Leila’s Legacy

by Madeline Martin

  A knock came from the door. “My lord, I have the kirtle ye requested.”

  “Leave it,” Alban barked, casting a mist of spittle. He ground his teeth into a grin, then grasped the neckline of Leila’s shirt with his good arm and tugged.

  The fabric gave with a savage rending that yanked painfully at the back of Leila’s neck. The ruined pieces fluttered on either side of her torso.

  “Binding?” Alban bemoaned his discovery bitterly and sat up on her higher to better work at it with both his hands.

  “Please,” Leila said in a weak voice, intentionally not fighting back. Intentionally acting as though the blow to her head had been enough to defeat her. “Stop. Please.”

  “Ye bewitched me,” Alban said through gritted teeth. “Ye make me lust for ye when all I wanted to do before was kill ye.”

  He did not release her. As she had anticipated. She thrust her hips up as she rolled hard to the side, propelling him from her. He fell, splayed on the ground and floundering in his surprise.

  Leila fell on him without mercy and drove her knee into his groin. His eyes nearly bulged from his head and his face colored to a purple-pink heather-like shade. So intense was his injury, he issued no protest as she dug into the pouch at his belt and pulled free the key as well as the dagger.

  Having all she needed, she raced for the door. With shaking hands, she worked the key into the lock. Alban grunted and rolled over to the side, where he remained. Leila forced her breath to come out slow and even, to quell the tremble of her anxious fingers. Finally, the lock clicked, and she opened the door to her freedom. A pile of wool lay on the stone platform before the door. Most likely the kirtle the maid brought back for Alban.

  Standing two steps down from it, however, was truly a cause for concern. An Armstrong clansman glared up at her, his eyes bright where they fell on her split shirt. “If he’s done with ye, I’ll be taking my turn with ye, lass.”

  She pulled back her dagger and began to throw it forward when someone crashed into her. Her aim was knocked aside, and the dagger clattered uselessly down the stairs.

  “There willna be anything left of her when I’m done,” Alban growled. Sweat dotted his pale brow. He yanked her back and slammed the door shut.

  “Give me the key.” He held out a shaking palm.

  Leila hadn’t even realized she’d drawn it out from the door when she’d run. She gripped it harder, the metal now hot from where she held tight to it.

  His face flushed to a deep shade of red and began twitching. “Give me the Goddamn key before I have every man in the castle come in and have a go at ye,” he bellowed.

  Fear spiked Leila at that. With one guard below, mayhap another at the foot of the stairs, and many more barring her exit from the castle walls, her chances of escape were slim. Contrarily, the likelihood of Alban making good on his oath were high. Frighteningly so.

  She threw the key on the ground.

  He picked it up with a sneer and let his gaze slither down her body. “Ye havena bested me, ye witch.”

  She wished the dagger was back in her hand so she could plunge it into his heart. Blood feud be damned. She wanted him dead. So great was her wish that she clenched her fingers around her empty palm as though gripping an imaginary dagger.

  “Once my cock isna aching, I’ll be back.” Alban’s upper lip curled up, revealing his sharp, white teeth. “It may be while ye sleep. It may be while ye are idly passing the time in this empty room. It may while ye’re curled in fear in the corner awaiting my arrival, but I will come back for ye. And I mean to have ye again, and again, and again.”

  He opened the door and flung the kirtle to the ground. “Get dressed before I order the men to cut yer clothes off ye and leave ye naked.” He spat upon the wool, leaving a puddle of bubbled spit on the costly fabric.

  The door slammed shut behind him and the click of the lock sliding into place told her he was gone. For now. Leila waited for the thumping of his feet to descend down the stairs before she gave way to the weakness of her knees and let herself slowly sink to the floor beside the kirtle.

  Eager for a distraction, she ran her fingertips along the soft crimson wool. She used the hem of her ruined shirt to wipe away his spittle and took the kirtle to the far corner of the room to dress with hands that would not cease their shaking. He would be back, of course. He had promised he would be, and she knew it to be so.

