The captain was less subtle. “What do ye want?” he demanded, in a tone that told her what he thought of a woman interrupting.
She looked the captain straight in his dark, narrowed eyes. “I will pay you more to depart tonight.”
A greedy grin lit the captain’s face. “How much?”
Marion opened the bag of coins Angus had left for her and withdrew eight of them. She dropped them one by one into the captain’s outstretched hand. Each time a coin clinked against another, her gut clenched tighter. She was giving away the only money she had.
The captain nodded. “We’ll leave directly. Let’s go down to the birlinn. It won’t take long to—”
Marion frowned as the captain’s speech came to an abrupt halt. He looked past her, his eyes searching the darkness. Her heart suddenly shuddered, as the ground beneath her feet vibrated with the familiar sensation of horses approaching. Without thought, she withdrew the dagger Angus had given her, even as she saw Neil unsheathe his sword.
She turned to face the direction the captain was looking. At first, she saw nothing, only shadows dancing, but then the flickering of torches appeared as dots in the distance.
“Let’s go!” she demanded, unreasonable fear racing through her veins. It could not be someone coming for her. It was impossible. Her plan had been solid. And yet… She tugged on Neil’s arm. “Please. Let’s go down to the birlinn.”
Neil nodded as the sound of galloping horses grew louder. She turned, nearly slamming into the captain, who stood motionless. “Lead the way,” she ordered.
His eyes narrowed on Neil and then on her. “Why are you acting so fearful? As if you’ve done something wrong. Your husband”—he motioned to Neil—“told me you wanted to leave tonight to get back home to your dying father. But seems to me like you’re running from something. I don’t want trouble. I have a wife and children to see to.”
“Here.” She thrust the bag of coins at him as the sound of men’s voices filled the night. Their laughter floated toward her. She peeked over her shoulder, her breath catching as she counted five men approaching, their cloaks billowing behind them in the wind. If they had surcoats on, she could not make them out. She swiveled around to the captain. She didn’t have time to convince him with just words. “Take all my money. I vow to you I’ve done nothing wrong.”
He took the money, and as he did, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her near. She whipped her dagger toward his throat as he pointed one at hers, the coins he’d been holding clattering to the ground. They stood, each with a weapon at the other’s throat. Marion’s blood pounded in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Neil creeping toward them.
The captain tightened his grip on her wrist, increasing the pressure tenfold, and she winced in pain. He didn’t take his eyes from her as he spoke to Neil. “I would not try it, if I were you. You might wound me before I can wound your wife. You might not. All I want to do is verify that you are telling the truth. If you are, then we will be on our way.”
Directly behind her, Marion heard the neighing of horses as the hoofbeats slowed. The voices of the men died, and she caught another glimpse of Neil, whose gaze moved from her to the captain to the men.
“What have we here?” a cruel voice demanded.
Marion’s knees went weak. She would know that voice anywhere.
The hiss of swords being unsheathed pierced the air. No! She refused to simply go willingly.
“You!” Froste bellowed. “Let the woman go and come here.”
Relief rushed through Marion as the captain released her. The second he did, she cut her eyes at Neil. He caught her gaze and nodded in understanding as she looked from him to the stairs that led down to the water. The birlinn they were to take was somewhere below them, and their only chance was to reach it.
“Turn around, woman,” Froste commanded.
Marion swallowed the fear rising in her throat. If she turned around, he’d know for certain it was her, and even if she did escape, she knew he’d come after her. They had to chance it.
Now, she mouthed to Neil before she took off in blind desperation. Shouts broke out behind her, but she reached the stairs, nearly tumbling down them in her haste. When her feet hit the bottom step, she turned to ask Neil which way it was to the birlinn. The question died on her lips. She was alone, and above her, Neil’s scream of agony filled the night.
