by Kresley Cole
When she approached the parlor, she had to bite her tongue to keep from screeching at their boots on the table, at the smell of tobacco cloying inside the room, at the food they'd already rooted through.
Mare de Déu! There were empty bottles of wine everywhere. She glanced around, eyes wide. Had more Highlanders come in the night? No, just the six of them had run through the abundant supply in the sideboard and raided their collection in the cellar.
They saw her then, and she forced a smile to her face. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said, pleasantly enough. When they stood and seemed as if they might approach her, no doubt to touch her hands again, she backed to the doorway and pressed her palms against the molding behind her. "I trust you slept well."
"Aye. Thank you for your hospitality." She thought that one was Niall. They'd introduced themselves last night, but all their names had sounded the same, alike in their oddness and unfamiliarity. More ridiculous, every surname began with Mac.
"Should we no' cut through the chatter and get to what you wanted to ask me?" MacCarrick muttered. He appeared exhausted, his eyes bloodshot again, and when she'd walked in he'd been rubbing his forehead.
A brittle smile. "Of course, Mr. MacCarrick. Your directness is always…refreshing."
He raised his eyebrows. "Refreshing, is it now? How did you put it before? Aye, I remember. You said my people lacked delicacy."
She could feel herself blushing. These mercenaries looked embarrassed for her. She hated this man. Hated him. But she would do whatever it took to help Aleix. Remember that, Annalía. "I would like to hire you to help me and my family."
He smirked, clearly relishing her discomfiture. "And just what would you have us do?"
She was a private and mistrustful person by nature, and above all else she was proud, but she would have to overcome these traits for they didn't serve her now. "M-My brother, Aleixandre Llorente, has been captured by Pascal."
She scanned the room to see their reactions. The youngest one was about to say something, but then there was a sound under the table, as if he'd been kicked. He shut his mouth. What had he been about to tell her? Did he know something?
MacCarrick insolently waved her on, and with effort she continued, "He is the only family I have left, and he is in Pascal's jail. I would pay to have him freed. I would pay more than Pascal."
MacCarrick asked, "Why would you think he's still alive?"
She felt the blood leaving her face at the thought of Aleix dead, and to her shame her eyes watered. She found herself twining her fingers in front of her, then forced her hands to her sides.
The older man hissed something to MacCarrick in a foreign language.
MacCarrick shot him a look and snapped, "It's a valid question."
She didn't know how to handle these people. She'd been taught a perfect stitch and elegant table manners, but no one had instructed her on how to negotiate with ruthless men. Her idea of trying to manipulate MacCarrick with a kiss last night had been laughably far off the mark, but if she was as everyone thought, then why hadn't it worked? "He will be alive because he has value to Pascal. The people here love him and would do anything for him. The general will use that as leverage over them."
"Why does he need leverage over them, when he's already terrorized them into submission?" MacCarrick asked as he leaned back in his seat. He sounded gloating about the fact.
"He terrorized them? Or his lackeys terrorized them?" She regretted her words the second she said them.
He glanced around to the men with his eyebrows raised as if she'd just proven some theory, then his lips curled into a mean, mocking smirk. "Run along, Annalía. We'll be here for only a few days more."
This cretin was ordering her in her own home, and yet she pleaded, "But I will pay you!"
"Do you have coin on the property?"
"No, but I have jewelry. Priceless jewelry."
He gave her a patronizing expression. "And where could we sell that around here?"
"Then my fortune. If you free Aleix, he can get it for you. I'll give it freely."
"Canna imagine your 'fortune' would be the kind of money we usually command."
"That's because your imagination is limited!" When the man called Niall and two others chuckled, she again commanded herself to bite her tongue. "Take anything you like in this house, anything! I'm sure you could find your pay here."
"Anything, then?" he asked with a strange expression. Niall shook his hung head, then rose to leave. The four followed him out.
Still she nodded eagerly. "Just name your price, Mr. MacCarrick. I will gladly pay it."
