“I’ve thought about her all too often. Let’s go.”
***
They guided the horses carefully through yet another glen, bordered on both sides by the tall grass covered slopes, drifts of fallen rock and debris. The wind whistled around them, a forecast of future rain to come. Bastian could taste it on the air.
They’d sent the three Mackay ahead to scout.
Arriving at the crest of a hill, they found the men below with a young boy between them, struggling violently in their grasp, face hidden by the folds of his cloak.
“A Macleod brat no doubt,” Bastian grunted sourly. “Looking for cattle.”
Nicholas stared at the boy grimly.
The boy shrieked a rather girlish sound that made Sebastian sit up. Nicholas looked at him curiously, but Bastian was off his horse and striding down the steep hill. Rocks scattered beneath his feet, the wind picked up strands of his hair to fling them into his face but Sebastian could focus only on one thing.
Two of the men had the boy bent over with his arm twisted behind him. Armed with scian dubhs, swords still strapped to their backs, they seemed to find the boy amusing, if still a handful.
Sebastian waved the men back and the boy dropped to the ground, gasping in pain. His cloak covered him almost completely. Bastian bent down and gripped the lad’s arm, confirming his suspicion it was no simple boy.
One of the men spoke, lifting his chin in disdain. “The sprite claims to know ye Sebastian, and has asked for yer protection.” The man snorted, brows lifted in amusement, fully expecting Sebastian to laugh or refuse.
Sebastian jerked the hood back to stare at the woman in front of him. Even dressed as a boy, he had no trouble seeing past her disguise. Her eyes were wide, one marred with a ring of black and blue. Her lower lip was puffy from a blow, her jaw a grim shadow of purple from yet more bruising.
Sebastian felt a rage the like of nothing he’d ever known take over him. He gripped Rose tightly, pulling her closer to peer into her eyes. “Who did this?”
She did not answer. She stared past him at Nicholas who had come up from behind, her hands gripping Sebastian’s arms for balance.
“Who did this?” Bastian roared as he shook her.
Nicholas laid a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, Bastian. She is frightened.”
Sebastian looked at Rose, past the bruising on her face to the tunic, the breeches that enflamed his desire. The cloak had hidden her charms well enough from the men, but without it, she was clearly a woman, her hair braided to fall down her back, the tunic tight at breast and thigh. The devil did she think she’d get passed for a boy? He gritted his teeth and relaxed the hold on her arms. Looking down at her, a wave of protectiveness swept over Sebastian and he drew her against his chest and closed his eyes.
“Who did this?” he whispered more gently.
“Ye know who it was,” Rose replied wearily, her voice muffled against his chest.
Sebastian clenched his jaw to stem his fury. He lifted Rose into his arms as she sagged against him and carried her to a grassy spot. He knelt down and set her gently on the ground, brushing aside a few long strands of dark hair, his hand nearly trembling with the effort to be calm.
Nicholas waved off the men and crouched nearby, watching Sebastian intently. “You know who she is,” his brother remarked, the devil’s advocate.
Sebastian covered Rose with her cloak and then glanced over his shoulder at Nicholas.
“I fucking well know who she is,” Sebastian hissed.
Nicholas smiled faintly. “Just making sure you haven’t forgotten just what we were doing.”
“I’ve more reason now to do just that,” Sebastian snarled.
“Aye, you do. But does she feel the same?” Nicholas tossed a rock in his hand, deceptively calm.
Sebastian felt ice coat his heart at the sight of Rose Macleod punishing bruises. His hatred of Torquil Macleod deepened. “She is here, is she not,” Sebastian growled. He turned back to Rose and laid a tender hand on her brow. “Why?” Sebastian asked, choking at the thought of Macleod even touching her. He kissed her hair.
Rose trembled beneath his hand. She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him away. Looking at Nicholas, she spoke to Sebastian. “Somehow he knew it was I that told ye of Nicholas. He came to the cottage just after I arrived home, angry, oh so angry,” Rose’s voice caught with the remembered pain.
“How bad did he hurt ye?” Sebastian slid his hands down her arms, glared at the bruising he found beneath her sleeves.
