A knock at the door startled Duncan. He took a step away from it. Without waiting for an invitation, Amelia pushed her way inside. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, facing him with her hands behind her back. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide.
She was afraid of him. No wonder. She had seen the monster just now. He felt a terrible, crippling shame, which caught him off guard.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your real mother?” she asked. “And that your father killed a bishop? It wouldn’t have mattered—I choose to judge you for yourself—but I wish you had told me.”
He had no answer. His head was full of thistles. He couldn’t seem to think.
She did not press him, and he wondered how it was possible that any woman could be so calm in a situation such as this. Why was she even here? He half-expected her to be down in the dungeon, apologizing to Bennett for the way he had been treated and begging him to take her home, away from here.
“That was difficult for you,” she said.
Words spilled out before he could stop them. “I wanted to stab him through the heart.”
She stiffened. “I could see that.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment, and the silence seemed almost thunderous in his ears. He didn’t want her here, in his private sanctuary. He wanted to push her from the room. But another part of him objected. Part of him needed her. Wanted her. Desired her.
Was this love?
No, that could not be possible. How could he feel so many different things at once? Hatred, anger, restlessness.
Sorrow.
“You resisted killing him,” she continued as she moved away from the door, forcing Duncan to back up into the middle of the room. “And you prevented Angus from doing so as well .”
Duncan let his eyes travel down the front of her gown, then back up again to the lush curve of her breasts, and final y to the gentle light of compassion in her eyes.
“If you hadn’t been there,” he said, “I might not have been so merciful. I’ve said it before, lass—you have a way of tempering my cruelty, of pulling me back from the brink. I hate you for it sometimes. But other times, I don’t know what to make of it. Or of myself.”
She closed the distance between them and laid her open palms on his chest. Her eyes were glossy, apprehensive—as if she didn’t know what sort of mood he was in—and he felt an odd, confusing lust quicken his blood. A part of him still yearned for vengeance, but more than that, he wanted to make love to his future wife. The need was potent and fierce, laced with both anger and tenderness. It was complicated—
far too complicated to understand. He simply needed to claim her now. That was all he knew.
His mouth closed over hers, and he kissed her deeply, cupping her head in his hands and plunging his tongue into her mouth. She moaned with pleasure. The sound of her arousal clouded his brain. He wanted her with a rock-hard passion that stifled all logic and seemed to make the whole world go silent.
An instant later, he was backing her up against the door, lifting her skirts, pulling down her drawers, and hastily unfastening his breeches.
She tore his coat off his shoulders, and he wondered why she was doing this. Did she understand the frenzy inside him that needed to be satiated? Was this for his benefit, or did she truly desire him at this moment, even after seeing his dark shadow self?
He slid his hand between her legs. She was already slick.
There was no need for foreplay. He entered her smoothly, driving all the way in, and she clutched at his shoulders. He lifted her up off the floor. She wrapped her legs around his hips while he pounded into her, again and again, up against the door. It was both rough and intimate. Nothing existed for him outside of their coupling. He felt only the soft, damp lushness of her womanhood and the sweet, honeyed gift of her lips.
“Don’t ever leave me,” he said without thinking, but it was as if another man had spoken.
She climaxed quickly, and he came seconds later. It was over very fast. He was not proud of it, but at least they were both satisfied.
Careful y, he lowered her to the floor, but she clung to his neck for quite some time and held on to him. Again he felt ashamed, and he was not entirely sure why. It was not clear to him.
He did not move. He waited there inside her until his racing heart slowed and his breathing returned to normal; then slowly, he withdrew. He fastened his breeches and backed away. Her skirts fell lightly to the floor.
“How can you care for me?” he asked with a frown of disbelief. “You are a gentlewoman. Why do you want to be my wife?”
“I told you before,” she replied. “I see goodness in you, and we both know there is passion between us.”
He turned and walked to the window, stared across the lake at the fields and forests in the distance. “But what if I had killed your Richard in the hall just now? What if I had driven a knife through his heart, right in front of your eyes?
Would you still see goodness in me then?”
“He is not my Richard,” she said. “And you did not kill him.”
No, but he had come very close, and part of him still wanted to.
Amelia crossed the room and sat on the sofa while he continued to look out at the calm lake.
“He denied everything about Muira.” Duncan focused on the still ness of the natural world outside the window, because he did not want to confront the inner whirlwind of his rage. He believed that if he gave in to it now, there would be no turning back. “Do you believe I am wrong to imprison him?”
“No,” she replied. “I believe he has acted with dishonor.
My uncle believes it, too. He has just revealed to me some of the things he learned this past week, specific details that were very disturbing to hear.” She sighed. “My uncle has spoken to many soldiers and Scots, and the King must hear their stories as well . And besides all that, I saw something in Richard’s eyes today that I did not see before.”
“What was that?”
“Lies.”
He looked up at the sky and watched a blackbird soar against it. “Why did you not see it before, lass?”
