by Sophia James
Visions of Andrew falling into death plagued her, as did Ian’s screams when the sword had passed through his stomach. She had no notion as to what had happened to anyone else. All lost. Eighty men and women gone in the blink of an eye under a force too strong to withstand. She should have sent them all away and stood on the battlements alone until she could do so no longer. She should have burnt what was valuable in the castle herself weeks before, once she knew of the large force coming from Edinburgh. So many other alternatives better than the one she had chosen!
She had failed and now she, too, would die. Perhaps to die slowly would be a just punishment for all the lives she had lost in her quest to protect the keep that was Dalceann. Her father’s daughter, after all, and as greedy as he had been.
The sorrow that rose up in the back of her throat had her turning to the pillow to muffle heavy sobs of grief.
* * *
Voices woke her in the early afternoon, loud and angry just outside her door. There was the sound of thumping and of swordplay, the portal shaking as someone rammed against it.
Scrambling up, Isobel looked wildly around for furniture to shove in front of the door, finding it in an oversized chest on the far side of the room. With difficulty she got her shoulders behind the piece and shifted it with her body until it was stationed like a sentinel.
More shouting came from without and then a knock. Squeezing down on the urge to answer, she remained quiet. If it was Marc, he would have simply come in. The ropes at her wrist bit into her skin as she desperately tried to pry them loose.
‘Lady Dalceann?’
A voice she did not recognise. She remained mute, counting the seconds between now and what would happen next.
The axe surprised her, splintering through the wood of her door again and again, small chips of oak hitting the ceiling.
Moving backwards, she grabbed a turned leg of the stool she had smashed yesterday by bending down on to her knees. With a weapon she felt better; it did not matter how useless she would be in wielding it with her hands tied behind her.
The heavy slats on this side of the door were still holding, but it could not be long until they were gone, too.
‘What is it you want?’ Her question had the effect of making the attack stop; a call for silence was heard through a widening hole. Perhaps it would buy her some moments.
Where was Marc de Courtenay? Why did he not come?
‘We wish to talk to you.’
‘About what?’ There was not one tremor of fright in her words.
‘The Dalceann soldiers in the dungeon—do you want them dead or alive?’
A different tack. Far more dangerous.
‘Who are you? Give me your name.’ Only anger marked her voice now, as she fought down the image of the death of the rest of her clan. By her reckoning she had about two minutes left before the door caved in. Walking to the window, she looked down. Sixty feet below her the inner courtyard sat—a quick death as opposed to a slow one and enough time to simply lean back hard and crash through.
Placing her right elbow against the wood, she tested it, for the axe was hammering at the door again and there was more shouting.
Now! She needed to lean into it right now, before they came in, before she was killed in a way she would have no say in, bit by bit, until life left her.
The main strap of wood gave way, rain coming on to her face. Nothing now between her and the afterlife save letting go. She opened her mouth to the water and let it fall upon her tongue, the small act of finding succour drawing her back from the abyss. Too late! As the last resistance of the door fell away those on the other side were through. When she turned, she saw five soldiers opposite, all staring at her.
The man in the front was small and wiry and he carried a knife in his left hand.
‘Lady Dalceann, you are indeed a beauty. No wonder de Courtenay had no wish to share.’ He spoke gently, the words belying the meaning, but her eyes stripped away his smile.
‘Come closer and I will jump.’ No second thoughts this time. A quick death as opposed to a slow one.
The heavy leather strap of a horse whip snaked out and caught her leg, pulling her over. With her lack of balance she went down hard, stars showing in her vision.
They were on her before she had the chance to try to rise, ripping at the cotton of her kirtle and then at the ties of her chemise.
She bit out at a hand that passed by her mouth, sinking her teeth into a dirty palm and was rewarded with a smack across her face. The sharp blade of a knife cut away her hose and the air was suddenly cold against her bottom. Hands forced her legs apart, nails scraping at the skin.
No chance at all.
As she writhed to try to free herself, the small man unlaced himself, his intentions easy to see in the hard reddened ridge of flesh that sprang forwards.
With one last effort she screamed, but even that was muffled, a wedge of material stuffed into her mouth and her hair gathered tight as she was pulled by the length of it backwards to her bed.
* * *
Marc had spent the early part of the afternoon outside, helping to move the bodies of the soldiers who had fallen in the battle, ferrying them to a barn that had not been razed near to where the tents were erected. He was wet and tired, the faces of fallen boys leaving him in a sour mood at the sheer waste of it all. Lord, his life had been for ever one of death and war. How many times had he said a prayer over the breast of those lost in battle? How many more times would he? He felt every single one of his twenty-nine years as he walked up the path to Ceann Gronna through the rain that had not eased.
Raised and angry voices alerted him to the fact that something was wrong as he started up the spiral staircase; realising it seemed to be coming from the vicinity of Isobel Dalceann’s room, he began to run.
Drawing his sword, he pushed ahead, the hoarse scream of a woman floating above chatter.
Her door hung off its hinges, shards of wood littering the corridor. To the side his lieutenant lay, a bloodied cut to the temple. One of his men kneeled to give him aid and the other three were involved in a fight further down the corridor with the minions of Huntworth.
