by Lily Baldwin
“It must be a stubborn one, ‘tis all,” he answered.
Still, her gaze scanned his hall with a look of sheer horror. He circled around taking in the room, searching for what caused her upset. The tables were clean but bare. The woven rushes were due for a change, but they had not begun to rot. The bare stonewalls could have used a tapestry or two, but in general the room was tidy enough but not nearly as fine as the hall in Castle Creagan. He knew then that she turned her nose up at his keep. Long had it been since a lady oversaw the running of Castle Làidir, and it showed in the plainness of the great room. But he was not about to explain this to his shallow bride when he had grieving kin to think about. “Follow me,” he snarled.
Straightaway, she complied. He stormed across the great hall and up the stairs of the high dais and then on through the solar. From that wide room, he took the left staircase that circled around to the next floor. At the very far end of the wing, he opened a door to a small chamber and led her inside. “Ye will stay here until the morrow. Do not think of trying to flee. The door will be locked and a guard posted.”
She grabbed his plaid. “Ye cannot mean to shut me away. I am not yer prisoner. I am yer wife.”
He raised a brow at her. “Until yer my wife in name and body, ye should think of yerself as my prisoner.” Then he motioned around him. “And if ye think this room and my keep not good enough for yer refined tastes, then remember, Làidir has a dungeon where prisoners are usually kept.”
That silenced her complaining tongue. He could not entertain the vapid concerns of his spoiled betrothed, not when he had real tragedies with which to contend. “A maid will bring ye something to eat.”
“Can I have a bath?” she asked. Then her eyes traveled across his soiled body. “That is if ye do bathe here.”
He brought his face a breath from hers. “Do not test me as I am in a foul mood!”
Then he spun around and thundered out of the room, slamming the door on her and her complaints. He locked the door, putting the key in his sporran. Raking his hand through his hair, he expelled a deep breath, hoping to rid himself of some of his anger.
His clan needed a different kind of strength from him that day—his people needed compassion and a shoulder upon which to cry out their pain. He prayed for God to give his own broken heart the strength to console his people.
Chapter Fourteen
Fiona sagged into a rough-hewn wooden chair positioned near a cold hearth. At least she could no longer hear the cries of that poor woman. Fiona could only imagine what offense would be deserving of such a fierce punishment. Had she spoken without her husband’s permission or gleaned some hint of pleasure in her miserable life and laughed too loud? The woman had made the cries of ultimate suffering, and yet Fiona’s own betrothed—the poor lass’s laird—hadn’t even been surprised. Clearly, the stories she had been told about the cruel tempers of MacLeod men had all been true. Women screaming was business as usual at Castle Làidir
Fiona moved to the thin casement and opened the shutter, letting in light through the glazed window. She swallowed hard when she remembered Jamie’s response to her fear and outrage over the poor woman being tortured.
‘Tis the will of God that women suffer.
Did he really think it was the will of God that men beat their women like they might a stubborn mule? Aye, that was what Jamie had also said…Must be a stubborn one.
Fiona slammed the casement shut as fear and anger battled for dominance in her mind.
Dear God above, why had she surrendered to such a fate?
She had wanted to do what was right for her people. It was not just her duty but her desire to put her clan first; however, the reality her choice came crashing in around her. She would be like that poor woman today. He would beat her. She would scream in agony and not a soul would defend her. Abby was right—there must be another way to save her people.
A sob tore from her throat as she rushed to the door and beat upon the wood.
“Open the door. Please, open this door.”
The door swung wide, and a young warrior with wide green eyes met her gaze. “What is it, my lady? Are ye hurt? Are ye bleeding?” he said quickly while his gaze darted over her.
“Nay,” she answered.
His perusal of her body stopped, and once more they locked eyes. “Then why are ye screaming like there’s not going to be a tomorrow?”
Panicking, she seized his plaid and tunic in her fists. “But there isn’t going to be a tomorrow, not for me. Please,” she begged. “Ye must let me go. Ye cannot keep me locked away, waiting for him to return.”