“Because I was not a whole person before I met you,” she continued. “I was naïve and sheltered and inexperienced, and I was consumed by the fear of losing my father and being alone. He is gone now, but look at me. I have survived, and I have discovered that I possess a mind and a reasonably strong will of my own. I survived you, didn’t I?”
He turned and faced her. “But now you’re consumed by your passions and the pleasures we share in bed. That sort of thing can blind a person, you know.”
She smiled faintly and shook her head. “I am not blind, Duncan. I see your scars very clearly. They are deep and they are numerous.”
He swallowed over a heavy swell of despair that rose up in him without warning. He was not accustomed to feeling such things. What had this woman done to him? “I do not want to disappoint you.”
“You have not done so yet,” she said without hesitation, which unsettled him, for he was not worthy of such confidence. He did not feel it in himself. “Quite the opposite, in fact,” she added. “Especial y after what I saw today. I know it was difficult for you.”
“It was torture.”
But there was so much more he could have told her—like how it pained him to turn on Angus, his closest friend, and how he had hated her in that moment for leaving him no choice.
But those were things he could not say. They were feelings he did not welcome. Feelings he would have to bury, like so many other things.
He turned away from her and faced the window, and wondered how long this proper, civilized inquiry was going to take.
* * *
Later Amelia entered the library, where her uncle was pacing in front of the bookcases. “You sent for me?”
“Yes.” He held out his hand and guided her to a chair, but continued to pace the room.
“You are troubled, Uncle?”
At last, he stopped and
faced her. His cheeks were flushed with color. “I have been thinking about what I witnessed in the banqueting hall , and I have become most distressed.”
Determined to stay calm, she folded her hands on her lap.
“How so?”
He began to pace again. “I have not changed my mind about Richard Bennett. I still believe he is a villain and must be stopped, but something else has been poking and jabbing at me.” He looked at her. “That savage who approached him with the claymore—the one they called Angus. Is he the Butcher, Amelia?”
She blinked up at her uncle in astonishment. “No, he is not.”
He studied her careful y. “He is not the one who abducted you from the fort? You must be honest with me, gel, because if your future husband is in legion with such murderous rebels, I cannot, in good conscience, sanction this marriage.”
She swallowed thickly. “I assure you, Uncle, that man was not the Butcher. He is a MacDonald, and he is an old friend of Duncan’s. They fought together at Sherrifmuir, and Duncan was once betrothed to his sister. That was who Duncan was questioning Richard about in the hall .”
“Yes, yes, I already knew about the young woman. Duncan shared many things with me. But when I watched that fierce Highlander advance across the room, I swear, my heart nearly gave out. I have never, in all my years, seen such fury.”
Amelia had.
“I believe,” her uncle continued, “that he would have slaughtered Richard before our very eyes if Moncrieffe had not been there to prevent it.”
She looked down at her hands. “Yes, I believe you are right.”
Her uncle went to a side table and poured himself a glass of claret from a crystal decanter. He took a drink, then paused a moment to let it settle his nerves. “So this MacDonald is not the savage who abducted you?”
“No, Uncle, I assure you he is not.”
He faced her. “That is a relief, I must say.”
She sat for a moment, then stood up and poured herself a glass of claret as well .
“What will happen to Richard?” she asked.
“That remains to be seen. I have sent a dispatch directly to the King with the details of my findings, and I have also informed Colonel Worthington at the fort. We sent a rider there today with news of Richard’s incarceration here, and I suspect Worthington’s forces will be here tomorrow to arrest him and take him back to Fort William. After that, there will likely be a court-martial.”
«Will he be hanged?”
“It is difficult to predict,” her uncle told her. “The man is a decorated military officer who has proven himself loyal to the Crown in countless situations in the past. These things can be…” He paused. “They can be delicate.”
“Do you believe he will be found innocent of the charges, even with your influence and the testimony of the witnesses?”
“I cannot lie to you, Amelia. It is quite possible.”
She lowered her gaze. “If that happens, Duncan will not be pleased, especial y if Richard is reassigned to Scotland.”
“I realize that, and who could blame him?”
She looked her uncle in the eye. “Have you expressed these concerns to him?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you plan to?”
He turned and poured himself another drink. “I haven’t decided yet.”
* * *
Just before dawn, Amelia woke to the sound of birds chirping on the rooftop outside Duncan’s window. A few stars still lingered in the violet sky. She was lying on her side, nude but warm beneath the heavy coverlet. Duncan lay behind her, also nude, his knees tucked into the backs of hers, his strong arms wrapped around her waist. She listened to the steady pace of his breathing and wished all moments could be like this— intimate and quiet, without the immediate threat of war, revenge, or prisoners in dungeons.
They had made love with great tenderness the night before, and it was unlike any other previous sexual encounter. Perhaps it was the release of Duncan’s goal to kill Richard. Perhaps now that he had faced him at last and resisted the urge, and Richard would be brought to justice, Duncan would find some peace within himself. She hoped he would be able to lay the pain of Muira’s death to rest and allow himself to love again.
