surge of longing. She had been willing to give Gilda to Ranald, sending them away unharmed. But now, alone and frightened, her sacrifice seemed for naught.
Grief pushed past her defenses, and she could no longer keep the tears at bay. Grabbing her pillow, she shoved her face deep into its softness, stifling her sobs as best she could. She’d thrown everything away, gambled all on the unfounded belief Morgan would keep his promise.
She was an expedient way for him to hold his claim on Scaurness, but not the only way. Whether Gilda lived or died, he would pursue his next child diligently. And if Riona died, Morgan might try to rule Scaurness through the old laird’s granddaughter, the fact of her parentage lending credence to his claim.
Yet such a hope was fragile at best where an honorless man such as MacEwen was involved. Once ensconced at Scaurness, he would rule as he pleased.
Other than a means of revenge for her rejection of him five years ago—and her role as mother to his future children which any woman could assume—Riona had no real value to Morgan MacEwen.
She sat up and dried her tears; took stock of her surroundings with fresh eyes. Morgan could come to her at any time. She doubted he was one to seek out light or dark to satisfy any of his whims, be it sailing, pillage or rape. Surely there was something in the room she could use as a weapon against him.
Her eyes focused on the table next to the bed. A metal ewer sat next to a bowl of similar construction. She jumped from the bed, threw back the coverlet and yanked off the sheet. Tearing a strip of linen, she knotted the end of it about the ewer’s handle, forming a makeshift mace.
She frowned. Too much distance and preparation was needed for its use. Setting it aside, she studied the table itself. Its long, narrow legs fit her grasp perfectly. She placed the ewer and bowl on the floor and turned the table over, kneeling beside it. Pushing a leg back and forth, she tried to pry it loose, but the craftsmanship held. With a snarled curse, she slumped back on her heels.
Booted steps sounded in the hall, growing louder before fading as they passed her door. Jumping to her feet, she grabbed the metal ewer by the handle and swung it at the table leg with renewed energy. The sound of metal on wood was loud in the room, but two solid strokes were all it took to splinter the leg just below the joining.
Riona righted the table, leaning it against the bed to hide the missing leg. She set the bowl on the tabletop, slightly off center to keep it balanced. The ewer now sported a deep dent, the length of linen still knotted about its handle. She placed it beside the door. Picking up the amputated table leg, she slipped it beneath her pillow and wiped her damp palms over her skirts to dry them as she crossed the room to the window.
Footsteps again sounded in the hall. Riona froze, straining to hear, every part of her praying the steps would move on. But they stopped and the door latch rattled.
She had run out of time.
Her breath quickened and her heart raced, tightening her chest. She sent a quick look to the ewer on the floor next to the door. So close, and yet she had no time to reach it. The door swung open and Morgan MacEwen strode through the portal. Riona met his eyes defiantly.
He laughed. “Ye willnae surrender graceful
ly, will ye, milady?”
“Ye have no right to me.”
“As master of this castle and all within, I have every right.”
“Ye havenae shown me my daughter, nor given her and Ranald safe passage.”
Morgan approached. “And ye havenae fulfilled yer side of the bargain.”
Riona shook her head. “Nae. I will see my daughter first.”
“Ye mean, our daughter.”
“She is yer daughter in but one way. And that isnae her fault.”
Morgan’s grin broadened. “Nae. ’Twas yers.” He stopped in front of her, far too close for Riona’s comfort. “Do ye not remember the night I asked yer father permission to marry ye? Do ye not remember what ye said?”
Riona swallowed. She remembered. “I said the likes of a MacEwen pirate wasnae good enough for a laird’s daughter.”
Rather than appease him with her accurate recitation, hearing the words clearly angered him. Morgan’s eyes narrowed hatefully. “Ye were a haughty brat then. Ye are a haughty bitch now.” He grabbed a handful of hair at the back of her neck, twisting her head painfully to the side.
“Ye were naught but an arrogant bastard, and ye havenae changed at all,” Riona hissed at him, tears of pain pooling in her eyes as he wrapped her hair tighter about his hand.
