by Laura Glenn
It most likely had nothing at all to do with her. She was being used to hurt Rathe, to draw him out. Perhaps to drive him mad enough to make some fatal mistake so the Sinclair holdings would revert back to Andrew since Rathe had no sons.
She rubbed her lower abdomen. The swelling was beginning. She might indeed be carrying Rathe’s son, which made it all the more important Andrew not know she was pregnant. The man was pure evil and she did not want to entertain any notion of what he might do if he found out.
Low murmurs seeped in from the hallway, pulling her back into a state of alertness. A click of the door. A shuffle. She pressed her eyes closed, her hand gripping the knife under her pillow.
A rustle of clothing. A shift of the blanket. The mattress sinking.
Oh God.
A hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her onto her back from where she lay on her side. Lips brushed her neck. Fear slithered through her skin, winding in her belly and wrapping around her heart. Her hand shook under the pillow as rough hands dragged her chemise up her thighs and a dark figure loomed over her.
She froze in panic, her chest aching. He eased himself down onto her, wedging a knee between her legs. His lips grazing across her cheek.
Hate rushed through her, seizing her muscles with mounting energy. How dare he do this to her? To Rathe? How dare he force her into hurting him?
And then the rage unleashed. Her arm flew up and she plunged the blade downward into his back. He roared and in an instant his hands were around her neck, pushing her into the mattress, squeezing.
She gasped for breath, clawing at his hands and writhing beneath him. Dizziness set in. She was running out of time. She flailed at him and somehow her knee made contact with his groin. His hands fell away as he sucked in a breath and she slid out from under him onto the floor.
“Ungrateful, spiteful bitch,” he growled, reaching back to withdraw the knife from his shoulder. “Come here!”
He fell onto the floor after her, grabbing her foot. She kicked at him, dragging herself toward the door. Her hand hit something cold, thin, and hard.
The iron fireplace poker.
He flipped her onto her back, her chemise riding up to her hips. She twisted and grabbed the poker, swinging it at him. It landed with a dull thud against his skull. His head flew to the side and then he crumpled.
The door swung open and the silhouette of a man appeared, backlit by the wall torches in the corridor. She gasped and scrambled backward as the figure rushed to her.
Jacob looked her over and then stooped beside Andrew. He gave her a sharp look. “Grab your shoes, lass. You need to run. Now, while you have the chance.”
A surge of energy shot through her and she scurried around Andrew’s lifeless body. Jacob threw a blanket around her shoulders as she slipped on her shoes and then dragged her to the door. He looked up and down the hall before pulling her into it.
“Follow me,” he whispered, taking her hand.
He led her down corridors and stairways until he came to one final door. Cold air hit her in the face as he opened it. He guided her across the courtyard and behind several buildings, following around the curtain wall. They came to a stop just behind a building next to the gate.
Men shouted to one another, passing back and forth through the gate. Wagons creaked as they rolled in, pulled by horses and weighed down by grain sacks.
“When I tell you to go, you run through the gate. Follow the wall along to the right and then left along the loch. Stay out of sight, stick to the edge of the woods, and do not stop. The Sinclairs are not far. Just through the valley on Dunlop land. I will try to guide our men away from you, but it is up to you to get to safety.”
Her mind raced, overwhelmed and frightened. The sky was almost pitch-black. Could she find her way without getting lost or caught? And, honestly, could she trust Jacob? He did work for Andrew after all.
She laid a hand on his arm. “Why are you helping me?”
He gave her a sideways glance and returned to his vigil. “It is time for this to end. My four older brothers have all died in battle against the Sinclairs. Two of them only two months ago during the attack meant to draw you away and make you vulnerable to assault.” He looked back at her once again, remorse dulling his eyes. “I am sorry, my lady. We all knew it was wrong. But when a man is your laird…” He shook his head and sighed. “It was not one of us—a MacTavish would not have agreed to do that.”
“Your laird is a MacTavish.”