Rose swallowed, her lashes a shadow against her cheeks. “I am fine, Mackay.” She looked at Nicholas. “He was furious that ye were still alive.”
Nicholas smiled grimly. “Aye, his desire to kill me was thwarted by my wife.”
Rose frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Sebastian sat beside her. His rage insisted he leave her behind to find Macleod. Had Nicholas felt the same intense fury? He had no doubt looking at his brother even now. Macleod’s failings were mounting rapidly. “It doesn’t matter. Just know I’ll kill him next I see him,” Sebastian hissed.
“Get in line,” Nicholas declared but softened the words with a brief grin. “We have a problem, however. What to do with the lass? We can’t take her back to Macleod.”
Sebastian answered without thought. “I’m taking her home.”
Nicholas lifted a brow in amusement. “Ah, and then what, brother? She is Macleod whether you like it or not. It will have consequences, should word get out.”
“If I marry her it won’t matter, she’ll be mine,” Sebastian stated haughtily.
Rose gasped and sat up to lean on her elbows. “Ah, ye can’t do that, Sebastian. Macleod’s angry enough to want to kill ye both. I’d not give him more reason.”
Sebastian cradled her face gently with his hands, leaning over her to kiss her brow. “No choice lass, I said ye’d be mine and I meant it. Ye are a bonny lass, bruised or not, and a boon to the Mackay once they see what I see.”
Rose pushed him away again and hid her face against her knees. Sebastian glared at Nicholas as if expecting him to argue. Nicholas did not.
“Macleod said a woman makes a man vulnerable,” Nicholas remarked quietly.
Sebastian pressed his cheek against Rose’s hair, but stared back at Nicholas. He understood finally what had driven Nicholas to marry Mary, what had driven his rage. Nicholas shrugged, but his green eyes promised retribution.
Sebastian turned to stare at the lands that ran toward the Macleod’s. He was sure his gaze held the same determination and fury. He had to take care of Rose first.
One of the clansmen standing aside spoke, an older man with graying hair and a faint smile. Eben motioned to the hills behind him. “I believe there’s a crofter hut not too far. Let me take her there, Bastian. Ye can trust me to keep her safe till ye return.”
Rose looked up, her expression one of relief. “Aye, please, Sebastian. I can’t go to yer people like this, please.”
Sebastian drew a hand over her cheek. “Ye need help, lass. Fiona is at the keep, she can aid ye.”
“I’ve nothing more than bruising and a few aches. I can live with them. If Macleod finds me at Varrich it will be death to all of ye.”
“He means it to be that anyways,” Nicholas reminded her.
Sebastian rose smoothly to his feet. He scowled at Eben. “Take her there then, but don’t let anyone, Mackay or not, within the cottage. Give some excuse to keep them away. I’ll deal with who she is when I take her to Varrich. Remember, I’ll be the only one allowed in.”
Eben nodded.
Sebastian leaned down and pulled Rose carefully to her feet. “The ankle?”
She smiled unsteadily. “It is fine, lad.”
He didn’t believe her, but allowed her to have her way. The cottage was not far, the same one that he had taken her to just a few days past. He closed his eyes. Ages seemed to have
passed since then. He sighed and pulled her against his chest. “It is the same place as we went before,” he murmured.
Nicholas glanced up in surprise.
Sebastian ignored his brother. “Eben will keep ye safe.” A glance at the man received a nod, the man’s expression grim. “I’ll come back for ye when I can.”
Rose sighed and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I trust ye, Sebastian Mackay. I know I ask ye to the do the devil’s work in taking me in.”
Sebastian laughed, without humor, and bent down to kiss her gently. “I’ve claimed ye as my own, Rose Macleod, clan or not. It will take a man far more dangerous than Torquil Macleod to keep me from what I intend.”
Handing her to his clansman, Sebastian took off at a sprint, intent on retribution.
Chapter 21
The sound of laughter woke Mary from a dream, one that quickly faded leaving her only the fleeting memory that it had included Nicholas and a deep yearning that she could not explain. She sat up to peer at the window. The sun was up, if barely, the sky outside once more a murky grey-clad canvas of clouds. She sighed at the dreary outlook, one that matched her own when she looked at the door.
