by Karen Ranney
He kicked at the stiffening body at his feet, wondering if he should bury this one, then shrugged. What was one more carrion in this land of walking skeletons? He’d thought the slut was going to give him a good game. True, her backside was a little too bony, her tits too small. Still, she’d had a hot little cavern and a scream that had made him as hard as the rocks surrounding this godforsaken trysting place.
He donned his waistcoat, straightened it by the simple expedient of pulling on the front, jerking it into place, riffled a long fingered hand through his bright blonde hair. Her golden boy, she’d called him. He chuckled. It was both a pity and a necessity that his victims be so idiotic and devoid of sense. They must be romantics these Highland whores, the better to believe him.
How many did that make now? Six? Seven? No, eight, counting this one.
The first one had been Moira, barely seventeen, with the palest milky skin and the faintest of freckles. Her hair was the color of a dawn sky - or at least that’s what he had told her - softly auburn, nearly red. Her fingers were long boned and fine, and had performed the most exquisite of functions, trailing over his skin with eagerness, willing to learn all that he’d taught her. She had been so pathetically grateful for his attention that she would have done anything he asked. Looking back, Bennett believed she might have been the best of all of them.
He’d met her on the moors, where she’d been filling her apron with odd shaped purple flowers - for heather ale, she told him later.
"If it's gathering of the flowers you're doing, lass, you've missed a few."
She whirled and stood, facing him. Wordlessly, she stared at him. shook her and then smiled brightly at the picture he’d presented.
He was not such an idiot to seek out his victims dressed in his regimentals. It pleased him, however, to pretend to be a fool, to solicit humor and even pathos. In this disguise, he was a wool factor from Inverness. He wore brightly colored green trousers, a dun colored shirt, the outfit topped by a long ankle length outer coat of a mud color. His boots were coated with muck, his hat was a floppy thing a cavalier would have worn in another century.
"It's the weather," Bennett said, almost apologetically, to the girl who stood looking at him with wonder in her eyes and a small smile around her mouth. "Never can get warm enough, even in summer, especially traipsing over these hills." He studied the ground carefully as he slowly approached her. "Tripped a while ago, I did," he explained, with a grin, glancing up at her. "Rabbits, or some such."
"You're English," she said, her amusement replaced by Scots caution.
"Half. Only half. Father English, Mother a good Scots lass from Inverness."
"You don't sound Scots."
"The English say I don’t sound English. What is a man to do?" His mobile lips turned up into a comical quirk.
He extended one gloved hand to her, grasped her fingers, and kissed the air above her hand. With a flourish, he lifted off his hat and swept it into a low arc, causing the poor feather to sweep the ground. She smiled and her smile was answered by his.
Ah, Moira, how much fun they’d had. She even believed he was going to marry her, enough to gather her small parcel of possessions and meet him on the outskirts of her village. She did not know that he would never allow a child of his to be the get of a whore. She’d cried the day he’d taken her virginity, but then, she’d been easily placated by empty words and a hint of a bright, loving future.
Perhaps he’d gone a bit far too soon with dear Moira. Yet, she’d lived two whole days, for all her delicacy. Of all the women who followed her, he remembered her with the most fondness.
For the last two years, he’d been assigned to this hellish spot, a boil on the arse of humanity.Routine patrols only took so much time, his companions diversions bored him more often than not. He amused himself by selecting his women with patience, with wooing them with words and a genteel cavalier approach. Such a painstakingly planned strategy was designed to occupy his free hours. All in all, it was not a difficult deception. To play the fool, a little food, a smile or two, a few tender kisses and each woman willingly met him in a deserted spot like this one, their final resting place spotted with gorse and blooming flowers. The lonely women of Scotland were like fish caught in a leaking pond, dying of their circumstances. He was their friend, their lover, and ultimately, their savior. He saved them from the drab existence of their own lives. It was not a role which displeased him.