Marion’s heart pounded in terror, knowing she had to go back and help him. She could not leave him to Froste’s mercy, for the man had none, but maybe, just possibly, he’d grant it this once, as a wedding present to her. She’d only taken two steps up when Froste himself loomed at the top of the stairs, his angular face lit by the torch he held. He stared down at her for a long time before he closed the distance between them and jerked her to his chest. His hand went to her chin in a painful, iron grip. He turned her face to the left and the right before yanking it back toward his gaze.
“I’m sorry, Marion,” he offered in pitiless voice. “I’m simply surprised to see you have risen from the dead. I’ve just come from your father’s and he had informed me that you had drowned. What have you to say for yourself?”
Marion tried to beat back the panic rising in her chest. If Neil had not been captured, she’d try to stab Froste and flee, yet she had to think of Angus’s cousin. “I was taken,” she said, tears of fright coming to her eyes. “That man up there, the Scot, was going to bring me home to Father.”
A smirk came to Froste’s lips. “Odd. The captain claims you were trying to flee England with the Scot. Come, let us cut out the man’s tongue for disparaging you.”
Froste eyed the dagger she still clutched in her hand. “Sheathe your weapon, my dear. I’d hate for you to cut yourself trying to use it.”
With little choice at the moment but to obey and fearful if she didn’t he’d take the blade from her, she sheathed it as he dragged her up the stairs. When they reached the top, she gasped at the sight of Neil swaying on his feet, clutching the left side of his head. Blood streamed from beneath his fingers. He saw her and paled further. “I’m sorry, lass,” he murmured, right before he fell to his knees and then face forward onto the ground.
She moved to go to him but was pulled swiftly backward into Froste. “Leave him,” he ordered.
“What did you do?” she cried out.
“I cut off the man’s ear. He’s a thief, and that is the consequence. He was trying to steal from me.”
“What do you think he was trying to steal from you?” she demanded, her fury making her spit the words.
“Why, you, of course. You are mine.”
She stared at Neil’s still form and prayed the man was alive. “He was trying to help me!”
“Yes,” Froste bit out. “Escape England.”
“No, I told you—”
“Ah, yes,” Froste interrupted as he spun her around to face him. “You claim the captain is lying. Well, then forgive me for my error,” he offered in a cold tone as he gripped her by the arm and dragged her over to the captain, who stood silently looking fearful.
“What are you going to do?” she demanded, digging in her heels uselessly.
Froste stared at her, indifferent. “The captain is a liar, so I’ll cut out his tongue.”
“No!” she shouted at the same time the captain did, but Froste didn’t listen, and with a sharp nod, she found herself being taken by two knights. Each gripped her by an arm.
Froste grabbed the captain by the throat and lifted his dagger to the whimpering man’s face. “Open your mouth.”
“No!” Marion cried again, struggling to be released to no avail. She could not let him cut out the man’s tongue, even though the truth would seal her fate. “I lied. The captain is telling the truth.”
Froste turned toward her as he flicked a hand at the captain. “Out of my sight.”
Marion watched with a sinking feeling as the captain, all too readily, abandoned her. Froste stepped toward her, gesturing to the knig
“I’m going to have to punish you, Marion.”
After locating King Edward’s man and delivering the news of Marion de Lacy’s death, Iain and Rory Mac made their way out of the friary and then mounted their horses to ride north to Pilgrim Street. Silence lay thick as a highland fog over Newcastle at this late hour, and each time their horses’ hooves struck the stone street, the sound seemed deafening. Though inns crowded both sides of the streets, all had their doors shut and most were dark, the tenants abed for the night. It made no difference, though. They were headed to the northwest in the direction of yet another friary. There was a priest there by name of Father Thomas, who was an old friend of the MacLeod clan, and he had offered to bed them down for the night on their return trip to Scotland. Iain only wanted a few hours of sleep before departing.
The sound of neighing horses reached his ears over the clopping of his horse Olaf’s hooves, followed forthwith by the hum of voices. Low voices. Male voices. As they neared the end of Pilgrim Street, torches lit the night near the gate. A group of four men seemed to have formed a semicircle. As Iain and Rory Mac drew closer to the group, he caught a glimpse of one of the men’s surcoats—burgundy and gold with a gold snake on the front—Froste’s personal arms that he and his followers wore. Iain had seen the man fight in tournaments, so he knew the coat of arms.
