“Fiona! Ye had best stop! Now!”
Something in the way Menzies bellowed his command, the smug amusement behind his words, caused Fiona to halt. The fact that the men chasing her had already halted struck her as ominous indeed. Even as her mind ordered her to keep running, to complete her bid for freedom, she turned to face Menzies. Her heart sank into her boots when she saw Mab’s squirming shape draped over Menzies’s saddle.
“Let her go, Menzies,” Fiona said. “She is of no use to you.”
“Isnae she?” Menzies grabbed Mab by the hair, stilling her movements, and held a dagger to the side of her bared neck. “I think the cow might serve some purpose.”
“Hurting Mab will bring the wrath of the MacFingals down upon your head. She is verra important to them.”
“Thus they allow her to roam about with only ye as her protector? And an unarmed ye, as weel, by the look of it. Threatening me with the wrath of such as the MacFingals, madmen and women-killers, isnae going to work, either. Do ye think they will use their witch’s lore to bespell me?” Menzies laughed and his men dutifully did the same.
There was no way out of this trap, Fiona realized. Mab was staring at her and making little motions with her hands that told Fiona to flee. If Mab thought she would leave her in that madman’s hands, then the woman was as insane as Menzies was. Fiona knew he would kill Mab just to spite her. Menzies knew he had her, knew she would never trade the woman’s life for her own freedom. The gloating look upon his face made her wish dearly that she could be just so coldhearted.
“Release her, Menzies,” she ordered again in a cold, hard voice, determined to hide her fear of the man.
“Only if ye agree to come to me,” Menzies said.
“I agree,” Fiona replied and ignored Mab’s muttered protest.
Then, to Fiona’s utter horror, Menzies drew his knife across Mab’s throat and tossed her body to the ground. Fiona screamed out a curse and pulled a knife from her sleeve, but one of the men grabbed her before she could bury it in Menzies’s chest. Try as she might, there was no breaking free of the man’s grasp. When he roughly turned her to face him, she watched him draw back his fist. An instant later, he swung that big fist and Fiona suffered a moment of blinding pain, then let the blackness swallow her whole.
An awareness of pain came to Fiona so quickly she gasped and heard someone laugh softly. Her head ached and Fiona slowly trailed that discomfort back to the sharper pain in her jaw. The pain in her arms confused her for a moment, but then she recalled Menzies. Her stomach clenched from the strength of her fear and the remembered sight of Mab’s limp body hitting the ground, blood soaking the front of her gown.
Someone nudged her and she felt her body sway. It was clear that Menzies had hung her up by her wrists again. The brush of soft linen against her thighs told her that, this time, Menzies had at least left her shift on, and she tried to find some comfort in that. Slowly, she opened her eyes and glared at a faintly amused Menzies, hating him and savoring the way that bitter feeling pushed aside her fear.
“Ye will pay for killing Mab, ye bastard,” she said. “I will make ye pay that debt. Blood for blood.”
“With what?” Menzies pointed to where her daggers were set on top of the pile of her clothes.
“My teeth, if I must,” she replied in an icy voice. “There was no need for ye to kill her.”
“She tried to help ye run from me. That cannot be allowed.” He idly brushed some dust from the front of his elegant doublet as he spoke. “Ye are mine and those who try to take what is mine, try to hold it out of my reach, must die.”
He spoke as if Mab’s life was of no more importance to him than the dust he flicked from his clothes. That was almost as frightening as the things he did to her, Fiona thought. Such a callous disregard for the life he had just ended might be acceptable upon the battlefield, but it revealed his insanity when he spoke so of a woman he had just murdered. She had to wonder just how long he would let her live once he had laid claim to her.
The thought of this man touching her made bile sting the back of her throat. That he had tried to rape her several times had caused her trouble enough before she had learned the joy of Ewan’s embrace. She did not want to even consider how she would feel if Menzies succeeded in raping her this time. Or even more terrifying, how Ewan might feel. There was so much Menzies could destroy this time, it made her feel like weeping, but she fought that urge. She refused to show this man any weakness.
