The Thorn & the Thistle

by Julie Moffett

  “Just do as I say. You won’t be harmed if you cooperate.”

  Megan swallowed her fear, attempting to keep her face emotionless as he continued to pull her along up the stairs and down a long corridor. Andrew stopped in front of a door that Megan recognized as the small sitting room off her parents’ bedchamber. Opening the door, he thrust her inside and stepped into the room behind her.

  Megan saw a small divan and one chair situated close to the hearth. A fire had been lit and the room was fairly warm. The rest of the chamber was bare, most likely looted by the English.

  Andrew cut the rope around her hands. “What are ye going to do wi’ me?”

  “You will wait here. You will be dealt with in turn.”

  She rubbed her wrists. “Ye can’t keep me separated from the others. I insist ye take me to the dungeon wi’ the other prisoners.”

  “You are in no position to make demands, woman. God’s blood, I should kill you right now for daring to attack my lord.”

  “He was foolish to think the Scottish would behave meekly.”

  Andrew’s face flushed red with anger. “I warn you to have care how you speak about my lord. If it were not for the fact that I’ve been ordered to take special care with you, I would gladly throw you in the dungeon with the others. But it was not my decision. So, I suggest you take this opportunity to rest and warm yourself by the fire. It will be some time before you are treated so well again.”

  Megan opened her mouth to protest, but the young man left, bolting the door behind him. “And be quiet.”

  In response, she shouted and pounded her fists on the door until her voice became hoarse. Leaning her forehead against the door, she closed her eyes in exhaustion and frustration. She’d been shouting for at least an hour to no avail. No one had answered her cries. No one had insisted she stop her shouting. She was simply ignored.

  What they planned to do with her, Megan did not know. Apparently they would deal with her in their own time and in their own way. What they didn’t know was that she hated being isolated from her men. She needed to know they were all right and that she’d think of something to get them out of this mess.

  Dispirited, she fought the urge to weep at her feelings of helplessness. She slid down the door into a sitting position, having no idea how an evil man like Rolf St. James would treat her. After all, Robbie had told her that he had murdered his own wife and most likely delighted in the torture and beating of women. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the atrocities he had planned for her. God help her, but she was probably better off not to even think about it.

  Shivering, Megan pulled her knees to her chest, forcing herself to push aside the fears. She had to be calm and think. Her mind raced with a hundred thoughts, yet she could not come up with a single plan that would free her clansmen from this hated Englishman. Not yet anyway. She would have to face the dreadful man and learn what exactly it was that he sought from her. Then, once she had properly judged his character, she would be better prepared to make her own move.

  “Ye may have captured the Wolf, but ye haven’t won yet, Englishman.” She tightened her hold about her knees and closed her eyes. “Ye haven’t won yet.”

  * * *

  “What are you planning to do with the lass?” Peter asked Rolf as they stood side by side in library. “She’s been shouting for near an hour, demanding to be kept with the other prisoners in the dungeon.”

  Rolf glanced over at his friend, wondering if he looked as weary as Peter did. Peter was nearly six and forty, and had served Rolf’s family for more than twenty-five years. Together the two of them had fought countless battles and shared much more than just a skill at fighting. Peter was the closest thing Rolf had to a friend and a confident.

  Rolf sank into a chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Do you think me deaf, man? The entire castle has heard her cries. I simply wish to question her...alone.”

  “Do you think she knows where the Wolf is hiding?” Peter moved over to the hearth to warm his hands.

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “We searched the tent but could find nothing but her garments there. The Wolf left no trace of his existence.” Peter rubbed his hands together. Rolf could see his thick knuckles were bloodied and bruised and every muscle in his body ached. The Scotsmen had put up a fierce fight.

  Rolf slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair. “How could he have slipped through our fingers again? He has the wits of a fox and the luck of the Devil. It’s no wonder people see him as a legend.”

  “Ease yourself, lad. We’ll catch him yet. Our surprise attack today cost them heavily.”

  Rolf straightened in his chair, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Yes, and I will take full advantage of that. I’m determined to catch the Wolf in one of his own traps.”

  “What do you think is the girl’s role in all of this?”

  Rolf’s eyes darkened as he stood. “I’d wager that she is someone of value to him. If we play our cards right, she could lead him right to us.”

  “Then I’d suggest we play those cards carefully. As we learned tonight, the Black Wolf is no fool.”

  “He may be no fool, Peter, but he is still a man with pride. Mark my words. If I’m right, he’ll come for the girl.”

  When Rolf entered the sitting room from his bedchamber, he found his female prisoner huddled on the floor, apparently in an exhausted sleep. Although a peat fire blazed in the fireplace and cushioned chairs beckoned, she appeared to have no interest in her own comfort.

  He approached her unmoving form. Bending down on one knee, Rolf swept back a long strand of her midnight-black hair to examine her face. Her pale skin and the tiny lines around her eyes shocked him. Hunger had taken a toll. Her cheeks and neck were gaunt, her long, slender hands cut and swathed in dirty bandages.