This one - what was her name again, oh yes, Mary - had come eagerly to this deserted place, fed for weeks on scant kisses and tender touches. She’d fallen to the ground skirt up, bodice open, mouth hungry to feed off him. She loved him, she loved him, she loved him, she said, murmuring the words over and over like a benediction of the damned.
Her eager compliance was not what he’d wanted, but it was not until she’d seen the knife that she’d suspected anything was amiss. Even then, she’d not believed, not entirely. Not until a crimson line had appeared upon her chest, a bridge linking her two small breasts, had she comprehended that he was not gentle suitor as much as victor, that he wanted not her pleading nor her submission.
He wanted her terror.
His victims’ intense and unrelenting fear was the greatest aphrodisiac, filling Bennett with bloodlust, an almost mindless passion which made him dizzy when they died, mouths open and screaming to the four winds as if beseeching someone for help.
Of course, no one ever came.
Mary had finally fought him towards the end, not liking the pain. It had taken too much effort on his part to maintain her fear, the silly cow. She'd retained that befuddled look almost to the end. Her soft brown eyes had worn a look of surprise, shock and finally horror in their depths as if she could not quite believe what he was doing.
Bennett smiled again, and did up his trousers, patting the cloth over his now dwindled member in approbation. He stared down without interest at the body rapidly cooling on the harsh grasses of the moor. It no longer bled as copiously, but a hundred slivers colored first scarlet and then nearly black with congealed blood told the tale of these past hours. His talented knife was cleaned by the simple expedient of wiping it on the tall grass. He would sharpen it later; it was amazing how dull it became after one of these afternoons.
He wondered what his sister-in-law would have said about his newest penchant. His dear brother's wife, loaned on more than one occasion. God, he'd lusted after her, hadn't he? So silent, so still, until he came for her. All he had to do was smile at her and she would whimper. He had her tied at first, but later, even that gesture was unnecessary. He'd barely had to touch her before her screams began. But she'd had the stamina to take whatever he gave her, didn't she? He’d never used the knife on her, though. What would she have done? The thought of it engorged him again, and he cursed the dead and useless woman at his feet.
Too bad she was not nearby. Too bad.
He really missed Judith.
CHAPTER 5
"Aye, lass, it's a bonny sight ye are."
Judith wanted to tell Malcolm to save his compliments for someone who would believe him. Instead, she opted for silence.
She'd been left alone all afternoon and while idle hands might be the devil's tools, her equally unoccupied brain focused on the absurdity of her situation. She had not, however, found a way to end her enforced visit to Scotland. She had no friends, no funds and she dared not return to her family. What was she to do now?
Finally, having no outlet nor answer for her worrisome thoughts, she occupied herself with the basics of life. By the end of the day, Judith was certain that being clean was considered a luxury in Scotland. She had trudged up the steep, downward sloping stairs with three buckets of warm water, willing to endure any hardship in order to wash the scent of sheep from her skin. Only when her standing bath was complete did she use the last of the warm water to wash her hair. The meager contents of her valise yielded a boar bristle brush, which she used to brush it free of tangles while it dried.
&nbs
p; Her ablutions were those she completed with thoughts of comfort, rather than beauty. There was no vanity in the fact that her hair fell at the mid-point of her back, or that it was thick, rife with red and gold highlights and curled on its own. There was no mirror to see if her dress fit well, or if the color flattered her complexion. She did not care if her lips appeared bloodless or her cheeks were too pale. She'd long since avoided mirrors, it being too painful to see the person reflected there. As long as her laces were tied tightly and her hair pinned back from her face, that was as much as Judith cared about, that was all the vanity she required.
If she wished, sometimes, to be different, then those were silly dreams. There was no point in pretending that things would ever be different. She was simply who she was, both outer plainness and inner soil. Dreaming and wishing wouldn’t make it better, wouldn’t change it.
The summons to dinner had come just as she was deciding whether or not she should venture from the room again. The fact that the MacLeod stood imperiously at the bottom of the stairs, glowering up at her, almost changed her mind about following Malcolm down the stairs. Only the hunger gnawing at her stomach convinced her to continue.
