Charming the Chieftain

by Deanie Roman

  “What do you know of the man.”

  He sneered. “I spent enough time in the man’s company to know he likes it rough. Or perhaps old Ferguson has burnt her at the stake, seeing as how he’s terrified of witches. So, I really can’t tell you where she is, brother.”

  “You are no’ my brother.”

  Addis’s lips curled. “So, ’tis true then. Your precious wife revealed as much before I had to relinquish her to Warford’s man. So, am I to be thrown in the dungeon then? You canna keep me there forever. I am a chief in my own right and a sept to the Maxwell clan.”

  “You’re right,” Aeden agreed, his voice soft.

  Addis smirked, but his grin slipped a notch in the face of Aeden’s chilling smile.

  “As your sept leader, I am also your judge and jury.”

  Addis’s eyes widened and his bowels loosened. He threw his tied hands out in front of him in entreaty. “Wait, Aeden, you can’t … ”

  Addis’s words were silenced when the dirk’s seven-inch blade plunged into his neck. Aeden watched, dispassionate, as blood pumped from the wound and Addis suffocated on his own fluids. When the last gurgle faded, Aeden leaned over, retrieved the dagger, wiped the knife-edge on Addis’s plaid, and then stuffed the weapon into the top of his boot. Before he mounted Honeybush, he threw out one last order.

  “Strip him of my colors and drag his body to the ridge. Let the wolves have him. He does no’ deserve a decent burial. Fan out in groups of two, Warford can no’ have gotten verra far. If he has been housed by the Ferguson they have already sealed their fate, and may God have mercy on their black souls, for they’ll find none in me.”

  • • •

  Elisande slipped in and out of awareness as the insistent throbbing in her head made it hard to keep nausea at bay. Face down across her abductor’s lap, she tried to focus her mind on anything other than the lurching sensation of her stomach. If the brush slapping against various body parts was an indicator, she surmised they no longer traveled the West road. Of course, she could not be certain until the stifling cloth sack was removed from her head. Wherever they were bound, she prayed they arrived soon, before she heaved up her stomach’s contents.

  The horse slowed a bit. She attuned herself to the forest din. Rushing water reached her ears and she knew they followed the North Tweed River. The knowledge meant less than nothing unless she escaped. She hoped to God Onora was unharmed. She had no idea what happened to her aunt. She labored for breath. The image of Fergal being slain was seared into her mind before the sack ascended over her head. She needed to believe someone lived to tell of the attack and that Aeden scoured the countryside this very minute. She squeezed her eyes tight to stem the flow of tears. Crying was a luxury she could not afford right now if she had a hope of survival. And survive she would — she refused to consider any other outcome. God would not be so cruel as to gift her with such a man, only to rip him from her.

  All at once, her captor slowed the horse to a walk and eventually a standstill. The queasiness in the pit of her belly abated somewhat, but she ached to be set upright. She got her wish when two hands gripped her bottom and shoved. She landed head first on the hard damp earth. Dazed, she lay there wondering if he planned to leave her. She hoped so. It may well prove her one chance of escape. Straining her ears, she tried emptying her mind in an effort to absorb the atmosphere. Saddle leather creaked. He hadn’t dismounted. Nervous, she deliberated if she might play dead to get him to leave. A soft thump and an oath indicated he was on the ground. Her hopes of escape dwindled. His footfalls sunk into the wet earth, creating a sucking noise and she braced herself as best she could. Brutal hands grabbed her upper arms and jerked her upright. Her hair caught on the tie as her captor yanked off the sack that blinded her.

  “Oh God, no.” She recoiled in dread.

  He lunged forward and clutched her forearm in a crushing grip.

  “Remember me, do you?” He smirked. “I must say, I am flattered.”

  Horrified by her nightmare come to life, she could only stare.

  “Let us not keep my lord waiting. He has journeyed a fair distance and is none too pleased with you.”

  Sir Stuart yanked her off her feet and dragged her up the dirt path toward a cruck-house. Still reeling, she could not fathom how Warford had learnt of her whereabouts. The closer she came to the small lodge the faster her mind sifted through one scheme to the next in search of a tactic to break Stuart’s grip before he opened that door. She struggled against his hold to no avail and soon they were on the stoop. After a perfunctory knock, he waited. She might have laughed at the pomposity of the action if her situation was remotely amusing.