  Yet her features were remarkable in their own right, Rolf thought. Her facial bones were delicately carved and she had a full and sensuous mouth. A square, determined jaw spoke of stubbornness, but a short and charming nose offset it. Although she was covered in dirt and grime, Rolf could tell that she had a wild, untamed sort of beauty about her.

  Reaching out, he cupped the side of her cheek, frowning when he discovered her skin was as cold as ice. For a brief moment, she sighed and pressed against the warmth of his hand. Then she stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Rolf looked into a magnificent pair of blue eyes. As recognition crossed her face, she cried out, pushing away from him.

  “What do ye want?” She scooted back against the door. Pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms about her legs, watching Rolf.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He reached out to take one of her bandaged hands. She snatched it back, hugging it close to her body.

  “Why do ye keep me in this room apart from the others?” Her voice had a soft, lilting burr that Rolf found surprisingly pleasant.

  “I want only to talk with you.”

  “I’ll no’ be forced into discourse wi’ an Englishman.”

  “I think you have little choice in the matter. That is, of course, if you ever want to see your fellow Scots in the dungeon.”

  Her eyes narrowed and Rolf could see she did not take well to being threatened. “I won’t be intimidated by ye, Englishman.”

  Rolf smiled. “I can see that. So, how may I convince you to help me?”

  “’Tis naught that ye can say that will make me help ye.”

  “I’d like to have the opportunity to prove you wrong.”

  “I have no intention o’ giving ye that opportunity.”

  He made a small sound of disapproval in his throat. “You know, I think we’d get along better if we were to show a bit of mutual respect for each other.”

  “Mutual respect? Ye expect me to show respect to an English blackguard?”

&
nbsp; “Respect will work better than insults.” Rolf stood. Reaching down, he gripped her arm, drawing her to a standing position with his good hand. Once upright, she yanked her arm away and pressed back against the door, trying to put as much distance as she could manage between them.

  Rolf fought the urge to smile at her admirable defiance. He had half-expected her to swoon or beg for mercy. It seemed she had no intention of doing either.

  “Well, now that we have exchanged the proper pleasantries. I insist that you warm yourself by the fire and get some rest. Unfortunately, not much of the night remains. I, too, plan to retire for the evening and give your countrymen some time to reflect on their fate. Perhaps they’ll be more cooperative on the morn.”

  Megan shook her head. “Wishful thinking, Englishman. The Scots will never cooperate wi’ your kind. Nor do I wish to remain here. Put me in the dungeon wi’ the rest o’ your prisoners.”

  Rolf raised a dark eyebrow. “Is this chamber not suitable for you?”

  “I’d prefer the dungeon to your hospitality.”

  “Well, I do suppose my hospitality is rather lacking. I’m afraid that I was not expecting any guests and have no suitable chamber for you to sleep in...other than my own, of course.”

  A look of sheer horror crossed her face and a wry smile rose to Rolf’s lips. “I trust you prefer the divan?”

  Her answer came too quick. “Aye.”

  “I see. Well, there will be more time for us to talk. Tomorrow evening you will join me for a private supper.”

  “I will no’.”

  “I’m afraid that was not a request.”

  Her body stiffened in defiance. “I don’t care what it was. Ye waste your time wi’ me, Englishman. I told ye I have naught to say.”

  “As it is my time to waste, I don’t see any harm in it.”

  To his delight, she stomped her foot. “Why do ye play games wi’ me? There are wounded men in your dungeon. I have the skills to help them. If ye have any sense o’ decency at all, ye’ll permit me to tend to their injuries.”

  Rolf folded his arms across his chest. “I assure you that their wounds are being treated. You concern yourself needlessly.”

  “Needlessly?” She hissed. “The lives o’ those men may mean little to ye, but they mean everything to me. I know how to treat them so they heal properly. Now let me go to them.”

  Rolf stared at her, astonished by the clear ring of authority in her voice. He’d be damned, but it almost sounded as if she were used to giving orders and expecting men to follow them. She definitely warranted a closer examination.

  “I’m afraid you look near death yourself. Your skin is as cold as ice, your garments in shreds. I’ll not permit you to go to the dungeon at this time. I may, however, reconsider my decision after we dine tomorrow.”

  She clenched her fists at her side. “’Tis blackmail.”

  Rolf shrugged. “Call it what you may. But you’ll not leave this room until I’m convinced you can do so without dropping of exhaustion.”

  She glared at him, and Rolf shook his head in wonder. She’d been remarkably brave, perhaps even foolish to stand up to him. He felt a grudging admiration that she had not yet dissolved in tears.

  He motioned to one of the chairs. “I assure you that it is in your best interest to seat yourself by the fire. I’ll see that someone brings you food and water. Now, I will bid you a good evening or what’s left of it.” He strode to the door, stopping when he heard her call out.

  Her voice wavered. “W-wait, please.”

  Rolf stopped, his hand resting on the latch. “Yes?”

  “The women and bairns that ye took form the camp—have they been harmed?”

  Rolf’s dark eyebrows rose. “Why do you ask?”

  She bit her lower lip. “I heard that ye delight in punishing women and bairns.”

  God’s teeth, had the rumors followed him all the way to Scotland? It seemed he was not going to escape his past even in this godforsaken place.

