DevilsHeart

by Laura Glenn

  The pressure of Rathe’s lips upon hers haunted her. She brushed her fingers across her lips. How long ago had she left his side? How far apart were they now? Perhaps, if she were to gain a higher vantage point, she could spot Rathe and his men.

  She hiked up her skirts and trudged up the side of the mountain, dodging random, moss-covered rocks jutting out of the earth. Bran whinnied down below and she cast a glance over her shoulder. He stomped at the earth and neighed, staring at her.

  She rolled her eyes. The animal was about as arrogant as his master. Turning forward again, she climbed up to an outcropping and peered into the distance.

  Nothing. Not even a single house or road in sight. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as a weird sense of desolation washed over her.

  Bran neighed again.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she muttered. She hopped down the side of the rocky outcropping. The sharp tip of the dagger Rathe had planted between her breasts poked her abdomen. Her spine stiffened and she eased back into an erect position.

  That thing was going to kill her. She pulled the dagger out, securing it in her palm and made her way back down the mountain.

  The horse stomped at the ground, staring at her and flicking his tail. Then he paused, his ears stiff and nostrils flared.

  A flare of alarm rippled through her belly. The little hairs on the back of her neck stiffened and she quickened her pace. The sooner she could get back on Bran and to those fields where she’d hopefully find some semblance of civilization, the better.

  From out of nowhere, a hand clamped around her mouth and she was forced back against someone. A deep, masculine voice clucked in her ear. “Left all alone, my lady?”

  She froze, her heart speeding into a fast, erratic thud. She gripped the dagger closer to her body, burying it in the folds of her dress against her thigh.

  “Well, now, let us see what kind of prize I have found myself.” A low, sickening laugh rumbled forth from his chest.

  Wait…English? What? How did he know?

  When he pawed at her skirts with one hand, her body reacted on instinct. She threw back an elbow and bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth. The man barked in pain but released her and she ran. The metallic taste of blood hung upon her lips.

  Bran whinnied and reared up on his hind legs. Irritation surged through her. Now was not the time for the animal’s high-handed attitude toward her. She needed him to stay still so she could climb up onto his back and get the hell out of there.

  He landed on all fours and turned so his side faced her.

  Please don’t move. Please don’t move…

  Her toe hit a rock. Skirts tangled between her legs and she pitched forward. The dagger fell from her hand. Pain shot through her wrists and knees, her palms scraping along the grass.

  Hands wrapped around her ankles and she clawed at the ground to pull forward. As the man yanked her back and flipped her around, her skirts rode up to her knees. Her lungs burned as she flailed, but she made contact and kicked him in the face.

  But it made no difference. He grunted and threw himself on top of her. Grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the ground, he sat up, straddling her.

  He sneered and shook his head as he glared down at her. He muttered something in Gaelic and released one of her hands. She attempted to push up, but he brought his fist to land squarely against her cheek, knocking her back down. She smacked her head into something hard.

  Her vision blurred, pain rushing through her bones. Cold air lapped at her bare legs as the man muttered something unintelligible somewhere above her. Her finger twitched against something smooth in the grass. Through the fog in her brain, she somehow managed to force her fingers around it, hoping it was a rock she could hit him with.

  But it wasn’t. It was the dagger. She felt for the handle and wrapped her fingers around it. As he leaned over her, his hands dragging up to her hips, she forced the blade into his side.

  The man bellowed in pain, pulling up. She scrambled away from him, her vision clearing at last. The blade was still covered in the fabric of her chemise but the tip glistened red.

  The man lifted a bloodied palm from where he had clasped at his side and gave her a menacing glare. “You will regret that.”

  She clawed at the fabric around the blade as he rushed toward her. He grabbed her legs and pulled her toward him again just as the fabric fell away. He launched himself toward her arm to grab the dagger.

  A black streak swept across her peripheral vision and the man hesitated long enough for her to jam the blade into his neck. His eyes widened as he launched himself up away from her. She clutched fistfuls of grass to pull away just as Bran bucked and sent hisrear hooves into the man’s face.

  Curling into a ball, she covered her head, squeezing her eyes shut. But then something warm and velvety nuzzled against her hands. Bran snorted.

  Aching, she sat up. The man had crumpled to the ground just a few feet away. Oh God, had she killed him?

  The horse nudged her head but she continued to stare at the man in a daze until the animal head-butted her.

  “Ow,” she mumbled, rubbing the side of her head.

  A gurgled moan and twitch of the man’s legs sent her flying to her feet. What if he had friends nearby? Or wasn’t hurt as bad as she thought?

  She gained the horse’s back with surprising agility and the animal took off just as she grasped the reins. As if he knew exactly where he was supposed to take her, he charged into the valley.

  Pain reverberated through her bones with every landing of Bran’s hooves upon the ground. Her vision blurred and refocused over and over, sending her stomach into a sickening swim. Something warm and wet trickled onto her upper lip and she reached up to wipe it away. Blood smeared along the back of her hand.

  Sleepiness set upon her out of the blue. She struggled to maintain focus, searching ahead for any sign of fields or houses. Her head and cheek throbbed faster and hotter and all she wanted was to lie down somewhere—anywhere.

