“Away, now!” Sorcha sobbed at him. “Away before ye get yerself killed! I’m yers,” she continued, her sobs racking her body. “I will always be yers.”
Graham had to drag Cameron away, and when he got to his horse, he stood there until Graham hissed, “Mount the damned beast and let us away. Ye have planned this, and I ken it’s gutting ye, but it is going exactly as ye said it would. Dunnae lose faith in yerself now, Brother.”
Cameron nodded grimly, mounted his destrier, and rode away. He didn’t look back. He feared if he did, he’d change his mind and ruin everything.
Twenty
Sorcha’s entire body was wrapped in weariness and despair. Sitting on a horse behind Hugo and beside Broch, waiting helplessly for them to depart, she tried to think of something she could do, yet she could not seem to rip her focus from what had just occurred. She stared off in the direction Cameron had disappeared, both relieved that he’d left and was not killed, and shocked that he had actually departed. He was gone.
Betrayal and abandonment enveloped her, yet she shoved back at the emotions. She’d told him to go, wanted him to do so. If he’d stayed and fought for her, he would have lost his life. The thought of a life hanging in the balance brought Finn to mind. What could she do to aid him? She glanced behind her to where he was being held, and as she did, his scream ripped through the air. A scream tore from her own lungs as her brother grabbed a sword from the hands of the startled warrior to his right. The warrior to Finn’s left, one of Hugo’s men, responded lightning-quick, plunging his sword into Finn’s heart. Sorcha watched in mute disbelief as Finn crumpled to the ground.
She started to slide off the horse to go to him, but Broch jerked her back on. “Ye kinnae help yer brother now.”
Blood poured from Finn’s wound onto the ground, and she knew it to be the truth. Her heart wrenched, and she turned to Broch for comfort, only to remember he had betrayed Cameron by drawing his sword against him. She knew in her head that Broch likely felt he had to first be true to the king, but her heart hated Broch at this moment. “I despise ye,” she hissed.
“Good,” he growled. “I’d be disappointed if ye did nae.”
She frowned at the statement, but there was no time to contemplate it, as Hugo had ordered them to depart. It seemed as if they rode forever, with nothing more than the clopping of horses to break the silence. They departed the woods and turned toward twin cliffs. She recognized them; they were near her home. It made her think of her father.
“What will happen to my father?” she demanded of Hugo.
The man stopped his horse and turned to her. “He is dead, Sorcha.”
She flinched at the news, and despite everything her father had done, sadness weighed on her heavily.
“We feared he would try to plot further against our beloved king, so we were forced to kill him,” Hugo finished.
“Ye’re a hideous beast,” she spat.
He offered a twisted smile. “That’s what yer uncle said when I told him what I had planned for ye. He vowed to hunt me down, but the poor devil dunnae have a very astute mind. I simply led him into the cellar and locked him in. I suspect he’ll be getting quite hungry and thirsty verra soon. Now, if ye are an obedient lass and marry me quickly and without trouble, I’ll save him for ye. I ken he is special to ye.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’ll nae marry ye until I see ye release my uncle and give him time to get away from ye.”
“I could beat ye till ye submit,” Hugo threatened.
Sorcha saw Broch stiffen beside her. She supposed it was something, at least, that he disliked Hugo’s threatening to hurt her, though Broch’s response did not make her forgive him for betraying Cameron.
“I’d prefer death than marriage to ye,” she said sweetly, “so if ye wish to beat me to try to get me to do as ye bid, ye best be ready to end my life. Will the king still grant ye Blair Castle, do ye ken?”
She saw the doubt her words caused flicker across Hugo’s face.
“Damn ye!” he bit out. He jerked his horse off the path toward the right. “We ride to the Stewarts’ home!” he yelled back to his men.
“Dunnae fash yerself with defending me, Broch,” she muttered. The man looked even more worried now than he had a moment ago when Hugo had threatened to beat her. “I can defend myself.”
Riding into the eerily quiet courtyard of the home in which she had grown up, memories flooded Sorcha’s head. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself racing her brother and sister across the courtyard. They all collapsed in a laughing heap of arms and legs. She recalled long walks near dark with her mother, revealing her hopes, dreams, and fears. Her chest tightened with the memory of waiting in the courtyard with her mother for Finn to return from the first battle to which Father had sent him. Finn had come home, defeated and shamed.