  His jaw tightened. “The women were questioned before my men released them and their children in the village. Contrary to your belief, I harmed none of them.”

  Visible relief crossed her face. “Thank God.”

  He pushed down on the latch, letting the door swing open. “May I ask you a question in return? If you’ve heard how much I delight in punishing women, why aren’t you afraid of me?”

  She shrugged. “I no longer care what happens to me. Only to my people.”

  “An admirable reply.” He looked at her for a long moment before leaving the room.

  She held a secret...of that he was certain. Whatever it was, he would soon find out.

  * * *

  As soon as Megan heard the Englishman slide the bolt across the door, she collapsed in a nearby chair. Despite her bold pronouncements to the contrary, she was very much afraid. As he’d done for her clansmen in the dungeon, the Englishman had given her time to reflect on her fate. When she refused to cooperate, would he resort to torture, or perhaps worse, to get what he wanted?

  Shivering, Megan held out her hands toward the warmth of the hearth. The Englishman was right. She was cold and exhausted from the night’s foray. Her breeches were torn and dirtied, her hair a tangled mess. She had cut her right hand on her dirk, and it swelled and throbbed beneath the swaddled bandages on her palm. Still she felt a stab of guilt that she could warm herself in relative comfort while her men languished below in the dungeon.

  Her lips tightened in determination. She would sup with the despicable Englishman if that was what it took to be allowed to see them. It was her responsibility to get them out of this predicament. She had to stop being frightened and start using her head to outfox this Englishman. For now, her mind was the best weapon she had.

  Chapter Six

  Dusk shrouded Castle Kilcraig in shadows as Rolf hastened his steps up the stairs. The day had gone slowly. After the encounter with his stubborn female prisoner, he had snatched only three hours of sleep before rejoining his men in the dungeon for several unpleasant hours of questioning the Scotsmen.

  From the beginning, Rolf knew that getting information from his prisoners would not be easy. The Scotsmen, and apparently their women, were proud and not easily intimidated. It was a realization that came to him with no small amount of regret. Although his primary concern in Scotland was to bring the king the Black Wolf, he was also under orders to ease tension in the area. Torturing men to get the information he needed about the Wolf would not be a helpful step in that direction.

  Rolf sighed, rubbing the stiff knuckles of his maimed hand. Now he had to pin his hopes on the lass. Getting her to cooperate did not present itself as an easy task. She was a woman with a hostile disposition who was inclined to challenge his authority. She had yet to cry, swoon or beg for mercy as he had expected. Instead, she had boldly stood up to him, facing him as an equal.

  Rolf frowned. Perhaps the fault was his. After all, his experience with women was mostly confined to pale, aristocratic English ladies who batted their eyelashes at him above a fan. The thought that even one of them could have survived a moment of what this girl had suffered was utterly inconceivable.

  A small smile came to his lips as he tried to imagine even one of the women from court living in a tent, disguising herself in the Wolf’s clothes and leading an entire detail of the king’s men on a merry chase through the forest. She would need a close watch kept on her.

  He strode through his bedchamber toward the barred door of the sitting room where she was being held. Drawing the bolt, he pushed open the door and stepped into the room. According to Abigail, the matronly housekeeper he had brought with him from London, the Scottish lass had eaten, bathed and dressed in a gown that had been found stashed away in an old trunk. Abigail reported that the girl had said nothing during t
he entire ordeal, only nodded her head when spoken to, following instructions without a word. A model prisoner.

  For a moment Rolf thought the sitting room was empty, it was so quiet. But as he turned to his right, he saw her standing in front of the fire, staring into the flames. She did not acknowledge his arrival, although Rolf knew she must have heard him enter.

  His pulse jumped. She had unsettled him, he realized. He’d never met a woman like her and he’d be damned if he knew what to expect from her next.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  She turned to face him. “Is it really? A good evening, that is?”

  His breath caught. A beautiful woman had emerged from beneath the dirt and grime. Her skin was pale and smooth and sky blue eyes were framed with thick dark lashes. Clad in a simple gown of light blue, she appeared composed and lovely. The rounded lace neckline of the gown drew his eye to the soft curves of her breasts and tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks while the rest cascaded down her back. Other than her painfully thin figure and the dark smudges of weariness evident beneath her eyes, she was stunning.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

  He cleared his throat. “What?”

  She sighed. “I asked whether ’tis really a good evening. Aren’t ye weary from a long day o’ torturing your enemies?”

  The bitterness in her voice was as effective as a splash of cold water on his face. “We don’t have to be enemies. We could work together.”

  “Now that’s an unlikely happenstance. An Englishman and a Scotswoman working together.”

  “It doesn’t have to be so unusual. Can we not put our differences aside for one evening and enjoy our supper?”

  She put her hands on her hips in defiance. “The only reason I agreed to this supper is so I may be permitted to visit the men in the dungeon.”

  “I am fully aware of your reasons for accepting my invitation. However, for now, will you permit me to escort you from this room?” He held out an arm.

  For a long moment she stared at him. Then she walked over, taking his arm but barely touching him.