by Mary Wine
Brenda’s face tightened, but Helen suspected it was because the other woman thought Helen was beset by tender feelings.
“And I would be angry if it were any innocent man put into chains,” Helen informed her.
“We’ll puzzle that another time,” Brenda said, sweeping Helen’s declaration aside smoothly. “Why is Marcus in chains?”
“The earl wants him matched with an English bride. Yet she is only fourteen.”
Brenda recoiled in distaste. “It would seem Marcus is worthy of my good thoughts.”
“Aye, worthy.” And yet he was in chains. Helen paced across the chamber, desperate to discover a means to assist the man.
“Ye want to help him?” Brenda asked.
Helen turned back. “The earl plans to whip that girl until Marcus relents.”
Brenda sucked in her breath. “He will have to, or Marcus is no’ the man I believe him to be.”
“She is fourteen, just barely so.”
“I know full well what she faces.” Brenda was standing, her fists tightened as she relived the nightmare of her marriage. “And I doubt the earl will leave the matter of consummation in question.” Brenda’s tone was tight. “This is court, so there will be witnesses to the bedding.”
“That is disgusting.”
“Aye.” Brenda shook her head. “And no amount of tears will stop it. There are true villains here who enjoy the suffering of the innocent. It will be an entertainment enjoyed to the fullest by some.”
“And they will no doubt enjoy seeing Marcus’s honor break because they have none of their own.” Helen felt her temper rise. Only this time, it was on Marcus’s behalf. For certain, she found him overbearing, and he had wronged her. But she now recognized he had taken her for all the right reasons, and he deserved respect. Had earned it.
Brenda stared for a moment into the air, her mind lost to a memory. She shuddered before she drew herself together. “There is only one solution.”
Helen moved closer.
“Marcus must wed tonight.” Brenda shot her a determined look. “To ye.”
Helen jumped back, but Brenda reached out and captured her hands. “It can nae be me, because I am widowed and no longer a maiden. The union might also be annulled on the grounds of the contract me uncle has made for me.”
That was true. Young couples who ran away in the hope of being wed to their heart’s choice often returned home to discover that their parents had such unions annulled because of contracts with others. “And we dare not leave Marcus unwed for Morton to utilize in his plans. Yet, Morton might annul the marriage in the morning.”
Brenda nodded in agreement. “The earl has dismissed us as merely women. So, we must be cleverer.”
Helen felt her lips curving in spite of the situation. “It is indeed an honor to be able to prove to that man that he does nae control all he sees.”
“I will have to find a priest willing to defy the regent and some witnesses Morton will no’ be able to intimidate. They will keep him from annulling the marriage.”
“I will want it annulled,” Helen exclaimed.
“What ye do once ye leave this castle does nae matter,” Brenda replied. “Except ye shall have to gain Marcus’s agreement for such an action.”
“He’ll give it,” Helen answered. “For no other reason than we are saving him from Morton’s plans. Marcus does nae bend well nor does he forget when a service is done for him.”
Brenda nodded. For a moment she looked like she was going to argue, but she returned to her planning. “In the morning, I will change places with the girl so she can leave with ye.”
“The earl will no’ be letting ye leave, especially once he discovers we have ruined his plans for Marcus.”
Brenda slowly smiled. “Leave that matter to me. There is something else I know about court, and that is where many people’s dirty secrets are hidden. There are those who will help me keep Morton from making alliances with England, of that I am sure.”
“But what of yer fate?” Helen asked. “Ye will be left here to face the earl’s wrath.”
“That can nae be helped, and I can no’ return home. So, it must be me to stay and ye to go. For certain, I will face that man if it means he can nae force a girl to wed,” Brenda said quickly. “Enough talk. We must away to church and find a willing priest.”
“And the guards?”
Brenda rolled her eyes before she aimed a sad, pleading expression at Helen. “They will be no trouble at all.”
Helen believed her but discovered her feet frozen to the floor. Brenda looked back at her. “It is the only way, unless ye prefer to leave him to his fate.”
“Such would make me a monster.”
But what would helping Marcus do?
Helen shuddered as she forced herself to move. Life often offered difficult choices. She sighed as they emerged into the hallway and discovered the guards away from their posts. They could hear the men down in the shadows of the passageway, several giggles telling them exactly what the men were about while they believed Helen and Brenda were eating.
Fools.
Or perhaps it was better to simply call them men, for males truly liked to think themselves smarter than women. Tonight, Helen would have to hope she was able to prove them wrong.
* * *
Marcus MacPherson was chained like an animal.
She’d expected as much, since the only guards were at the entrance to the passageway leading to the cells.
Helen drew in a sharp breath when she stepped into the dungeon, sickened by the sight. Here there was more than the smell of human waste; there was also the overwhelming stench of vomit. It made the rest of the castle smell quite fresh by comparison. The lack of lighting completed the feeling of hopelessness the place was designed to instill.
It enraged her to see Marcus there.
