A Fearless Rebel (Clan Ross Book 5)

by Hildie McQueen

  Ava was kind, caring, and beautiful and now would be widowed. If there was one reason not to die, it was that he wasn’t sure what would happen to her. Hopefully, the Mackenzie would allow her to remain. If so, would he demand she marry again?

  Anger surged at the thought. He would be the second husband killed by her family. Ava was treated like a pawn and now she was once again left to fend for herself.

  Keithen prayed his father would offer her asylum, but he doubted it. If anything, his family would blame his death on Ava.

  He allowed sleep to claim him and prayed for a quick end to the day.

  Footsteps woke Keithen and he tried to sit up, but barely managed to push up from the floor. His head hung down and he took several breaths, gearing for straightening up. In his estimation, it would be easier and less painful if he was sitting and pulled to his feet than if lying flat.

  Finally, he managed to sit and groaned when bolts of searing pain surged down his leg and shoulder.

  “Ye look well rested,” a guard said with a chuckle.

  Another grunted. “Did they say to feed him?”

  “No, just to get a look at him and let them know if he’s living or not.”

  The first guard neared, and Keithen braced for what would come. The man grabbed his hair and tilted his head up. “Looks alive to me.” The guard then slapped him across the face so hard, Keithen fell backward onto the ground and cried out in pain from the jostling to his leg and shoulder. “Aye, he’s alive all right.”

  The men laughed.

  “Bring him then?”

  “Not yet,” the first man replied, and they went to the doorway.

  “He’s alive and squirming,” the guard informed someone outside and then settled into a conversation.

  Keithen’s face burned, but he barely felt it. His leg hurt worse than any of the other injuries.

  It was much later that he heard voices outside. People were gathering to witness his execution. That people bothered to come was probably because they’d been promised food or something. A battle had just recently occurred. Surely, people were not interested in seeing more death.

  Keithen continued listening intently for any familiar voice, but all the voices melded together.

  Footsteps neared and he prepared to be jostled. Taking one last moment to pray for his soul, Keithen was more than ready to face what was to come.

  “Time to be seen,” one of the men said and he was pulled up to stand. Keithen groaned in pain as both his shoulder and leg hurt so horribly, he could not stop a second scream. The guards hesitated. Perhaps it wouldn’t look good for the prisoner to scream louder at being moved than at the prospect of hanging.

  Finally, he was half-carried, half-dragged out of the dungeon, up some steps and outside. By the time he could see the sky, he was crazed with pain, barely able to keep from blacking out.

  “Do not pass out,” one of the guards shouted. “We need ye aware of what is about to happen.”

  “I am very aware,” Keithen muttered. “Will ye go on and get it over with?”

  Another guard neared. “Should we tie his hands behind his back?

  “He only has use of one arm,” came the reply. “He can’t do much with one hand to save himself. It may be more entertaining actually.”

  They didn’t tie his hands. Instead, they half-dragged him to where a rope had been thrown over a wooden arch.

  Although some people had gathered, most seemed uninterested in what was happening. They’d been ordered to be there, but Alastair could not force them to show interest. For some reason, it made Keithen feel better. Guards were lined up in a semi-circle, in case someone came and tried a last-minute rescue. He could not turn to see, but suspected archers were in place atop the gate for the same reason.

  There would be no rescue. Any attempts would be impossible. He wavered when one of the guards released him and fell sideways onto the ground.

  Alastair stood next to the wooden arch and looked over. “Pick him up and hold him so he does not fall,” he shouted. “Do something right for a change.”

  Once again, he was yanked to his feet. This time, the pain was so intolerable, he became sick and vomited. Both guards released him as the spillage hit their boots and then scrambled to pick him up again.

  This time, people began to laugh, and Alastair sent two other guards to take the place of the first two. Darkness edged near and Keithen could feel the pull of it. He’d not fight it. It would be better to be unconscious than to feel the squeezing of his neck.

  Cold water splashed on his face and he came to. He was under the arch now and placed atop a wooden box on a newly built platform. People had quieted and, now, most looked bored. Women tried to quiet children who’d began to complain of being hungry, while men rolled their eyes in their direction.

  Finally, Alastair, who now also stood on the wooden platform, held up his hands.

  “Punishment for killing a Mackenzie is death by hanging. Today, Keithen Fraser pays for killing our loyal guardsmen, by preying on them like animals.”

  He paused for dramatic affect. Someone coughed.

  “Ye have one last chance to tell me who killed my father.” Alastair neared and stared at him. “Tell me.”

  Keithen met the man’s gaze. “Whoever killed yer father will come for ye next.”

  The man sneered and lifted his hand as if to hit him. But then a child began screaming and he whirled around.

  “Let us get this done with. I grow bored.”

  The noose was slipped over his head. Keithen didn’t struggle as he hoped it would be quick and over. Instead, he focused on the horizon.

  There was a strange haze in the distance, like mists that came down from the mountains on some mornings.

  “One moment!” A vicar rushed up the steps. “I must speak to the prisoner and see about his soul.”

  “There is no time,” Alastair screamed. Then, upon the people murmuring about damnation, he relented. “Fine, but hurry.”