  Daylight faded to dusk and then to night and still Alban did not come for her. The maid who had been in her room before arrived with a meal and eyed her like some horrible monster. Regardless, the girl had done up her kirtle in the back, scant protection from Alban that it was.

  Through the day and on into the night, Leila’s gaze continued to drive toward the door in anticipation of the springing of the lock, the groaning of the hinges. She hated the weakness of her fear and how very much she dreaded his arrival. For she knew she would not always be so lucky to escape.

  Bewitched. The word echoed in Niall’s head throughout the day and well into the night. He had kept from Lady Leila’s room of confinement to prove to himself he was not indeed bewitched.

  Except he might truly be.

  His mind wandered back to her often, conjuring up images of her, sampling memories of her, teasing himself with fantasies of her. By the time he’d retired to his room, his body was hard and aching for a release that was not fully sated with the grip of his palm. He’d gone to bed with his thoughts firmly settled on Lady Leila, first in admiration and then as the heat of his body rose, once more in lust.

  The door to his chamber opened. A shadow in his doorway revealed a feminine shape with a slender waist and long, shapely legs. His mouth went dry. He knew that figure. He meant to ask how she’d escaped from the tower, how she’d known which room was his, what she meant to do…but all questions slipped away like wisps of smoke as she sauntered into his room. Her hips swayed with sensuality; her intent proclaimed.

  He swallowed as she approached his bed, now naked—beautifully, gloriously naked—and crawled across the length of the mattress to him. Her sweet, clean scent of dried herbs swirled around him like a spell. She put a hand to his chest and drew one naked leg over his hips, cradling his arousal with the cleft between her thighs. She was wet and warm where she pressed herself against his shaft. He wanted to grab her hips, shift himself into her and thrust until they were both crying out with passion.

  As if reading his thoughts, she shook her head and leaned forward to press her lips to his. Their tongues met and she left the sweetness of honey where she licked inside his mouth. His fingers skimmed over her body, warm and silky. He groaned aloud, a sound which grated in his own ears and made the image shimmer.

  He shook his head and groaned once more, louder this time. The image shattered and left him panting in the darkness, alone and reeling from the dream. What devilry was this? Was her bewitchment now entering his dreams as well? Haunting his night as she had haunted his day?

  He whipped the blankets off and pushed up from the bed, spurred on by the flare of rage. The cold winter chill of the room greeted his blazing blood but did not cool it. This bewitchment would end tonight.

  He pulled on clothing, a mantle and soft leather shoes, and left his chamber, his pace quick as though she might anticipate him coming. As surely as he had only recently imagined her naked over him, he now pictured her muttering incantations under her breath to send him such fevered dreams. His fingers worked through the keys as he walked, plucking their icy stems for the correct one to her chamber.

  The two guards standing before the stairs leading to her room cast him side glances as he passed them but did not move to stop him. His leather soles were silent upon the stone stairs. Silent as the sin in the witch’s heart, he slid the key in the lock, opened the door and froze.

  Lady Leila was bundled beneath the covers, her face turned toward the door, lit by the moonlight seeping in through the shutters. Her expression was relaxed with sleep, serene and exquisitely
beautiful.

  He watched her form and noted the rise and fall of her breathing from beneath the furs bundled over the top of her. The rhythm was not slow and deep as one sleeps but quickened. She was awake, mayhap hiding her misdeeds under the pretense of slumber.

  She would not enter his dreams again. She would torture him no longer.

  He locked the door behind him as silently as was possible and strode across the room to her bed. He opened his mouth in preparation to speak, but never got a single word out. For before he had the chance, she flew out of the bed like a banshee and lunged at him. He reeled back in surprise, but her hand came down, fisted over something sharp and wicked.

  The thing hit his chest, puncturing slightly before it splintered apart and her hand jerked to the side awkwardly. She growled in a savage show of frustration, tensing to strike at him again, this time with her fists. He grasped her wrists in his hands to still her movements, though it did little good.

