by Cathy MacRae
The men dragged her to her feet.
“I want Gilda!” she screamed.
With a look of disbelief, Morgan leveled a warning glare at her. “Ye have gained much spunk since I last held ye. And lost none of yer stubbornness. I willnae say this again. Go to yer room and await me. The lass will be there.”
Riona looked from man to man, testing the validity of Morgan’s words. Their features were inscrutable. Could Gilda really be waiting for her in her room?
The two soldiers gripped her arms, their fingers bruising her flesh. Thrusting her between them, they forced her forward. With a last agonized glance, she saw Ranald still had not roused.
How badly injured was he? Had she done the right thing?
If Ranald died, it was because of her. If Morgan MacEwen broke his promise to her and had her husband killed, it was her fault.
The burly man helped ease him to his feet, and Finlay took a deep breath against the flash of pain in his head. He pulled the bandage away, bending to Tavia’s level. “D’ye see any reason to keep this bandage?”
Tavia pursed her lips. “Dinnae bump yer heid again and ye’ll do.”
A half-grin lit Finlay’s face. “Then let’s be about returning Scaurness to its rightful laird.”
Those who were able, rose to their feet and stepped quietly after Finlay, Tavia on his heels. One by one, they slipped through the unlocked gate, leaving it ajar for any who would follow. Having something important to do energized Finlay, and his headache receded, the ache in his arm a dull memory, though his swollen right eye was not so quick to mend.
He set an even pace down the dungeon hallway, careful to make as little noise as possible, and not daring to leave Tavia behind.
Approaching the corner, he halted and leaned against the wall as he slid to the edge of the stone. Peering around, he spied a stairway. Crossing the narrow hall, he started up the long, winding stairs.
Shadows appeared on the wall ahead and angry voices echoed. Finlay stared at the shadows as they came closer and he discerned two men dragging something between them.
Motioning for the others to wait, he flattened himself against the curve of the stairway as the two men rounded the steps into his direct view. They clattered to a startled stop, nearly dropping the man hanging between them, head down, feet trailing in the dust.
Finlay stared at the top of the man’s head, the shape of his long, lean body, and knew him full well.
Ranald.
Before the two men could recover, their hands full of the burden between them, Finlay dropped them both with well-placed blows. Quickly, Finlay knelt at Ranald’s side and put two fingers to his neck. A pulse beat strongly there.
Tavia appeared at his side. “Is he . . ?”
“Nae. His hard heid is going to be fine.” He grabbed Ranald’s arm and hefted him up, but his injury protested and with a gasp of pain, Finlay let him slip back to the floor. He rubbed his shoulder, ignoring Tavia’s look of ‘ye dinnae listen.’
Ranald suddenly groaned and staggered drunkenly to his feet. He leaned heavily against the wall before sliding down to land on his arse.
Finlay shook his head. “We must find someplace to put him until he comes around.” He stared at the ragged group of soldiers clustered around him. Picking out the least injured, he motioned and the man dragged one of Ranald’s arms across his shoulders, helping him to stand.
Stripping the guards of their weapons, Finlay jerked a chin toward the soldiers. “Follow me.”
A single guard remained in the watch room at the top of the stairs. With his interest focused on getting beneath the skirts of the serving girl tasked with bringing them their meal, he was unprepared for an attack from behind and never saw the fist that felled him. The girl sobbed her thanks and hurried from the room, tugging her skirts down as she fled.
Finlay glanced around as he sidled to the door. Streaks of dawn lit the sky and smoke from cooking fires cut the morning mists. Timing their escape couldn’t be better.
But where to go? MacEwen soldiers would be in the castle, in the guardhouse and the stable. Finlay eased out the door, seeking another option. The misshapen remains of the abandoned stables loomed, a dark grey hulk in the mist. They would have to find the door through the mass of brambles and vines. But it would be empty. It would be safe.
Riona tripped crossing the threshold into the great hall, tugging from the punishing grip of the two men flanking her. Before they could grab her again, she recovered her balance and jerked away, warning them off with a glare. “I will walk without yer assistance.”
The two men exchanged glances and shrugged. One gestured exaggeratedly across the room to the stairwell. “Milady.”
Riona strode past the destruction wrought by the MacEwen and his men, infuriated to see the overturned tables, legs and planks snapped in two, left in ruins. But it broke her heart to see the dark stains on the floor, knowing it was the spilled blood of her kinsmen. She steeled herself against the lump in her chest, focusing on attaining her room and finding her daughter.