His head dipped into a clipped nod. “Make me a promise, my lady. Your husband will finish him this time. My poor mother has naught but me left. And I have daughters soon to come of age. I do not want him around them. He…”
He shook his head again but did not finish his thought.
A shout broke from the keep and Jacob held up his hand to her. Men dropped everything and ran across the courtyard. He motioned for her to stay where she was and then he disappeared into the darkness along the curtain wall.
She held her breath, her knuckles aching from the tension of her grip on the blanket around her shoulders. A wagon groaned to a stop in the middle of the gateway and the men abandoned it, running after their fellow warriors toward the keep. Other men shouted at them, motioning them back so they could close the gate.
Jacob dashed out of some building and waved the men toward the keep. He shouted at the men near the gate mechanism to help him move the horse and wagon. His gaze met hers.
It was time.
She waited for the men to turn their backs and then slipped into the shadows of the gate. The wagon shifted and jumped, beginning to move forward. She peeked around the corner, scrutinizing the darkness for any movement, and slipped around to the exterior of the curtain wall.
With careful steps, she glided along the structure in perfect silence. The shout for the gate closure echoed through the darkness and she held her breath until it creaked closed. But instead of relief, fear escalated in her throat, gripping her heart. Jacob had spoken about the Dunlop border as though she had any clue of what it meant or where it was. And what if she couldn’t find Rathe? The Dunlops had attacked the Sinclairs just before Andrew arrived. Wouldn’t she just be walking into enemy territory?
It didn’t matter. She must continue moving. For Rathe. For the baby and little Màiri and Daniel. There was no other choice. Besides, hadn’t Rathe warned her once if she ran away again he would find her? He’d caught her with such exacting ease despite her hours-long head start. As long as he was victorious against Andrew, he would find her.
She just had to survive until then.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“God’s blood, you idiots! She could not have gotten far!”
Leah pressed her lips together, barely daring to breathe. The loch was long, too long for her to reach the shore opposite the keep before the pounding of horses’ hooves and men shouting broke through the night air. She’d picked her way along the edge of the woods for quite some time before finding cover once the search party had drawn near. But now they were far too close.
And, unfortunately, the cloud cover was dissipating, revealing a nearly full moon. Though she would have welcomed it earlier, it now proved too dangerous.
“Who let her escape? Who?”
Andrew’s voice drew close and she froze, her eyes darting back and forth in an attempt to find him through a hole in the pile of branches and dead leaves in which she was hiding.
“Damn it, I will have all your hearts threaded on my sword for this!”
This oath came from farther away and she exhaled in relief. Every muscle in her body ached from the tension and her feet had become tender due to walking over uneven, rocky terrain. Her lids fluttered closed, her body urging her toward sleep now she was no longer moving. She’d been still for too long. Soon she would need to continue her journey, hopefully using the moonlight to her advantage to increase her pace while somehow keeping hidden.
She strained her ears to determine how far away the MacTav
ishes had wandered. Her lids wavered again and she forced them back open with a gasp. She had to move. Now.
She pushed the branches and leaves away, cringing as they rustled. Standing, she peered through the dense woods around her. No movement. No odd shadows. Just the distant shouts of men and snorting of horses.
She picked her way back through the woods to the edge where the trees met the rocky shore of the loch. She peered down the loch in the direction of the MacTavish keep. Men on horses milled about, one of whom was shouting and waving a hand in the air.
Her heart sank. They were still too close.
Just as she was about to shrink back into the woods, a pounding echo floated over the loch from the opposite end. She turned. Moonlight bounced off the water, highlighting the edge and caressing the valley just beyond. She was close, very close to the border. And, if Jacob was right, close to Rathe and his men…
Wait. Movement? A dark mass of something grew in the valley, oozing toward the loch. She held her breath. Intermittent lights flashed at her, almost as if the moonlight was bouncing off metal. And then the dark mass broke up into many, individual blackened figures moving in unison.
Tears of relief stung her eyes. Rathe. He had come for her.