  She writhed in his grasp, her legs flailing, torso wriggling, arms churning back and forth in a feral attempt to free herself. Her foot came up and kicked at his thigh, the blow powerful with intent. He winced but held tight to her.

  “Don’t touch me,” she snarled.

  “Cease this at once,” Niall said.

  She ignored his order and slammed a shoulder backward, so it smacked into his chest like a punch. “I’ll kill you.” With that, she redoubled her efforts to escape, as wild as the wind before a squall and just as hard to trap on one’s hands.

  “Leila.” He said her name firmly and without her formal address. “’Tis me, Niall. The Lion.”

  She went still in his arms. “Release me.”

  “Will ye continue to attack me?” Even as he asked the question, he eased his grip on her.

  “Nay,” she said weakly.

  He released her as asked. She turned and regarded him, her brows pinched with confusion. “Why have you come here at such an hour?”

  Heat flooded Niall’s face. “To catch ye chanting a spell while ye bewitch me.”

  Those pinched brows lifted now. “I’ve bewitched you?”

  The dream flooded back to him, hot with lust. “Ye lodged yerself in my mind. I know it. Ye sent me dreams…”

  She was looking at him as if he was mad. “What fools you Scotsmen are.” She spoke in a low, quiet tone that was absent malice, and yet cold as ice. “You confuse your own lusts for bewitchment and set the blame at my feet when I never asked for your attention or that of any other.”

  Niall frowned. “Any other? Has someone else claimed ye’ve bewitched them as well?”

  “Alban,” she replied, as if disgust roiled in her stomach. “I thought you were better than him. It appears you are not.” Her shoulders fell and she sounded suddenly very tired. “Please leave me.”

  “Alban was here?” he demanded.

  She sucked in a hard breath. “Leave me.” She put her back to him and hugged her slender body.

  What had Alban done to her? Niall ground his teeth, assuming the worst and most probable scenario.

  “Did he touch ye?” Niall asked.

  “Leave me,” Leila repeated. “I’ll not have you presuming I only seek to further bewitch you this eve.”

  Niall approached slowly. “Lady Leila. Forgive me.”

  She lifted her eyes to him, large and luminous in the muted moonlight. “I have not bewitched you,” she whispered. “I swear it on my love of my family.”

  And in that one moment, Niall realized the truth of her words, as well as the power of his own longing and care for this seemingly frail woman. God, he was a fool.

  “I know,” he said quietly. He wanted to reach a hand up to her face, to stroke the creaminess of her skin in the fragile light, but he tamped down the longing. “Did Alban come to ye?”

  She nodded and his stomach dropped.

  “Did he…?” Niall could not force the question out. It was his own cowardice that stayed his tongue. He had been avoiding Leila for fear of her having bewitched him. He had not been there to protect her.

  “He tried.” Leila folded her arms over her chest. “He will try again.”

  “Ye thought I was him.”

  Leila nodded. “I peeled a bit of wood from the trunk because nothing on the bed would give way. It was only a sliver, but I’d hoped it would be enough. Apparently, it was not.”

  He glanced down at his chest and found flecks of splintered wood remaining. It had not even pierced his leine. “Alban willna bother ye again,” he vowed.

  She nodded but did not appear convinced. Not nearly as much as Niall. For when he was done with Alban, the man would never think of laying a hand on another woman again.

  10

  The following morning, Niall arrived early to the practice field. He’d spent the remainder of the night biding his time, planning out exactly how he would handle the matter of Alban. He couldn’t kill him, of course. Not with him being Lord Armstrong’s son.

  But Niall could best him on the practice field. It wouldn’t resolve the issue, but it would ease the rage searing through him. Afterward, Niall would take up the matter with Lord Armstrong.

  Niall paced the well-worn earth to burn the energy racing through his veins as the sun stained the sky red with its ascent. The men slowly trickled into the area of the castle they used for practice, with Alban being one of the last to arrive. Niall ran through the basic moves with them to ease the stiffness from their joints and get their bodies warm on the cold morning.

  It had been torment to bide his time when he was hot and ready for battle. He paired himself with Alban and stood across from the younger man.

