by Amy Jarecki
Without a word, the baron dragged her into the inn and up to her chamber. He pushed her inside and slammed the door behind him. “I watched you. You have feelings for that traitorous cur.”
He sauntered toward her, and Anne clutched her hands against her chest. “He means naught to me.”
“What happened during time you were away? Did he touch you like this?” Wharton yanked her into his body and ran a chubby hand across her breast. It felt grating, sick, for it was nothing gentle and nothing like Calum’s touch.
“Of course not. Calum didn’t know I was aboard the Flying Swan. He worked as quickly as he could to return me to England.” Anne gritted her teeth and feigned her best adoring gaze upon her unsightly husband. “To you, my lord.”
“Do not seek to placate me, woman. I can see through your pretty exterior.”
“You must stop this insanity. I was abducted en route to you. I have done nothing wrong.”
He raked his eyes down her body and stepped toward her. “So you say.”
Anne’s fists flew to her hips. She stood her ground and faced him.
Wharton wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and tightened his grasp. She wanted to cry out, but he shoved his mouth onto hers. Anne tried to pull away but he held her fast. It took every effort to remain calm and allow Wharton to thrust his tongue in her mouth, but she could not bring herself to respond. She wanted to bite down. No. That would be a costly mistake.
When he finished, Anne backed away. He advanced with revulsion in his eyes, rubbing his hands. “I’ll not have my wife looking at another man. Do you understand?” With a quick step, he drew his arm back and slammed his fist into her gut.
Anne doubled over, and he shoved her to the floor.
“Answer me!”
Sucking in air, tears burned her eyes. “I-I understand.”
With a step, he drove the tip of his shoe into her side and pushed her hip into the hardwood. Anne cowered, cradling her head with her hand. He bent down, picked her up and tossed her onto the bed.
She grasped a pillow for protection. “Stop. Please.”
Wharton untied the front of his breeches and climbed on top of her. Anne pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. She screamed as he fought to open her arms and straighten her legs. He lay forward and pinned her under his weight. Anne struggled, gasping for breath. Her mind flooded with images of the brute in the stable, forcing her. Calum wasn’t here to fight for her. Wharton tugged up her gown. Holding her down, he fondled himself. Anne cried out, writhing beneath him, barely able to breathe.
She glanced down. He yanked on his manhood with rapid strokes, but it remained flaccid. He lifted his face to her, his eyes hard. He shoved himself back into his breeches. “We’ll resume this later when my blood has cooled.”
Anne rolled out from under him and curled into a ball. The door slammed. He would be back. When?
Tears welled in her eyes and her throat burned with inaudible screams. They’re going to kill Calum. They cannot. They cannot.
Gathering her wits, Anne rose and tiptoed across the room. She pressed her ear to the door. Everything remained silent. She cracked it open. Two battleaxes crossed before her. She closed the door, turned the lock, and drew in a ragged breath. As she feared, she had married a monster. Anne held her head with her hands and staggered to the bed. She needed her wits. How could she escape this nightmare, and save Calum from the gallows?
Chapter Twenty-one
Calum lay upon a musty bed of straw in the corner of a dank cell. Stone walls encased him, a small wooden door the only portal to freedom. Still without water, he ran his rough tongue across cracked lips. And without food, he had lost control of his wits. His hands shook. Hanged, drawn and quartered. He shuddered, completely aware Wharton would insure a man wasn’t killed by the hanging. The bastard would want to watch as the executioner cut Calum open and pull out his innards. It was the most hideous death imaginable.
Devoid of light, Calum lost track of time. In and out of consciousness, pain controlled his mind. He tried to remember how beautiful Anne had looked. His good hand dropped to the straw, his finger brushed something soft—cloth. He reached out and brought it to his nose. Anne’s scent. His mind flashed back to the night she’d given him the kerchief. She’d said she wanted him to have something to remember her by. Could he ever forget her? No, not even if he lived to be ninety. He crumpled the kerchief into his fist. He would die with it there.