The lad shook his head slowly, his eyes turning ice cold. “Ye want me to help ye run away?” He pushed her hands away. “For the sake of both our peoples, I’m glad my laird is better at keeping his word, than ye are at keeping yers. But as a MacDonnell woman, we could hardly expect more. I pity my laird. He deserves better than ye. We all do.” He started to shut the door. “I will go now and tell him what went on here. Be prepared for punishment, although what ye receive from him will be merciful compared to what I would do to ye, if ye were mine.” He slammed the door.
Shaking, she dropped to her knees and brought her hands to her face. What cruel punishment awaited her now? Would he take a lash to her back? Fear consumed her. Her breaths came in short, shallow heaves. Gripping her head with her hands, she tried to steady the room that was spinning around and around. Her hand flew to her mouth just as the rush of bile spilled from her lips. She ran to the chamber pot, giving over to the sick, which twisted her from the inside out. Then she heard steps thundering down the hall.
He was coming for her
She looked for a place to hide, but then, she stood straight and wiped her sleeve across her mouth. Nay, she would not cower. If she had married the devil, then she would rail against the flames of hell. She rushed to the hearth and took hold of the poker, turning with it, raised at the ready, just as the door swung wide.
“Ye viper,” he snarled. “Is the word of the MacDonnell so invaluable—or is it just the women of yer clan that lack honor?” He thundered toward her, his brow heavy, his eyes glinting with anger.
“Stay away from me,” she shrieked. Her heart pounded in her ears. “Do not touch me!”
Though her hands shook, she did not lower her weapon, even when he stood in front of her, so tall, so massive. She pulled back to strike him, swinging with all her might, but he caught her wrist in his fist. She winced, the poker dropping from her limp fingers. He released her. She darted away. Then he whirled around. Now, she was a hare and he a wolf. Her eyes flitted to the window, then to the bed. There was no place to hide, no place to run. But that did not stop her feet. He stepped toward her, and she turned on her heel and darted around him. Racing to the door, she pounded once again on the slatted wood.
“Help me,” she cried, although she knew her pleas fell on deaf ears.
She cried out as he cruelly seized her wrists. He pinned her hands behind her back, his fingers biting into her flesh. Still, she thrashed and fought, struggling to break free.
“Ye’re mad,” he exclaimed as his grip on her wrists tightened still.
“Ye’re a monster,” she cried, pain shooting up her arms.
He thrust her face close to his. His tangled, dirty hair fell in front of his eyes that blazed bright amber. Through his beard, he gritted his teeth at her. “Remember this,” he sneered. “As much as ye may not want to marry me, I resent this wedding more. Ye’re nothing to me.” Then he released her arms and seized her hands and dragged her toward a door near the hearth. He swung it open, revealing a small room with two pallets on the floor but nothing else. He released her wrists and shoved her inside.
He leaned down, once more bringing his face a breath from hers. “I will not have ye driving my men crazy with yer cries and pleas for undeserved mercy. If ye haven’t the worth in ye to honor yer word and the word of yer father, then I will protect both our clans from ye. Cry all ye want. No one
will hear ye in here.”
Tears stung her eyes, his words slicing to her core.
As he straightened to his full height, she squeezed her eyes shut, readying her body for the blow that would surely follow. But a moment later, she heard the door slam. She opened her eyes. She was alone. Her wrists throbbed. Finally, the walls of her resolve crumbled, and she choked out bitter sobs.
Chapter Fifteen
Jamie slammed the door shut. He couldn’t ever remember being so angry. He turned to the guard. “Ignore her cries, and under no circumstance will ye open this door without orders from me. I do not trust her to not lie her way out of here. I will cancel the bath I ordered for her, and she ate well enough this morning. She will not perish, if she misses a meal. Perhaps, hunger will teach her some compassion.”