"Then it's settled." He looked her over shamelessly. "I want you."
"P-Pardon?"
"You heard me. I can sense desperation and you're there. You were willing to kiss me last night to sway me to your cause, and I'll bet you're willing to do more than that. Why no' do it with me?"
Her eyes went wide. Hate you!
"I will free him, but before I do, I'll get to enjoy you," he said, his tone smug. "Those are my terms."
She bit out each word when she said, "There is material wealth here that could satisfy even you."
"You mean 'someone such as me.' Forget it, then." He unfolded a dated newspaper, shook it out to read, then kicked his boots up on the table. "I'll no' work for you for anything less than you," he said behind the paper.
Her brows drew together in bewilderment. Those were Aleix's boots, stolen. And they were carelessly propped on her table. Hers and Aleix's table. She and her brother, who was more like a father to her, had breakfast there each morning and talked about the ranch. Aleix was gone. No one would help her and she didn't understand why.
The other men returned and sat. She dimly noted that they appeared angry.
The realization struck her that for the first time in her life she truly needed help and had asked for it, and no one would give it to her. For the first time in her life she'd been…vilely propositioned.
As he continued reading, ignoring her, MacCarrick crossed his ankles, and a bottle by his feet drew her attention. She recognized that particular wine because it had been bottled the year of Aleix's marriage to his beloved Mariette and had been stored with great care. They had saved it to toast the birth of their first baby. The wine never, never should have been drunk.
Yet it sat on the table, opened and nearly full, forgotten among the refuse they'd scattered.
She began to move, and frowned because she had little idea of what she was doing. She watched her feet advancing her toward MacCarrick, and perceived her hand closing hard around the bottleneck just before she raised it high and poured the wine on his head. The growling noise in his throat was getting louder and louder, and still, when the bottle was empty, she dropped it, hitting his thick skull. She thought he bellowed, thought someone might be restraining him. She said in Catalan to no one in particular that the wine had had meaning for her and that they could all go to hell.
The grandfather clock struck eight. She plucked up her skirt and waltzed from the room. She grabbed her gloves at the table by the door, then strolled to meet Vitale in the stable.
It was time to go riding.
MacTiernay and Niall wouldn't release him until they saw through the window that she was riding away. Court had been so shocked, he'd hardly comprehended what she was doing. Then, when he'd lunged for her, MacTiernay snagged him as Niall caught his other arm.
He shrugged them loose and whipped his drenched head around to find Niall glowering at him.
"Again. What the hell is wrong with you, Court?"
"With me? Did you no' just see the most arrogant woman ever to live pour a bottle over me?"
"You deserved it, every drop of it. Talking to her that way after she asked us for help."
Gavin added, "And turning her down? Granted, we doona go about doin' good deeds, but there's wealth here like I've never seen. She could pay us just as well as anyone else."
Court wiped his sleeve over his face. "In
case you dinna realize this, she never asked for anything, and in case you dinna understand, she just told us all to go to hell." He shook his hair out and wine splattered everywhere. "Still, I was going to help her. Niall, you ken that I would. I would have before this. I only wanted to bait her a bit. Just for a day."
Niall's expression was incredulous. "I've seen you happily snap necks and slit throats, but I've never seen you be callous to someone who is weaker than you and in such a vulnerable position. Her only family is in that bastard's cell, and you would use that over her? To bait her?"
Court ran his hand over the new knot on his head. "God damn it, I said I'd get him out."
"Aye. Because you're the one who put him there."
Chapter Eight
When Annalía arrived in the village of Ordino, she heard dogs barking to each other from unseen vantages, yet nothing else stirred. Although it was early evening, the streets were eerily quiet.
She and Iambe clacked along the slate drive to the largest building, a sizable home built of ancient stone. She'd seen it before on visits here and wondered what had happened to the people who actually owned it.
