by Mary Wine
She drew in a deep breath, trying to fend off hopelessness.
“It is long done now, and me brothers have learned ye will no’ leave the matter be.” She spoke firmly, fighting back against the truth of his words. She had to. Otherwise, the only course of action left was to submit to his will. “Lift yer promise.”
“I will nae.”
“Then I will nae go with ye,” Helen told him softly. She pulled against his hold. He hesitated, but the curious looks being cast their way made him release her.
He let her go, and that stung far more than his grip had. “Perhaps me fate here is uncertain, but I will embrace it over being a prisoner of the MacPherson.”
She turned her back on him and hurried away.
Beast.
She should hate him.
So why didn’t she?
Oh, she knew it was in the way he’d come after her. Her emotions were a tangled mess as she battled the urge to trust him while trying to recall that she couldn’t do anything of the sort. The man had stolen her.
Yet he’d ridden after her.
Tangled.
And she very much feared that she was going to be strangled before she reasoned it all out.
* * *
“MacPherson sent his bastard to see me?”
Morton growled but he wasn’t really angry. No, anger only served one’s enemies. He was thinking. Contemplating what he had to work with, which at that moment was Marcus MacPherson.
“Your plan to keep the MacPherson heir will not be realized,” Morton’s secretary said.
“That day will come,” Morton warned in a low tone. “Have no doubt of it. The clans will come to respect the crown, and that can only be assured if their sons are raised here.”
“Shall I dismiss the man?”
Morton held up a finger. “Nay. Marcus is MacPherson’s War Chief.”
The secretary nodded.
“I have a use for him that will send a stern message into the heart of the Highlands. Tell him I will summon him later today.”
* * *
The Earl of Morton was the fourth regent for James Stuart, and he knew that fact full well. He knew a few other things too, such as the fact that his predecessor had been poisoned. Of course, he had ordered the deed done.
He held out his hand for his cup. A burly retainer held it to ensure that Morton didn’t suffer the same fate he’d given. Morton took a long sip and didn’t allow guilt to settle on his shoulders. Scotland needed sacrifices. He’d done what needed doing to ensure that young James remained king and a Protestant. England’s Queen Elizabeth could keep Mary Stuart as long as she liked, because if Mary ever came back to Scotland, Morton would happily kill her.
It really wasn’t a matter of faith, choosing Protestant or Catholic. No, it was about unity. Morton wanted Scotland to rise up and become a respected nation. That would never happen if Scots fought Scots in a war that would only end when half the population was dead.
Which meant religion wasn’t the only matter he needed to quell. Morton considered Marcus MacPherson, now before him. The man was pure Highlander and none too happy to have been kept waiting. Morton felt his pride rise as he considered the stance Marcus had taken in front of him. There wasn’t a hint of fear in him, his feet braced at shoulder width, his arms crossed over his massive chest. The man had tugged on the corner of his knitted cap, but that was as courtly as Marcus was likely to get. Morton enjoyed that too. He didn’t care for the feminine airs many of his courtiers had adopted from France and England. Scotland needed to unify, but her men should bloody well recall that they were men and leave the simpering and silk for women.
Marcus hadn’t put on any velvet to impress him. No, the War Chief stood there in his kilt and wool doublet, with a leather jerkin. The only concession he’d made was to wipe the mud from his boots. Men such as Marcus would lead ranks of fighting Scots the rest of the world would have to reckon with. Which made it imperative that Morton bring the clans under control. He needed them to defend Scotland and keep her young king on the throne, not feud with one another.
“Yer father sent ye.”
Marcus wasn’t intimidated by the Earl of Morton’s tone. “If ye do nae want to speak with me, I’ll be on me way.”
The earl smiled. “And no doubt consider the summons answered.”
Marcus shrugged. “Well now, me brother, Bhaic, and his bride are expecting a child. That should assure ye they are doing their best to make the match ye insisted upon a good one.”
“And the raids between Robertson and MacPherson have stopped,” Morton cut in. “Aye, but now the bloody Gordons are making trouble.”
“They are hardly the only ones, and old Laird Gordon is no’ going to see the end of next winter,” Marcus responded. “Lye Rob was a rat, and ye know it well. More important, the men of the Gordon clan knew it. They will nae have the heart to fight over his memory once their laird is gone to join his son. Better turn yer attention to Diocail. He’ll be laird of the Gordons, and I do no’ think him a fool.”
Morton slowly grinned. “Ye’re a worthy War Chief.”
Marcus inclined his head. “I do me duty, and now that I’ve seen ye, I will be on me way. A War Chief belongs on his land, where he can attend to his duty.”
“Let us discuss what I consider to be yer duty to Scotland.”
Marcus stiffened. “Ye’ve already had yer way with me family in the matter of me brother’s wedding. The feud between Robertson and MacPherson is put to rest. Keeping it there will take a great deal of me time, and I can nae attend to the matter while I’m standing here in the Lowlands.”
