by Amy Tolnitch
Loki kicked again.
“Easy, boy,” she said, stepping forward.
Before she could reach Loki, a hand caught her hair and hauled her against a barrel-chested body. Laughter sounded in her ear, and her blood ran cold.
She twisted around, ignoring the pain. “Let me go.”
Very slowly and deliberately, Angus Ransolm flexed his thick fingers and let go of her plait. He raised a whip and gently laid it against her throat. “I do not like to be denied.”
Freya pressed back against Zara’s stall. “My brother—”
“Your brother is a fool. He will be the ruin of the clan with his weak sentiment.”
“Leave me alone.” She glanced up and down the walkway and spied a man standing at the end of the stable. “You there!” she called.
“My man,” Ransolm told her with a smirk as he drew the end of his whip down her chest.
“If you hurt me, my brother will kill you,” Freya hissed and tried to get around him.
He easily caught her back, this time wrapping his beefy arms around her and roughly palming her breasts. “I dinnae intend to hurt you, lass. Well, mayhap ’twill hurt a bit.”
By the saints, he intended to rape her right here in the stable, Freya realized with dawning terror. She struggled against his grip, and stomped on his foot.
He grunted, loosening his hold. Freya tried to run, but he grabbed her arm and threw her against a vacant stall. “’Twill go better for you if you cooperate.”
“Cooperate? Are you mad? You sicken me.”
“Bitch.” He casually ripped her bliaut down the front, and tore open her chemise.
Mortified, Freya tried to cover her breasts, but his greedy fingers were there first, kneading and pulling at her flesh. “Stop!” she shouted.
His gaze grew feverish and his breath became audible, like an animal finding its prey. “Nay, lass. I bargained for you and I intend to take my due.”
She slapped him, but he just laughed. Then he slapped her back, and her head struck the wall so hard her vision blurred. No, she thought. Help me. Someone, help me. She stumbled and went down onto one knee.
“That’s right, wench. Down onto the ground. Spread those soft young thighs for me. You’ll be thanking me in a few minutes.”
Freya crawled a few paces, but he dragged her back by her ankle, laughing at her struggles. “No!” she cried. “Ye cannae do this.”
“I can do whatever I want.” He gripped her chin in his hand. “Little bitch, thinking you are too good for me. You’ll be learning a lesson this night.”
He shoved up her skirts, baring her thighs. Freya tried to buck him off, but he was too heavy. “No!” she yelled.
“Yes,” he said, his lips drawn back in a feral smile.
Freya heard Loki scream, followed by a thunderous crash.
Ransolm’s head snapped up and his eyes widened. “Demon horse,” he swore and leapt up, raising his whip.
Freya scooted up against the stall, tucked herself into as small a ball as possible, and prayed. Loki stamped his foot and let out a sound very close to a growl.
“Get out of here,” Ransolm snarled, taking the whip and laying it on Loki’s shoulder.
Loki backed up, snorting.
Ransolm hit him again. “Be gone, ye worthless piece of horseflesh.”
Freya whimpered, silently praying for Loki to do something, anything to aid her.
Loki’s gaze caught hers, and Freya sucked in a breath. His eyes were hard, the whites visible. He hates Angus Ransolm every bit as much as I do, she thought.
What happened next was a flurry of motion. Loki charged, hooves flailing, and Ransolm landed hard on the ground.
“Help me!” he shouted, raising his whip.
When Ransolm’s man ran up behind Loki, Loki kicked him so hard he went flying back.
Ransolm flayed the whip against Loki’s legs, but it was as if the horse didn’t even feel it. Freya watched, half-relieved and half-horrified as Loki reared up and came down on Angus Ransolm again and again until his shouts were no more.
A profound silence settled over the stable, as if every horse understood what Loki had done and why.
“Loki,” Freya croaked.
The horse turned and walked over to her, lowering his head to nuzzle her shoulder as if to reassure her. Freya wrapped her arms around Loki’s head and struggled to her feet. She didn’t even have time to pull together the edges of her torn gown before a throng of men rushed into the stables carrying torches.