“There she is!” a voice shouted from some distance behind her.
A burst of renewed energy shot through her limbs and she dashed from the cover of the trees. She let go of the blanket, allowing it to fall behind her, her numbed feet and legs somehow propelling her faster along the shore toward the mass of men spilling out of the valley.
Shouts and the pounding hooves of horses sliced through the darkness. Her heart thudded in terror, tears streaming down her cold cheeks. Her lungs screamed from the exertion.
No. It wasn’t going to end like this. Not after everything she’d been through. Not after finding Rathe.
Her throat was still aching and swollen from when Andrew had choked her, but she fought past the pain and sucked in a breath. “Rathe!”
“What the hell are they doing?” Calum asked, leaning forward in his saddle to peer along the shore of the loch.
A disquieting agitation shook Rathe’s chest. Something was amiss. At first it appeared as though the MacTavish had suspected they’d move before daybreak and instead had chosen to meet them here, perhaps hoping to trap them in the valley. But the MacTavishes seemed to be milling about, breaking off into the woods and coming back to the loch almost as if they were searching for something.
And then a figure in white flew from the woods, running directly at Rathe and his men.
“What the devil?” Calum remarked, sucking in a breath.
Leah.
Rathe’s heart stilled. God’s blood, his little doe had managed to escape. A surge of power and determination swirled through him, coalescing into a battle roar ripping through his lips as he turned his face up to the sky.
He would have vengeance this night.
He spurred his horse into a gallop, his men throwing war whoops up behind him as they and Calum’s men followed suit. But as they rode, the MacTavishes drew closer to her. Too close. He wasn’t going to make it.
He needed to buy Leah some time. Somehow take out the lead man who almost had her in his grasp. “Bow!” he threw over his shoulder.
Calum repeated the order. Rathe extended one hand behind him and a bow and arrow were placed in it. It had been years since he’d handled this weapon in the heat of battle, but he’d always been a good shot.
He loaded the arrow and positioned the bow as he arose in the stirrups, using his knees to steady himself.
“Archers forward and hold!” Calum shouted just behind him.
The dark figure bearing down on Leah shouted and leaned forward, reaching out to grab her. Rathe blocked out the shouts of men, the thundering of horse hooves, concentrating only on the deep, steadying breaths arising from his own chest. He pulled the string back and took aim. Sending up a silent prayer, he released it and it snapped forward with a reverberating thwack traveling through his arms.
The arrow sliced through the air and disappeared into the darkness.
Thump. A tortured cry.
Leah stumbled, her sides threatening to split in pain. She wobbled forward but managed to right herself again as a lone rider just ahead broke from the pack and galloped toward her. Every muscle screamed at her, cold air stabbing her in the ears. She had to hold on. Just a little longer.
And then he caught her under her arms. Her neck snapped back and then forward as her feet were lifted from the ground. The horse slowed and warm arms wrapped around her, drawing her upward.
She made a frantic grab for the man’s shoulders and slammed into his chest, burying her face in his neck. The familiarity of his scent, his arms, his breathing broke through her desperate fear.
Dear God, it was Rathe.
He pulled back on the reins, bringing his horse to a stop. Men swarmed around them on all sides, bows and swords drawn and at the ready.
“Let me look at you, lass,” Rathe crooned into her ear.
She had so little strength left but his warmth seeped into her, driving life back into her numbed limbs. She pulled back until his face was in full view. Her breathing slowed, her heart returning to a quieter, steadier rhythm.
He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way she adored. He was here. Actually here. He’d saved her. She placed one hand on his cheek, staring at him in wonder.
“Ooch,” he uttered, his brow furrowing as he covered her hand with his. “Your hand is like ice, lass.”
“Sorry,” she whispered, attempting to remove her hand.
He held her still. “No. Do not apologize. You have nothing for which to do so. It is I—”
“I said leave him be!” someone shouted up ahead.