  “Enter.”

  Sir Stuart shoved the door wide and flung her into the room. She landed hands first on the hard-packed dirt floor inches from a pair of shined black boots. The rickety chair creaked under Warford’s considerable bulk when he leaned forward.

  “So, you thought you could run from me?”

  She watched his foot slide nearer her hand.

  “You spread your legs for a barbarian and give him what was promised me.”

  With slow deliberation, she lifted her eyes and curled her lip.

  “Better a barbarian than a baron,” she spat.

  His face reddened to apoplectic proportions.

  “This barbarian has despoiled you, but you are too stupid to know it.”

  She knew she should stay her words, but the idea he thought himself superior to Aeden angered her beyond good sense. “My husband is worth his weight in gold.”

  “You dare to say such things to me? I am your betrothed by right.”

  He forced the words between clenched teeth, rocked his foot back on its heel and stomped the tips of her fingers. She choked on a gasp and inhaled hard. The crushing pain traveled up her arm to her shoulder. Holding herself still, she fought the urge to tug free knowing it was what he waited for.

  “On your feet and bow to your lord.”

  Still pinned down by her left hand, she gained her feet and stood bent over at the waist. The strain became intolerable, but she fought back tears, refusing to give him the pleasure of her pain.

  Abruptly, he removed his foot. “Stand tall.”

  With an effort, she straightened inch by painful inch until she stood straight as a lancet. Refusing to acknowledge him, she trained her eyes on a cobweb adhered to the ceiling above the rafters.

  He stood too, and walked circles around her still form. She tried to remain indifferent to his scare tactics until Stuart handed him a knife. She sucked in a breath and began to shake. He chuckled and dipped the cold blade into the neckline of her dress and sliced the front of her dress from breast to belly. He glided the knife across the vee of her thighs and then replaced the blade with his hand. She recoiled when he palmed her.

  “This godforsaken land seems to agree with you, Elisande. You have grown more beautiful since our last meeting.” He stood directly in front of her and sandwiched his hand in between them and groped her. She whimpered and turned her head to the side. He released her there, and grabbed her jaw, forcing her head back. “Look at me,” he demanded.

  She blinked and shifted her line of sight, hoping he saw the undiluted hate emanating from her eyes.

  “I have just given you a compliment, Elisande. Where are your manners?”

  She refused to be baited, knowing whatever she said would be twisted to suit his purpose. The baron enjoyed his dissolute amusements much like children enjoyed sweets. Her mind drifted to Aeden’s loving touch and she wanted to weep.

  “Now that you are despoiled, Sir Stuart thinks to spare your life by taking you back to the hall for the men’s pleasure.”

  “Naught to say of his plans?”

  She was furious at the feeling of helplessness he elicited and with no thought to the consequences spat, “If I could reach that knife I’d stick you in the guts and twist until the hilt broke off.”

  Leaning in close, he vowed, “Once I t
ake my pleasure, I shall carve my mark into your body and see you burned at the stake.”

  “My lord,” Stuart bowed low. “I would take her.”

  He laughed, low and mean. “Seems your champion is more apt to overlook your indiscretions, whereas, I am not.”

  He made a half turn. “You would still desire a broken woman?”

  Stuart’s eyes flicked over her. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Well, I would gift her to you, however, she has cast a spell over me, and I must break that hold. The purificator assured me the only way to break a witch’s spell is to set her on fire.”

  Her expression thunderous, she shook with rage and fear.

  “Time to exact my pound of flesh.” He fixed Stuart with a contemptuous smirk. “Bar the door.”

  The clack of the wood dropping in place sounded a death knell.

  “I often wondered if you bartered your virginity for certain knowledge of magicks,” he taunted. “After all, why else would that demented priest take such a keen interest in you?”

  “You are disgusting.”

  Warford clamped a hand on her shoulder and pressed his lips to her ear. “Once I am through, you will thank me for killing you.”