Still closed for the third day, which meant Nicholas had not returned.
Mary expelled a breath of frustration. Their confrontation had been disconcerting, with Nicholas clearly at the edge of his control. He’d shown her another side of him, a tantalizing aspect of a man taking what he wanted, yet there had been that moment when that mood had shifted to something altogether different. Had he had second thoughts? Was he even now regretting ordering her to stay in their room? She thought not, eying the closed door. His absence left the order unchanged, and none of the servants had been brave enough to question why Mary stayed inside. She pushed back her hair from her brow and slid off the bed. Her shift torn beyond repair, she stared at what was left of it, lying still by the fire.
He could deny her. He could order her to stay in this room, yet Nicholas was hers, both in body and mind, tied by a heart he refused to let others see. He had meant to be violent, to allow his fury to fuel his actions, to take her in a cold dispassionate state of control. Yet he had not been able to do so, not once they’d come together.
She shivered and crouched on the cool flagstones, holding her hands against the warmth of the fire. “Ye are mine, Nicky.” She breathed the words, eyes closed, lips trembling at the memory of his kisses. She could bear the closed door, could still be angry at his highhanded actions, but once free she’d give him a piece of her mind, and then more of her body. The thought brought a tingling between her thighs, a desire that warmed her as the fire could not.
Looking at the door, she had to think about what that meant, to her and to Nicholas. His expression when he’d left had been troubled, yet he had not said he’d changed his mind.
She had pushed him too far, forgotten that Nicholas was a highland Scot well used to doing things his way. They lived to fight, had fought for generations past. It was what they did. She had known that when he’d put his ring on her finger. She was property, wife, lover, nothing more than that. Mary knew she had a lot of work to do in order to change that mentality. It was too soon, however, and she’d blundered badly.
She could amend what she had done, but could not alter the fact that she had angered Nicholas. The door was a test.
Mary crossed the room and stared at it for a long moment. She gripped the iron handle and pulled gently, waiting for the hinges to creak, to announce that she was leaving. She could walk out if only to prove to the stubborn Highlander that he was not going to bully her. She peeked around the door into the hall, still expecting at least one guard. The hall was empty as it had been since he’d left two days ago.
He’d meant it as a serious challenge then. She could leave without anyone stopping her. What would that mean? Mary shut the door with a sour taste in her mouth. Frustrated, she kicked the panel and then glared at the offending portal with her hands on her hips. He was testing her measure, to not only see if she would obey his command but also trust him to know what was best. That she would do as he demanded, even when she clearly would not like it. How long, however, did he expect her to remain isolated and alone? The three days had dragged on endlessly, but being a Drummond meant she couldn’t wallow in self–pity.
She had had to decide what was more important. Did she want Nicholas to trust her? Or did she cling to an independence that would more than likely leave her bed cold and chilly -- and empty. Mary looked around the room. Only a few things belonged to Nicholas. His breeches lay on the floor where he’d tossed them, a tunic peeked out from the chest at the end of the bed. A few trinkets sat on the mantel: a rock, a tiny box she’d noted held the locket he had once worn on his chest, and an oddly shaped little bird’s nest hardly bigger than her palm. They reminded her that Nicholas had once been a child here at Varrich, an image that brought a brief smile to her lips.
It was Nicholas she wanted, however she had to have him. She’d stay in the room until the moon turned blue if only to prove that she would. Once Nicholas was back things would change if she had her way. She’d not be a piece of property, nor would she be just a wife to be ignored and ordered about. They would be friends, lovers first, then husband and wife. In order to gain that level, Mary knew Nicholas first had to trust her.
She pulled a bench to the fire and reached for her shift. She had brought several, but still hated to throw one away if she could repair it. It would be serviceable enough for some things. She pulled out her sewing kit from a basket at her feet and began to unspool a length of thread to fix what he’d torn in his passion. The memory brought a flush of heat to her cheeks and a twinge between her legs. She had not missed the look he’d given her then, had seen the hunger in his gaze. She would repair a hundred gowns to see that look again.
