The Highlander's War Prize (The Highland Warlord Series Book 2)

by Tessa Murran

‘You promised you would not touch me. You are a liar.’

  To hell with his bloody promise. He’d had years of fighting and watching men die, years of feeling himself lose his humanity bit by bit. He wanted to remember what it was like to have beauty in his life. So he kissed her again.

  Giselle gasped as his kiss went slow and hard and deep, tongue flicking gently against her lips, pushing them apart. Her skin was feverish as he lay over her a little, taking hold of her waist and squeezing. Lyall imagined slowly parting her legs, touching the most intimate part of her body, until she cried out and he entered her. His hand slid into her hair, soft and thick under his fingers and he made a fist in it. Did Giselle have any idea of her effect on him as she whimpered and squirmed against him, her bound hands pressed between their bodies? The rope was rough against his skin.

  What the hell was he doing? He was not Banan, a brute who would use a woman just for a night of pleasure while she was tied up like an animal. Fight this.

  He jolted away from her. ‘So, Giselle, that is what it is like to be kissed,’ he said lightly. ‘I hope I did not disappoint you. Now I warn you and take heed. If you make another sound, I will kiss you again.’

  Silence.

  Well, that was disappointing.

  He sighed deeply to release the tension inside him. ‘You know, if you could still that nagging tongue of yours, Giselle, you could make some man very happy one day. But now you must get some sleep, and I will stay over here so that you can feel safe.’

  Lyall turned his back on his captive and lay for the longest time listening to Giselle’s breathing, as she slowly fell asleep, or pretended to. He should not have laid a hand on her, and the lass had probably hated his kiss, though there had been many women who had longed for it.

  Guilt took Lyall, for he had no urge to torture a helpless, young woman. His other urges he would have to reconcile with his conscience, but they kept him awake long after sleep should have claimed him.

  Chapter Eight

  Giselle woke at dawn to find Lyall standing over her. She squinted up at his hard and handsome face.

  ‘You must rise. We are leaving within the hour,’ he said.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Giselle rubbed her eyes, trying to clear a head heavy with exhaustion.

  ‘Home, to Scotland.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to go with you,’ she said, sitting up in bed. ‘Let me go, please, I cannot go to Scotland.’

  He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her onto her feet. ‘You are coming with me to Scotland, where you will remain until your ransom is paid and I get some reward for my trouble. Don’t bother arguing, just get dressed and hasten.’

  His demeanour had gone from day to night. Last night there had been some rough kindness in him. By letting him kiss her, she had hoped to get him on her side, make him take pity and release her. Now, he was all fierce soldier and jailor, and she was a little fearful of him as he hurriedly untied her hands and turned his back to her.

  ‘Hurry and get dressed. Best not keep Lord Douglas waiting.’

  ‘You are hateful.’

  ‘Am I to get more of your defiance today? Do I need to put you over my knee and thrash it out of you?’

  ‘Of course, you would do that, you animal.’

  ‘I suppose you think that all Scots are so.’

  ‘I think it because I have seen it in you.’

  ‘Well, it may surprise you to know that I am an educated man. My family has wealth and position. I can go to King Robert’s court with dignity and comport myself well.’ He turned and loomed over her. ‘I can also be an animal, when I have to be because that is how wars are won, that is how freedom is secured.’

  ‘You don’t give a fig for my freedom.’

  ‘You have none, for you are English, and you are the spoils of war. It is time to stop being a child and open your eyes to ruin your countrymen have unleashed on Scotland for years.’

  Giselle backed away. His eyes had darkened in anger, and he had quite the glare on him. For a moment, she believed he could be an animal.

  ‘My servant, Agnes. What has become of her?’

  ‘I sent your witless servant south, at first light, to make her way back home.’

  ‘But how can she get there safely?’

  ‘Not my concern. I put that woman on a horse, while she cursed me soundly, smacked it on the rump, and set her on her way.’

  ‘Why would a villain like you give her a horse?’

  ‘Because she dared to stand up for you, and I admired her loyalty.’

  ‘Do you want me to think that you are a good man now?’