She'd just reached the front entrance when a man strode from the inside. Her eyes widened. He was one of the Rechazados—she could tell by the cross tattoo on his bare arm. She'd heard of these legendary assassins, had heard they were every bit as evil as the Highlanders, but colder. Without warning he wrenched her down from the saddle, dropping her to her feet.
While he seized her bags, an unkempt deserter in a ragged Spanish military uniform arrived to take Iambe. She wanted to make sure he cared for her horse properly, but the Rechazado snapped his fingers for her to draw closer. She called on every ounce of bravery she had to walk toward him, toward what her whole being knew was a threat.
The women in the valley had said you never saw emotion, never could detect when they would strike. Another had admitted softly that the first hint her sister had that they were about to violate her had been when she hit the ground.
He snatched her arm to drag her up the steps to the front doors, then inside the dimly lit house. She reasoned with herself that the Rechazados were known to follow their orders to the letter. To the point of death they would fulfill their command, and surely Pascal would have commanded them not to touch her.
They climbed a sprawling staircase that led to an even darker landing. The room he shoved her into was the last, in the farthest corner of the house. Inside, he emptied her bags on the bed and rifled through her clothes. With a malevolent look, he exited, but he didn't lock her in. Of course there was no reason to expect her escape.
She exhaled a wavering breath, then surveyed her surroundings, surprised to find the room was large and looked comfortable enough with plenty of rugs and candles and a clean bed. The window was raised and overlooked a lantern-lit courtyard. Had she been expecting a cell? Yes, because she'd thought of herself as condemned.
She washed off the travel grime as best as she could with the water at the dresser, then changed from her mud-coated habit behind the door. After rinsing and repinning her hair, she folded her garments back into her bag, hung her dresses, which were severely wrinkled, then she did the only thing left to do—she sat on the edge of the bed and waited, having no idea what to expect.
An hour had passed—during which she relived her confrontation of the morning, envisioning scenarios where she could shock MacCarrick right back and leave him gaping—when the door opened. A pretty young woman about her age sauntered in, and Annalía's heart leapt. Was she coerced into being here as well? They could be allies!
"So you're to be my stepmother," the woman said with a dismissive smirk.
Pretty until she opened her mouth, that is.
Annalía hadn't foreseen this, but it made sense that the much older Pascal would have children. "If you're Pascal's daughter, then I suppose I am. What's your name?"
"Olivia."
"And exactly how many more stepchildren am I to have?"
"All but me have been disowned or have fled him." She tilted her head at Annalía. "You look so distressed. Aren't you excited about the nuptials?" Olivia was taunting her.
"Would you be happy in my situation?"
She shrugged impudently, ignoring Annalía to walk to the window and scan the courtyard.
"Olivia, do you know if my brother is safe?"
For long moments, she waited, then turned, as if to size up Annalía and determine if it was worth it to spare a kindness to her. "Llorente lives."
"If he were dead, would you lie to me?"
"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "Now come with me. Your new lord awaits."
Annalía followed, but only because she was ready to get this meeting concluded. She couldn't imagine what the general would look like. He'd probably have a cruel face, with harsh angles as MacCarrick did. Perhaps that would be wishful thinking for him to have at least the Highlander's looks.
"He's in there." Olivia jerked her chin toward a door. When Annalía's feet wouldn't move of their own volition, it seemed, Olivia snapped, "Go on!"
Annalía pushed open the door, making her manner brisk. And was dumbfounded when Pascal turned to her.
Annalía had never seen a more beautiful man in her life.
Court stared into his just-poured glass, sinking back and propping his boots on a low table, attempting to relax after a day that had started out…wrong and had only gotten worse. At a table nearby, Liam, Niall, and Fergus played cards, though Fergus yawned repeatedly, while Gavin smoked a pipe full of expensive tobacco. MacTiernay rocked with his eyes—or rather his eye—closed, probably reliving old battles.
