Leila’s Legacy

by Madeline Martin

  The reivers following Niall nodded while Alban simply stared forward.

  Niall returned his attention to the road in time to catch her drawing her arm back. The low afternoon sun flashed on a blade.

  “Mind her weapons,” Niall called out.

  She launched her first dagger, sending it flying in Niall’s direction. Except he was still riding; a moving target was much more difficult to hit, especially with a thrown blade. He leaned hard to the right, avoiding a direct hit. Regardless, the blade glanced off his left arm. Only a nick.

  Not that it mattered. They were nearly to her now. “Prepare the ropes,” he cried out above the galloping of their horse’s hooves.

  Niall and his band of men approached quickly, ropes ready to sling around her, weapons drawn for protection. She didn’t cower. Instead she reached for another one of her blades and launched it in Alban’s direction. He tried to move, but the dagger slammed into his left shoulder. He jerked back with the impact as he howled in outrage and drew his sword.

  Niall’s men were near enough to toss their ropes at Leila. The first one missed. The second one, thrown by Niall’s most trusted guard, Brodie, landed perfectly around her torso. Before she could tug it off, the rope yanked taut and she was pulled from her horse. She grunted at the impact and struggled, flailing on the ground.

  Nay, not struggling. The lass was working her dagger at the length of rope with frenzy in an attempt to free herself. Alban charged his horse directly at her.

  Niall edged closer to the lord’s son with his attention fixed. “I order ye to let her be.”

  Alban didn’t slow. He continued toward Lady Leila where she lay on the ground trying to free herself from the rope. Once he was nearly upon her, he pulled back his sword and swung it toward her.

  “I said to stop.” Niall arced his sword to block the blow that was meant to kill the English witch. “Ye will listen to me when I give ye an order.”

  Alban’s horse came to an abrupt halt and Alban jumped to the ground, undeterred. The witch was furiously sawing at the rope with her dagger.

  “Get another rope around her, now!” Niall said to his men.

  They rushed to do his bidding, looping another rope about her even as she writhed to free herself of the first. As they worked, Niall approached Alban. “She will have a trial where they will determine if she is guilty. Then she will be punished accordingly. Ye are no’ to judge her.”

  Alban’s eyes blazed with bloodlust, the hilt of Leila’s weapon still jutting out from his left shoulder. “She threw a dagger at me.”

  Niall moved to stand protectively in front of her. “She is to live so she can have a trial.”

  Already, Alban had too much say in how the capture had taken place. It had been his decision to use the little girl to lure Leila to them, an idea that Niall had adamantly protested. He didn’t like the child being exposed to the village with the pestilence. It had been too dangerous for the girl, who did it only for a bit more coin in her pocket.

  But Alban had gone to Lord Armstrong with the idea and the earl had issued the final say in the matter. Lord Armstrong was not here now, and Alban had to obey Niall’s orders, whether he liked it or not.

  One of the men exclaimed in alarm. Niall spun around in time to tense as Leila launched herself at him, her daggers locked in both fists. She slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. She lifted her daggers and brought them down with the intent to kill. Niall pushed his hips up in an attempt to throw her from him. She stayed in place, but her aim went astray, and the dagger slammed into the frost-covered grass directly beside his face.

  The guards were on her immediately, grabbing her arms and pulling her off him. She fought like a warrior. Nay, like a hell cat. Her legs kicked out in those fitted red trews, catching Niall’s men wherever she could: in the face, the neck, the stomach, wherever she could reach. She was disarmed quickly before she could do any real damage and the blades fell uselessly to the wheat-like grass, no longer a threat. Even then, she used her fists, pummeling and striking until one man bellowed in pain and blood gushed from his nose.

  He held his hand over his face and stepped back from the fray. “The witch broke my nose.”

  “Still think ’tis a good idea for her to go to trial first?” Alban stopped prodding at the blade in his shoulder long enough to give Niall a smug smile.

  Irritation spiked through Niall. Not only at the bastard’s snide attitude, but at this woman who had complicated what should have been an easy capture.