In the room Marc saw Archibald McQuarry and his cronies around the bed in various states of undress. Isobel Dalceann lay alone, splayed out upon the mattress, a bruise beneath her eye and her clothes gone. The remains of her chemise had been pushed into her mouth, her hands still tied. Her bottom lip was swollen and bleeding and the marks of redness on her naked white shoulders told him just how rough they had been in getting her to the bed. White-hot fury consumed him.
‘What the hell are you doing, McQuarry?’
‘The same thing you did last night I presume, de Courtenay. Taking my pleasure with the spoils of war.’
‘I am not finished with her yet.’
‘Then get in line.’
‘Oh, I think not.’
In one move he pushed the chest over on its edge so that it blocked the door-well, a dark wedge against any entry.
Five men. McQuarry was easy. His sword danced across the earl’s skinny throat before he had the chance to speak and he crumpled to the floor, the vestiges of his sexual yearnings grotesque in the moment of his death.
The big man with the axe was next, parrying with it and then lunging. Marc felt the thrust of the blade against steel, but it was a primitive weapon with little finesse and before the man had the time to bring it back up it was too late. He joined his master on the floor.
Three men left now, with their blades drawn. As Marc moved away from the bed so that they might follow him, his glance caught Isobel scrambling up from her prone position, eyes all hollowed fear.
The sound of blades meeting rang out, but the corner was at his back now, sheltering him from being surrounded.
Ten thousand times he had done this dance. Thrust, withdraw, parry, feint. Old knowledge. An easy conquest.
Within a moment there was silence.
Laying his sword down, he b
roke the last of the wood lacings on the window and looked out to the gathering crowd below. Thankfully some of his own men stood amongst them.
‘Tell the Lord of Glencoe that the Earl of Huntworth is dead,’ he shouted, raising the axe against the weather, ‘and tell him that I am now in charge of this keep.’
Spying one of his other lieutenants, he threw the hatchet and watched it spin in the descent, a harbinger of intent. ‘Mariner, collect the weapons of any who might disobey and then bring a group you trust to my door. Those of you who take orders from me shall be rewarded well, I swear this on the name of King David the Second, for he has given me the sovereignty of his demands. Huntworth has tried to breach our king’s favour by stealing that which was not his own and he has paid the price for such a betrayal.’
Reaching down, he hoisted his blade. ‘Those with me, raise your swords.’ A cheer came up as all hands came aloft. ‘And those against me?’
Silence.
For the first time in ten minutes Marc took a breath that wasn’t tight and forced as he turned to Isobel.
‘I will not hurt you.’
When she nodded, he moved forwards to take the wad of material from her mouth, waiting until she took large gulps of air, panting with fright, the sound hoarse and shaken.
‘Turn around.’
She did that also, her back to him now, the few tattered strips of her attire hiding nothing. When he sliced the bindings at her wrist she stretched out her arms. The ugly welts of red on her skin flared in the new-found freedom, the line of her spine straight beneath a heavy curtain of night-dark hair.
He would have liked to reach out and bring her to him in comfort, but now was neither the time nor the place and danger still lurked everywhere. Instead he lifted the blanket up from the floor on the dull side of his blade and placed it into waiting arms.
‘Cover yourself,’ he growled as voices from without became louder and he could hear the calls of his own men, ‘and get behind me, for we are not safe yet.’
* * *
She was still alive and the awful certainty of what she thought might have happened, had not. Swallowing, Isobel again tasted blood on her tongue from her bottom lip. From one of the times that the man named McQuarry had lashed out, she supposed, and was glad the blanket was wide and thick and warm.
With Marc in the room fright and fear receded a little, though she held on to the end of the bed because, for a moment, everything spun at a dizzying angle.
‘Don’t you damn well faint on me.’
Looking up, she saw him watching her.
‘I will not.’ Chagrin replaced weakness and she stood to her full height.
‘Good. Get the knife in the corner and hide it under your blanket. If anyone comes at you, kill them.’
‘Even one of your own men?’
‘Anyone!’
Swallowing, she understood exactly what such an answer must mean for him. Their glances caught, across the space of a small room, the blood in the wound near his ear changing the dirty blond of his hair to a soft pink, though he turned away when the chest in the door well began to move.
Men streamed into the chamber. All carried swords. The first man bent his head in a mark of respect and began to speak.
‘Glencoe waits for you in the Great Hall, my lord. He said that he gives you his allegiance with that of his men.’
‘And the soldiers of Huntworth?’
‘Some have left for Edinburgh. Others wait for your orders. He was never a popular leader.’
‘Good.’
‘My men are cleaning out McQuarry’s room as we speak. It still has a functioning door.’
‘Then Lady Dalceann and I will retire there immediately, if you will show me the way.’
The big man nodded and stood back for them to pass as Marc drew his arm against her own and led her out, sword unsheathed.
‘Bring the chest,’ he ordered the youngest soldier, pointing to her cache of clothing.
They climbed the staircase to her mother’s chamber, a room that had seldom been inhabited since she had left.