“So do nae trespass upon yer patience?” Morton asked.
Marcus nodded once.
“Scotland needs all of her sons. The English queen is past her child-bearing years, and every nation in Europe is making ready to invade her realm.”
“All the more reason for me to be grateful I was born Scots.”
“Aye,” Morton said. “Yet the world is nae as small as it once was. No’ with ships sailing farther and discovering new lands. It is a fact that we share our island with England. War with England has cost Scotland greatly for centuries. Without an heir, our king is in line for the English throne.”
“That will be a fine bit of justice, sure enough.” Marcus chuckled. “Maybe settle a few ghosts down and give us some peace during the dark hours.”
“Aye, justice at last,” Morton agreed. “Our king will need strong alliances in place to support his reign.”
Marcus wasn’t slow-witted. His expression hardened. “What are ye getting at, man? I told ye that if ye want that feud to stay buried, I am the one who will make sure of it.”
There was a clear warning in Marcus’s voice. Morton wasn’t offended, instead admiring the Highlander’s strength.
“It shall require yer attention, of that I have no doubt,” Morton said. “A marriage only begins the process. Highlanders do nae like to let their feuds go easily.”
“Good to hear ye agree with me.” Marcus reached up and tugged on his cap. “I will tell me father that ye considered the summons answered.”
“Aye,” Morton agreed.
Marcus was heading toward the door in the blink of an eye. Morton made a motion with his hand, and the men standing guard braced themselves in front of the door.
“Yet there is a service I require of ye, War Chief of the MacPhersons.”
Marcus turned around slowly, clearly wrestling with his temper. “And what might that service be?”
Morton chuckled, letting out a crusty laugh as he hit the arm of his chair. “Ye are pure Highlander, man. Ye have no idea how it turns me stomach to walk through yon doors and witness good Scotsmen taking up the ways of the French court. That bitch Mary Stuart brought it here. Lace, perfume, men painting their faces like doxies. It is me pleasure
to know her son will nae be raised by her.”
“I’m Highlander enough to want to be finished with this summons. I belong on MacPherson land. Tell yer men to move aside before I lose me temper.”
“The service I require of ye first.”
Marcus faced off with him. “Keeping the feud between Robertson and MacPherson buried is going to take the next ten years of me life.”
“Aye, and that is a service I appreciate, to be certain.”
“Glad to hear we are in agreement.” Marcus turned toward the door again.
“Yer father has raised a worthy son. I admire him for teaching ye duty before preference,” Morton stated firmly. “I have a duty for ye.”
* * *
He didn’t want to turn around.
No, Marcus would happily have chosen a fight with the men at the door, and that made him grind his teeth. The Earl of Morton had used such tactics before. The man was crafty, no doubt about it. Marcus had to think of his clan. The Earl of Morton was the regent, so there was no fighting his way out of the chamber.
Marcus turned and sent the man a hard look. “What is it ye want of me?”
“Since ye will be returning to MacPherson land and staying there,” Morton said, “ye could help me establish a strong alliance with England by taking home an English bride.”
“The fuck ye say.”
The earl only smiled at his outburst, which pissed Marcus off.
“I thought ye wanted alliances. Tell some English lass she’s to wed me, and she’ll die on the spot the moment she gets a look at me. I do nae think that is the sort of alliance ye seek.”
Morton started laughing.
“Enough,” Marcus grunted. “Ye are toying with me.”
The earl sobered. “I assure ye, I am no’.”
All traces of amusement were gone from Morton’s tone. Marcus suddenly understood in a very personal way just how his brother had been forced to wed. The man in front of him was ruthless to the core and intent on gaining his way. There was a cold, calculating gleam in his eyes that Marcus knew better than to discount.
The earl made a motion with his hand, and one of the doors was opened. There was a rustle as someone came in. Marcus prided himself on his strength, but he wanted to puke when he got a good look at the female Morton was presenting to him.
“She is a child,” he spat in disgust.
“Fourteen.”
Marcus stared at the girl in horror. She still had that slimness of limbs that went with an immature body. She blinked at him, her eyes large in her face. Two of Morton’s men were pushing her forward. She shook her head and stepped farther into the room.
“Ye see? Katherine has a solid spine. She’ll be a fine match for ye.”
Marcus turned his attention toward Morton, but not before he caught the flash of fear in Katherine’s eyes.
“Katherine Carew is the natural daughter of Francis Russell, the second Earl of Bedford. Bastard born, as ye are. Her father will soon sit on the Privy Council in England. It will be a fine alliance.”
“Ye stole her.” Marcus spoke quietly to mask his temper. “There is no way her sire would agree to an arrangement like this.”
“Which is why I have selected ye for her groom,” Morton explained. “Ye’ll wed her tomorrow, stay one night so I can make certain the union is binding, and then take her to the Highlands until she gives ye a son. Her father will have no recourse after that.”