  The man neared. “Lower him so I can speak into his ear.”

  Pain tore through his entire body and he groaned at being moved, having to blow out several breaths to clear his head.

  “They come. We must try to stall this,” the vicar said. “Yer clan heads here.”

  “There is little I can do to bide time,” Keithen replied, understanding why there was a haze in the horizon. “As soon as he realizes what is happening, I will be hung.”

  The man nodded. “Very well. Then I will have to do it.”

  “This man claims to be innocent,” the vicar pronounced loudly. “What proof do ye have?” he asked Alastair. “I have known ye all yer life, Son. Do ye punish an innocent man?”

  “Put him atop the box,” Alastair ordered. Then he met the vicar’s gaze. “Of course, I have proof. I have witnesses.”

  The people began talking to each other, asking those in the front what was happening. In the distance, riders appeared, but because of the commotion and all the talking, no one noticed.

  Keithen punched the guard on his right and fell backward onto the platform. This time, people began guffawing.

  Despite the pain, Keithen dragged himself over the edge, plopping to the ground below. This made people laugh even harder.

  The vicar came to his side. “Very good. Perhaps pretend to pass out again.”

  Keithen closed his eyes as he heard the vicar being pulled away. The man protested the entire time. He wasn’t sure what had happened but, once again, people began to laugh.

  By the time Keithen was dragged back onto the platform and his hands tied behind his back, Alastair was livid.

  Archers called down, announcing the approach of an army of warriors, which spurred the guardsmen that surrounded the people to turn and ride off.

  “Hang him!” Alastair scream. “Someone get my steed.”

  The rope scraped his nose as it was slipped over his head. Keithen couldn't find the energy to fight any longer, although his mind scrambled for a way
to keep from dying before help arrived.

  Just then, arrows impaled both guards and both fell onto the platform.

  Keithen turned to see Alastair’s bulging eyes scanning the surroundings while the people scrambled to get away.

  With a primal scream, Alastair kicked the box from under Keithen just as an arrow hit the laird on the side.

  At first, Keithen didn’t feel anything. His body was so wracked with pain that he did not sense the danger of imminent death.

  But then the realization that he could not breathe broke through.

  Within moments, he would die.

  Despite the tightening of the noose, Keithen fought to breathe, his body convulsing. As much as he told himself to let go and allow the inevitable, the instinct to live was strong.

  A primal scream permeated through the fog of his struggles and then he fell to the platform, gasping for breath.

  Someone had cut him down. There was no one that he could see but gasping for breath took precedence over anything else.

  Through sheer will, Keithen managed to maneuver himself to the edge of the platform and roll to the ground below. The impact knocked what little bit of breath he had from his lungs.

  The clash of swords rang through the air.

  People screamed, scampering in all directions. To avoid being trampled, he rolled under the protection of the platform.

  Pain shot through him from his broken leg. His shoulder had somehow moved back into place, probably from one of the falls.

  Keithen closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of rescue and then all went dark.

  ***

  “It will be a long time before ye can get about without pain,” the healer informed Keithen several days later. He’d finally managed to remain awake long enough to know he was back at Fraser Keep in his own bedchamber.

  Because of his broken leg and other injuries, it was impossible to move without excruciating pain. Even now, he wondered if he’d live past all the damage that had been done. Instinctively, he knew his worst injuries were not visible. The pangs that ran down his back from being kicked signaled all was not well.

  “Where is my wife?” he asked. “Did she remain at Mackenzie Keep?”

  Esme, his sister, huffed. “In all probability. That is where she belongs.” She neared the bed and pressed a hand to his cheek. “What ye need to concern yerself with is healing. I will be here to ensure ye do.” She smiled down at him. “I love ye, dear brother.”

  Never had he been more grateful for his sister’s unnaturally accurate archery skills. From atop a moving horse, Esme had struck the rope and saved his life.

  “Ye are an amazing archer,” he said, slurring the words as a result of whatever was in the tonic the healer had given him.

  His sister shrugged. “I was not about to lose ye.”

  “What happened. Who came with ye to save me?”

  She lowered to a chair. “Two hundred Ross warriors and all of Clan Fraser. The Mackenzie surrendered without much of a fight. Malcolm is meeting with the other Laird Mackenzie to decide what is to be done. Malcolm knows Clan Ross cannot take over the lands without threat from other larger Mackenzie clans.”

  “Alastair lives then?”

  Esme’s face shuttered. “I believe so.”

  “Ye shot him, didn’t ye?” Keithen met her gaze. “Why didn’t ye kill him?”

  His sister gave a one-shouldered shrug. “My husband would be cross if I started a war.”

  Keithen shook his head. “Where did ye shoot him?”

  “Between the legs.”

  Despite hating the man, Keithen couldn’t help but shudder. “Well, that was not what I expected to hear. Do not ever tell Ava this.”

  His sister hesitated and finally nodded. “If she returns, I will not speak of it.”

  Broden walked into the room, his gaze boring into Keithen’s. “No one has seen her since she fell behind when following the men from Ross Keep.”

  He fought against the lure of sleep. “Ye must find her. She did not return to Mackenzie Keep. I am sure of it.”