These were but a few of her memories, and though they were both good and bad, she had to blink back the tears at her happiness to have them returned. In the end, they made her who she was and had brought her to Cameron, who had given her, if but for the briefest time, extraordinary love.
She glanced around her abandoned home. No doubt the servants had fled in fear, and she imagined her father’s men had been dispersed to other lords’ commands. When Hugo started shouting orders at his men, her attention was brought harshly back to the moment and the very real need to save her uncle. Hugo yanked his destrier to a halt and dismounted, and before she had time to think of a plan, he jerked her from her destrier and set her hard upon her feet, fairly dragging her toward the very cellar in which he had told her they had locked Brom.
Her uncle’s animal cries hit her halfway across the courtyard, and rage surged. She tried to twist out of Hugo’s hold to race to the cellar, but his grip became so tight that she hissed in pain.
Broch, who had fallen into step beside her, narrowed his eyes on Hugo. “The lady is stubborn,” Broch said, his voice vibrating with what sounded to Sorcha like barely controlled anger. “If ye treat her thusly, she may refuse to marry ye, the king’s edict be damned.”
Hugo bared his teeth at her and Broch. “Do ye intend to stop me, as the king commanded ye to see she is treated well?”
“Nay,” Broch said, though he did sound reluctant to Sorcha.
Hugo grunted his amusement. “Excellent. I imagine she will relent if I beat her long enough, or perchance I’ll beat her uncle.”
Sorcha flinched at Hugo’s threat. No matter what, she somehow had to get Brom away. So loud were Brom’s cries that Sorcha had to curl her hands into fists in an effort not to pummel Hugo for what he had done. However, she feared a show of her anger toward him would worsen his treatment of Brom. When the cellar door was finally opened, Brom came barreling out, bellowing and swinging his fists in front of him, his face twisted in rage. For one breath, Sorcha wondered if he could escape, and she considered not calling his name—he was too wrought with emotion to have noticed her otherwise—but when Hugo raised his sword as if to strike Brom, she feared what Hugo would do.
“Brom!” she called. The swinging of his fists slowed a bit, but as Hugo’s men started to encircle him, he became frenzied once more. “Brom!” she yelled again and broke out of Hugo’s hold. When he reached for her as if to stop her, Broch gripped Hugo by the forearm.
“Let her try to calm the man, so that yer own men are nae injured,” Broch said.
Hugo jerked his head in a nod, and that small relenting gave her hope. “Call yer men back, please,” she begged, as an idea finally came to her.
“Fall back,” Hugo barked.
The moment they did, she moved slowly toward Brom, who was still swinging his arms. His eyes held a wild look, darting to and fro, but she called to him over and over until his gaze came slowly to her and recognition dawned in his eyes. Some of the fear ebbed, and a genuine smile lit his face. “Brom’s Sorcha,” he said in a voice filled with happiness. He held out his arms, and she went to her uncle and gave him a hug, pressing her lips to his ear.
“Let’s play a game,” she said to him, her voice a threadbare whisper. She could not tell him the truth; he’d never run if he thought she was in danger. The only way she could possibly save him was to lie to him.
He nodded, and she took his hand in hers and led him, under Hugo’s watchful gaze, some feet away to take a seat on a log. Brom was big but fast, and he knew these woods well. If she could give him a lead, even if only a breath of one, maybe he could escape. It was his only chance.
She patted Brom on his big hand. “You hide, and I’ll come find ye. Just like I used to,” she whispered, recalling the time it had taken her an entire day to find him.
She’d feared what would happen if she could not find him because she realized he was not going to come out from where he had hidden. He would wait, with his childlike trust, for her to come to him.
Brom nodded enthusiastically. “I hide,” he whispered back.
“Aye, Brom. Ye hide. And dunnae come out until I find ye.” Her gut twisted with the knowledge that the time may not come.