  “I heard ye attacked the prisoner,” he spoke casually as he circled his opponent.

  “She’s a witch.” Alban spit on the ground between them.

  “She’s also a noble’s daughter.” Niall lunged, bringing his practice sword down.

  Alban was fast, aye, but not when faced with the magnitude of Niall’s rage. The blade struck Alban hard on his injured shoulder. His grunted exhale gave proof of the hit’s accuracy, as did the narrowing of his eyes.

  “It doesna matter,” Alban growled. “She’ll be dead once Father Gerard judges her. How can she be anything but when the Armstrongs were the first to fall to this illness? ‘Tis a miracle my da, me and my sister havena fallen ill.”

  Niall wouldn’t call it a miracle. He ducked to avoid being struck by Alban’s blade. The wind of its passing brushed by Niall’s cheek. Too close. He shoved his torso against Alban, catching him off guard, and brought his own sword up hard, disarming his opponent. Here, he could have put the tip of his dulled sword to Alban’s neck to signify victory.

  But that was not enough. He wanted Alban to feel some of the pain and terror Lady Leila had felt when he’d attacked her.

  “Would ye have someone treat yer sister thus?” Niall rushed Alban, gripping his shoulders and swiping his legs out from beneath him so he crashed to the ground.

  The Keeper’s son ground out a harsh exhale. “My sister isna a witch.”

  “Lady Leila may no’ be one either.”

  Alban threw his fist at Niall. It glanced off his jaw without much impact but opened the door for Niall to retaliate. And retaliate he did. With fists and feet and all the pent-up rage he had radiating inside him.

  He and Alban rolled about on the ground like youths in a village brawl, tearing at each other’s gambesons to get a better grip on one another, to strike harder. Niall was hit several times, but not nearly as often as he delivered blows.

  His final one was to Alban’s nose. There had been a fleshy crack beneath Niall’s fist and an immediate eruption of blood. Alban let out a gurgling howl of pain and the fight was over.

  “Leave Lady Leila be,” Niall warned. “She’s a prisoner, and an earl’s daughter at that.”

  Alban held his face and glowered from beneath the mess of his ruddy hair. “My da will hear of this.”

  Niall didn’t bother to reply to th
e petty threat. He had anticipated Alban would go to his father to complain. In fact, Niall had been counting on it.

  The summons to see Lord Armstrong came almost immediately after practice, implying Alban had made good on his threat as soon as the Armstrong guards had been released. The Keeper of Liddesdale was waiting for Niall impatiently with Alban at his side.

  “Ye broke my son’s nose,” Lord Armstrong said dryly.

  Niall bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. “’Tis what happens on the practice field.”

  Lord Armstrong cast an irritable side glance at his son, as though in agreement with what Niall had said. The Scottish earl was a notable warrior himself, one who never backed down from battle. One who would never go to his father to complain of a broken nose.

  “Alban suspects ye’re bewitched by the prisoner.” Lord Armstrong made the accusation in a bored tone, clearly placating his son.

  “If protecting the purity of an earl’s daughter is bewitchment, then mayhap I am.” Niall folded his arms over his chest. “We’ve already arrested Lord Werrick’s daughter and are holding her to be tried for witchcraft. We dinna need to insult the man by also raping his daughter.”

  “She bewitched me,” Alban hissed. “She made me lust after—”

  “Cease yer whining.” Lord Armstrong’s voice rang out against the cold gray stone. He glared at his son. “Ye’re a man, no’ a child. Cease yer prattling at once. And if ye are indeed bewitched, ye best be as far from the chit as possible. See to the scouting party. Lord Werrick hasna taken his daughter’s arrest well and I dinna doubt he will attack us to save her.”

  Alban opened his mouth to protest, but Lord Armstrong cast him an icy stare that stayed his son’s tongue.

  “Niall, handle the witch.” Lord Armstrong rubbed his brow, as one does when their patience is sorely tried. “Already there has been too much squabbling about this lass. I grow weary of it and pray the priest arrives posthaste.”