Rathe looked up from her and her eyes followed his. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick crop of dark-brown hair was advancing toward Andrew. At least a dozen men flanked him with their swords drawn as they stared down Andrew’s men who’d come to a sudden halt several yards behind their laird.
The brown-haired man glanced toward Rathe. “I assume you wish to do the honors?”
Rathe nudged his horse forward. The mass of men parted, allowing them through.
Andrew stumbled to his feet. He grabbed the arrow protruding from his shoulder, his face twisting into a pained grimace as he withdrew it from his flesh. Turning his glare to Leah, he tossed it to the ground.
She gasped, a wave of nausea hitting her.
Andrew’s face turned almost purple in the moonlight as he screamed at his men to attack. But a mass of MacAirths emerged from the woods, pushing the MacTavishes farther toward the loch where they stilled.
Rathe eased her to the ground and then dismounted. He grabbed her hand and walked forward with her toward Andrew. “You have the MacAirths to your side. The Sinclairs and MacBains before you. Plus the mormaer’s army will soon be at your back,” Rathe sneered as they approached, stopping about twenty feet in front of him. “I would rather not massacre your entire contingent of warriors when it is only you I want. But I do not mind giving the order to see it done either.”
Leah panicked, searching the crowd of men for any sign of Jacob. She couldn’t let Rathe give that order. There were too many innocents, too many good people who would die or be affected. This clan rivalry had been going on long before Rathe and Andrew, she could hardly blame the MacTavishes for their loyalty to an albeit insane leader.
She squeezed Rathe’s hand and he looked down. She shook her head, whispering, “Please, Rathe, don’t. One of his men helped me to escape. I—”
His expression darkened and he grabbed her chin, turning her head to the side. “What the devil?” He released her hand and his thumb slid over her throat. “Who did this?”
His touch was so soothing on her chilled skin. “Did what?”
“Your neck is bruised and swollen.”
Her eyes snapped toward Andrew and Rathe’s hands dropped fr
om her in an instant. He stepped back from her, his sword ringing through the tense air as he withdrew it from his scabbard.
“Archers, ready!” he shouted. “If even one of them moves, kill them all!”
Her voice caught on the swelling in her throat as she tried to speak. With an almost simultaneous whoosh through the air, bows were lifted and aimed, swords drawn behind her and to the side.
A hand touched her elbow and she whirled around. The brown-haired man was at her side.
“Come, Lady Sinclair,” he urged, tugging her backward.
With a vehement shake of her head, she yanked her arm away. “No, I have to stop this! He can’t kill them all!” She ran toward Rathe.
“Get her out of here, MacBain!” Rathe shouted.
The man grabbed her from behind again, stopping her advance.
Andrew swayed, his eyes glassy as he struggled to draw his sword. A dark stain oozed down the front of his tunic. Veins protruded from his forehead as he snarled, “I ordered you to attack!”
No one moved.
Rathe snorted in derision. “Seems as if even your warriors will no longer support your lunacy.”
“Bastard!” Andrew swayed forward and fell to his knees.
With a swift kick to Andrew’s hand, Rathe sent the man’s sword flying to the side. “Up, coward!” he barked, throwing one foot into his chest.
Andrew wheeled backward, spitting blood down his chin. He sucked in a breath, pushing himself back up. “Come here, Leah,” he coughed, his voice suddenly turning gentle. “Are you going to let this madman do this to me? After I saved you?”
Leah remained silent.
An instant later, Andrew’s voice turned savage. “Fucking whore! Fucking ungrateful little bitch! We had plans!” He coughed again and spat on the ground.
“Bring her to me, MacBain,” Rathe ordered, his tone an eerie, chilling calm.
Panic threatened to shake her legs out from under her as MacBain walked her to Rathe’s side. Rathe didn’t believe him, did he? She bit her lower lip, fidgeting with her chemise as rocks jutted into the worn soles of her shoes. She was so exhausted, so weary of the near-constant vigilance needed for the past two days. Sleep is what she needed. In her own bed with Rathe’s arms wrapped securely around her. Why couldn’t this all be over?