She knew from past confrontations that Menzies loved to talk about himself, his skill, his cleverness, his daring. Although she had no idea of how much help it would be, she decided to start him talking. It would buy her some time. It might simply delay the inevitable horror at his hands, but it might also produce a miracle. Someone at Scarglas might have noticed how long she and Mab had been gone and search for them. One of the men in the watchtowers might have seen something despite how far away she and Mab had been. It was a small hope, but she clung to it, finding strength in it.
“How did ye find me?” she asked.
“It wasnae easy,” replied Menzies, giving her a look of irritation. “Then I heard that ye had disappeared, were lost.”
Was there a spy at Deilcladach? Fiona wondered. Menzies was certainly handsome enough, with his long fair hair and light blue eyes, to seduce some woman into telling him MacEnroy secrets. It was possible enough of a stir had been caused by her disappearance that it was no secret at all, but she had difficulty believing that. Since the trouble with Menzies had begun, Connor had kept the business of Deilcladach a close secret. Fiona could tell by the look upon Menzies’s almost beautiful face that he wanted her to ask him how he had learned she had left the keep. She subdued the stubborn part of her that wished to deny him that little pleasure by reminding herself that she was buying herself some precious time.
“Ye have found some fool to tell ye what happens at Deilcladach, have ye?” she asked, nearly gagging at the way he preened.
“A bonnie wee lass she was. Sweet and besotted, eager to please me with her knowledge of all that happened at Deilcladach from day to day.”
“Was?” Fiona’s mind had fixed upon that word, and although she had little sympathy for a traitor, she could feel some for a foolishly besotted woman who might not have known who she was consorting with.
“Weel, I couldnae let her cry out a warning once she had kenned who I was. Twas her own fault for lighting that candle. I had told her that it was dangerous for her to ken too much, that secrecy was verra important.” He shrugged. “She obviously didnae think that included her getting a close look at her lover’s face. I couldnae have those cursed brothers of yours guess that I had been close at hand.”
“And ye dinnae think the murder of some poor deluded lass will make them suspicious?”
“Nay. I am nay such a fool as to leave a body behind. She rests at the bottom of the river, tied to a sack of rocks to hold her there. So, dinnae think your brother has scented my trail. He willnae be hieing to your rescue this time.”
“That still doesnae answer the question of how ye found me.”
“Trailed ye, didnae I? Several people recalled seeing that horse of yours. Then I met with a fine group of men called the Grays. They told me the laird of Scarglas had a woman with him near to a month past. This woman killed one of their men, had long golden hair, dressed like a lad, and handled a sword like a mon. Twas easy to guess whom that might be.”
“Easy, was it? I have been here a whole month, ye ken.” She tensed when a look of anger tightened his features.
“Aye, and so ye have.” He poked her in the side with the tip of his sword. “Some of the things the Grays told me made me verra angry.”
“And why would ye believe all they had to say? They are the enemies of the MacFingals.”
Fiona could see him thinking that over. She used his distraction to try to gain some laxity in the ropes binding her wirsts. After the first time he had hung her up by her bound wrists, s
he had had Connor do the same to her and the two of them had worked hard on finding ways for her to free herself or, at the very least, offer some resistance. Fiona was a little surprised that, after the bruises she had inflicted upon him and his men last time, Menzies had yet again hung her from a tree branch. She then noticed that his men kept their distance from her and she almost smiled.
“Nay,” Menzies said after a moment of deep thought, “there was no deceit or trickery behind their words. In truth, they were curious when they realized ye were the woman I sought. But their interest in ye matters naught. All that matters is what they told me about ye and the laird of Scarglas.”
“Since there is naught to say about me and the laird of Scarglas, I cannae guess what they told ye.”