  ‘I am all manner of men and, if you test me, you will find out. Here,’ he said, thrusting a bundle of cloth into her hands, ‘I will be back for you shortly. Gather what things you can.’

  Giselle shouted after him. ‘Why are you so nasty to me? It is not my fault I am here in this predicament, it is yours.’

  ‘Aye, and I’m not angry with you, I am angry with myself. Because I interfered, I have now burdened myself with a woman to slow me down and, worse, an English one at that. I don’t know what I was thinking last night to do such a thing. I am not here to rescue damsels in distress, I am not here as your protector, I am here to fight and kill as many English bastards as I can, as punishment for years of violence they have brought on Scotland. Last night your coy charms made me forget that for a while, but I have come to my senses in the cold light of day, and I have remembered who I am.’

  ‘And who you are is a filthy barbarian, a murder, a thief and a villain for taking me hostage.’

  ‘Aye, I am all those things, and I am also your master, so do as you are told. And Giselle, I’m glad I saved you from Banan, but you’d best not give me any trouble. You had better pray your rich father pays your ransom as soon as may be, so I can send you back to him and be done with you.’

  ‘I hate you, Lyall Buchanan, and your stinking, bog-ridden country.’

  ‘Well that’s a pity for you, for your stay in my bog-ridden country may be of some duration. So you’d best stop sulking and reconcile yourself to it.’ He stormed out, slamming the oak door hard on the way out.

  Giselle opened the bundle and was surprised to see a dress of green velvet, with colourful, embroidered flowers edging the collar and cuffs. There was a cloak too, a rich brown, lined with fur. She pulled the dress on with shaking hands, wondering at Lyall’s kindness in finding it for her, and why it was so at odds with the contempt in his voice when he had ordered her around.

  ***

  Within the hour, they left Wulversmeade behind, a long column of weary men, about fifty, she guessed, some on horseback and some tramping through the dust on foot, all heading along the road north. Behind them trundled carts, laden with the spoils of victory, ornate silver goblets and salvers, clothes, weapons, food, blankets for sleeping, and weapons, as many as they could load on. The carts were heavy and got mired in the mud, as the men took to whipping the horses to pull harder.

  Giselle glanced around her. She was the only woman in the party, as she was the only one with a rich father who would pay a ransom. What had happened to the others, she could only guess. Their fate would have been simpler, but just as brutal - used for the night, and then discarded the next day, when the Scots moved on. She had been spared that fate, for she was of value and, like the goblets and salvers, she was plunder, and worth dragging along. Or was it because of one man’s honour?

  She looked at Lyall Buchanan’s back. He had not spoken to her since they set off hours ago and rode some distance in front. Giselle missed Agnes terribly, though it was a relief to know that her servant was free. She prayed poor Agnes would be able to make her way back to Sabine and find a place with her. Her sister was not a kind woman, but she might offer refuge to Agnes because of her years of service to the de Villers family.

  But what would her own fate be, when this Scot discovered there was no ransom, that her father’s lands were bankrupt and forfeit, and no one could affo
rd to buy her freedom? Her sister certainly wouldn’t part with coin to get her back, nor would her miserly, old husband allow it. If she had no real worth, would this Scot then feel she was fair game? Would she be used and then discarded, to fend for herself in a strange and hostile country?

  The sky was black on the horizon with oncoming rain, and with every step north, the world seemed to darken. Giselle dreaded the thought of going into Scotland with its hardness and violence. Even here in Northumberland, the land and the people they passed bore the signs of struggle and severe deprivation. Giselle had heard of wet winters, year on year, causing crops to rot in the fields, and poor harvests leading to starvation, while livestock became weak with disease and dropped in the fields. The constant raiding from Scotland made the North’s suffering so much worse, and King Edward, safe at his court in London, paid little heed to the fate of peasants so far out of sight and out of mind.

  A cruel voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

  ‘You look miserable, Giselle. Did Buchanan take his fill of you last night? Was his blood up from the beating he gave me? Did he make you plead, and cry?’

  Banan MacGregor brought his horse in close, and Giselle shrank away from him and clutched her reins hard. His face was swollen and twisted, like a gargoyle meant to frighten children, and it was still bloody from his beating.