“My lady!” Ivarr shouted. He turned to another guard. “Fetch the laird.”
Freya swayed and held tight to Loki. She could taste blood from where Ransolm had struck her lip, but none of it seemed real. Ivarr bent down and gave Ransolm a shove with his foot. “Dead,” he announced.
A hand touched Freya’s shoulder, and she flinched. “’Tis only me,” Magnus said softly.
With his touch, Freya’s numbness shattered and she collapsed against him, sobbing and holding on to his tunic. He caught her up in his arms, turning her into his shoulder so that she would not be exposed to the men streaming into the stable. Freya shut her eyes and let him carry her away.
Padruig wasn’t sure if he was angrier with Ivarr for failing to keep careful watch over Angus Ransolm or himself for failing to protect Freya. I promise you that you have nothing to fear from Angus Ransolm, he’d told her just that evening. A promise he’d broken within hours.
“Take your master and leave,” he told Ransolm’s man. “At once.”
The man stepped forward, his arms crossed and his expression defiant. “Someone must pay for this. Our laird is dead.”
“Your laird abused my hospitality by attempting to rape my sister,” Padruig shouted, within a breath of wrapping his hand around the man’s throat.
“So you say.” The man nodded at another, who stood supported by yet another of Ransolm’s men. “Donn tells a different story.”
“I dinnae care what fable the man spins.”
“The wench offered herself to the laird,” the injured man insisted. “Said she’d made a mistake in refusing him, that you forced her to do it.”
“Is that why her gown is ripped? Did she do that herself?”
Donn shrugged. “Mayhap she sought to display her tits.”
Padruig growled and drew his sword. “Lying bastard. You are as dishonorable as your laird. My sister would never act thus, and all knew of her distaste for Angus.”
He sensed Aimili come up beside him. Her face was pale, her mouth set into a grim line.
“Your laird got exactly what he deserved,” she said.
“What of the horse?” Ransolm’s man asked.
Padruig put a hand on Aimili’s shoulder. “The horse will get what he deserves, as well.”
He smiled. “An extra measure of oats at the least.”
Ransolm’s man cursed. “We shall not forget this.”
“Nor shall I.” Padruig glared at the man. “Count yourselves fortunate that I do not throw the lot of you in my pit. Had I known of Angus’s treachery, I would have slain him myself. Now, begone!”
Grumbling, the men retrieved Angus’s body and tied it to his horse, before mounting themselves. They rode out of the bailey and disappeared.
Padruig turned to find Aimili stroking Loki’s nose. “What a brave boy you were,” she told him. She bent to spread some kind of ointment into the cuts on his legs.
While Padruig was mighty glad the horse had saved Freya, the method still troubled him. “What think you of this?” he asked Aimili.
“What do you mean?”
He gestured toward Loki, who now appeared calm and content. “My own destrier is trained to attack, of course, but this was beyond that.”
“He saved Freya.”
“Aye, and I am thankful.”
“But?”
“Is he dangerous, Aimili? Tell me true.”
“Nay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye
. When Angus attacked Freya, it reminded him of the many times Angus Ransolm had beaten him. Indeed, Angus beat him again, as you see.”
“And he killed him.”
“He had to. ’Twas the only way to stop him.”
“Did Loki tell you that?”
“Aye.”
Padruig waited for Aimili to realize what she’d just admitted.
“Uh, I mean, ’tis obvious. I can see from his wounds that Angus whipped him. And we know he was intent on raping Freya.”
“Ah, yes. Obvious.”
Aimili peered at him over the stall door, her gaze wary. “Do ye mock me, my lord?”
“I am but concerned about the horse.” He decided to let her secret remain so for the time being, though curiosity burned through him. Could she, indeed, communicate with the beasts? On the next breath, another question occurred to him—what else might she be capable of? And why?
“Loki was a hero this day. He fought back against that vile man.”
“Aye. Do ye trust him, Aimili?”
“I do.”
He nodded. “’Tis good enough, then. I am to see Freya.”