Judith thought later that she should have stayed in her room and demanded bread and water. It might have been edible.
She sat between Malcolm and Sophie and poked suspiciously at her dinner of translucent vegetables and a gruel that tasted of laundry water. They served themselves and she watched in wonder as Malcolm returned to the pot simmering above the fire time and time again. He must have a cast iron stomach, she mused, as she forced down a potato. Even the MacLeod, sitting on the other side of the broad oak table, picked at his dinner fastidiously, as if he, too, were concerned about its ingredients.
One of their clanswomen had prepared the meal, she was told at her tentative inquiry. Judith could begin to understand Malcolm's desperation in obtaining a wife for the MacLeod. Yet, she could have chopped, diced, pared, boiled, and stewed just as well in an unmarried state as she could being linked to the lord of this pile of bricks.
The lord in question ignored her presence as studiously as she would have liked to ignore his. Her eyes scanned the tall form seated across the table, noting his broad shoulders, the tanned arms, the large hands with their fingers blunted by calluses, marred by a hundred tiny scrapes and cuts. His head was bent upon his task of consuming his meal, but although he ate with diligence, his manners were better than Anthony’s or even Peter’s.
Nor was that the only way he differed from her two previous husbands.
He had a scent about him not redolent of the sick room, like Peter reeking of camphor, or of blood and sweat, like Anthony. His was of a clean, crisp scent, like pine and the outdoors. His black hair was thick, as shiny as a raven’s wing, not blond or thinning. He was taller and broader than both her husbands, his shoulders strained the seams of his worn white shirt, his thighs pressed against the fabric of his trousers too well, leaving nothing to the imagination.
His face was marked by strong, decisive features, twin lines bracketed his jaw as if leading the way to a full, squared off bottom lip. Sun or wind, or life itself, had carved faint lines around his eyes, but instead of detracting from his appearance, they only added depth and substance to that face. He used his eyes like weapons, a direct amber stare from the MacLeod was like an invasion of the soul. And when he smiled and those white, even teeth flashed in that strong, tanned face, a flutter of fear spiraled in her belly.
Sophie felt the barely hidden currents between Judith and her grandson and smiled.
"Malcolm," she said to her clansman who was obviously, and loudly, enjoying his meal, "would you mind leaving us alone, please?"
Malcolm looked to the MacLeod, who barely nodded, then at Judith, who only concentrated on her bowl. Finally, he glanced again at Sophie, who smiled softly at him. He filled his bowl once more before leaving the kitchen, to Judith's repugnance and the MacLeod's amusement.
Sophie had thought all day about what she would say. Age and wisdom had given her the will, her courage had been fortified by the knowledge that time, itself, was slipping from her grasp. These days, Sophie could remember her childhood on her father's estate in France with more clarity than she could the hour before. Such ability amused her, proving her finally old in the way her ancient, wrinkled grandmother had been old. Strange, but there were times she didn't feel elderly at all. Inside, she felt like a young girl, except for possessing the memories of a well lived, well loved life.
Oh, Gerald, it would not be long, would it? It did not strike her as strange that she prayed to him more often than the God of her youth. She had loved him so, this proud, vital man who had become her husband, her heart. But, ah, not without a struggle.
There were things to do before she could be with him again, things she must accomplish, duties she must discharge, not the least was her grandson's happiness. What a stubborn man he was. Almost as stubborn as his grandfather. Sophie sighed, but the sound was accompanied by the wisp of a smile. Aye, as loving too, she thought, remembering.
Judith reminded Sophie too much of herself. She, too, had come reluctantly to Scotland, many years ago. And she, too, had fought again the union planned for her without her consent. The Agincourt family in France had long ties with the MacLeod's, and Sophie’s marriage helped ensure the continuation of that relationship. Yet, despite her initial unwillingness, this land of fierce Scots had become a land of beauty for her, the initial loneliness she’d felt had shifted to become a deep and abiding love.