Morgan looked her over from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her breasts as her breath heaved.
She’d had enough. Riona twisted in his grasp, catching him off guard as she swung one hand with resounding accuracy against his cheek. He shook his head once as he dragged her against him. Riona jerked her knee upward, making satisfying contact with his fleshy balls. He gave a shout of pain and reeled backward, slinging Riona to the ground, releasing her braid.
He cupped himself with both hands, bowed over as he glared at her. “Ye will pay for this.”
Riona took momentary pleasure from the hoarseness of his voice as he ground his words between gritted teeth.
“Ye’ll have to catch me first.” She darted past him, reaching for the hidden club hidden beneath her pillow.
A hand dropped heavily to her neck, pitching her forward onto the bed. Morgan landed on her back, pressing her deep into the mattress. The linens piled around her face, burying her in their softness, cutting off her breath. She fought him, terrified of losing consciousness, helpless at his hands.
Morgan grunted as her elbow made contact with his ribs. He jerked to one side, and Riona followed up her slim advantage, scrambling to crawl from under him. Morgan grabbed her shoulder and rolled her over, her gown twisting about her hips. Digging her heels into the mattress, she arched her back as she reached for the weapon she’d hidden under her pillow.
Morgan grabbed her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. He levered himself on top of her, his breath hot and fetid in her face. She could feel the lump of the table leg beneath the pillow, and the bulge of Morgan’s swollen cock against her thigh. She hadn’t hurt him enough. She writhed beneath him, trying to pull at least one hand from his ruthless grip.
“Get off me!” she shrieked.
With a laugh, Morgan lowered his lips to her neck, nuzzling her, his beard rasping against her skin. His stench, that of a man too long at sea, his stained leine saturated with salt and old sweat, overwhelmed her. She bucked against him, though she knew her resistance fed his lust.
Morgan shifted his weight, raking his fingers across her breasts, kneading them roughly. Riona shivered with impotent rage as he shoved a hand inside her bodice. She strove to bring her knees up behind him and push him off balance.
Groaning, he grabbed the neckline of her gown, ripping the seam, baring her shoulder and the top of her breasts. He rubbed himself against her, growing more excited. His hand scraped along her side, pausing to fondle her hip before grabbing at her gown and tugging it upward until it cleared her thigh.
He caressed her skin with his rough, calloused hand. Riona threw her body from side to side, trying to dislodge him.
“Ye like it this way, don’t ye?” he panted, flicking his tongue along the curve of her ear.
“I hate ye!” she cried, furious to find herself as helpless against him now as before.
“’Tis nae way to start a relationship.” He chuckled, shifting to ruck up his kilt. His bare cock, hot and hard, branded her skin and Riona screamed. He covered her mouth with his, and without hesitation, she bit him.
Morgan reared back, fingers pressed to his bloodied lip, a look of furious disbelief on his face. The shift in his position wasn’t much, but it proved enough. She pulled her wrists free of his grip and plunged her hand beneath the pillow. With all her strength, she swung the cudgel, landing it against his head with a solid thunk.
With agonizingly slow movements, Morgan’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell off the bed to the floor, unmoving.
Panting with exertion and fright, Riona came to her feet, carefully avoiding Morgan’s crumpled bulk. Jerking her gown into place and ignoring the tear in her bodice, she darted for the door. She clutched the latch, then with a jolt remembered the men stationed outside.
A commotion beyond the door drew her attention. Footsteps pounded in the hallway and voices rose as a clamor sounded without. The latch rattled and Riona jumped. She spotted the ewer and grabbed it, holding it by the handle as she waited.
The door opened a few inches. “Laird?”
Riona held her breath, making no sound or move to alert the man at the doorway. The door creaked open farther and a bearded head poked inside. Without hesitation, Riona brought the ewer down on his head in a crushing blow. A surprised grunt escaped him before he crashed to the floor.
Aghast at the noise, Riona expected it to attract more guards, but seconds passed and none appeared. She stepped over the man’s body and crept to the portal.