  A chill raced up her spine and she jerked under his hand. Her scalp crawled. His touch repulsed her, and it took all her strength of mind not to give in to the onslaught of terror gnawing at her. The cruel smile plastered on his face proved he knew her struggle and enjoyed her fright. Changing tactics, he resumed his seat. At that moment, she wanted to break down and cry. She sucked in her lower lip to keep it from trembling, unsure of how much more she could endure.

  “Elisande, if you won’t give me what I desire of your own free will, you will force me to take it. Isn’t that right, Stuart?”

  Sir Stuart nodded.

  “Familiar got your tongue?”

  Though his words meant to terrorize her, they started a seed of an idea to take shape. The more she considered the idea the better her chances of escape and returning to Aeden’s arms. She had been deliberate in keeping all thoughts of Aeden at bay for fear of breaking down. Oddly enough, it was the memory of an afternoon frolic with him that encouraged her belief her plan just might work. She realized she drew strength from the knowledge Aeden loved her, and at that moment, she truly understood the power of love.

  “If she is a witch, why doesn’t she use her powers?” Stuart sneered.

  “Shut up, Stuart.”

  Curiously, Warford’s voice contained an edge of fear. “Open your eyes, damn you.”

  She ignored him, and prayed for God to guide Aeden to her before it was too late.

  “You would do well to wipe that smile from your face.”

  With slow deliberation, she opened her eyes and leveled an intense stare at the baron. “Please remind me to thank, Sir Stuart,” she trilled in a sing-song voice.

  “What are you speaking of? Thank him for what?” The panic in his tone increased.

  A large smile creased her cheeks. The master of terror was unused to being at a disadvantage. “I must thank him for reminding me that I am a spell-caster. For a brief time my shock from the abduction, and seeing you here, in Scotland, blunted my abilities.”

  “Do you think to bluff me, Elisande?” Despite his brave words, he scooted his chair back.

  “What if she’s not bluffing?” Stuart demanded, his eyes wide, fearful.

  “Hold your tongue.”

  Her smile stayed glued in place, but she needed to make Warford believe. To continue the ruse, she feigned calm and took one step toward him. He blanched. “Too bad for you, baron, the purificator is miles away in England.”

  Uncertainty chased across Warford’s face, and she knew her one chance to press her advantage neared.

  “But, my lord, do you not remember the reason we are here in this croft? Chief Ferguson flatly refused to harbor the witch under his roof. No amount of gold swayed the man despite his long-standing feud with the Maxwell.”

  “I said shut up, Stuart!”

  Warford’s lips curled derisively. She sensed the rapid change in his demeanor and was unable to shield her head before he struck a blow. Her bottom lip split when his ring glanced off her mouth. With her tongue, she assessed the damage, coming away with the rich taste of iron on her tongue. She tensed for more and then confused him with a smile.

  “Why does she smile, my lord? We must guard against her tricks.”

  Warford rounded on his guard. “One more word from you and I’ll kill you first.”

  “You think to silence me with your fists? ’Tis useless, your time has come.”

  Shoving her onto a chair, he sat down, and gestured for Stuart to fill a goblet with wine. Resting his booted feet on the tabletop, he drank deeply from the cup, never taking his eyes from her. She had to keep up the pretense, wait him out if her plan were to work. Wary, she measured the distance to the door before she executed the next part of her scheme.

  He misread her look and taunted, “If you await the heathen who lives here do not squander your hopes. He is food for the buzzards.”

  This must work. Her stomach rolled, though she kept her expression blank. Even if she somehow managed to overpower both men, she had no idea how far she had traveled from Caeverlark. There remained little doubt Aeden searched for her, still, he would not know where to look first. Instinct compelled her to take action. Furtive, she cast an eye over the room’s contents — time to set the old tenets to practice.

  Chapter Thirty

  Aeden leapt off Honeybush to study the tracks. Three horses fled north, but only one veered off the main path and into the forest. He followed the careless trail of bent leaves, flattened grass and broken poplar limbs. Whoever took the route did little to obscure their path, which led him to the conclusion this person had a different stratagem and believed no one would find or follow the trail. Also, thanks to Onora’s account, the other hoof prints traveling in a particular direction indicated their enemy was involved.