  ‘Tis nothing compared to what I will do when I get my hands on you,’ he continued. ‘Trust me, sooner or later, when Buchanan has tired of making you his whore, you and I will get to know each other a lot better. It excites me to think on it, to anticipate how I will bring you to heel.’ He looked her up and down and smiled bitterly. ‘You think Buchanan is your protector, but he is no different to me, he has the same uses for women as I do, he just takes them with a smile and pretty words.’

  Giselle’s face burned as he stared at her intensely, hate and lust battling across his features. Banan made her blood run cold, and the heavy heat of the day turned chill. Her lungs would not fill, and her hands started shaking. She kept her eyes fixed on Lyall’s back, willing him to turn around.

  ‘You should not have rejected me, English. If you’ve no mind to wed that hapless wretch, Edric de Mawpas, I could offer you a place. I don’t keep women long, but you, well, you are a rare beauty. You would grace my hall well, as my mistress, lass.’

  ‘Lass.’ When Lyall said it, the word felt like a caress. From Banan’s mouth, it was the hiss of a snake. She had seen one, once, and had never forgotten the sight of it, how repulsive it was, in spite of its pretty, mottled skin. It had evil, cat’s eyes, glassy and flat. Banan’s were just the same, staring coldly from his ruin of a face.

  ‘Come, what do you say? I will encrust you in jewels, I will grace that elegant body of yours with furs and fine dresses. I could give you everything in return for your affection. Once I have taught you how to please me, you will find that I am a kind master.’

  Giselle found her voice, though it quaked terribly. ‘Please, leave me alone.’

  ‘Please, please,’ he mocked in a whining voice. ‘The thing is Giselle, I don’t want to leave you alone, for you arouse and disgust me all at once, and I am trying to make sense of that. Your beauty makes my loins burn to have you, and yet your weakness makes me long to crush you. ‘T’would be the work of a moment to break your pretty little neck, to take it in my hands and squeeze it, until your eyes pop. I am trying to decide which would give me the most satisfaction.’

  As if he felt her terror, and just as she could bear it no longer, Lyall glanced back and saw her predicament. He whirled his horse around, and Banan fell back under his iron stare.

  Lyall pulled his horse alongside so that their thighs were almost touching. He leant across and put his hand over hers.

  ‘Do not be afraid. We will part company with that cur soon, at a crossroads up ahead. Banan is for Stirling Castle and the King’s court, with Lord Douglas, and we ride onward along the coast road.’

  ‘Ride where?’

  ‘Beharra, my family’s home.’ His face was grim.

  ‘Lyall, is Beharra to be my prison?’

  ‘Only if you think of it as such, Giselle.’

  ‘And are you to become my jailor?’

  ‘Aye, unfortunately for you, I am, until the ransom is paid. That is all I will ever be to you, and you’d best accept that,’ he said, in a voice heavy with impatience.

  ‘Why are you angry with me? It is not my fault that I am a prisoner. I did not ask for this, nor do I deserve it.’

  ‘No, you have ended up on the wrong side of a war, lass, through no fault of your own. But here we are, and I swore an oath to keep you safe and not to touch you. Perhaps that is what I am angry about Giselle, myself and my own foolishness, not you. I pretend to myself that I am a better man than these other men around us now, but I am not.’ He glanced at Banan. ‘We are all of us, animals, war has made us so. Now, you turn those beautiful, gentle eyes to me and see a saviour, but I am not that.’

  The look Lyall gave her made her heart thump in her breast, it was so intense and tortured. Giselle turned away for she did not want him to see the blush that heated her cheeks. She did not want him to see how he affected her. What kind of fool wanted that kind of look, and those words of admiration, from her captor? When Giselle glanced back, Lyall had gone on ahead, though he turned back around to give her a hard look.

  A short time later, they ended up at the crossroads. Two roads snaked away from it, one north and one to the east, where, in the distance, Giselle could just make out a small gash of sunlit ocean, visible between the hills.