When Court had finally gotten control of his temper after the wine incident and had shaken his dogged hangover, Niall had suggested he put himself in Annalía's shoes. After all, they'd hit her property in a manner a plague of locusts would aspire to, and Court had spoken to her in a way that clearly no man had ever dared. Court also suspected that being fondled by his crew had made her…skittish. Creatures that got skittish always came out biting if backed into a corner, and she had.
So he'd taken Niall's advice and left her alone for the day. Though he'd wanted to see her later, Vitale had told him that the people here would "give" them until sundown to leave, and that the mademoiselle was so upset by "MacCarrick's vile proposition" that she was staying on the other side of the mountain for the night.
He could swear the chit was put on the earth just to make him feel guilty. Or try to. Luckily, he wasn't one to wrestle with guilt.
Usually on a night like this when they weren't working, Court would sit and dream about Beinn a'Chaorainn, his run-down estate in Scotland. He would picture the possibilities that no one else could seem to see, and he would count the days until he'd paid for it completely and all those hills, trees, fields, and the ancient stone keep would be his.
For a man cursed to have little else, Beinn a'Chaorainn kept him living. Yet now thoughts of Annalía somehow overrode dreams of his land. Damn it, so he'd treated her poorly. He was most likely going to get her brother for her tomorrow night, if Llorente was still alive….
A violent pounding on the front door interrupted his brooding. "Liam, go answer the bloody door."
Liam laid down his cards, then tromped from the room. Minutes later, he called out in a bored tone, "Court, there's a pitchfork rebellion here to see you."
"What?"
"A collection of doddering old men, torches, and farm tools. I fear for our safety and advise fleeing posthaste."
With a weary exhalation, Court kicked his feet down to stand. When Gavin raised his eyebrows, and MacTiernay and Niall laid hands on their pistols, he shook his head. "I'll take care of this."
At the front door, he found Vitale with a half-dozen men standing behind him, spread out like a rickety fan. Their faces blanched at their first glimpse of Court's expression, and he thought he heard their knees knocking.
"We've had enough of your ill-treating the mademoi
selle and stealing the master's belongings and we want you gone," Vitale declared in a moderately even voice. "You've no right to stay on here."
He almost answered, "Might makes right," and slammed the door. Instead, he asked, "Does she know you're doing this? Did she put you up to it?"
"Of course not! She warned everyone to stay clear of you, fearing what you would do."
Did she think he would hurt the people here? Did she fear him? Is that why she'd avoided him when they were alone in the house? He'd kind of thought of the last few days as a game they played. "Vitale, if you leave now, we'll no' hurt you. You know you canna fight us."
"We might not be able to, but we'll gather more and then you'll be sorry."
Liam piped in over Court's shoulder, "We're all aquiver."
Court gave him a look that made him skulk from the foyer. When Vitale opened his mouth to say more, Court's patience wore thin. "Vitale, doona make me kill you." Seeing the old man's eyes fill with dread, he felt like the bully he was. For the first time in many years, the feeling grated.
As he was shutting the door, Vitale cursed him in a diatribe of French. Court narrowed his eyes. His French was not as strong as it could be, but he thought Vitale had said…le mariage.
The wedding?
"Lady Annalía," Pascal said in a deep voice. "Welcome to my home." The room's lantern light reflected off his shining medals and his thick, dark hair.
He walked toward her with his perfectly manicured hands outstretched to grasp hers. He was so debonair, his heart-stopping smile so engaging, she raised them to him, until she remembered this man was a murderer and abruptly dropped them.
He took them anyway, though she turned her face away, recoiling.
"My dear, Annalía." He rudely called her by her first name as though their engagement had lasted more than one week and wasn't born of coercion.
"Pascal." Her tone was scathing.
He drew back, releasing her hands to scrutinize her. "I didn't think you could be as lovely as they've said, but you are."
She stared at the ceiling and he tsk-tsked. "Won't say thank you? Now where are your famed manners?"