  The witch still struggled with the remaining men struggling to hold her in place. She threw a punch at one of the shorter reivers, a man closer to her own height than the rest. Niall shot forward with the speed of a striking snake and caught her wrist. “Stop.”

  She fixed her attention on Niall and drew back her free hand. He caught that arm as well and held her thus, clasping her wrists. They were delicate against his large fingers, slender, dainty things that did not appear capable of the fight she put up. He held her as firmly as he dared, fearing accidentally injuring her.

  She glared up at him with brilliant blue eyes, her cheeks flushed with the exertion of her battle. Her breath puffed in front of her in frozen clouds.

  “I’m Niall Douglas, Deputy to the Keeper of Liddesdale.” He was forced to tighten his hands as she attempted to twist away from him. “Ye’re being arrested on the accusation of being a witch. We outnumber ye, and yer horse is too slow to escape. If ye dinna come with us, we will have to use aggressive force and may hurt ye. We dinna want that.” And he truly did not want to see her hurt.

  Justice would be served, and she would get what she deserved then.

  Though the lass could fight with the strength of a beast, she did not appear as strong as she was. He should think of her as a witch, a prisoner awaiting execution, but how could he when she was an earl’s daughter worthy of respect? Especially when she was so slender, so beautiful. Aside from the men’s attire, she looked every bit the part of a lady. One more in need of saving than arresting. It all triggered in him the desire to protect.

  Lady Leila’s face hardened. “I’m no witch.” She tilted her pointed chin higher and met his eyes. There was no fear there, only determination. “How dare you charge me with such a crime?”

  How dare they? Niall scoffed at her impertinence. “Ye had the sickness and ye survived. The Armstrongs were the first to get sick here, many of whom are now dead. I assume that isna a coincidence.”

  “It is indeed,” she ground out.

  He indicated her to his men. “Bind her.”

  Alban stepped forward with a cold grin. The bastard knew Niall couldn’t deny his assistance without looking sympathetic to the witch. Niall was forced to hold Lady Leila’s arms straight despite her many attempts to draw them away while Alban wrapped the rope around her slender wrists with such force even with his one good arm that the skin beneath turned white.

  Niall gritted his teeth until it was done. Never once did Leila’s face register the discomfort of what was no doubt quite painful. When Alban finished the task, he had one of his clansmen secure it with a solid knot.

  They had officially arrested the Witch of Werrick Castle, the one that they had tirelessly sought for more than a fortnight. But before Niall could bring the witch up to his horse, there was something that must be done.

  He dragged Lady Leila with him to his horse, passing Alban as he did so. With a sure hand, Niall grasped the hilt jutting from the lord’s son’s shoulder and yanked it free.

  4

  Leila tried to breathe through the panic snapping in her heart, making it race, leaving her dizzy with fear. She had been captured. By the Lion.

  This was it, then. The way she would die.

  She had thought there would be more time. Mayhap an opportunity to bid farewell to Lord Werrick who had loved her as his own daughter, to her sisters who had always sought to protect and love her, to Isla who had become a mentor and a friend. The old healer didn’t even
know Leila had gone off to help the girl, that Leila had been so stupid as to fall for the trap.

  She’d been so foolish. Too trusting. And now she would pay the ultimate price for that mistake. She ground her back teeth together to keep the tears at bay. Not that anyone was paying her any mind.

  The younger clansman, with a head of straight red hair and finer clothes than the others, continued to cry out though the dagger had been ripped out some minutes before. His attempts to staunch his pain through closed teeth left him sounding like a dying animal, hissing, huffing and grunting. The Lion still held her dagger that he’d pulled from the younger man’s shoulder.

  He wiped the blade on the snow-covered ground, leaving the snow pink with blood, and stuck it into his own belt. Leila’s palms ached with want of the weapon, a chance to defend herself from these men who meant her harm. Or mayhap, her hands were simply tingling at the tension of the ropes at her wrists. Already, her hands were beginning to take on a purplish tinge. She’d tried to wriggle at the bindings to loosen them, but they only cut more into her skin.