She stood with him, pushed him in front of her so that she would at least be partially blocking him should Hugo order his men to shoot, and moved him toward the woods, ignoring Hugo’s calls for her not to venture so far. She shoved Brom with more urgency, and when footsteps pounded behind her, she whispered, “Away with ye! Hide with the speed of an eagle.”
Brom laughed and dashed off into the thick woods. When one of Hugo’s men started past her in pursuit, she stuck out her foot and smiled with grim satisfaction as he fell to his knees. Suddenly, she was yanked around, and Hugo loomed over her, glaring at her menacingly.
“That was verra foolish,” he hissed as men streamed past them to go after Brom.
Hugo gave her a hard tug and started dragging her toward the castle. “And what do ye intend to do, Hugo?” she demanded, allowing her rage to pour out of her. She gave a derisive laugh. “Ye kinnae marry me. My home is abandoned. There is nae a priest,” she said triumphantly.
Hugo stopped midstride and gripped her chin. “I left the priest, my sweet.” He grinned evilly before jerking her behind him and continuing toward the castle. Except, when he passed the castle entry, she realized that he was headed to the chapel.
She dug in her heels, but it was pointless. Before she knew it, she was inside the chapel and standing in front of Father Grayson, the half-blind, half-deaf, sometimes-moral priest of her childhood home. Hugo held out a coin purse to Father Grayson, and the horrendous traitor took it without even glancing her way.
Broch came to her side, and when she looked at him, she saw that lines of tension creased his forehead and his brows were dipped together in a scowl. As the priest began the ceremony and Hugo said his vows, Sorcha found herself watching Broch and not the priest. The man seemed agitated, shifting from foot to foot, and she could tell he was clenching his teeth by the pulse that appeared at his jawline every few breaths.
“Say yer vows,” Hugo demanded, snapping her attention to him.
“Nay,” she replied calmly, conjuring up a picture of Cameron in her mind to give her strength. “As I told ye, I’d rather be dead than married to ye.”
Rage swept over Hugo’s face, and he whipped toward her and pulled his arm back. Her instincts sent her scuttling backward right into Broch, who shoved her behind him, and said, “Dunnae lay a hand on the lass.”
His deadly voice sent a tremor through her, along with a wave of gratefulness. Whatever anger she had against him for not standing by Cameron’s side lessened in the moment he tried to aid her. But the slow smile that spread across Hugo’s face made her fear what was to come.
“I’m glad to see ye will actually be of use to me,” Hugo said cheerily. He flicked his hand toward his men, and they descended on Broch to seize him.
As Broch fought them, Hugo turned to her. “Either ye marry me now, or I’ll kill him.”
Biting her lip, she glanced toward Broch and cried out at the sight of him, restrained on either side by Hugo’s men with another of Hugo’s guards standing in front of Broch, hitting him repeatedly in the face. Blood spurted from his nose, and his head started to fall forward.
“Fine, I’ll marry ye,” she spat, unable to stand the thought of Broch forfeiting his life because of her.
Something was wrong. Night was descending and the time for Hugo to have ridden this way with Sorcha had long passed. “We ride,” Cameron barked, not waiting to even check with his brother. Cameron had his destrier at a full gallop before Graham overcame him.
“Where are we heading?” Graham asked.
“Back,” Cameron said simply. “Something is amiss.” His chest tightened almost unbearably with worry.
“Let me lead,” Graham offered.
Cameron wanted to deny the request, but he knew well that Graham was the best tracker. He gave his brother a curt nod and fell slightly behind him, never more grateful than at this moment that he was no longer the fool who would not take help from his brothers.
They rode hard through the dark night, back past the Falls, now abandoned, and just as they paused for Graham to decide which way they should go, sticks snapped to Cameron’s left. He and Graham drew their weapons at the same time a large man emerged from the woods, blubbering and half stumbling.
“My Sorcha,” he cried. “My Sorcha, my Sorcha.”
Cameron felt like he was drowning in sudden fear. He remembered Sorcha’s stories about her uncle, and dismounting his horse, he stepped into the giant’s path. “Brom?”
The man stopped and turned his childlike gaze on Cameron. “Me Brom.”
Cameron almost laughed with gratefulness. “Brom, I’m Sorcha’s husband. Lead me to her. I’m here to save her.”