  The land flattened and they entered a forest. Panic shot through her. Where were the fields? Rathe said there would be fields. And they were on someone’s land. What was that name again?

  Damn it!

  Two men on horseback stepped out onto the trail in front of her. She gasped and pulled back on the reins, bringing her horse to a stop. She patted her dress. Her dagger. Where was the dagger?

  Shit. She’d left it in that guy’s neck. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

  The tall, dark-haired man moved forward, tilting his head in seeming curiosity as he peered at her. He said something in Gaelic, his gentle tone helping to calm her already frayed nerves.

  “MacAirth,” she blurted out, the name suddenly coming to her from out of nowhere. “I’m supposed to find the MacAirths.”

  Both of the men’s brows rose in obvious surprise as she spoke. They exchanged glances and the second man with red hair came forward as well to join his friend.

  The dark-haired man cleared his throat. “Well, you have found us, lass.”

  Her shoulders crumpled, her chest heaving as a sob threatened to overtake her. Tears of relief flooded her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks.

  “Who are you, lass? To whom do you belong?”

  She lifted her gaze to the man’s warm, brown eyes. Such a strange question under normal circumstances would have left her tongue-tied. But now her answer spilled forth without a second thought.

  “The Sinclair.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rathe’s nostrils flared as his fingers wrapped around the handle of his blood-covered dagger. His eyes narrowed into murderous slits as they traveled up from the dead man’s feet to the bloodied gash in his neck and swollen face.

  Blinding rage coiled within his belly as he stood. He was tempted to beat the body into a bloody pulp just so he could have something on which to take out his fury. His hand shook as he looked down at the dagger. The one he had given to her.

>   But where was she?

  “Clean this,” he muttered to a young warrior standing at his side.

  Brodie approached him, giving the dead body a sideways glance. “There are horse tracks leading into the valley. It looks like it was one with a rider, not a lone animal.”

  Rathe’s eyes snapped from his friend to the valley. “Are you certain there are no other tracks around? Other riders?”

  “There were some smaller footprints leading up to that outcrop to the east, but then they lead right back here. Other larger prints lead from valley where we fought to here. There is nothing else.”

  Rathe turned, his eyes darting back and forth between the outcrop along the mountain to the disturbed ground not far from the dead body where an obvious scuffle had taken place. Matted plants, clumps of grass torn out of the ground as though someone was grasping at the earth to get away. He stooped down again, running his hand along the grass to a small rock that had recently had moss torn away. A dark, rust-colored stain covered the light-gray surface. He rubbed it with his finger, the tacky coloring smearing red across his flesh.

  His stomach churned in a mixture of anguish and fear as he stood again. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have sent her away like that, all by herself in the wilds of the Highlands. They had been so close to MacAirth land though. He had thought for sure she could make it safely.

  He was wrong.

  The growing frantic terror snaked upward, wrapping around his heart. Urgency pulsed through his limbs. “Are you certain? There are no other footprints? No other trails?”

  Brodie sighed. “You are not the only one with tracking skills. Your father taught us too, you know.”

  “My father taught me nothing,” Rathe snapped.

  Brodie nodded. “Fine. It comes to you naturally, but, damn it, Rathe, since when did you ever mistrust our skills? I am telling you, there is no other way your wife got out of here except through the valley.”

  Rathe’s lips thinned as his eyes trailed the horizon. “I just do not want to miss her. She could be lying somewhere hurt or—”

  “Or with the MacAirths as we speak,” Brodie insisted. “Which is where you should be so Lady MacAirth can get that sewn up.”

  Rathe glanced down at his left arm. The slashed sleeve was crusty with his blood, but he barely felt the pain any longer. None of it mattered when he spotted his dagger lying next to the dead man after they crossed the stream.

  He gave his friend a dismissive wave and headed toward his horse. “Bring him along,” he commanded to no one in particular as he passed the body.

  He gained the saddle and watched as several men gathered around the body to lift it onto the back of another horse.

  Someone let out a low, long whistle. “Damn, what did our lady do to him? It looks like she tried to bash his head in.”

  Another man chuckled. “And here I thought she was a quiet little mouse. Remind me not to cross her any time soon.”

  The corner of Rathe’s mouth quivered into a smirk of pride. His skittish little wife had done just as he had told her to do—she fought like hell. Now he prayed he’d find her alive.

  The horses had had a long, arduous day, but they seemed to sense the urgency of their riders and galloped through the valley to the woods edging the MacAirth’s southern fields. There they slowed their gait, sending Rathe near the edge of his sanity as time dragged by in painful, crawling moments. He had scanned the landscape as they rode through the valley and now the woods, both hoping and not hoping to find Leah huddled in pain somewhere along the way. But they broke through the forest and into the fields without a single sign of her and goaded the horses back into one last gallop toward the MacAirth keep.

  The gate was open and they rode straight into the courtyard. Men stood around the perimeter, their swords at their sides almost as if they’d been expecting the Sinclairs. Rathe reined in his horse in front of the tall, dark-haired man standing at the foot of the steps of the keep with his arms crossed and his feet braced shoulder-width apart.