If she could, she would grant such an opportunity to these young people.
Sophie folded her hands upon the top of her cane. That they waited for her words was evident, that each waited with their own dread was also clear. Judith’s head was bowed over her bowl, but Sophie did not need to see her face to know that her eyes would be dark and filled with emotion. Nor did she need to decipher the fixed and tensile strength of her grandson’s jaw. Such stubborn people, each in their own way.
"I will give you three months, children,” she said, a soft smile softening the edge of her words, “to see if you do not truly suit. At the end of that time, if you do not feel that you can make a life together, then I will evaluate my words in the courtyard. It is quite possible that I made a mistake, and did not say anything binding when Malcolm asked it of me." She looked at Alisdair as she spoke.
At question was the intent of their declaration in the courtyard. A couple must wish to be married to each other for such an bond to be recognized. Yet, by his actions today, by introducing Judith as the laird’s wife throughout the clan, Malcolm had made Alisdair’s willingness perfectly clear, a declaration as binding as wedding lines. They were considered wed by the clan and by their own customs.
There was silence while each evaluated her words. When Judith spoke, her words echoed Alisdair’s thoughts, a coincidence which did not dull the edge of his irritation.
"I could save you the time," Judith said softly, "I know we will not suit."
Alisdair nodded in complete accord.
"If you do not at least try, then my memory is without fault, child."
"Granmere, as much as I would wish an end to this farce, I do not ask you to lie."
"Alisdair, it is my fondest wish to see you settled before I die. Life is too short to spend it in regret or pain. I would do anything to bring about your peace, even if it means forgetting a few details." She smiled fondly at her grandson. He reminded her so much of her own beloved Gerald.
"Never doubt one thing, my dear," she said addressing Judith, "if you doubt all other things in life. This land breeds a fierce people. Stubborn, loyal to a fault, believing in causes the rest of the world would sooner disavow. My grandson is the epitome of all that is good about this land. You could do worse for a husband."
Perhaps it might be said that he could do better for a wife, Judith thought, looking down at the table before her, intent upon her inner thoughts and not the unpalatable bowl of
watery soup. She glanced up only once at the frail woman who wore such determination on her features, and caught a glimpse of the strange flush upon the MacLeod's face. If she did not know better, she would have thought the MacLeod embarrassed by his grandmother's fulsome praise. Embarrassed, indeed.
"If, at the end of this time," Sophie continued, as if she had not seen the look Judith directed towards Alisdair, "you do not feel content here, then you are free to go. Although there is little in the way of actual coin, there is my jewelry. It would enable you to live for some time."
"I could not do that," Judith protested.
"Nor will I allow you to," Alisdair said curtly. In the last two years, despite the hardships, near starvation, and deprivation they had all suffered, he had not touched his grandmother's jewelry.
It was not pride. Pride had died when he harnessed himself in front of a plow. Pride had died when he'd broken up furniture for firewood, deep in the winter when the snows were too thick and the winds too fierce and howling to venture from Tynan's walls. Pride had died when he had returned home to Tynan, sick with grief and despair, only to stare in horror at the assembled scarecrows who were his clan. And the remnants of that pride, frail wisps that they were, had died an ignominious death when he scrabbled in the earth, finding long forgotten potato mounds, unearthing food, any food, for his starving people. No, it was not pride, but a curious sort of sentiment, out of place for this time perhaps, but still powerful. There was little they had left that belonged to the past. They had been stripped of their heritage and forbidden their culture. All that was accessible to them were memories and a few trinkets. Sophie's jewelry may have purchased temporary comfort, but their loss would have been greater than what they bought. The brooches, the necklaces she hid away, a few bracelets of gold, and the sparkling gems which had never been mounted were gifts from his grandfather. Although she would not have begrudged selling them, Alisdair had seen the way she occasionally took them from their safekeeping and traced the line of each one, silent tears falling down her cheeks. He would not touch his grandmother's memories. Nor would he let this Englishwoman leave with them.