  Lyall and his master, Black Douglas, began talking intently, and they glanced over at her as they did. Were they talking about her? To them, she was nothing, a woman and English, the lowest of the low, in their eyes.

  She saw Black Douglas smile and turn back to Lyall, taking hold of his forearm and clapping a hand on his shoulder. The respect between them was apparent as the older man turned and rode onwards. The men started to follow him and melt away down the north road. Giselle heaved a sigh of relief. He was terrifying that man, a mindless killer in her estimation, and she would have more chance of getting away from Lyall with him and his men out of the way. Her mind was made up, she was going to try and escape south, back to her sister. She would be a burden and live a life of poverty, but at least she was not wed to Edric. Somehow, even in the midst of her danger and uncertainty, she still found that a small comfort.

  But there was still Banan MacGregor to worry about. He lingered as the other men filed past him, and his horse stamped and fidgeted, eager to follow. He gave her a cold smile, brought his fingers to his lips, kissed them and pointed them at her. The gesture made her feel sick, but she could not turn away from his glare.

  Lyall came over and took hold of her horse’s bridle. He sighed and glanced back at Banan.

  ‘We go on alone from here,’ he said.

  Giselle could not take her eyes off Banan. ‘Is that safe?’

  ‘He’ll not bother us if that is what you are worried about.’

  ‘But what about others - brigands, pirates along the coast? Scotland is a lawless place, and we’ll have no protection.’

  Lyall laughed. ‘How fearful you are, you English. We are but a day’s ride away from the Firth, the gateway to Scotland, my country, my home. No one will challenge me there. You are safe with me, well, as safe as any frightened, little mouse can be in the company of a murderous, wolf of a Scot. We can travel much faster alone. There is an abbey, some miles hence, and I have business there, so we’ll stop for the night.’

  ***

  Many miles further on, they reached a village, or what was left of it, deserted, except for a few chickens running around, scratching the ground with indifference as they rode in. The sun had risen high and burnt away the rain clouds from earlier, and the humidity was making Giselle’s dress stick to her back. The air was heavy and still.

  Evidence of recent violence was everywhere, from the bl
ackened walls of the cottages to the burnt thatch fallen inwards. The charred smell was terrible, as was the buzz of flies, hovering in the air over the corpse of a pig, bloated with decay. It was the only sound rising above a deathly quiet.

  She heard the scrape of Lyall’s sword being unsheathed it from its scabbard. His face was hard as he shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare with his hand and surveyed the scene before him.

  Belongings were scattered everywhere, an upturned cook pot, clothes, simple furniture, smashed and abandoned. There were no bodies, that was a blessing at least, but not a soul remained. The villagers had either heard of the oncoming Scots and fled, or had been their victims, as they made their way south to Wulversmeade.

  ‘We should press on,’ said the Scot.

  ‘Should we not see if there are any survivors?

  ‘There is no one here.’

  ‘There may be dead lying around who need burial.’

  ‘No, there is no one here who is in need of our help, and the dead are beyond it. To tarry here alone would be folly.’

  Anger rose in her breast.

  ‘Did you Scots do this? Is that why you don’t need to look?’

  ‘No, this was not us. As I said, we will press on.’

  ‘But you can’t just…’

  ‘Quiet, and do as you are told.’ There was a muscle going in Lyall’s cheek, and his gaze was flinty.

  Giselle quaked a little at it, and then did as she was told.

  Chapter Nine

  For Giselle, the rest of the day was a blur of riding and aching bones and a relentless sun blazing down on her head. They rode for hours, along a track hugging the coastline on one side and weaving in and out of forest on the other. It took the brunt of the sea breezes gusting in, bringing with it the foul tang of seaweed, rotting in the summer sun. Giselle wiped sweat from the back of her neck as she gasped in awe at the vast expanse of sunlit water. Out here, away from walls and villages and people, the world seemed a vast, empty place, and she a small, weak thing of no significance.

  The Scot was quiet, for the most part, and she was thankful for it, as every time he turned to look at her with that intense gaze from those soulful, dark eyes, she felt nervous and tongue-tied. For many miles, his face had taken on a sombre look, as if deep in thought. She wondered what troubled him.