  “Please tell me you have her,” Rathe stated in restrained desperation, scrutinizing the almost always unreadable expression of his longtime friend, Galen MacAirth. “Because if you do not —”

  “I have her,” Galen replied with a calm nod. “But you had better get yourself inside before Annie catches you bleeding all over her courtyard.”

  Rathe paused as his friend’s words sank in, his hands aloft with the reins, ready to take off to search for Leah. And then a wave of relief swept over him, followed by an urgent need to see her face. To see for himself she had made it here alive. He swung his leg back and dismounted, tossing the reins to a stable boy who had run up to him through the crowd. “Where is she?”

  Galen stepped in front of Rathe, blocking his path into the keep. “She is asleep.”

  Rathe stumbled back a bit as his knees buckled. She was alive. God in heaven, Leah had fought off a man twice her size and dragged herself here. And now she was asleep somewhere inside. He’d never heard such sweet words in his life.

  Galen reached out to steady Rathe by the elbow, but Rathe shook off his hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but he struggled to force out the words. “She is alive?”

  “And asleep,” Galen reminded him. “You will have Annie to answer to if you go charging in there and wake her up.”

  Rathe exhaled and closed his eyes, tilting his face up to the sky. He’d never been a religious man, but in that moment he almost dropped to his knees in thanksgiving for his wife’s safety.

  His wife. Why did the word seem so weighty to him now? So imbued with responsibility and protectiveness?

  “You are married?”

  Rathe’s eyes flew open and landed upon Galen’s raised eyebrows. The disbelief in Galen’s voice wasn’t lost on him. Rathe grinned and shrugged. “You know how it is. See a pretty girl, come home married.”

  “Get drawn into a battle, bring the dead body of your wife’s attacker to bleed all over your friend’s courtyard. I assume that is him.”

  Rathe followed his stare to the dead body draped over the horse, which had just been guided into the courtyard. He gave his friend a clipped nod. “Do you recognize him?”

  Galen shook his head. “No, but I will put the question to others in the clan. If he has been hiding out so close to our land, it is possible someone has seen him.” He turned toward the keep. “Come inside, Sinclair. And tell me what the hell happened out there.”

  Rathe followed him into the great hall and was ushered to a bench at one of the long tables in the middle of the room. As he related the tale of his quick marriage and the attack earlier, a flash of curly red hair off to the side caught his attention.

  “Annie,” he greeted with a smile as he stood. His gaze dropped to her belly, which jutted out in front of her. “Again?”

  She laughed and set a basket upon the table next to him. “You make it sound like I’m popping them out right and left. It’s only the third, you know.”

  “There are plenty more where that came from,” Galen remarked with a grin.

  She smacked Galen’s arm. “Think again.” She turned back to Rathe and pushed down on his shoulders. “Now, you sit.”

  Rathe sank back down onto the bench and Anna tore the sleeve away from his shirt just as servants brought forth candles, bowls of hot water and a stack of cloths. As Anna prodded at his arm and cleaned the wound, his impatience got the better of him and he tapped his foot on the floor.

  She squeezed his knee. “Hold still, damn it. You want me to tear into your flesh?”

  “I need to see her.”

  “She is asleep and you’ll not be disturbing her.” Anna wrung out a washcloth into one of the water bowls.

  He leaned back against the table edge. Then he shifted forward until his elbows rested on his knees. And then he straightened his spine. “How is she?”

  Galen handed him a cup. He lifted it to his lips and the scent of the whisky assaulted his nostrils. Alarmed, he shifted hi
s gaze between the two of them. Was there a reason they were trying to calm him?

  Anna patted him on the leg. “It’s for the stitches.”

  Rathe nodded and downed the liquid in one gulp, welcoming the burn down his throat. He handed the cup back to Galen and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. “Tell me the truth of it, Annie. I can take it.”

  He winced as the needle slid into his flesh.

  Anna paused, tilting her head as she pushed his open flesh together and chose her next entry point. “She is bruised and scraped. A bit banged up. But she will recover.”

  “That is it?” Rathe asked looking back at Galen. “She truly is all right?”

  “She only needed a couple of stitches on her scalp where she hit a rock, but other than that she will be fine,” his friend answered.

  “Stitches?” Now Rathe was agitated again. “You did give her plenty of whisky, right?”

  Anna sighed with obvious annoyance. “Hold still, damn it, and settle down. I gave it to you, didn’t I? And you’re a lot more trouble than she ever was.” She pulled the thread taut, sending a sharp pain through Rathe’s flesh.

  “Give me another dram,” Rathe grumbled. “Your wife is getting mean over here.”

  Anna rolled her eyes and continued with her task.

  Rathe’s imagination whirled out of control in the silence. What had happened to Leah? Was there something the MacAirths weren’t telling him? Did that man lying dead out in the courtyard do more than…

  He couldn’t finish the thought. Heaviness settled into his chest as he studied Anna’s face while she worked on him.

  “Was that all, just bruises and a cut?”

  Anna’s blue eyes flipped up to his. “Yes.”

  “She was not…he did not…”

  She paused and sat back, understanding dawning upon her features. “I don’t think so. Leah never said.”