Morainn bit back a groan as she slowly opened her eyes. Only one opened completely and she tensed as she suddenly recalled why her left eye throbbed and would only open a little way. Small had hit her when she had struggled to get away once he had set her down inside of a hovel that smelled strongly of sheep. She had seen the stakes stuck in the dirt floor and, remembering her dream, had fought hard against being tied down to them. Morainn did not have to look to know she had lost that fight.
For a moment a blind panic swelled up inside of her, especially when the feel of the dirt against the skin of her back told her she was naked. Morainn fought against the mindless terror that threatened to steal her wits, but it was several minutes before she began to calm herself. She found anger at what was being done to her and clung to it, using it to give her strength.
She also told herself that Tormand would come for her. In a way, fate had already delivered her one strong hope for rescue, although she thought it odd that that hope had come in the form of a dog called Bonegnasher and a naughty little boy who could not stay where he had been told to. Simon would use his dog to follow the trail left by Small and Ada. Then she recalled that the dog had been hurt and panic tried to stir to life again. She would believe that, like her cat William, Bonegnasher would be fine and the dog would lead Tormand and the others right to her. Just as she had to believe that Walin was all right, a little bruised but otherwise fine. All she had to do was stay alive until her rescuers came.
When her tormentors crouched on either side of her Morainn felt her anger sharpen and welcomed it, nurtured it. She glared at both of them even though the knives they each held chilled her to the bone. Forcing her gaze away from the cold steel that would soon be used on her helpless body, she studied Ada.
Plain was the only word to describe the woman. In fact, Morainn did not think she had ever seen a woman, or man, so lacking in any memorable feature, good or bad. She had dark eyes, but they were not a brown that drew any attention. The woman’s hair was that same sort of ordinary brown, not enlivened with a reddish gleam, not too straight, too thin, or too curly. Just plain brown hair. Her skin was clear, her features even, but no more than that. It was the same with her body in that she was neither too tall or too short, too big or too small. If one looked very hard, one could see past the blinding ordinariness of the woman and see that she had a neat, womanly shape, but one had to look very hard and Morainn suspected few bothered. Ada was a woman who did not catch the eye and probably did not stick in a person’s memory past a brief greeting.
It explained why Simon had been having difficulty finding anyone who could describe the woman. Ada MacLean had nothing anyone could really describe. Morainn knew that, even though she strongly believed the seeds of this woman’s madness had been inside the woman from the moment she was conceived, being a person no one could remember or noticed must have given those seeds some very fertile ground to grow in.
“Are ye ready to be punished, Morainn Ross?” asked Ada.
“For what? Living?” Morainn could see that the anger in her voice surprised the woman. “Och, aye, I suspicion a lot of women didnae mourn the loss of Ladies Isabella and Clara. But Lady Marie? She was an innocent, her only crime being that she was Tormand’s friend. For that ye destroyed the heart of a good mon and left two bairns motherless. And Lady Katherine Hay was as near to being a saint as a person can get.”
“She took my page away from me!” Ada took several deep breaths and then continued in her usual icy little voice. “The bitch said I was cruel to the boy. I was simply giving the lad the discipline he needed. She told his parents and they took him away. That fat pig I had to marry wouldnae get me another one, either.”
“And for that ye butchered her? Ye robbed Sir John of the woman he loved, his angel, and left e’en more children without a loving mother. The punishment doesnae fit the crime.”
“She was as bad as all the others, using her beauty and womanly wiles to get what she wanted. She had no right to interfere in my business. No right at all. And, ye, witch, willnae be allowed to either.”
The first cut was not deep, but it hurt so bad Morainn nearly screamed. Instead she gritted her teeth and refused to make a sound. She would not give these butchers the pleasure of hearing her plead for mercy.
“I already have,” Morainn said, as soon as she felt she could speak without revealing her pain or fear. “They ken who ye are now. They also ken that ye have taken me and, nay matter what happens here, ye will lose this sick game ye play. It willnae be Tormand who dances at the end of a rope, but ye.”