Fiona arrived just before noon, her face pale as the apron she wore over her dress. “I’m sorry, Mary, but ye need to come down.”
Mary looked up from her sewing. The sunlight streamed through the window for a moment before the scuttling grey clouds hid it once again, promising rain. “I can’t leave the room, Fiona.”
“I know Nicholas has set ye a task, lass, but I’ve need that is more important. We’ve sick below stairs and I can’t take them all on by myself.”
With a frown, Mary shoved her gown into the basket beside her. Nicholas would have to understand. “Who is sick? What is going on?”
Fiona caught her arm as if to pull her from the room. “I’ve not a clue, but the men have been dropping like flies since breakfast. Only the men,” she added.
Mary hurried with her down the stairs. “Where is Branwen, why isn’t she helping? What is wrong? Have we taken on some illness?”
Fiona shook her head, drawing Mary closer. “Branwen left before breakfast and has not returned. I’ve no sense of what ails the men, it’s sudden, like they’ve eaten something bad. But we’ve all eaten the same, and no one in the house is ill.”
Mary didn’t like the sound of that, her gaze meeting Fiona’s. “Where is Hugh?”
“He’s gone with Rory to check on Wesley. And Donald Mackay left right after they did after receiving a missive from the Mackenzie urging him to come right away. He probably is ill on the road as well, I’ve no doubt.”
“Nicholas?”
Fiona stopped near the fire where several men huddled against the wall. She pressed her hand against the forehead of one and then another with a shake of her head. “He’s gone as well, as is Sebastian. We’re nigh defenseless, Mary. I’ve got a bad feeling about it all.”
A male scream brought Mary around to face the door, hand to her lips as another came closely after it. Shouts sounded outside the keep, the sound of fighting drew her rapidly to the window to push it open. Leaning out, she stared down at the scene below with a gasp of horror.
Several men lay on the ground, too still to be alive. More men waited on horses, their faces unfamiliar, w
earing plaids woven in muddy tones of reddish orange and black. Several archers stood at the road, bows stretched taut, arms unwavering as they aimed above Mary’s head.
Toward the men on the ramparts, the high wooden walkway that extended from the roof and out over the three story walls below. Looking at the men lying so still below, she doubted there were many men if what Fiona said was true. She pulled back inside and hurried toward Fiona when more screams made them both cringe. Footsteps thumped up the stairs outside the keep. The crisp sound of a metal blade drawn sent the two women back against the wall. Ann hurried out of a side room, her face pale.
Mary searched the room for some kind of weapon. She had little time to find something and picked up a pewter goblet from the table. Hoping for Rory, or even Nicholas, Mary held her breath, hiding the goblet in the side of her skirt. It wasn’t much but she might get a good blow or two with it.
The door swung open almost silently to slam hard against the wall behind it. The man standing in the doorway was not her husband or a friend at all. The Earl of Sutherland smiled and bowed slightly, the sword in his hand glinting in the elusive sunlight.
“Ah, here you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Behind him, two more of his men stood on the steps, swords drawn.
Mary gripped the goblet tightly. Ann stepped forward but Sutherland did not look at her but kept his gaze fixed on Mary. She knew then he’d meant his words for her. She pushed back a growing sense of panic and laid a hand on Ann’s arm to hold her back, moving in front of her. “Indeed? Why is that, my lord? What interest do ye have with any of the Mackay?”
Sutherland laughed. “You might not want me to answer that, my dear.” He gestured toward the men outside on the stairs and they moved to each side of the door. Sutherland stepped inside and then shut the door carefully. He turned toward them with a smile. “A good day, don’t you think, ladies? The sun has finally come out.”
Mary held her breath and then let it out in a slow exhale as Sutherland came closer, his gaze moving casually over the room. “We have things to discuss, my dear. Do so peacefully, or I can and will make you sorry.” He stopped in front of her, turning finally to look down at her intently. She had no doubt he knew of her makeshift weapon.
Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay Page 22