The lash marks on his back throbbed with knife-like sting. Anne had revealed his home, told them he was from Raasay to stop the lashings. Didn’t she know he’d rather meet his end than give away his clan? Though she had done it for him, he needed to warn them. What was she thinking? Trembling, he raised to his elbow and peered across his cell. His stomach convulsed with dry heaves when he tried to push himself to his knees and his broken wrist gave way. He traced his good hand over the swelling. He heaved at the agony of a mere light touch and swallowed back the bile.
Footsteps approached his cell. They scuffed across the dirt floor as if creeping. A lock clicked. The door opened and closed quickly. Two soldiers stood over Calum, holding a torch. “Ye look like ye’ve been through the fires of hell.”
“John?”
“Aye, and Ian.”
“I told ye to sail back to Raasay. Is the ship lost?”
“Nay. Norman has the ship hidden on the Scottish side of the Firth.” They eased him to his feet. “Put on this uniform. We need to move fast.”
Calum reached for the trews, but his knees gave out and he stumbled. “I’ve no use of me left hand.” John helped on his left and Ian on his right.
“Can ye walk?”
“Not sure—The rack.”
“Christ,” John swore. “Ye’ll have to bear it until we can get ye to a horse.”
Calum gritted his teeth and hissed against the pain of a shirt scraping over his open wounds, but he held in his bellow. John helped him into his trews and Ian pushed a helmet onto his head and draped a cloak across his shoulders. Supporting him under his armpits, the two men helped him past two dead guards and up the stairs.
Calum barely maintained consciousness as John and Ian led him through the back corridors of Carlisle. When the smell of fresh hay wafted to his nose, he knew they’d arrived at the stables. John pushed a mounting block in front of him—something only used by women and old men. Calum didn’t balk, but leaned into them as they helped him step up and throw a leg over a horse.
He reached for the reins and stopped. He opened his palm, holding the kerchief. “Anne.”
“She’s with her husband now,” John said.
Her husband? That evil monster? She’ll die. Calum slid her gift into his pocket. His head spun. “We need to save her.”
“She’s lost to us.”
Calum tried to argue but everything faded. His consciousness blurred in and out. The pain nearly skewered him but Calum grit his teeth and wrapped his good hand around the reins. With cloaks pulled close about them, they headed for the citadel gates. Barred, a soldier stopped them and asked their purpose.
Calum pulled the helmet down over his face and crouched behind Ian, out of the soldier’s line of sight.
John leaned forward in his saddle. “By order of Lord Wharton, we are in pursuit of the enemy’s men.” John delivered his response with a practiced English accent.
The soldier leaned around Ian and eyed Calum. John spurred his horse and pulled on the reins. The steed reared. “Open the gate now, soldier,” John bellowed with unmistakable command.
The iron gates groaned as the guards winched them up. The horses’ shod hooves stuttered on the cobblestones, anxiously anticipating their chance to run beyond the town gates. Calum’s gut lurched as the gate raised high enough for them to duck under and ride through. Following John’s lead, Calum and Ian barreled out, and turned their horses north, fleeing to Scotland.
Calum grabbed a fistful of mane to keep his seat. Blinded by pain, h
e fought to keep his wits. If he survived this, he would kill Thomas Wharton and free Anne from the demon’s wicked grasp. But now he had no choice but to flee for his life. He must regain his strength. Without it, he would be of no use to her.
***
Anne used an eating knife from her luncheon tray to pry open the immobile window. At the sound of thumping down the corridor, she turned her head and froze for an instant. Heart pounding, she dashed to the door and pressed her ear against it. Rapid knocks beat not far away.
A door creaked. “What the devil?” Wharton’s voice bellowed.
“The prisoner’s escaped.” Denton’s gravelly voice delivered the curt response.
“That’s not possible. The man hung on the precipice of death.”
“He had accomplices.”
Anne’s mind raced. Calum has escaped? Praise God.