He stormed down the hallway, reflecting on what he’d been doing when he was pulled away so suddenly. He had been in the solar imparting news of Grant’s death to his parents. When the guard arrived to report his betrothed’s attempt to run away, Grant’s mother had been sobbing in his arms. Knowing that Niall and Grant lost their lives trying to protect his reluctant bride made his fury grow ten-fold. He could not have regretted his decision to make an alliance with Clan MacDonnell more. Despite having to cross MacKenzie territory to do so, he should have taken his bid to Clan Ross or the Sutherlands, promising them whatever it took for their aid.
He couldn’t stomach the idea of binding himself to a woman of such little honor that she would seek to run from her father’s promise—especially when both clans faced such difficult times. Theirs was not a simple union to bring an end to an old fued. They had come together to save their people. Clearly, she cared nothing for her people or anyone else but herself. One night spent hungry with only a simple pallet to sleep on might go a long way to humble his spoiled bride.
What he would give to face Ranulf MacKenzie right at that moment while fury boiled in his blood. He thundered down the stairs to his solar and paced the room, trying to stay focused on what still had to be done.
Matthew soon joined him. “What would ye have me do next, my laird.”
At least, his betrothal had not been entirely in vain. It was the necessary evil to gain the support of his kin on the Isles of Harris and Raasay. “Send messages to my cousins, informing them of our alliance.”
“Consider it done, my laird,” Matthew replied. He started to turn toward the door but paused before turning back to face Jamie. “May I inquire after the Lady MacDonnell?”
Jamie’s body tensed. “She came at me with a poker. Truly! She’s mad, I tell ye. She was behaving as if we’d kidnapped her and threatened her very life.”
Matthew rubbed the back of his neck. “Are ye certain her father agreed to the match?”
“I’m not daft, Matthew!”
“I meant no offense. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. I could understand if she was angry—especially with ye smelling like ye do—but ye make it sound as if she’s afraid.”
Jamie threw his hands up. “She was probably just furious about the plainness of her chambers, not to mention having to wait an hour for her bath. I will not stand for such tirades, not when there are real challenges facing our people.” He stopped and expelled a long breath. Shaking his head, he looked at Matthew. “I feel like I have failed ye, failed everyone. I had hoped to marry a lady fit for these halls, a lady who would help raise my people high. Now, at best, I can only hope that she keeps to her room.”
A smile curved Matthew’s lips. “Ye could also make more of an effort. I’ve ordered ye a bath after the evening meal.”
Jamie shook his head. “Cancel it. Let her believe I am nothing more than an uncouth savage.”
Brows draw, Matthew put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “Why don’t ye go for a ride to clear yer head. I will fetch her for the evening meal, sparing ye the task.”
“Nay, she must understand that I do not tolerate such behavior.”
Matthew raised a brow at him. “What exactly have ye done?”
“I’ve locked her in the maid’s antechamber.”
“My Laird—”
“She is lucky I did not stick her in the dungeon.”
“As true as that may be, I caution ye, my laird. To insult Lady MacDonnell in such a public way may undo all ye have sought with this alliance. Take care or else ye’ll force the hand of the MacDonnell against ye.”
“I care not if our feud with the MacDonnell is not truly put to rest with this marriage. He has no choice but to combine his forces with ours or perish beneath the might of the MacKenzie.”
“My laird,” Matthew said pointedly.
But Jamie raised his hand to silence him. “I will hear no more on this subject. If ye only knew what I wanted to do to the so-called lady upstairs, then ye would at least give me some credit. I very nearly took her over my knee and tanned her backside.”
“It would be within yer husbandly rights,” Matthew pointed out.
Jamie shook his head. “I’ve never laid a hand on a woman before, and I don’t intend to start now—despite how she might drive me to it.” His shoulders relaxed. He once again expelled a deep breath. “Despite my dirty hair and beard, I’m not actually the savage I am letting her believe I am.”