Marcus actually took a step away from Katherine. “The hell I will.” He growled at Morton. “She”—Marcus pointed at her—“is too young. For all that I am a bastard, and a mean one, I’ll admit, I will no’ be putting me hands on so tender a lass. ’Tis indecent.”
“I am assured by the midwife that she has her woman’s flow.”
Katherine was pale. It was all Marcus could do to stand in place and try to think of a solution that did not include locking his hands around the Earl of Morton’s neck. If it were only him, he would indulge his temper, but the lass standing there blinking at him and biting her lip to keep silent would only be given to another. Perhaps a man who valued Morton’s approval more than his own decency. There were plenty of men who would sell their souls for the approval of the regent.
“A wedding and I will take her home, but there will be no bedding until she is grown fully to womanhood.”
“Ye think me a fool?” the earl asked.
“To offer me a lass for wife, ye must be,” Marcus answered pointedly. The earl’s eyes narrowed with his displeasure.
“Take him.”
The guards didn’t hesitate once the order was given. Marcus turned on them, relieved to have an outlet for his disgust. But more men poured in from the side entrance, shoving Katherine aside. As he fought, he smiled when he noticed the lass grabbing her skirts and running toward the door that led to the court. She yanked it open and tried to escape while Marcus kicked one of Morton’s guards through the door behind her.
Finley had been waiting on him. The retainer jumped into the fray as two guards grappled with Katherine. Morton had planned his attack well, making sure there were too many men for Marcus to defeat. They held him down by sheer numbers as he snarled at Morton.
“Ye’ll wed her and bed her. Defy me, and yer clan will suffer. I swear that to ye,” Morton hissed. “A night in chains will help ye see the wisdom of doing what I say. Take him away.”
* * *
“Helen, what is wrong?”
Brenda came toward her, cupping her shoulder to turn her around so she might get a better look at her face.
Helen stared, horrified by what she had to tell Brenda. “Marcus is here.”
Brenda gasped. “He followed ye.”
Helen scoffed. “The beast claimed he did not, that the earl summoned him.”
She couldn’t seem to stand still. She paced across the chamber and back as Brenda watched her.
“Of course. The earl is likely making certain Bhaic and Ailis are truly wed. Morton is a man who intends to have his way.”
“Aye,” Helen answered.
That was likely the way of it. She should be happy, but she wasn’t.
No, she wasn’t. Her heart ached, and that only frustrated her because she had set her mind to forget him, and yet she’d longed for that kiss, just as much as he had.
It would seem she had not escaped at all, and the only way to do so was to purge Marcus from her thoughts.
It was her poor luck to discover she had no idea how to accomplish that goal.
* * *
It was hours later when Helen returned to the kitchens for more food. Servants were taking their ease, now that their masters had been served their suppers, and were enjoying their drink.
“Ye should have seen him…”
“He took on six men before they managed to capture him…”
There was a breathy female sigh. “A Highlander for sure. Such a shame he’s to be wasted on so young a bride.”
Helen slowed down, listening to the maids. They stopped when they caught her looking at them. It was rude. She should have looked down and been on her way, but their words were stuck in her mind.
“Are ye talking of Marcus MacPherson?” The words seemed to cross her lips before she decided to ask the question.
One of the maids smiled. “Saw him, did ye? Then again, he is no’ a man that is easily missed.”
Helen offered her a nod.
The maid looked around before she continued. “The regent wants him wed to an English chit that he’s had locked away in one of the towers. I hear she’s related to nobility.”
The tray Helen held slipped from her grasp. The maids jumped as food went spilling onto the floor.
“Are ye daft?”
“Mind yer duties.”
Helen stooped down to gather up the mess. “What hap
pened to the MacPherson?”
“The earl had him tossed into chains, of course,” one maid answered with a shrug. “The man is the regent. His will must be obeyed.”
“Marcus MacPherson is the War Chief of the clan,” Helen said. “He will not bend.”
“Oh, he will,” the maid informed her smugly. “There’s a reason the Earl of Morton is the regent. The man is ruthless. That MacPherson will break.”
“How?” Helen inquired in a hushed, horrified voice.
The maid was enjoying the moment. She smiled as she leaned closer to Helen, lowering her voice so it didn’t carry through the stone passageways. “The earl is going to use the whip.”
Helen cringed but her confidence returned. “Marcus will die first, and the earl will not want to have to explain to the MacPherson clan how such a thing happened.”
“No, no, the whip will not be used on the War Chief,” the maid explained. “The girl. Only a monster would fail to break when her tender back is bloodied.”
* * *
“Helen?”
Brenda cupped her shoulders and pulled her completely into the chamber before shutting the doors.
“Tell me what has ye so horrified.”
Helen snapped out of the shock she’d been in since leaving the kitchens. That left room for her temper to rise. “The Earl of Morton is a vile villain.”
“Worse still, one who believes his cause is just,” Brenda agreed. “Such makes him very dangerous, make no mistake. Now tell me what ye heard.”
“The earl has Marcus in chains.”