She hurried up the stairs, making her two guards scurry to keep up. She took the turns in the stairwell at a clip, anxious to reach Gilda, frightened and alone.
She reached her door, but the way was barred by a pair of soldiers, regarding her with suspicion.
One of the guards following her gestured toward the door. “Let her in.”
The men stared at her but allowed her entrance to the room. The door closed behind her.
Riona scarcely heard the click of the latch. There was no light in the room and her hands stretched before her, searching. “Gilda?”
She reached the bed and her fingers sped across the velvet spread. Empty.
Moving to the hearth, she blew on the embers and brought them to renewed life. After a moment flames leaped high. She whirled about, using the flickering light to scan the room. Her gaze lingered on the chair by the hearth, beneath the table against the wall, on the linens piled on the bed.
“Gilda?”
Puzzled, fighting back the hollow fear in her gut, she walked to the bed and knelt, peering beneath the coverlet that hung to the floor. “Gilda!”
Riona jumped to her feet and rushed across the room. Jerking hard on the latch, she yanked the door open, finding the way blocked by the two guards at the portal.
Tears built behind her eyes as a burning sensation lit her chest. “I want my daughter!”
Neither man spoke.
“Give me my daughter!”
Without a word, they closed the door in her face. This time the dull click of the latch settling tripped something within her, and Riona leapt at the panel, beating against it with her fists. Wild with anger and fear, she pounded on the door, feeling the trap closing in on her. No one responded to her demands, and at last she stopped, sliding in a heap to the floor with a choked cry, cradling her bruised hands. With a whimper of despair, she bowed her head.
“Gilda.”
Finlay and his men hurried across the bailey yard, keeping to the long morning shadows as much as possible. The MacEwen sentries on the wall watched only outward, not in, and Finlay vowed he would re-task the guards’ duties once the job fell to him again.
They reached the relative safety of the tumbledown stable and probed the weeds and vines around it, looking for a way inside.
“Captain.”
Finlay turned. “Aye?”
“Here.” One of the men pointed to a small opening.
“Right. One after the other.”
Quickly a man knelt and pushed his way into the thicket, the others following, Ranald groggily bringing up the rear. They reached the door hanging askew on one hinge and ducked through, into the murky darkness. The odor of old, rotted manure and even older dust met their nostrils, and several sniff
ed to hold back sneezes.
Ranald leaned against the wall, a hand to the back of his head. Confused, he glanced about the room, the gathering sunlight chasing away fragments of the darkness.
“Where are we?” His voice creaked hoarsely.
“Thankfully, in the land of the living, laird,” Finlay replied. “Welcome back.”
Ranald sighed. “I dinnae remember . . .”
As he struggled with the fog in his brain, the men gathered close, in various states of injury, all with grim determination on etched on their faces.
Memory returned, and with it, bleakness and anger. Ranald adjusted his eyes to the dim light, giving himself a moment to formulate a plan. Additional morning sun wafted in the window on dusty beams, but the deeper edges of the stable remained dark. Slowly he identified the shapes of individual stalls lining a central hallway. Scurrying sounds echoed in the far corners.
Ranald was about to order the men to spread out and assign a watch, when another sound reached his ears. He stopped, listening intently for the noise to repeat itself. To his disbelief, it did.
“Finlay?” The sweet young voice was so soft he almost missed it, but he homed immediately in on the sound and sidled into the stall directly across from the doorway.
“Gilda? Are ye in here?”
He exchanged a look with Finlay who appeared to have heard the faint sound as well. “Gilda? Say something, dearling.”
“Da?”
Ranald choked at her reply. “Where are ye, lass?”
She did not answer, and Ranald fought the sudden fear that rose in his throat.
“Gilda, lass. Are ye all right?”
Silence.
“Gilda. Answer me.”
A faint reproof reached his ears. “I nodded my head.”
Ranald sighed with relief and spotted the slight movement in the corner beneath the feed trough. “I couldnae see ye nod yer head, lass. But I see ye now.” He crossed the floor, several inches of rotted manure and straw cushioning his step.
Squatting carefully before her, he offered a smile. “Come on out, lass. I’m verra glad I’ve found ye.”
With a tiny cry, Gilda left her hiding place and launched herself into Ranald’s arms. He hugged her close, inhaling her sweetness. Stinging tears flooded his eyes as she trembled against him, and he burned with the need to avenge her fear.
“Ye’re fine, lass,” he crooned against her hair. “I’ll no’ let anyone hurt ye.”