Large bundles of weaponry were stacked outside the portal. McQuarry’s, she supposed, and tried not to look at them.
As they went in Marc replaced the slats behind those departing and then leant back against the wood, closing his eyes. Light from the window caught the blade at his side, throwing rainbows across the vaulted ceiling. Red, purple, yellow and blue. She counted the colours as he stayed silent, deep breaths marking the rise and fall of his chest. His exhaustion was so palpable it prompted her to speak.
‘Thank you for your help.’
His eyes snapped open at her words. ‘The oath in blood we took in the clearing below Kirkcaldy works both ways.’
The tone he used kept her mute as she digested his statement. His words were true. They were enemies sworn to protect each other. Such an impasse shimmered between them.
‘In Edinburgh there is a handsome reward on your head and every man here would like to claim it. It would be best to remember that.’
‘Every man including you?’ His anger ignited hers, for there was only a certain amount of subservience that she could stomach.
Before he turned away she saw the truth in his eyes. Including him! Hurt unbalanced her.
‘If the reward is to be paid in gold, I think you have already been well enough compensated.’
‘You speak of the treasure hidden in your room, no doubt?’ He waited till she nodded before continuing, ‘It is in my safe keeping only because greed has the habit of tarnishing morality and is a useful tool when paying men to look the other way. You may well need such inducements to survive.’
‘With that attitude it is no wonder that David’s throne is weak.’
‘Strong enough to take Ceann Gronna, Lady Dalceann.’
‘Only because of your duplicity.’
His fingers came around her wrist like a vice. ‘Unwise words can be as dangerous as the sharp point of a sword in the company of those who would take umbrage.’
‘What would be the right ones, then?’
‘Gratitude and acquiescence!’
‘Death might be easier.’
He swore in French. ‘You think with a face like yours that men will not scramble for the opiate of lust? Do you not understand that the curves of your body could so very easily assuage the lack of comfort many feel here far from their homes? Lord, do you truly imagine that a woman long lauded as the nemesis of David’s commanders should be left to dictate the rules for her confinement under a triumphant army?’
‘An army of bullies. Ceann Gronna has been sacked and the clansmen who I have lived with all my life are either dead or prisoners. Why should I now believe that you might protect me?’
‘Because I just have.’
He let go of her as if her skin were aflame and she tried to get her breath to calm. Nothing made sense any more. She wanted to hurt him and she wanted to hold him. Only the distance of a foot kept them apart, a tiny space between what they were saying and what simmered beneath. Her body burned under the blanket for a gentle touch of skin that might take away fright and hate and meld it into something far more potent.
‘I would see you safe, Lady Dalceann. At least believe that.’
His words were honestly said, without artifice or falsity; a man at the very end of his patience, yet still allowing her the mantle of his protection, no matter what it might cost him personally.
His admission doused anger and ignited the more familiar need that she had always felt in his company. Marc set something inside her on fire in a way Alisdair never had; she was torn again by the promise of eternal love she had given her dying husband and the warm and living knowledge of the one who had just saved her.
‘Do you have a wife?’
The question made him frown, though he shook his head.
‘I had a husband once who loved me. Alisdair. His name was Alisdair.’ She wanted to say it suddenly and have the truth of goodness stated. �
�He was my second cousin and a fine man. I thought our marriage would last for ever.’
She swallowed because even those words, those honest words, would not dull the ache of need that was beginning to fill her, despite everything that had just happened. She had been a good and dutiful wife when she had been married to Alisdair, but life went on and she was doing her best to survive it.
‘I do not wish for that again, you understand. It is not love I seek tonight.’
‘What is it, then, that you seek?’ His stillness was intensified by the dust motes swirling in the air around him, caught in the last low light of the afternoon.
‘I want to be held so close that the demons racing in my head are forced out. I want to be touched with care and honour and protection. And a shared need,’ she added as the fire in his eyes flared bright. She wanted truth and integrity and honesty. She wanted the strength of him encircling fear, an enemy still, but a man who had fought his way through the worst of his own soldiers to rescue her.
‘I want this.’ Opening her fingers, she simply let the blanket go and stood still, cold air the only thing that covered her naked body.
Chapter Ten
She knew he saw the gouged trails of unwanted hands on the skin beneath, leading to the soft parts of her womanhood. For a second she thought he would turn away as fury darkened his eyes, but he did not, and the growing silence held in it a terrible understanding.
Alive. Still. After almost being raped. She shook away memory and latched on to another exactness.
Now. Here. With him.
An offering of herself to banish all the knowledge of what had so very nearly been.
Peeling away the last remains of her chemise, she let it fall from her fingers, so that nothing was hidden. Her nipples stood proud of their own accord, pushing towards him.
‘I have never held to the notion of the rape of prisoners.’
‘It is not rape that I am offering.’ Her right hand cupped her left breast and she fondled it, her thumb running in circles across the hardening bud of nipple. With triumph she saw the rise of his manhood and the line of his jaw rippling under pressure. ‘But the power of sex has a special forgetfulness and it is that I ask of you tonight. To forget what has just been...what might have happened if you had not come, just you against everyone.’