  The Lion approached her once again, his face set with determination. “Dinna do anything foolish or I’ll set him on ye.” He flicked a glance to the red-haired man with the dagger wound in his shoulder. “Alban would have no qualms about killing ye.”

  “And you would?” Leila demanded.

  His hazel eyes met hers, light brown with notes of amber and flecks of black and green. Striking. “I’ve no desire to hurt ye.”

  If only he knew how ridiculous a statement that was.

  He glanced down at her hands. His lashes were tipped with blond, the same wheat-gold color as his shoulder-length wavy hair. He put his hands over hers, too quickly and with too sure a grip for her to pull free.

  “Hold still,” he said in a low voice. His fingers moved swiftly, unknotting the rope, loosening the painful binding and then securing it once more. His actions were deft and done with such speed, no one paid him any mind.

  Pain prickled through her hands and the purplish discoloration immediately lightened with the flow of blood to her fingers. She moved her wrists at the newfound freedom, ignoring the abrasions that remained.

  He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “Better?”

  Leila nodded slowly, uncertain. Was this kindness a trap?

  “I can look at his wound if you like.” She glanced toward the man she’d hit with her dagger. The one still in the Lion’s belt, mere inches from her bound hands.

  The Lion smirked. “Let him suffer.” His fingers brushed light as a feather over the reddened mark on her wrists where some of the skin had torn in her initial attempts to loosen the bonds. “He deserves it.”

  He swept her cloak off the ground and put it around her shoulders. The thick fur lining within blocked the wind and warmed her body instantly.

  Leila studied the man who was supposed to kill her. The man she was destined to love. Aye, he was kind, but it would never absolve him of the sin of killing her. How could she ever love a man who was so dangerous?

  He put his hand to her back and nudged her forward. “Walk. Lord Armstrong is expecting ye.”

  Leila stubbornly held her ground, but the Lion applied pressure to his hand at her back, enough that her body staggered forward. She caught herself and he used her momentum to force her onward toward his horse.

  “Cease yer whimpers, Alban.” He tossed an irritated look at the younger man. “One of the other guards will see to ye when we arrive.”

  Alban glared at Leila, his dark eyes glittering with hate. She let her own gaze clash with his, rising to the challenge. After all, it was not Alban who concerned her.

  The Lion lifted her easily onto the back of the horse. Before she had time to clap her heels against the beast’s sides and gallop away, the Lion had swung up behind her. She froze at having a man’s body pressed against her own. His arms squeezed around her on either side as he lifted the reins, keeping her tucked snugly in his grasp. She sat forward in an attempt not to allow any part of herself to touch him, a nearly impossible feat when they were in such close proximity.

  He was like an unyielding wall at her back, strong and warm. She begrudgingly admitted the latter part. For he was warm, the heat of his body welcome against the unforgiving wind that sent chips of ice stinging painfully in their faces.

  “Dinna even think about trying to escape.” He spoke into her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “There is nowhere ye can go that I willna find ye.”

  A shiver wound its way down Leila’s spine. This time, however, only part of it was due to fear.

  They rode for the better part of an hour before a castle loomed in front them, the stonework dark gray from years of weathering. It sat like a hulking monster against the dingy winter sky with smoke and ash belching behind it from where the villagers were no doubt burning the effects of the dead.

  They were passing the outer walls when she was informed Lord Armstrong wished to see her. While her harbored fears were primarily for the Lion, thoughts of Lord Armstrong filled her with a wary dread.

  Some years back, she and her brother-in-law’s sister, Lark, had been taken by the Armstrong clan and held for ransom. The sum had been exorbitant, and the demand given in an attempt to bring down the powerful Lord Werrick.

  As much as her family always loved her, there had been a part of Leila then that had worried Lord Werrick would let her remain with the Armstrongs. After all, why relinquish one’s fortune for a child that was not even of his own loins?