“Nay, ye are lying. Ye havenae seen that.”
Morainn caught the look of fear in the woman’s eyes. “I have seen all of this and I ken how it ends,” she lied. “Ye willnae be a nothing anymore, Lady MacLean. Nay, ye will be a curse on the lips of thousands.”
“Make her scream, Small.”
A grinning Small slowly ran his knife tip down the inside of one thigh and up the other. Morainn desperately wanted to scream for the pain was even worse than before, but her fury at him and his perverted mistress held it back. As soon as she dared open her mouth again, she cursed them both. It was not long before Morainn was silently praying as hard as she knew how for Tormand to find her before she ran out of curses or blood.
Tormand stood with the others and stared at the hovel the dog had led them to. He wanted to race inside, sword swinging, but a shred of common sense smothered the urge. He did not have any knowledge of the place he would be running into and could easily get himself killed. That would do no one any good. At least he knew Morainn was alive. They had all heard her curses long before they had seen the long deserted cottage.
“Do ye think her father was a sailor?” asked Harcourt, as a particularly vicious insult concerning Small’s father and his unnatural love of sheep echoed through the air.
It surprised him that he could do so, but Tormand briefly smiled. “’Tis possible. She does have a unique way with an insult.”
“I hadnae wanted to, but I had expected to hear screams of pain.”
“The pain is there.” Tormand could hear it, almost feel it. “But Morainn has worked herself up into a glorious fury. And, I think, she is determined not to give the bastards e’en a whisper of a plea for mercy.”
“Ah, weel, I can understand that but, if she doesnae give them what they want, they could kill her quickly instead of continuing to torment her.”
“Aye, they could, but e’en Morainn’s stubbornness cannae hold back the pain and fear for verra long, which is why we had best rescue her soon.” He looked at Simon. “How do we do this?”
Simon opened his mouth to reply when one of their horses gave a loud challenge to one of the horses grazing in front of the cottage. It came in a brief moment of silence and cut through the air like the blare of a horn. Tormand looked at Simon who nodded and they all started running toward the cottage. A huge man burst out of the cottage nearly carrying a small brown-haired woman. Tormand saw Bennett at his side and, with one sharp move of his hand, sent his brother to the cottage. Tormand then forced all thought of Morainn out of his mind and fixed his attention firmly on the two people trying to escape the justice they so richly deserved.
The big man was just reaching out to grasp the reins of his horse when Tormand hurled himself at the man’s back. With an ear-piercing screech the woman stumbled back, deserting the man who had been trying to save her. Tormand got Small pinned to the ground and suddenly saw Simon leap over him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Simon knock the woman down. The glint of a knife told Tormand that he had been wrong to assume she had been deserting Small. That mistake had nearly earned him a knife buried in his back.
Small suddenly lunged up and threw Tormand off his back. Drawing his sword the man started toward Simon and the woman who was thrashing wildly in Simon’s grasp and screaming out curses. Tormand drew his sword, but the sound attracted Small’s attention and he abruptly turned back to Tormand, sword in hand. For a mom
ent, Tormand actually wondered if he could win against this man who was so much bigger and stronger than he was. It did not take him long to see that even though Small had more height, more strength, a longer reach, and was surprisingly fast for such a large man, he did not have the skill with a sword that Tormand did. The man was also distracted by the screams of Ada MacLean and that cost him. One bad stumble, one fleeting glance toward Ada, and the man ended his life with Tormand’s sword buried in his chest.
After cleaning off his sword and sheathing it, Tormand moved to where Simon stood next to a securely bound Ada. The woman stared at Small’s body, her grief a scar upon her plain face. Then she turned to look at Tormand and the hatred in her expression was so fierce he almost took a step back. The madness afflicting the woman began to spill out in a litany of vile curses and gruesome threats that filled the silence until Tormand looked at Simon.