“Here to see me in chains, mistress?” Marcus was watching the door, as was his habit. There was only a small pool of light near the door, but she could see him leaning against a rough stone wall, a thick collar locked around his neck and his ankles secured in irons.
“I hope ye enjoy the sight,” he growled.
“I do nae.”
Brenda gave her a little push to get her to move past the doorway.
“Ah, Brenda,” Marcus remarked. “Another woman who will likely find joy in me plight.”
“Stop it,” Helen admonished him in a whisper. “We’re here to help.”
Marcus abandoned his lazy posture. “Go back the way ye came, Helen. Even if ye have somehow managed to steal the keys, I will nae leave ye here to answer for me escape.”
Helen shook her head at the commanding tone he used. Part of her was overjoyed to hear him back in command, even if she wanted to label him a fool for refusing her aid. “I swear, ye would nae allow me to toss a bucket of water on ye if yer kilt was afire.”
He flashed her a grin that she knew well and detested because it was so full of arrogance. “Ye should nae be so proud of yer stubborn nature, either.”
And yet she enjoyed it full well because it proved that he was not broken.
“At least I am honest and admit me sins.” There was an undertone to his words that heated her cheeks because she knew without a doubt his words were personal.
Brenda came into the cell, followed by the priest they’d found and a younger man who would act as witness.
“What are ye about?” Marcus demanded as Brenda shut the door firmly.
“I told ye.” Helen gathered her courage. It was trying to drain out of her like a tankard with holes in the bottom. Even in chains, Marcus was formidable. “We are here to help ye. The servants are carrying the tale of what Morton wants ye to do. How do ye think we knew where to find ye?”
“I’ll be helping meself,” Marcus informed them all. “And I will no’ be need
ing a priest. The earl might do a fair number of nasty things to me, but he’ll no’ put me life in danger. Let him whip me for refusing to wed. It will be a small price to pay for keeping me soul unblemished. He will not be breaking me to his will.”
“Morton will make ye watch as he has that child bride lashed,” Brenda informed him solemnly. “He knows yer weakness is the girl because she is innocent.”
There was a long moment of silence as Marcus absorbed Brenda’s words.
“Bloody fucking Christ,” Marcus swore, his eyes closing as his lips curled back from his teeth in disgust.
Helen waited for him to open his eyes. She watched his jaw tighten as the horror sank in, his knuckles turning white because he was clenching his fists so tightly. She was clinging to some small sliver of hope that he’d see a way out of it, other than wedding her. But when he opened his eyes, she stared at something she’d never thought to see in his eyes. Need.
Helen took a deep breath, gathering her composure to say what she must. Marcus looked past her at the priest and the second man, and he cursed again.
“It’s the only way, and ye know it.” Brenda spoke up.
“I’ll admit, it’s clever, and a part of me would dearly love to see the look on Morton’s face in the morning when he arrives and finds me a married man.” Marcus let out a chuckle that was really more of a snarl. “But no. I will nae leave that child to his care. I could no’ live with meself.”
“Will ye be able to live with yerself when ye are forced to consummate the union with witnesses?” Brenda asked. “This is court. Such events are quite well attended, and I do assure ye, the guests will no’ be polite enough to stay behind a wooden screen. They will stand right up at the bedside because they will be making wagers on how many thrusts it takes ye to penetrate her fully. There will be no soiling the sheet and pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes. I know how it will go. Me father thought it a fine thing to have me wed here, in a place where the Campbells could no’ send me back and keep me dowry by claiming the union was nae legally binding.”
“Jesus, Brenda,” Marcus exclaimed. “I knew yer father was a calculating man, but I never thought him such a cold bastard.”
“The alliance was the only thing that mattered,” Brenda explained in a hushed tone. “Morton is of the same way of thinking. He valued my sensibilities as much as he does yer sense of honor.”
Helen found herself caught in Marcus’s gaze again. He didn’t like it. Well, they had that in common. There was no hiding that fact as they stared at one another, both of them wanting to refuse, yet neither of them willing to live with the consequences of doing so.
“So ye came to help me,” Marcus said softy. There were others in the room but he was talking to her.
Only her.
“I cannot refuse to help that girl any more than ye can.” It was not the kindest thing to say, but she felt too exposed. As though she were submitting to his will, calling him master, when she had spent the last year making sure she didn’t bend to his demands. She could not lose herself to him. Better to have it thought they were united against an evil that needed preventing.
Even if there was a small part of her that enjoyed knowing she was the one to make the decision on who would wed whom. A small dose of humility would do him good.
“Her name is Katherine,” Marcus supplied, his expression becoming unreadable. He looked past Helen at the priest.
“And she is newly fourteen this month, Father, so I would appreciate it if ye would stop edging toward the door. The women are correct. This is the only solution. Much as I would have it otherwise.”
“At least for any decent person it is,” Helen added to soothe the priest. Perhaps she was really trying to convince herself. She was having a great deal of trouble staying in the cell.
The priest started to say something, but seemed to be thinking the matter through. He nodded at last and looked toward Helen. “If ye would step over to yer groom’s side.”