  In the end it had not mattered. Her sister, Ella, and her husband, Bronson, crossed into the debatable lands and had seen both Leila and Lark to safety. But not before cutting down their fair share of Armstrong clansmen in their attempt to flee.

  Upon her return home, however, she had found that Father was indeed in the process of raising the funds to pay the extraordinary ransom. For her.

  Now she would meet Lord Armstrong, a man who thought her responsible for the pestilence. Or so she gathered. Worse still, he thought she had targeted the Armstrong family specifically.

  They did not ride through the village to the castle, but instead made their way around the great side before arriving at the portcullis. Once she was inside the castle, escape would be nearly impossible, and yet there was no opportunity to flee now.

  Nay, she had no choice but to be led in like a lamb to the slaughter and face the full force of Lord Armstrong’s wrath.

  Upon their arrival inside Liddesdale Castle’s curtain walls, Niall gratefully slid from his horse and guided Lady Leila to the ground. Though she had tried to keep a stiff-backed space between them, her red-clad bottom had been pressed to his groin for the better part of the journey. Every step of the horse made her sway against him, grinding her arse against his cock and dredging up lustful thoughts he did not need to have about a prisoner.

  But he hadn’t been able to stop his mind from wandering as he imagined himself capturing her hips in his palms and driving into her from behind, then flipping her over and thrusting hard into her while her breasts gave eager little bounces as they moved together, sweat-slick and panting.

  Enough.

  Niall adjusted his gambeson to ensure it covered any evidence of his thoughts. He breathed in the cool air, allowing the chill to tamp down the heat of his blood.

  Lord Armstrong’s page, a boy of about ten with a tangle of blond hair, approached them. “Lord Armstrong has been waiting on ye.”

  “We’re here.” Niall smirked. “Though we may need one of the barbers.”

  Several months prior, a healer would have attended to the lord’s son, but they’d all been run out of the village by the pestilence or had succumbed themselves. Now all they had to see to the people were the men who did various battlefield patches. Men who were often rough and unqualified, but better than nothing.

  Alban glowered and did not reply.

  “After we’ve seen Lord Armstrong,” Niall added.

  Alban opened his mouth to protest, but
the page nodded in agreement and set about leading the way to the great hall.

  If Leila was frightened, she did not show it. Her steps were confident, her shoulders set proudly back, and her head tipped with just the right amount of arrogance for an earl’s daughter. She did not look like a prisoner. She looked like the lady of the castle, ready to take what was hers.

  Lord Armstrong sat in an ornately carved chair with a mug of ale gripped in his hand. His hair was the same fox red as his son’s, though frosted with age. A hard-lived life had left his face lined with the serious expression that made him appear unobjectionably stern.

  “What is this?” He indicated Leila. “I thought ye told me ye’d be bringing a lady of noble birth forward as the accused. This woman dressed as a mercenary looks more like a slattern at play than a lady.”

  Lady Leila’s back stiffened.

  “I assure ye, she is the woman we were sent to find, my lord.” Niall inclined his head respectfully.

  “The bitch put a dagger into my shoulder.” Alban’s tone took a piteous note with his father that made Niall want to plunge the dagger back into the young man. “Then Niall ripped it out.”

  Lord Armstrong stared at his petulant son for a long moment before lifting his hand in a nonchalant gesture. “It had to come out at some point, aye?” The Keeper of Liddesdale shrugged without sympathy. “It looks like little more than a flesh wound. The barber can see to it when we’re done. For the time being, ye willna die while I deal with her.”

  He turned his attention back to Leila and waved her forward. She did not move. Niall stepped forward and nudged her lower back. Walk, he demanded silently. He did not wish to shove her across the floor.

  She strode forward with not a whisper of fear evident on her.

  “Too bad ye’re no’ a slattern,” the older man said appreciatively as she approached. “I might hire ye myself.” He got to his feet, pushed the cloak from her shoulders and walked slowly about her. He paused for a lengthy amount of time behind her and tilted his head appreciatively in admiration of her arse.