“Please, gag the bitch,” he said. “I must see how Morainn fares,” Tormand announced, as Simon hurried to silence Ada, and he strode toward the cottage.
Morainn stared at the door her two tormentors had suddenly, and swiftly, left through. A moment later Ada’s screams filled the air and Morainn’s relief was so great it almost deadened her pain. When Bennett strode in, however, all she could think of was where was Tormand? Then Bennett tossed a coarse blanket over her and she remembered that she was naked and staked out like some sacrifice to a pagan god. She felt herself blush as he cut the restraints on her wrists and ankles.
“My clothes,” she said, and hissed in a breath as pain swept over her when he helped her sit up. “Walin?”
“The boy is fine,” replied Bennett, as he collected up her clothing and began to help her get dressed with an efficiency she had to admire. “I am nay sure I should put these on ye until your wounds are cleaned and dressed.”
“I will deal with my wounds when I get home.” She winced a little as he had to tear a few strips off her petticoat to use to tie the gown on her when it became clear that it had been cut off. “I cannae ride away from here naked.” Even though she had done little to help herself get dressed, she felt weak and was breathing hard. Then she heard the clash of swords. “Tormand?”
“Is one of the best swordsmen I have e’er kenned. Now, lean against me if ye must keep sitting up. Ye have more cuts on ye than I wished to count and many are still bleeding.”
Morainn did not argue. She fought the need to close her eyes and let unconsciousness ease her pain. Despite Bennett’s assurances about Tormand’s skill with a sword, she needed to see him. When he finally walked into the cottage, handsome and whole, she almost wept. The look on his face told her that she was not looking very hale herself, however.
“’Tis all right,” she said, as he crouched beside her and took her away from Bennett, enfolding her gently in his own arms. “They are all shallow cuts.”
“Your gown is soaked in blood,” Tormand said. “We need to tend to these wounds.”
“Nay here. Please, nay here.”
“She insisted on getting dressed,” said Bennett. “Said she could tend her wounds at home.”
“Aye,” Morainn said, clutching at Tormand’s arm with one shaky hand. “Nay here. I want to leave this place; I need to leave this place. Now.” She managed to spit out the last word before the blackness she had been holding back swept over her, taking her away from the pain.
Tormand quickly put his hand over her heart, felt its steady beat, and was able to push back the panic that had seized him when she had gone limp in his arms. She was alive. For now that was all that mattered.
“Caught tight, arenae ye?” murmured Bennett.
“Aye,” replied Tormand. “Like running salmon in a weel-cast net. But, first, I must get her healed and strong again.”
“And then?”
“Then I pray she doesnae decide to throw this fish back and walk away.”
Chapter 18
Pain was the first thing Morainn was aware of as she fought her way out of the clinging web of sleep. Slowly, she opened her eyes and glanced around. Even as she realized she was in Tormand’s bedchamber, she recalled everything that had happened to her and fear swept over her. She also wondered why she had a sudden urge to weep like a lost child.
“Morainn?”
Tormand rose from his seat by the bed and moved closer to Morainn. Her hand was clenching the blanket so tightly he feared she would tear it, so he took her hand in his, lightly brushing his thumb over her whitened knuckles. For four long days he had watched over her, cared for her during a thankfully brief and mild bout of fever, and waited for her to come back to him. That she had woken up afraid hurt his heart.
“Ye are safe now, Morainn,” he assured her, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Small is dead and they hanged Ada MacLean this morning.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, pushing the fear out along with the air. Once her fear was greatly eased, Morainn realized that her pain was not really that severe. That implied that she was already healing.
“How long?” she asked, wincing as she forced the words past her painfully dry throat.
“Four days,” he replied, as he moved quickly to get her some cider sweetened with honey to soothe her throat.
As he helped her drink, Tormand studied her carefully. The moment they had arrived at his home, he had placed her on his bed and stripped off her bloody clothes. That first sight of her bruised and slashed body had nearly brought him to his knees. He did not think he would ever be able to forget that sight, but seeing that she was looking better and the wounds she had suffered had not festered, lessened the power of it.