Groom.
God help her.
But the stone walls around her seemed to be permeated with hopelessness. Likely absorbed from the countless unanswered prayers trapped inside the dank air.
No, she was going to have to do this. That was the only way God might work the matter out.
Helen wasn’t sure her feet were going to respond to her will. There was a logical necessity, but that didn’t seem to be calming the wave of panic washing through her. She felt like she was standing in a winter storm, the wind biting through her clothing as the very strength of the gusts threatened to blow her away.
But she lifted one foot and then the other. A few steps had never taken so long, the space seeming to grow as time slowed down and allowed her to notice every little detail about Marcus MacPherson. Tiny things, such as the way little lines appeared at the creases of his eyes when he was contemplating her. His lips were thin and pressed into a hard line that betrayed how much he did not want to wed her. That fact made her heart ache, because no matter how much she didn’t want him for a groom, it hurt to know he rejected the idea of taking her to wife.
None of it made any sense. What she did comprehend was the sound of the priest beginning the prayers she knew by heart and had once dreamed of being a part of. Back when she was a girl and looked at a wedding as a day of happiness. Today would be no such thing.
For she was wedding her captor.
Two
Silence was deafening at times.
The sound of the door closing bounced around inside Helen’s skull, like thunder cracking just above her head. She knew the sound was harmless, but it was so intimidating that fighting off misgivings became nearly impossible.
Helen couldn’t take the silence anymore. “It had to be me, because of Brenda’s contract with the Gordons.”
Marcus was leaning back against the stone wall, watching her. His eyes were blue like his father’s and brother’s, but in the darkness, she couldn’t see them. Still, she felt his scrutiny and would have sworn he was peeling away the layers of her skin to get a look at her thoughts.
“Well, ye need no’ glare at me,” she admonished him. It was strange, to be sure, being in the position to reprimand him. Even though she sounded a bit more pleading than she liked.
Helen retreated to the far side of the cell. Not that the action afforded her any sort of real comfort. Marcus seemed to fill the place with his presence. Yet that had always been the way she perceived him: too large, too imposing. She stood up to him because to do otherwise felt like granting him her surrender.
He finally nodded and offered her a pursing of his lips. “Ye’ve caught me by surprise, madam. Enjoy the novelty of it. I promise ye, it does nae happen very often.”
She ended up choking out a single laugh before she sat down with her back to him. “Best on to the matters at hand.”
The darkness was welcome as she pulled her skirts up and pulled a small dagger from her boot.
“Do nae use yer thigh.”
Her cheeks heated because the topic was so intimate, but she turned her head to look at him for an explanation. Marcus knew more strategy than she did.
“If Morton has ye inspected, the source of the blood will be clear. All yer effort will be for naught,” he explained.
“I see…” That left her with the knife poised in the air as she debated the best location to cut herself.
“Better to use me, lass.”
His tone was soft, and she recognized it well. It was the one he used when he was intent on getting his way and knew full well she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “What do ye mean?”
She really wanted to resist the urge to ask, but all of their effort was for naught if a midwife found a cut on her—and a midwife would strip her bare.
Marcus was grinning, that arrogant curve of his lips that made her grind her teeth so often. Oh yes, the man knew sh
e wasn’t going to like his suggestion, but he was also supremely confident that it was the only way.
Ye like that facet of his personality as well…
Fine. So she did. Strength in men was attractive; she wasn’t the only woman who thought so.
“Me head is bleeding from the tussle I had with Morton’s men.”
Helen was suddenly up and moving toward him. “I should have thought to bring some things in case ye needed tending.”
She rose onto her toes, pushing his hair aside to look for the wound.
“Helen.”
She felt her body tighten. He was able to whisper right in her ear since she’d come so close.
“Let me put me head between yer thighs, and the matter will be done.”
“I will no’!” She jumped back like a startled doe as Marcus choked on his laughter. He took a long moment to enjoy the way the words had formed into something that sounded scarlet. She blushed but ended up smiling because it was amusing.
“Stop toying with me,” she responded.
He lifted one dark eyebrow in response. “Some women would consider having me head between their thighs a treat.”
Her cheeks caught fire. “I am no’ that sort.”
He sobered, resuming his assessment of her. Something lit his eyes. It looked like respect. “I was no’ accusing ye of being a lightskirt.”
She nodded in acceptance of his apology. “Good.”
“Which makes me want to try it on ye.”
He was serious. She wanted to look away, but whispers rose from her mind, the sort of talk that a woman heard in the kitchens when the younger staff members had all gone to their beds and the women were discussing passion.
Some men applied more effort to their wives than others, and to hear them talk of it, bed sport was well worth the vows of submissiveness and obedience. Marcus was watching her, his lips curving up as he read her thoughts right off her face.
Her cheeks burned scarlet.
“Enough,” she admonished him. Or perhaps it was more correct to say to herself, for it was her imagination running wild. “There will be none of that.”