  A relentless urge to stick a blade through the Ferguson’s belly rode him hard. Although their stronghold was less than a day’s ride, he couched the impulse. Elisande had to come above all else. They rode for what seemed like days. Anger, worry and frustration warred inside him. He was tortured by thoughts of what the sadistic baron might exact from her. He could not, would not, fail her again.

  “Aeden, over there, it looks as if they passed through the narrow corridor of alder trees.”

  “The path seems familiar.” Something pulled at his memory, and then it came to him. “Auld Elbert’s croft is no’ far along here. I believe ’tis the only shelter for another half day’s ride.”

  “Aye,” Ronan confirmed, “’Tis an easterly route.”

  “With the encroaching darkness pressing in on them in unfamiliar territory, more than likely they’d holed up there.”

  Kicking Honeybush’s flank, Aeden raced through the woods, dodging bushes and low-hanging branches, weaving in and out of tree lines, his heart in his throat the erratic rhythm keeping a-pace with his horse’s hooves pounding the dirt.

  Like a prayer he chanted, “Hold on a ghra, my love, hold on.”

  • • •

  Elisande hunched forward and pulled a handful of hair over her shoulders to obscure her face. Canting her head to the side, she fixated on Warford’s forehead, pointed her finger at him and mumbled.

  Alarmed, he slapped his cup on the tabletop.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Stuart’s voice mounted with panic. “Can’t you see? She’s hexing you! She’s drawing a symbol to seal your fate!”

  All of a sudden, she shrieked and in a low monotone chanted, “If you harm man or mouse, disease and death shall befall your house. A man who nurtures fear and dread shall die in pain after months abed.”

  Through narrowed eyes, she watched Warford drop his feet to the floor and inch his chair back for good measure.

  Her laugh was mirthless. “You cannot dist
ance yourself from a hex, my lord.”

  He crossed himself.

  “Even your God cannot help you, now.” Devoid of emotion, she half turned and pointed at Sir Stuart, who tried to sidle from his post near the peat-fed fire. “Repent, repent, you must repent or be condemned to eternal torment.”

  Color drained from the guard’s cheeks with each utterance. Terrorized, he stared in horror at Warford. “I’ll not stay and be cursed for an eternity. Not for you or all the gold lining your coffers.”

  Elisande’s heart pounded. “Forsake your riches, forsake your master or your life shall end in disaster.”

  In his haste to escape, Stuart tripped over his feet and fell to his knees. Undeterred, he scrambled to the entry, jumped up at the last second, flipped the latch and hurtled through the door. Astounded, Warford overturned his chair and screamed for the guard to return. In moments, horse hooves pounded the earth as Stuart bolted from sight.

  Elisande silently urged Warford to go after him. Her hopes were shattered when the enraged baron slammed the door shut, and turned on her, his face red, eyes wild. Provoking a mad man in such a state would only worsen her predicament, but, God help her, she had to try. He was on her before she reacted, seizing her upper arms in a steel grip, and kicked her legs out from beneath her. He dragged her across the small room to the roaring hearth fire.

  “I will burn you for a witch!”

  He grabbed the front of her tattered arasaid and back-handed her hard enough to snap her head sideways. She sucked air through her bloodied nose, kicking and clawing whatever she could reach, but her strength waned.

  • • •

  Aeden had ridden quite a distance when he heard a lone rider racing hard toward him off his left flank. He veered off the path to blend with the foliage. The jingle of chainmail became louder as the rider’s horse’s approached. No Scotsman would think to ride through enemy territory giving away his position. Only the English showed such stupidity. It was too much a coincidence not to believe this man was involved in Elisande’s abduction. A humorless smile curled his lips. Fury pulsed through his body and he sprung from the bushes leaned down, swung his broadsword and connected the flat of it to the horse’s chest. The startled mount stumbled toppling the soldier to the ground. Aeden vaulted from Honeybush’s back and tackled the man. He landed a punch to the face and the satisfying crunch from a broken nose filled the air. The man howled, grabbed his nose all the while trying to scuttle backwards.