  “Scouts have been sent. Yer wife will be found.” Broden studied him for a bit. “Why were ye on Mackenzie lands?”

  Keithen didn’t want to admit that he’d gone after Ava. But being that she was gone as well, he was sure they’d figure it out. “Ava went to find out if her brother and mother had been killed in the MacDonnell attack. I went after her.”

  “I knew she was the cause of this,” Esme snapped. “Ye should have let her go. If she does not wish to return, then so be it.”

  He’d not stopped asking himself why Ava had not appeared yet. He suspected it could be guilt over what had happened to him. After learning she’d ridden so far alone in the night to rally Clan Ross, he’d been both impressed and shocked at her actions.

  However, now she’d yet to appear and from all accounts, she had Gallant with her.

  “Esme?” he started and his sister arched a brow. “Did ye speak to her?”

  His sister nodded. “Aye, I did. I told her she was the reason for the situation and if ye died, I would find her and kill her myself.”

  Keithen closed his eyes. “Let me know as soon as she is found.”

  “I will take the patrol on a wider circle.” His friend’s assurance brought only a bit of confidence that Ava would be returned to him.

  Just then, another set of footsteps sounded, but Keithen could not force his eyelids to open.

  “Keithen’s horse has returned,” someone said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For two long days, she’d been in the dark crate that rocked side to side on the back of a wagon.

  Ava had given up on crying or attempting to scream past the dirty rag that had been stuffed in her mouth. The cramped space stunk from her own urine and lack of ventilation, and she pressed her face against the side, attempting to get fresh air and to see through the tiny cracks between jagged boards.

  Sea air permeated the crate and she knew that, soon, she’d be loaded aboard a ship and taken far away.

  When a man neared the wagon, she kicked the crate. He looked in her direction for only an instant, shrugged and then kept walking.

  Frustrated that every effort had failed, she fell back against the other side of the crate and tried to think of what to do.

  If only she’d stayed at the small village she’d come upon after being left behind. The small village of Kildonan was not far from Ross lands, so she’d decided it was best to continue south. The following night, a pair of man accosted her while she’d slept.

  She’d expected to be attacked by them after being tied up, but when they’d lifted her skirts and seen blood, they pronounced her to be unclean. If not for the circumstances, she would have laughed at the thought that men who considered raping a woman would then call the woman dirty.

  “Mayhap we can keep her healthy long enough to sell her,” the man with appalling teeth had muttered.

  They’d bound and gagged her and thrown her over a horse, and finally put her into a wooden crate. She’d struggled and not made it easy for them to stuff her into the tight space, but they’d overcome her easily.

  Once again, her stomach cramped, and she hoped not to have to relieve herself. Silently, she prayed to be let out of the crate.

  Moments later, the cramping became worse and she doubled over, moaning. Wave after wave of pain tightened her midsection unlike anything she’d felt before. It was too dark to see, but the smell was unmistakable.

  Blood.

  She wasn’t sure how long it continued until, finally, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  Light followed by fresh air made Ava wake.

  A man’s face came into focus.

  “She’s gotten worse. No one will give us any coin for her. She won’t finish the trip. She’ll dead in a day or two.”

  Two other faces peered down at her. The men who’d taken her. One of them wrinkled his nose. “Why is she all bloody?”

  “Leave her. She’
ll die soon,” the first man assured them. They replaced the top on the crate.

  Moments later, the crate was lifted and lowered to the ground. Then not so gently, it was shoved against something.

  The putrid smell of rotting fish made Ava nauseous and she heaved, praying not to get sick since the rag was still shoved into her mouth.

  Lifting to her knees, she pushed at the top of the crate with her head, and it gave way. The men had been so convinced of her imminent death that they’d not bothered to nail it shut.

  “Ye’re a bloody mess.” A craggy face appeared over her. It was hard to tell if it was a man or a woman who stood next to the crate. “Here.” The person held out a dirty hand. “Come on, I’ll help ye out.”

  Ava did her best to stand, but her legs wobbled. She fell against the side of the crate and it tipped over. She grimaced when her shoulder hit the ground but was so happy to be out of the crate, it didn’t matter if it hurt.

  “Ah, ye’re tied up,” the person said, yanking the cloth from her mouth. “Let’s see here.”

  She now guessed the person was a woman because she wore long, dirty, gray skirts. “I normally do not help strangers, but ye are left behind, so I am thinking no one’s coming for ye.”

  “Water?” Ava croaked.

  “None to be had,” the woman said, cackling and untying her hands. “Got a bit of ale.” She held up a bottle with a cracked top. “Only a sip.”

  Her arms refused to move, so she tipped her face up and the woman pressed the bottle to her lips. The ale was bitter, but she welcomed the wetness of it.

  “Thank ye,” Ava finally said. She remained sitting on the ground, her blood and urine-stained skirts collecting dirt.

  “Ye should go over and wash up.” The woman motioned to the water’s edge with her head. “Salt water will help with the healing”

  Ava wasn’t sure about the healing properties, but she did have to wash up. Although she would have preferred an alternative to salty water, it was better than nothing.