Doors slammed, footsteps thundered back through the corridor and down the wooden steps. She ran to the window and pulled aside the drapes. Nearly nightfall, the courtyard amassed in a flurry of turmoil through the distorted view from the diamond-shaped sections of glass. Her breath fogged the widow as she waited and watched the scene below. Using the drapes to wipe away the condensation, she craned her neck. His lordship and a cache of soldiers cantered toward the gates. Citizens scurried in every direction to avoid being trampled. She glanced to the ground below her window. It was a bit of a drop, but not so far the jump would kill her.
The baron, clad in a coat of shiny armor, disappeared through the citadel gates. A mass of helmeted heads and blue tunics bobbed, as the soldiers trotted behind him. How long had Calum been gone before Wharton and the guards discovered him missing? John must have doubled back. Calum was too weak to escape on his own. She wondered if he even had the strength to flee but knew the answer. Calum would hang on. He had far too much to live for.
Anne whipped around, pulled her trews out from under her mattress and held them up. She reached back to untie the laces of her bodice when a rap came at her door. “Your supper, my lady.”
Crabapple.
“A moment.” Anne stuffed the clothes back under the bed. She’d need food. It would be madness to flee until the sun had lost all its light, and the townspeople had shuttered themselves inside.
Anne opened the door, and Mrs. Crabapple stepped in. Her stare shifted across the room as if she suspected Anne of having a hand in Calum’s escape. She tromped to the table and set down a tray. “Full supper for you. You must have found favor with his lordship.”
Anne looked at the slab of roast beef overlapping the pewter plate. A slice of bread sat on a cloth, and a tankard of ale beside it. With a tsk of her tongue, Anne asked, “How long do you think I should be punished for my own kidnapping?”
Crabapple folded her arms and raised her chin. “’Tis not the kidnapping. ’Tis the way you embarrassed the baron by appearing at the citadel wearing those abominable breeches.”
“I’ll hope you tell that to the murderous Scot when my husband brings him back to serve his sentence.” Anne’s skin crawled at her own words, but she needed Crabapple to think she had accepted her fate, else soldiers would be guarding her window as well as her door.
Crabapple cackled. “I’ll watch his execution with great satisfaction.”
Anne sat at the table and picked up the eating knife. “As will I.”
When the door closed, Anne shoveled in a few bites of meat and a hunk of bread. Guzzling the ale, she darted to the washbasin and snatched up the drying cloth. She wrapped up the remaining food and pushed it into her satchel.
Working loose her laces, she slipped out of her gown and braided her hair. By the time she finished dressing in her shirt and trews, nightfall blanketed the town. Anne glanced across the room and stared at the bed. She pattered over and arranged the pillows under the bedclothes to give the illusion of a sleeping form beneath. Hopefully, Crabapple wouldn’t notice her disappearance until morning—and Wharton would not return this night.
She snuffed her candles and tried to open the window. The cursed thing still wouldn’t budge. Anne bore down and used all her weight to force it up. With a creak that could have awakened the dead, it cracked an inch. Anne snapped her head around, certain the guards would barrel through her door, but it remained closed. Now the window was started, it took less effort to push it up far enough to slip through.
Anne secured her satchel across her shoulder. It still had her shillings and her keepsakes. She pulled the bonnet low over her head so it shadowed her face. She poked her head out and surveyed the courtyard. The hum of the crowd from the pub buzzed through the air. In the distance, horses clomped across cobblestones. She heard a voice and cast her gaze to the battlements. Guards chatted with their backs turned, watching the scene beyond the walls.
Anne slipped her legs over the sill and slid down until she hung by her fingertips. Closing her eyes, she released her grip. Her knees burned as she landed in a crouch, but the pain eased when she straightened. Hugging the brick walls, she tiptoed through the shadows toward the gates. Soldiers inside the guardhouse chatted. Holding her breath, Anne slipped past their open door and hid in a recess alongside the iron gates which barred her from freedom.
Anne waited, worried her white shirt would pick up the light. She bent down and swiped her hands over the dirty cobblestones and rubbed the muck across her clothes and face. Why hadn’t she thought to sully herself with ash from her chamber hearth?