Aimili lifted a brow. “I imagine Magnus is taking good care of her.”
Padruig smiled. “I imagine so.”
“He cares for her.”
“I ken. I am no sure of Freya’s feelings, though.”
Aimili laughed and the sound spilled over Padruig like warm fingertips stroking his skin. By the saints, his traitorous body was at it again, he thought in disgust. Cease, he told himself.
“I dinnae think you need to wonder about that,” Aimili said. “’Tis clear Freya adores him.”
“As a brother, or perhaps a cousin, or—”
“As a man, Padruig. A lover.”
“Ah. Well.” Padruig wasn’t sure what to say. Somewhere in what should have been a safe conversation, they’d veered into territory best left alone. “I’d best check on them still.” He wheeled around and tromped out of the stable, pausing only to scowl at the place where Angus Ransolm’s body had lain. The horse had done them all a favor. Had Padruig killed Angus, it would have created even greater dissension between the clans.
Still, he wished he’d had the pleasure.
Chapter Twelve
Two days later, Aimili found herself being towed away from her duties to attend a local market with Freya. “I really do not need anything,” she told the girl as they rode toward the village of Morisaig. Four men from the castle, including Magnus, rode with them. Since Freya’s attack, Aimili noticed Magnus was seldom far from her side.
Freya grinned and wrinkled her nose. “’Tis not about needing anything. ’Tis about having fun and seeing what wares are there.”
Aimili smiled back at her. Truth be told, she could not refuse Freya so soon after the horrible business with Angus Ransolm. Though on the surface Freya acted as if she’d fully recovered, her gaze held shadows it had not had before and she was easily startled. “Are you comfortable riding Mist?”
“I am.” Freya patted the horse. “’Tis amazing, but I do not feel afraid. I cannot tell you what a wonderfully different feeling that is for me.”
They crested a hill and Freya pointed. “See, we are nearly there.”
Morisaig was a large village, set in a wide valley. As they came to the village outskirts, Aimili could see a cluster of buildings with cultivated fields spread out beyond. In a grassy field stood a number of wagons, horses, and tents, with people milling about.
Magnus halted them a short distance from the village, along the edge of a winding stream. “We shall leave the horses here. ‘Twill be safer and they can graze.” He appointed the guards in two alternating groups to watch their mounts.
They entered a warren of narrow streets lined with wattle-and-daub buildings. Children played in the open doorways, beyond which Aimili could see the smoke of cooking fires, and smell the earthy odor of animals and people living together in close quarters.
“This way,” Magnus said, taking Freya’s arm. Two of the guards walked along close behind Aimili. As they walked deeper into the village, the street widened until it ended at a large, central green.
“Aimili, look!” Freya said, pointing to the tents and stalls jammed into spaces around the green. She clutched Magnus’s arm, her eyes bright. “Surely we shall find something special today.”
“Is there something in particular you are looking for?” Aimili asked her, pausing to study a table piled with wooden bowls of various sizes.
“Nay, though Efrika bid me purchase some cowbane if we find it.” She tugged Aimili over to a large tent.
Freya picked up a brooch fashioned of gold and set with rose-colored stones. “How pretty this is.”
“’Twould look most lovely on you, my lady,” the merchant offered. He named a price but Freya shook her head.
“’Tis too dear.”
“I would be happy to buy it for you,” Magnus told her. “The merchant is right.”
“Nay.” Freya looked so dejected that Aimili was tempted to buy the brooch herself. She had a cache of coins that her father had sent with her, more than enough to acquire the piece.
“Let us find something to eat and drink,” Magnus suggested. He prodded them forward, but not before slipping some coins into one of the guard’s hands and whispering to him.
Aimili grinned. “Fine idea.”
After they bought pork and cheese pies and tankards of ale, they wandered through the market. Aimili was amazed at the variety of goods. There were stalls selling all kinds of fabrics, from rough wools to fine silks. Other stalls sold leather goods, cheese, eggs, pots and pans, various tools, and even some livestock.