“Nora said she and her mother would come round later this morning and help ye bathe, mayhap e’en tend to your hair, if ye were awake and wanted it.” He set aside the empty tankard and grasped her hand again, needing to feel it return his grip as proof that she was recovering.
“I want,” she said. “I want it verra badly. I need to wash it all away. Did Ada confess everything then?”
“Continuously and loudly. She also had a collection of wee bows made from locks of hair, what we feel sure is hair from her victims. Small was both her lover and her servant.” He shook his head. “’Tis hard to believe that such a small, plain woman could have done such things. She was just so—” he hesitated as he tried to think of the right word.
“Ordinary. Verra, verra ordinary,” Morainn offered. “There was nothing about her that one would ever remember for verra long.”
He nodded. “I suspicion she will be remembered now, if only for all the vile curses she spat out at the crowd that had come to watch her hang.”
“Och, aye, they will remember who she was and what she did, but I doubt they will recall what she looked like e’en a week from now. I think the fact that she was always overlooked, always forgotten and ignored, fed a madness she was born with.” After a heavy moment of silence while they both thought that over, she asked, “Is Walin weel?”
“Aye, he is fine. I suspicion he will slip in to look at ye before too much longer. He has done so a lot while ye have been sleeping for so long. Simon has decided he was wrong to dismiss the lad’s feeling that there was a trap being set. It seems Walin had overheard Ide boasting of how she would soon be rid of ye and that could weel have made us more wary of leaving ye alone and all riding off to meet that mon.”
“Walin can be verra good at hearing things and kenning what is important.”
He nodded, took a deep breath, and said, “Walin tells me that Ada said he is my son.”
Morainn winced because a selfish part of her had wanted to keep that a secret, to keep Walin all to herself. “Did Ada nay tell ye anything about it while she was doing all that confessing?”
“A lot, although she was so crazed, I didnae ken what to believe. What I do ken is that he might be. A Margaret Macauley was my lover seven years ago and I did hear that she had been sent to a nunnery where she had died. No one had e’er told me that there was a child, howev
er. Yet, there is a look to him, the look of my family.”
“Aye, there is.” Morainn told him everything Ada had said during the confrontation in the tower house.
Tormand cursed and dragged his hand through his hair. “She has been killing people for a verra long time, hasnae she?”
“Aye. I doubt we will e’er ken just how many she did kill. I think, in the beginning, she was careful to hide what she had done, to make the deaths look, weel, normal.”
“Weel, right now we need to talk about Walin and nay that madwoman,” Tormand said as he stood up. “Unfortunately, I think Nora and her mother are here and there is nay time for it now. It would be best done when ye are stronger as weel.”
He had barely finished speaking when Nora and her mother stepped into the room. Morainn was glad of the reprieve. She feared he was about to tell her that he would be taking Walin away from her and knew she needed to be strong to argue that, to fight for at least a large share of Walin’s life.
By the time Nora and her mother had her cleaned up, the bed linen and her nightdress changed, and her hair washed and braided, Morainn doubted she had the strength left to fluff her own pillow. When they left her alone for a while to go and get her something to eat, Morainn simply rested, too tired to even think. She struggled to wake up fully when Nora returned with a tray filled with bread, cheese, fruit, and something that smelled like a well-seasoned broth.
“Did your mother go home?” she asked Nora, as her friend helped her sit up and began to feed her spoonfuls of the thick broth.
“Nay, she is in the kitchen making something for the men to eat and talking Sir Tormand into hiring her cousins Mary and Agnes to keep his house and cook for him. Mary and Agnes lost their wee cottage, ye ken, and have been living with their sons. They would be verra happy to have a room to themselves and a wee bit of coin to spend. They love their sons, but they dinnae love living with them and their growing families.”
Highland Sinner Page 24