The clomp of hooves approached. Anne pressed against the stone wall and held perfectly still.
The deep bass of a soldier’s voice echoed through the archway. “Night patrol. Open the gate.”
The chain creaked as the gate cranked up. Anne remained frozen in place. The soldiers rode through. She waited for the last man to ride clear before she slipped out the gates. She hugged the outer baily walls until she came to a copse of trees. Motionless, Anne listened. Footsteps on the battlements above walked toward her and stopped. Trembling, she tried to mold her body into the wall. After an eternity, the footsteps started again. She waited until the sound faded and then ran for the cover of the trees.
Her foot squished into mud, and she crouched down and rolled in it. Holding her hands up, her fair skin was barely discernible.
Anne ran until a stitch in her side screamed for her to stop. Panting, she leaned forward with her hands on her knees. She looked across the shadowy lea around her, now peppered with trees. Though she must stay away from the path, she had a good sense of north from the stars overhead and the moon’s position. She gazed toward the black horizon. She hated the dark, but it was the best time to move unnoticed. Shoving her satchel tighter over her shoulder, Anne trudged ahead.
***
Calum had no idea how he got in the skiff, but he welcomed the sight of the Sea Dragon. John and Ian rowed toward the ship with strong strokes. Calum scanned the shoreline for the enemy and exhaled a long breath when he saw no one.
The skiff thudded against the ship and John hauled in the harness. “Help me get shift into this.”
“I can do it.” Calum stood, but his head spun the world upside down. The next thing he knew, he was on his arse in the bottom of the boat.
“Stubborn Scot.” Ian braced his feet either side of him and lifted. Calum couldn’t stop the bellow roaring from his gut. Shards of pain shot through the welts on his back and his eyes rolled back. Calum nearly lost consciousness as John slipped Calum’s legs through the ropes and shouted, “Pull him up.”
Nausea clamped his gut. He gripped the ropes with his little remaining strength as the men hoisted him up the hull of the ship. Calum had nothing left, no fluid. Nothing. Hands reached over the rail and pulled him onto the deck.
“Holy Christ, Mother Mary and all the saints. Ye look like ye’ve been to hell and have no’ made it back yet.”
Calum couldn’t focus, but he’d recognize Norman’s voice anywhere.
The men carried him aft. His head dropped. Sails above clapped, billowing in t
he wind, demanding to be set loose.
“Weigh anchor,” John yelled.
Calum’s eyes lost focus when they placed him on the bed. They were safe. For now. Blackness enveloped his mind.
Chapter Twenty-two
The damned horse beneath him continued to lose speed, and the arm wielding his crop burned. Wharton’s strength waned. He swapped hands and still could not whip the horse hard enough to drive it to a faster pace.
The trees opened up and a steep slope dove toward the sandy shore. The water glistened black, reflecting the moon with silver streaks. Wharton reined the horse to a stop on the beach. He scanned the firth’s dark outline.
“There.” Denton pointed out to sea.
Following the henchman’s gloved hand, Wharton spotted a carrack in full sail, heading for the Irish Sea. The bastard had quite a lead. Wharton’s eyes narrowed. “The pox-ridden whoreson.” He whipped his head back toward the mob of pathetic soldiers who only now filed onto the shore. “Someone fire a musket shot, damn you all!”
Wharton rode into the surf as a lead ball screeched, rolling into the barrel of the damnable weapon. Though inaccurate, a blast from a musket would tell the blighter Lord Wharton was coming. Wharton’s insides roiled with the click and earsplitting peal.
He glanced down at the froth streaming from his horse’s neck. Pathetic beast.
Denton rode in beside him. “We’ll cut them down on Raasay.”
Wharton slapped the crop across his knee. “I should have let you whip him to death.”
“That would have been enjoyable. But I like the chase.”
“Let him think he has won. We’ll strike him when he least expects it, and wipe out his entire clan.” A flame of rage spread through Wharton’s chest. “Ride to Maryport. Commandeer a navy ship under my seal.”