Iain led his horse off the street so they would not be seen. “Froste,” Iain said under his breath as he quickly dismounted and tethered his horse.
“Aye,” Rory Mac answered, doing the same. “I saw the snake. What do ye want to do?”
Iain scratched his stubble. Froste needed to suffer for what he had done to Neil. The question was, how best to get retribution. Before he could decide, a woman’s scream filled the night. He scrambled toward the shadows of the side street and motioned for Rory Mac to follow. He stopped near enough to see but not be seen or heard. A lass with hair pale as the moon, a face sculpted in determination, and a beautiful body wrapped in a gown that fit her form rather than hung loose like those the highland lasses wore, gripped a dagger with her slender fingers. She held it steady and pointed it at Froste. Behind her, a man lay with his back to the sky. The man on the ground groaned.
When Froste began to advance toward the woman and man, the fair-haired Sassenach held her dagger higher. “Do not come a step closer.”
Iain started, then quickly shed his shock like snake skin. He smiled in grim satisfaction as he readied his sword to aid the woman and seek revenge on Froste. It was a stroke of good fortune that he’d come upon the knight.
“Should we help now?” Rory Mac asked in a low tone.
“Hold for one moment. We will use the distraction the woman is sure to provide to our benefit.”
Rory Mac frowned. “Why do ye think—”
“You wouldn’t dare stab me,” Froste snarled at the woman, cutting off Rory Mac’s question.
“I most certainly will stab you in the heart if you come closer,” she snapped. “I’m offended that you believe I would lie.”
Iain gave Rory Mac a triumphant smile while biting back a burst of laughter at how outrageous the woman’s comment, given her situation. The Sassenach looked as though she meant it true enough to Iain.
Froste offered her a bored look, and when he did, the Sassenach, to Iain’s astonishment, turned the dagger on herself and held it to her throat. “If you or any of your men move again without giving me your solemn vow that you will not kill this man”—she motioned to the man on the ground—“I will slit my throat, and you’ll not get what you most want.”
Now this was a most curious plan. Iain exchanged an amazed look with Rory Mac. With the bold claim she’d just made, he hoped the woman knew what she was doing.
“And what is it I most desire?” Froste asked.
“Me,” she answered promptly and without a trace of boastfulness. “And you want me alive, to be sure. It certainly makes it easier to acquire the land you covet from my father if I’m alive, now doesn’t it?”
Iain felt himself gape. Marion de Lacy was alive? And she was no cold, proper Sassenach after all, and she most certainly was not weak. His wonder vanished with his next breath. She was alive, and she would soon be his wife.
“Iain, is—”
“Aye, that’s my bride,” Iain answered, fierce anger now flowing through his veins as he determined how to most effectively attack Froste while ensuring Marion would not be harmed. Marion waved her dagger in the air, stealing Iain’s attention for a moment.
“I’ll have your vow to let the Scot go,” she demanded in a voice of steel, as she tilted her head toward the form on the ground.
As Rory Mac hissed in disbelief beside him, Iain found his gaze drawn briefly to where the man lay. He was dressed in a plain wool cloak, and whoever the man was, he’d taken pains not to be noticed. Was he here for Marion? Had she planned to escape marrying Froste? Iain found he hoped so.
As one of the knights moved his hand to his weapon, Iain’s thoughts raced forward, establishing a plan in his mind. He nudged Rory Mac. “Ye take the two men farthest from us. I’ll get Marion and take out Froste and the other knight.”
Rory Mac nodded.
“Now!” he said in a fierce whisper as the knight closest to Marion lunged toward her.
Iain surged forward, withdrawing his sword and closing the distance between himself and the knight who had grabbed Marion. Her eyes widened in shock at the sight of him, and her dagger flashed upward, then hovered as if she wasn’t sure who was the greater threat. In a rush, her lips pressed grimly together, and she plunged her dagger into the knight’s arm. The man roared, drawing his sword up to counter. Iain knocked the sword away with his own, then brought his blade down to finish the knight. He fell to the ground in a heap.