Chaos of sound and movement surged around her. Men rushed through the hall, voices mingling with stomping feet and the clang of weapons drawn. They called to each other, shouted questions and orders.
Riona glanced quickly over her shoulder and reassured herself Morgan still lay unconscious on the floor. Turning to the man at her feet, she knelt and grabbed him beneath his arms. With grim determination, she dragged him the rest of the way inside her chamber and dropped him, then rushed to the door and latched it behind her.
She hurried down the hallway, quickly losing herself in the scramble of soldiers and servants in the lower hall.
* * *
Ranald and Finlay squirmed through the brambles and into the open spaces of the bailey. Clinging to the outer wall, the men sped along, their shadows merging among the gloom still gathered there.
Something wasn’t right. The increased activity wasn’t the overprotection of a newly-conquered garrison. Men gathered on the wall in small groups, gesturing beyond the castle gates. More men crossed the bailey, charging up the stairs to the parapet. No one paid attention to the two men lingering along the edges of the rising conflict.
Ranald shifted impatiently. “Can ye tell what is happening?”
Finlay craned his neck to see. “Someone approaches.”
“Aye. But who? I left soldiers to follow when Ree and I rode back to Scaurness. There aren’t enough to take the castle.” Ranald gestured furiously. “Manus found it too easy to turn the Macrorys against me.”
“Some went willingly to Manus’s side, others were swayed on the strength of their long obedience to him,” Finlay pointed out. He gripped Ranald’s shoulder, hard. “Many others are in the dungeon, injured. Angry, but still maintaining the loyalty they swore at yer table.”
“Can we get them out?”
Finlay shook his head. “Not without a huge distraction.”
A shout rang out from the parapet, quickly lost in the sound of a horn blast of warning. Men broke into a run, calling to each other as they hurried to their posts. The din grew, mounting to a panicked edge.
Ranald drew his sword. “Yon is yer distraction. Go get the men.”
�
��I willnae leave ye. Ye will have no protection.”
Ranald grinned broadly, the light of battle in his eyes. “I will have loyalty.”
His conviction was contagious. Finlay matched his grin. “Aye, then. I’ll fetch yer soldiers.” He spun to the dungeon’s broad doorway, its portal outlined by the contrast of sunlight on the impenetrable darkness. “Dinnae start without me.”
Ranald laughed and hefted his sword in the air, the blade sparking fire in the morning sun. His voice rang above the frenzied sounds of the bailey.
“To me, a Macrory! To me, a Scott!”
The clamor around them stopped. Heads swiveled in their direction. Men’s eyes flashed with sudden fervor and their voices raised as they took up the cry.
“A Macrory!”
“A Macrory!”
Ranald waved Finlay away. “The Scotts, it seems, are all in the dungeon, lad! Bring them out!”
Chapter Twenty Eight
Riona burst through the entrance of the hall into the bailey and came to an abrupt halt, skirts swirling about her legs, gaping at the scene before her. Men fought furiously, swords clanging, angry shouts rising above the keening of the wounded. More men poured from the dungeon, their bandaged wounds splotchy in the sun, dark red on stained linen. Feet pounded, legs pumped as they entered the fray with a roar.
“A Scott!” The cry erupted from twenty throats.
“A Macrory!” came the answering cry from men scattered about the bailey and on the parapet.
Someone shoved her roughly from behind, pushing her out of the way. Soldiers swarmed, paying her no attention as they joined the battle.
“A MacEwen!”
The sound energized Riona and she darted to one side, peering around the bailey for anyone she recognized. After a few moments she gave up, unable to view the bloodshed without feeling sick.
Steel clashed behind her and she jumped, wheeling on unsteady legs. Two men, grunts of effort forced from their chests, were locked in mortal combat only a few feet away. Swords lodged at their hilts, legs and arms straining, they strove against each other. Suddenly, one man twisted to the side, catching the other with the tip of his sword as he tripped and fell. With a last, dispassionate look, the victor lurched over the body and hurried away.