Menzies sighed and shook his head before he looked at her with an expression of such condescending recrimination that she sorely wanted to kick it off his face. It was a very similar look that had caused her to turn aside his request for her hand in marriage. She had been as stunned and blinded as many another woman by his angelic looks, but then she had seen that look. It was one that said she was only a poor, dull-witted woman who was in sad need of the guidance and wisdom of a man, that she was to be pitied for her lack, but then forgiven and cared for. Fiona had often wondered if the fact that she, a mere pitiful woman, had rejected him was what had twisted him so, then told herself not to be so vain. The man had already suffered this madness. Her refusal had, at best, simply made it stronger and clearer to see.
“Ye have been the laird’s captive for o’er a month,” Menzies said in a tone of voice that implied he was trying to explain a simple fact to a person who had all the wits of a flea. “Despite all my efforts, ye are still lovely enough to stir a mon’s lusts.” He scowled and cast a suspicious look toward his men, who were smart enough to appear completely uninterested in her. “I have also heard that the laird is a dour mon, dark of looks and horribly scarred.”
Fiona bit back an instinctive urge to defend Ewan against that slur. The sly look upon Menzies’s face warned her that he had set a trap for her. Instinct told her she would suffer if he suspected she cared for Ewan. Worse, Menzies would then want Ewan to suffer as well. The last thing Ewan needed was another man hunting him, and Menzies seemed to have the wit and skill the Grays lacked despite his madness. She met his gaze calmly, as if she merely waited for him to continue speaking.
“Such coarse hands should ne’er touch ye,” Menzies said after watching her closely for a minute. “That would be a crime, a sin I would have to see punished. The question would be—who deserved to be punished more, him or ye. Did ye let the mon touch ye, Fiona? Did ye give him your maidenhead, mark his sheets with your innocence as ye refused to mark mine? Have ye let him make ye his whore? The Grays claim ye have.”
“The Grays also claim they have a right to Scarglas e’en though the previous laird was cousin to the new,” she said. “I wouldnae put much weight behind the words of a clan that believes it should have a better claim to something than a mon’s own blood kin.”
She tensed when he slowly walked around her, touching her as if he had the right. Even though good sense told her it was impossible, she began to fear there was some mark upon her that would tell him she was no longer a maiden. Silently talking away her rising fears, she met his gaze directly when he returned to standing in front of her. There was now a glint in his eye that told her nothing she could say or do would convince him that the Grays had lied. He had been convinced of her loss of innocence before he had come after her.
A chill slithered down her spine as he flicked the ribbon tying her shift closed with the tip of his sword. There would be no more time, no more talk. Fiona was surprised she had held him off for as long as she had. It was difficult to see just how his belief that she was no longer pure had affected him.
“Ye do understand that for each mark ye make upon my skin,” she said, “my brother will make ye pay for it tenfold. He counts each bruise, each pain, as a debt that must be repaid in blood and agony. Each time ye capture me and torment me, ye add another week to the length of time he will make ye suffer.” Although Menzies appeared unmoved by her threats, his men shifted on their feet a little uneasily. “Connor has made a close study of all the ways he can hold ye tight in the bonds of agony yet not lose ye to death’s grasp.”
“Your brother hasnae caught me once in all this time. I dinnae think he is such a great threat.”
“Nay? Do ye think he will give up if it takes too much time to chase ye down? Mayhap ye should pause a moment and think upon the mon my brother is, remember for a minute the tales of his becoming laird at but fifteen, of all he endured and all he accomplished. Hunting ye down, e’en if it takes years, will be as naught to him. Ye will ne’er be able to run far enough or fast enough, ne’er be able to cease looking o’er your shoulder to see if he is there. One day he will be and then ye will begin to suffer, long and hard. Aye,” she added in a near whisper, smiling coldly, “then ye will begin to scream.”
The way he stared at her made Fiona think she might have, finally, scared him. Then he laughed and she felt her heart sink down to her toes and her courage waver. Time had gained her nothing. Threats had not caused Menzies to feel any hesitation or fear. She grit her teeth against a cry when he cut the ribbon of her shift with the tip of his sword. He was not even drawing near enough for her to kick him.