Iain glanced over at Rory Mac, who had already felled one knight and was engaged with the other. Iain looked away just in time to see Froste launching toward him. Behind Iain, Marion screamed. Iain raised his sword once more and his weapon met Froste’s in midair, the sound of metal against metal echoing in the night. They withdrew, circled each other again, and met once more in midair, but Iain spun, brought his sword down quickly, and struck a blow to Froste’s back.
He stumbled and cursed, but straightened. He stared hard at Iain, as if he only just realized who Iain was. The knight wiped a hand across his face and moved his sword from one hand to the other, his gaze moving from Iain to behind him where Iain could feel Marion hovering near his feet. He had no idea what she was doing until suddenly she moved to his side, her bloody dagger in her hand. He barely knew the woman, but he already respected her courage.
“What are you doing in England, MacLeod?” Froste thundered.
“I came to speak to yer king regarding David’s release, and now I’m here to collect my bride, Lady Marion, by orders of yer king.”
Beside him, Marion stiffened, but he could not chance looking at her to see her face and being distracted.
“You sniveling, lying swine,” Froste bellowed. “I’ll see you dead before I let you take Marion anywhere.”
“And I’ll see ye quiet,” Iain growled. He rushed forward as Rory Mac came at Froste from the side. Rory Mac knocked the sword out of the unsuspecting knight’s hands, and Iain shoved his open palm into the man’s throat. Froste doubled over, gasping. Iain pulled Marion to him, shifted her behind him, and kicked his foot into Froste’s stomach to send him sprawling onto his back. Iain placed his boot on the man’s heaving chest and his sword at the knight’s throat.
“I’ve a good mind to kill ye,” Iain said.
Suddenly, a very soft, warm body pressed against his back. “You mustn’t kill unless your life is at stake,” Marion scolded. “He’s no threat presently.”
Marion’s warm breath tickled the back of his neck and made him shudder. No woman other than his late wife had ever made him react so. He frowned, as much at his response to her as to the fact that she was right about sparing Froste. He could ensure the knight did not follow them, if Froste was intent upon doing so, without killing him.
“Put him to sleep,” Iain told Rory Mac, who grinned in answer.
Froste jerked, as if to stop whatever was coming, but Iain simply reminded him of his deadly situation by pressing his sword against the man’s windpipe. Froste stilled, glaring at Iain, but when Rory Mac hit him on the side of the head with the hilt of his sword and Froste’s head lolled sideways, the glare vanished, much to Iain’s satisfaction. Iain removed his foot from Froste’s chest and looked around him. Rory Mac had felled two of the man’s knights, and Iain had dispatched the other.
Behind Marion, the Scot on the ground still lay motionless. “Who is that?” Iain demanded, pointing at the man.
Marion narrowed her eyes, which were as green as the lush rolling hills of the Highlands in the summer. “Who are you to make demands of me?”
“I already told ye, I’m to wed ye by orders of yer king.”
“You did not tell me,” she bit out. “You bellowed it at Froste. And forgive me if I don’t readily believe you. I need proof.”
Iain produced the decree stamped by King Edward’s ring and signature. Her eyes widened considerably as she read it. “But why? Does this have to do with the negotiations you mentioned?” She sounded angry. He supposed he couldn’t blame her, being traded from one man to another as she had been.
“Because,” he said gently, considering how much he should tell her and deciding to be as truthful as he could. He would tell her the remainder when he knew he could trust her. At the moment, he didn’t even know how she had arrived here. Had she feigned her drowning? It seemed likely. “King Edward wants to seal a bargain between himself, David, and me.”
Her brows dipped together. “What sort of bargain involves me?” she asked obstinately.
He sighed. “I’ll tell ye all when we are safely on the way to Scotland.”
“I’m not moving until you tell me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
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