Chapter Sixteen
Fiona lay in the darkness, her mouth dry. The shooting pains in her wrists and hands had faded to numbness. She had no more tears to cry. When the door opened, and light filtered into the small room, she knew not the hour. A man entered, the MacLeod plaid skimming his knees as he walked toward her. She slowly looked up. It took a moment for his face to come into focus. She had not seen him before, but it was not his face that forced her eyes to open beyond mere slits. It was the tray in his hands. Without a word, he set it down at her feet.
Fresh tears stung her eyes. “Please,” she whispered.
“Don’t even try it, my lady,” the man growled. “I’ve been warned about ye. I won’t be helping ye escape this night or any other.” He shut the door, once again leaving her alone in the dark.
She had only wished to ask for a candle.
Slowly, she sat up and reached out to where she knew the tray was and felt for the mug she had glimpsed. Her hands shook as she brought the cup to her lips. Precious liquid brimmed over the top, spilling over her fingers. She froze, afraid her weakened hands would drop the cup. Once more, she tilted the mug to her lips. Warm ale coursed down her throat. She wanted to cry for the sweet relief. She grabbed the bannock, washing down each bite with another sip of ale, soothing the gnawing ache in her belly. When she was done, she lay back down on the pallet and prayed for sleep.
“My lady, ‘tis time to rise.”
The words pulled Fiona awake, but she was so weary, she rolled away from the noise. She had no intention on rising, not for some time, mayhap never again.
“Please, go away,” she muttered.
“But I cannot, my lady. I’ve been charged with the task of helping ye make ready for yer wedding.”
Fiona’s eyes flew open. “My wedding!”
“Aye, my lady.”
The maid was young, mayhap six or seven and ten. Her brown hair wound in a braid around her head. Delicate brows were pinched above her soft brown eyes. “If ye please, my lady, we do not have a lot of time.”
Fiona winced when she pushed against the floor to sit up. She ached all over. “I thought the ceremony was arranged for Sunday.”
“Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but I believe new arrangements were made after ye tried to flee.”
Fiona shook her head. “But I didn’t try to flee, not really.”
The maid lifted her shoulders before she turned away. At that moment, Fiona knew she had not made an ally in the maid.
The young lass turned back around with several garments in her hands, a simple linen shift, a plain brown wool tunic, and an unadorned cream-colored surcotte.
The garments were plain, even for a peasant wedding, but at least they would cove
r her ankles.
“My name is Julia. I will help ye dress, my lady.”
Fiona buried her face for a moment in her arms, her heart breaking for her father, Esme and Abby. Whispering a prayer for her maids’ safe and swift arrival, she took a deep breath and climbed to her feet. “What choice have I?” she said numbly, following the maid into the larger chamber.
Julia circled around Fiona and began untying the laces of Fiona’s finely embroidered but tattered surcotte. When it fell away, the maid bent and clasped the hem of Fiona’s tunic and pulled it over her head.
Then Julia gasped. “Saints above, my lady!”
The maid gently outstretched one of Fiona’s arms. Bruises lined her wrists and lower forearms from when Jamie had wrested the poker from her grip and pinned her arms behind her back.
“Who did this to ye?” the maid asked softly while she examined Fiona’s other arm.
“My laird, of course,” Fiona answered bitterly.
Julia’s face showed her displeasure, but she held her tongue and did not speak out against Jamie. Fiona had not expected otherwise. The MacLeod clearly held the loyalty of his people. Julia, no doubt, believed—as many did—that a husband had the right to punish his wife.
In silence, the MacLeod maid finished dressing Fiona.
“Follow me,” Julia said when she finished.
Fiona closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She did not want to dishonor her people and give into the weakness that had gripped her the night before. Praying for strength, she stepped out into the hall.
Julia led her down a winding staircase to the solar. “Wait here, my lady,” she instructed before dipping into a quick curtsy. Then she hastened from the room.
Fiona sat down in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. The flames flickered in a dance, drawing her gaze.
It was her wedding day, but instead of feeling hopeful and excited, she was terrified.
A fresh rush of tears flooded her eyes. If only her wedding could wait until Esme and Abby arrived. Having them by her side would bolster her courage. But that was not to be.