“Here, Freya,” Aimili said as she spied a purveyor of spices. The merchant eyed them carefully, before apparently adjudging them not up to stealing the valuable contents of the pots he had spread out on a table.
“How may I serve you, my lady?” he asked.
“My friend requires some cowbane,” Aimili told him. “Have you any?”
“’Tis for my cousin,” Freya said brightly. “She used the last of it on a filthy whoreson who sought to marry me to a man even worse.”
The merchant’s eyes widened, and Aimili laughed. “Ah, I see,” he said.
“She did not use enough to kill him, of course.”
“Of course. Uh, well, let me look.”
Freya cut a glance at Aimili and giggled.
“Aye, I do have some cowbane.” He poured a small amount into a pouch and held it up. “Is this sufficient?”
“I should think so.”
Magnus paid the merchant, and they continued their exploration. Suddenly, Aimili saw a different type of stall at the edge of the village green. This one contained dogs, many dogs, yipping and barking their unhappiness at being penned in such tight confines. Aimili drifted over to the tent.
Freya sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “My, what a stench.”
Aimili’s heart broke at the condition of some of the dogs. Many had matted, dirty hair and looked as if they hadn’t eaten well in a very long time. Their collective sadness battered her. A man stepped out of the tent. “Looking for a hunter? I’ve got some fine greyhounds here.”
“Come away from here, Aimili,” Freya said. “Let us visit the jeweler over there.”
“Not just yet.” Aimili studied the dogs. “I do not need a hunter,” she told the merchant.
He scratched his head, his hair every bit as dirty as the dogs’ fur. “I dinnae have any used for bear baiting, if that is what you seek.”
She glared at him. “Of course not. ’Tis barbaric entertainment.” She stepped forward, putting her hands on the smooth heads of the dogs. They rubbed against her, sensing her sympathy.
In the corner of the tent, she saw something that looked like a pile of yarn. She peered closer and saw two dull eyes staring out of the small mound of fur. “Is that a dog?” she asked, pointing.
“Supposed to be. I never seen anything like it be
fore.”
“What are you looking at, Aimili?” Freya asked, trying to see into the tent without getting too close to the other dogs. “Ugh,” she said, holding her skirts back. “Aimili, I am going to look at those pretty pots. We shall not be far.”
“I will be fine,” Aimili replied without looking up. She crouched down and the little dog toddled over. She brushed her nose against Aimili’s knuckles, and licked her hand.
Take me with you. Please.
Aimili looked into the dog’s sorrowful eyes. “How much do you want for it?”
The man scratched his head again. “I dinnae know, my lady. That dog isn’t worth much. She’s ailing besides. You would be better to choose one of my hounds.”
“This is the one I want.” Do not worry, little friend. Aimili stood, took a silver pence from a pouch tied to her belt, and handed the coin to the merchant.
He smiled, revealing a mouth mostly devoid of teeth. “Thank you, my lady.”
Aimili scooped up the dog and held her close. She nodded and exited the stall, anxious to escape the noxious place, wishing she could buy all of the dogs and take them home. The poor little dog trembled in her grasp.
Do not be afraid. You belong to me now.
I belong to you.
Aye.
With a sigh of contentment, the dog snuggled close.
Aimili looked down at the bundle of filthy, tangled fur in her arms and smiled. The merchant was right. There was nothing very useful about the dog save perhaps the most important, one she would not understand—a friend. Her smile widened when she considered what Padruig, a man who kept a wolf as a pet, would think of her purchase.
“He will just have to accept you,” she told the dog, who was asleep. “As will Cai.”
At the next stall, Aimili looked around for Freya and the others, but didn’t see a familiar face. Freya probably saw another bauble she must examine, Aimili thought. She slipped between the stalls, thinking to look among the ones in the next row.
A young woman blocked her path. Her hair was hidden beneath a mantle, but her eyes were brown and sharp as she met Aimili’s gaze.
“Excuse me,” Aimili said, and made to walk around her.
The woman didn’t move. “You are the new wife of the Laird of the MacCoinneachs, Padruig?”
