by Tarah Scott
Iain was shoved toward a horse and forced to mount. While his hands were bound to the pommel, Victoria was lifted onto on another horse. Eight men, he counted as they started forward; five surrounding him and three in the rear behind Victoria. He could overpower three, perhaps four before they were upon him, but no more.
He glanced at the sun as Robertson motioned the party forward. Bare minutes had passed since he’d closed his eyes. How had he fallen into such a deep sleep and been caught unawares in only a few minutes?
Instead of veering east to Robertson territory as Iain expected, David kept south on MacPherson land.
Darkness closed in, but Iain recognized when they entered Menzies territory. He cast a glance at David Robertson’s silhouetted form in the lead. Why Menzies land? The MacPhersons had encountered no trouble with them since—his chest tightened—since the rumors that sent him to Montrose Abbey…the day he took Victoria.
The temperature dropped, bringing a wind that chilled him to the bone.
* * *
They entered a village unknown to Iain. Impossible. He knew every village within ten day’s ride of Fauldun Castle. Clouds skittered low in the sky, and he studied the cottages illuminated by flashes of moonlight. All seemed small, shabby, cheerless. A shiver ran over him. Never had he seen a village so devoid of animation.
A sudden halt, and Iain realized the cottage before them was their destination. Callium dismounted and approached him. Their eyes met and held as the warrior cut his bonds, then stepped back to let him slide from the saddle.
“The woman,” David ordered.
Callium cast a knowing glance at Iain before turning to do his laird’s bidding. His step faltered, however, with Iain’s whispered, “Careful, lad.”
The warrior’s surprise turned to scornful amusement. Iain froze when the sneer twisted into a perverse grin like that of a wicked one risen to demand sacrifice for the Druid’s Samhain day. Iain blinked and Callium’s expression turned to one of suspicion.
Another warrior pushed him in the direction of the cottage. Iain twisted to look at Victoria, and the man yanked his arm behind his back. Iain spun, but another man seized the other arm and propelled him through the door. He stumbled forward and onto his knees, then shoved up in time to catch Victoria as she was thrown into the room after him. Wood scraped across wood as the bar fell across the door from the outside.
Victoria clung to him. “What are we to do?”
An unfamiliar feeling of helplessness reached so deep, his bones ached, but he said, “It is plain they have plans for me. We are safe, at least for the moment.”
He scanned the room. Moonlight seeped through boards that covered a window at the far side of the room. He distinguished a pallet in the corner and guided Victoria to the bed. When he gently pushed her onto the edge of the mattress, she tried to rise.
He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and eased her back down. “Rest easy, love, there may be a way out.”
He crossed to the window. Placing a palm in the middle of the board at the top, Iain pushed. The board creaked against his weight. He braced his feet, taking a deep breath to lean his body into a heavy shove when muffled voices outside their door halted him. In four long strides he reached the pallet.
The voices drifted off in the distance before Iain could discern the speakers. He lowered himself down beside Victoria and stretched out on the pallet. She curled up to his side. Iain slipped an arm beneath her neck and pulled her close, his concentration on the quiet outside. Had their captors bedded down for the night? Victoria pressed closer and gave his waist a gentle squeeze. Running his hand along her shoulder, his body jolted with the awareness of her feminine curves as he slid his palm down her side and along her waist. Christ. Now was not the time to bed his wife.
“But it is.” She brushed his jaw with her lips.
“How did you—?” Iain began, but was cut off as she pulled his mouth to hers.
What he intended as a chaste kiss turned hot when a soft sigh parted her lips and he tasted the recesses of her mouth. She tugged on his breacan and Iain consigned caution to the devil. He yanked at the ribbon that tied the bodice of her dress as he trailed wet kisses along her cheek to the spot below her ear where her pulse quickened. The laces loosened and, cupping a breast, Iain flicked her hardened nipple with his tongue until her soft cry brought him up for another feverish kiss. Her hands skimmed his chest. Iain jerked up her skirt and found the moistness between her legs. She arched and gave a low moan.
Iain nuzzled her ear. “Take care, sweet.” He slipped a knee between her thighs. “We must not alert our jailers.”
Quickening his caresses, he was soon rewarded with the brush of her breath on his neck as she clung to him in her release. With a yank of his kilt, Iain rose over her. He placed his palms on the bed, lifted himself up, and drove into her. Her grip on his shoulders turned fierce. Bracing himself on one elbow, Iain caressed her body until her muffled gasp told him she neared a second release. He quickened his thrusts until, at last, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and brought the full measure of his weight down on her, thrusting deep and hard.
“Bring me the magic that belongs only to you,” he coaxed into her ear.
Her arms wound around his neck while she wrapped her legs around his waist. Another thrust, and she arched into him, her second climax closing around him. His strength ebbed and he shuddered before exploding in pleasure. He thrust again, held steady as the pleasure pumped his seed into her, then thrust one last time before collapsing on top of her.
Iain rolled from Victoria and she curled up next to him. Fingers tightened on his shirt and he stroked her face until her even breathing indicated she had found escape in the freedom of sleep. He tied the laces of her dress in quick, deft moves, pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, then rose and hurried to the door. Iain listened, but detected no sound. Was it possible they had been left unguarded? He crossed to the window, braced himself, and pushed on the topmost board. It bent, then snapped, the sound coming in unison with the approach of heavy footsteps.
“Christ.” He barely reached the wall next to the door before the door swung open.
Moonlight silhouetted the warrior who stepped into the doorway, sword drawn. Iain leapt forward, delivering a blow to his opponent’s jaw. The man fell back and Iain kicked as a heavy object struck his neck. A flash of light lit the back of his brain. He crashed to his knees and, with a hard shake of his head, fought the darkness that blanketed his mind.
“A thick head that father of yours left you.” Iain recognized David Robertson’s voice. “But not so hard as the brunt of my sword.”
Another sharp pain to the head felled Iain, but not before he reached toward Victoria.
* * *
Iain didn’t know what time or day it was when he woke, or if it was still the same night he’d been knocked unconscious. The ringing in his ears made it impossible to distinguish sounds in the darkness. The only thing he felt safe in assuming was that if the noise in his head indicated he was dead, heaven wasn’t his final resting place.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke past the dull roar in his head. He rose on shaky legs, grasping at air for anything to steady himself as he swayed in response to the nausea that swept over him. The door burst open to reveal a large man outlined against moonlight. Iain lunged forward. He slammed against the unsuspecting figure, smashing them both against the wall a few feet from the door. Iain clamped his hands together and brought his fists down onto the man’s shoulder. Satisfaction shot through him when his opponent grunted and fell in a heap to the dirt floor.
“Cease!”
Iain froze. Hockley.
He swung around. The earl stood inside the shadow of the doorway. Iain started forward, but halted mid-stride when a man moved in beside the earl, sword before him. The man circled wide around Iain to his back.
“I should have known you would be involved in this trickery,” Iain ground out.
“Save your
breath, MacPherson. It was not I who brought you here.”
“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 arse 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 tw
enty feet from them. English men-atarms 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.