“My Sorcha? Sorcha at chapel. Bad man, evil man, marry her.”
The tic in Cameron’s jaw sprang to life. “Nay, Brom. Hugo Ross kinnae marry her. He can try, but Sorcha is my wife. Lead me to her now.”
Brom nodded. “Brom take ye to her. Ye take her away and keep my Sorcha safe.”
“Aye, Brom,” Cameron said. “I vow it.”
Sorcha could hardly believe she was wife to Hugo. Her mind denied it, but when Hugo turned to her, leered, and said, “Time for the joining,” she could not hide from the truth.
She glanced toward Broch, who was lying unmoving on the ground after the beating he’d taken, and she was not sorry she had saved him. But now that she had bought him time, she had to escape. As Hugo turned to grab her, she brought her knee into his groin as Cameron had taught her. She raced past his doubled-over form, slung open the chapel door, and stepped out into the courtyard. She had every intention of fleeing and not looking back, but the sight that greeted her shocked her to a stop.
Cameron sat on his horse, and her uncle was seated behind Graham on his horse beside Cameron. His warriors stood ready for battle behind them. The baleful grimness of his face, highlighted by the fact that his hair was pulled back, was both a welcome and worrisome surprise.
“What are ye doing here?” she gasped.
“I told ye,” he replied in a calm voice as he dismounted, “I will always come for ye.”
She raced toward him, even as the door behind her banged open and Hugo bellowed after her. Cameron closed the distance between them, jerked her to him, and shoved her behind him as he brought up his sword.
“Give me back my wife,” Hugo snarled. As Hugo’s men poured out of the chapel, Cameron’s, who far outnumbered them, came forward with their weapons drawn. Hugo’s men looked to him for orders, but Cameron spoke first.
“She kinnae be yer wife, Hugo, as she is mine.” Cameron’s words, though calm, held an undercurrent of deadly intention.
Sorcha frowned. Was Cameron trying to trick Hugo?
“I married her at my brother’s castle over a sennight ago,” Cameron went on, “and we were most assuredly joined. Ask her if ye dunnae believe me.”
Cameron turned to her, and she saw the plea in his eyes for her to trust him. She took
a deep breath and nodded. “I am his wife.” Even if it wasn’t exactly true, she was his wife in her heart.
“I’ll kill ye!” Hugo roared.
He charged Cameron, but Cameron was ready, fierce, and fast. He moved in a blur, swinging his sword high and plunging it straight through Hugo’s heart. The man fell to his knees and then crashed forward, landing with his face in the dirt, hunched over the hilt of the sword with the blade protruding from his back. Cameron’s men advanced past him to push Hugo’s men back, while Cameron rolled Hugo over with the tip of his boot. He spat in the dirt near Hugo and, with a grunt, jerked his weapon from the dead man.
She trembled as Cameron came to her and encircled her in his arms. “It’s over,” he said soothingly in her ear.
She shook her head and pressed her palm to his pounding heart. “Nay,” she said on a sob. “Broch is hurt.”
“Nay, lass,” came Broch’s voice as he staggered from the chapel. The sight of his battered face made her gasp, but he managed a grin. “It will take more than that to kill me.” He looked to Cameron. “I’m sorry I failed ye.”
Sorcha frowned as Cameron said, “Ye did nae fail me, Broch.”
Then Cameron wrapped his arm around her waist and led her a distance from his men and sister, who she only just saw well in the back out of harm’s way. “It is over,” he said emphatically.
“Ye have betrayed the king because of me and—”
He kissed her soundly to loud cheers from his men. “Nay, bean bhàsail. I plotted this scheme to save ye and us. The king was aware and part of the deception.”
She listened in growing shock and wonder as he told her all he had plotted, from their marriage, to the joining, to her thinking he had left her. His brow creased as he held her around the waist. “Say something. Say ye hate me, yell at me, anything. I kinnae stand yer silence.”
“We’re truly married?” she asked in amazement.
“Aye,” he said. The obvious joy in his voice warmed her entire body. He brushed his hand over her cheek. “I’m sorry for the deception. I had to keep ye safe. Are ye cross?”
How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady Page 32