How quickly the world could change, Amelia thought. It was difficult to believe that not long ago she had imagined a happy future for herself as Richard’s wife. It was frightful to imagine where she might be right now if things had not unfolded as they had. Would she be lying naked in Richard’s arms?
Knowing what she now knew about his crimes against women and children, the thought made her skin crawl.
There was an eruption of noise just then. Voices shouting in the bailey. Someone blew a horn.
Duncan was out of bed in an instant, looking out the window. It was still dark outside, except for the faint pink glow of the sunrise on the horizon.
She sat up and hugged the covers to her chest. “What’s happening?”
Without answering, he disappeared into the dressing room and returned in a loose shirt with his tartan wrapped around his waist. He belted it and pinned it over his shoulder.
It was the first time she’d seen him in his kilt since her arrival at the castle. His thick sable hair was long and disheveled, just as it had been that first night when he stood over her bed, wielding an axe. He had not yet shaved; his jaw was stubbled.
Rugged and wild-looking, he dressed with deft speed, his hands working over buckles and brooches, his athletic legs taking him around the room with efficiency and purpose.
Amelia couldn’t seem to make her lips work in order to speak through her alarm. He was the Butcher again.
Transformed in an instant.
A knock rapped at the door as he pulled on his boots. He crossed to answer it. A kilted clansman stood outside, breathing heavily. “Bennett’s escaped.”
“When?” Duncan hardly seemed surprised. It was as if he viewed this as a natural consequence, typical of any rebel ion.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Mounted?”
“Nay, on foot.”
“Go. Saddle my horse and wake Fergus and Gawyn in the garrison.”
The clansman departed at a run, and Duncan returned to the bed. He knelt and pulled a long wooden chest out from under it.
“Get dressed,” he said, “and you are not to leave this room, do you understand? Lock the door behind me, and don’t open it for anyone. Anyone. ”
He removed his weapons from the chest—his claymore in a scabbard, which he belted around his waist, his axe and pistol, which he loaded in front of her. Last, he withdrew his shield and slung it over his shoulder to hang at his back.
“That incriminates you,” she said. “The stone—the Mullagate. There are tales about it.”
He frowned, then set it back in the chest. “I’ll find another.”
He handed her a dirk. “Take this.” He pushed the chest back under the bed and made for the door.
“I’ll send guards,” he added, in a belated attempt to reassure her that all would be well ; then he was gone.
Amelia scrambled out of bed and hastily locked the door behind him.
* * *
A key had been used in the escape. Someone in the castle had set Bennett free.
Duncan crossed over the bridge at a full gal op. The wind in his hair and the sound of Turner’s hooves clattering noisily upon the stones sharpened his senses, focused his resolve.
The Moncrieffe militia was assembling and would soon follow and spread out across the fields. Others were searching inside the castle wall s, some guarding the English soldiers, but Duncan knew that Bennett was gone and had escaped alone. The guard at the gate had confirmed it. He had looked Bennett in the eye as a knife plunged into his belly and twisted savagely.
That guard was now dead, and Duncan was no longer calm. Nor conflicted. He felt only one pure, unambiguous emotion.…
The sun was rising in the sky, and he had the advantage of both speed and k
nowledge of the terrain. He thundered across a dewy meadow toward the forest—any soldier’s clear choice for cover—and charged into the shadowed growth. Once inside, he cantered through the wood, leaped over a fall en log, then reined his horse to a halt. He paused and listened.
A mourning dove gave a plaintive call , and a gentle breeze whispered through the leafy treetops. He closed his eyes and sat very still in the saddle, alert and focused. A twig snapped. Footsteps pounded over the ground. A hundred yards away perhaps?
His eyes flew open. Digging his heels into Turner’s thick flanks, Duncan vaulted forward, deeper into the bush.
Seconds later, he saw a flash of red to his left and wheeled Turner hard over.
Duncan ducked forward, keeping his head low to avoid the slash of branches while he nimbly pulled his axe from the saddle scabbard.
Bennett was running hard. He was out of breath.
Panicked. He glanced over his shoulder.
Duncan gave a savage roar as Turner’s heavy hooves pounded over the mossy ground. Then everything went dark and still inside Duncan’s head as he leaned back and swung his axe through the quiet morning air.
Chapter Twenty-two
Duncan reined in his horse and dismounted. He strode back to where Bennett was huddled in a ball on the ground, hiding his face in the cradle of his arms. He was without his hat—for it had been sliced in two.
Duncan roughly shook him by the shoulder, as if to wake him from slumber, and Bennett responded by lying back in the moss and raising his hands over his head. It was a total, clear message of submission.
Duncan searched Bennett’s belt and pockets for the knife he had used to kill the guard, located it, then wiped the blood off on the moss and slipped it into his own boot.
“You’re the Butcher, aren’t you?” Bennett asked.
“I am the Earl of Moncrieffe,” Duncan replied. “Now get up.”
Duncan paced back and forth, axe in hand, while Bennett rose on unsteady legs.
“I wouldn’t have recognized you,” Bennett said shakily.
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