She prayed. She prayed for the courage to endure whatever Menzies did without flinching. She prayed for some miracle, for the hand of fate to reach down and yank her to safety. She also prayed that, having been rescued from this man four times already, she had not run out of second chances or small miracles.
Chapter 14
“Where is your wife?”
Ewan sheathed his sword, waved away the men he had been training with, and looked at his father. “I am nay sure. With Mab in the herb hut? Visiting the sick? Why do ye expect me to ken where she is?”
“Because she is your wife.” Fingal scowled at his eldest son. “Have ye lost her, then?”
“Nay, I havenae lost her. I just dinnae ken where she is. I dinnae keep her leashed to my side, do I? What do ye want her for?” Ewan frowned and studied his father closely. “Are ye ailing?”
“Of course I am nay ailing! Do I look as if I am ailing?”
“Then what do ye want with her?”
“Tis the nooning,” Fingal muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.
“The what?”
“The nooning. Time for a meal, ye ken.”
“Oh. Da, the church calls it—”
“I dinnae care what the church calls it. I call it the nooning. Tis a fine name. Better than what the church says. Those are prayer times and I am nay praying. I am eating.”
“Of course.” Ewan took a deep, slow breath as he struggled to remain calm, even patient. “And Fiona has to do something about this nooning, does she?”
“Aye, she sets down with me and we have us a fine meal spiced with a verra fine quarrel. Weel, I went to the great hall, set myself down, and she didnae come in. She always comes in. And ere ye start asking, she isnae in the keep or the herb shed or the garden. Thought ye might have taken her off to sow an heir, but nay, for here ye stand. So, why cannae your wife be found, eh?”
Ewan looked around him a little blindly, then looked back at his father. This was beyond strange. It was also a little disconcerting. He had thought his father disliked Fiona, did not want anything to do with her because of her Cameron connections, yet they had obviously been taking meals together. It did seem that that was something he ought to have been aware of.
What was even stranger was that his father had missed her, though Ewan suspected the man would never admit it even upon pain of death. In the weeks Fiona had been at Scarglas, she had clearly wriggled her way into his father’s affections. Ewan knew his father had some, but they had never been given to a female before as far as he knew. If Sir Fingal’s scowl was any indication, the man also felt E
wan was sadly remiss because he did not know where his wife was.
Then, abruptly, the importance of that sank into Ewan’s mind. His father had looked in all the places Fiona was usually to be found yet had not seen her. Ewan struggled to subdue a sudden urgency and a flare of alarm. Just because his father said he had looked everywhere did not mean he had.
“Did ye look in the solar?” he asked.
“I told ye, the lass isnae inside the keep,” Sir Fingal snapped. “I may be old, but my wits are still keen, as are my eyes. I also sent the women in the keep to hunt her down and they couldnae find her. Spoke to young Ned and he said he hasnae seen Mab since they broke their fast together.”
“Mayhap Fiona and Mab went to the village.” Ewan’s alarm grew when his father shook his head.
“A mon just came from the village asking for the lass and Mab. Got a sick bairn he wanted them to come and see. Ye have lost her, havenae ye.”
Before Ewan could respond to that, a cry went up from the men upon the walls, followed quickly by another from the men guarding the gates. Ewan ran to the gates, his father close at his heels. Just as he reached them, Mab staggered through them and fell to her knees at his feet. Ewan felt himself sway a little only to be brought to his senses by the painful grip of his father’s hand upon his upper arm.
It took several slow, deep breaths this time for Ewan to regain some sense of calm. It was difficult to hold firm to it as he crouched by Mab. All he could think of was that Fiona was gone, that Mab had returned to Scarglas bloodied and alone. He took a quick look at the woman’s wound and was relieved to see that it appeared to be a shallow one. Later, he knew, it would please him for Mab’s sake alone, but right now, he was only glad that she would be able to answer his questions. He waited with taut impatience as Mab struggled to catch her breath.
“Mab, where is Fiona?” he asked her as the woman finally began to breathe more evenly.
Highland Warrior Page 16