He felt a presence at his side and looked up. Tavia stood beside him.
“Here,” she murmured. “Give me the lass. Ye need to see to the others.”
Reluctantly, he handed Gilda over to Tavia. The child clung to him for a moment before climbing into Tavia’s arms.
Finlay moved closer to gain his attention. “Where is Riona?”
Ranald replied bleakly, “MacEwen has her.”
Finlay’s face reflected worry as he turned to give his orders to the men. “Set two watches, one at each end of the stable. Relief every two hours.” He handed a sword and two of his knives to Ranald.
Ranald hefted the sword in his hand, testing its balance. Finding it adequate, he tucked the knives into his belt and boot.
He pinned Finlay with a grim stare. “The MacEwen is mine.”
Chapter 27
Riona paced the floor. Energy drained from her as surely as water through a sieve, though she continued to pace, unable to rest.
Sunlight broke through her window, pale and cold as ice. Riona shuddered, too consumed with worry to stir the embers on the hearth again.
Gilda, mo chroi, where are ye? Are ye all right?
Apprehension left its sharp tang in the back of her throat. She pushed aside the pointless questions. Unless Morgan decided to regale her with the truth, she would have to find it for herself. And that meant escape.
She studied the window. This room was on the third level and it was folly to consider escaping that way. The door stood barred against her, and even if she could open it, she knew men guarded the portal and beyond.
With a heavy sigh, she sank onto the edge of the bed. There was no hidden passageway, no secret door. Scaurness had never been taken by force, but once by treachery . . . yesterday.
Her head pounded and her eyes ached. She’d had no sleep and long hours of riding had brought only aches. Fear crept around the edges of her control and she battled it back. She would need all her resources for what lay ahead. Once Morgan entered her room, no amount of pleading or demanding would sway him, of that she was certain. She’d been at his mercy once before. And received none.
Why did I think to endure it this time?
Because she’d wanted nothing more than to save the lives of both Gilda and Ranald. Her life in exchange for theirs seemed a noble thing at the time, and the only bargaining tool she possessed. Now, she didn’t know if either remained alive.
Her last glimpse of Ranald was of him lying senseless on the ground. Her breath caught on an unexpected surge of longing. She had been willing to give Gilda to Ranald, sending them away unharmed. But now, alone and frightened, her sacrifice seemed for naught.
Grief pushed past her defenses, and she could no longer keep the tears at bay. Grabbing her pillow, she shoved her face deep into its softness, stifling her sobs as best she could. She’d thrown everything away, gambled all on the unfounded belief Morgan would keep his promise.
She was an expedient way for him to hold his claim on Scaurness, but not the only way. Whether Gilda lived or died, he would pursue his next child diligently. And if Riona died, Morgan might try to rule Scaurness through the old laird’s granddaughter, the fact of her parentage lending credence to his claim.
Yet such a hope was fragile at best where an honor-less man such as MacEwen was involved. Once ensconced at Scaurness, he would rule as he pleased.
Other than a means of revenge for her rejection of him five years ago—and as mother to his future children which any woman could assume—Riona had no real value to Morgan MacEwen.
She sat up and dried her tears; took stock of her surroundings with fresh eyes. Morgan could come to her at any time. She doubted he was one to seek out light or dark to satisfy any of his whims, be it sailing, pillage or rape. Surely there was something in the room she could use as a weapon against him.
Her eyes focused on the table next to the bed. A metal ewer sat next to a bowl of similar construction. She jumped from the bed, threw back the coverlet and yanked off the sheet. Tearing a strip of linen, she knotted the end of it about the ewer’s handle, forming a makeshift mace.
She frowned. Too much distance and preparation was needed for its use. Setting it aside, she studied the table itself. Its long, narrow legs fit her grasp perfectly. She placed the ewer and bowl on the floor and turned the table over, kneeling beside it. Pushing a leg back and forth, she tried to pry it loose, but the craftsmanship held. With a snarled curse, she slumped back on her heels.
Booted steps sounded in the hall, growing louder before fading as they passed her door. Jumping to her feet, she grabbed the metal ewer by the handle and swung it at the table leg with renewed energy. The sound of metal on wood was loud in the room, but two solid strokes were all it took to splinter the leg just below the joining.
Riona righted the table, leaning it against the bed to hide the missing leg. She set the bowl on the tabletop, slightly off center to keep it balanced. The ewer now sported a deep dent, the length of linen still knotted about its handle. She placed it beside the door. Picking up the amputated table leg, she slipped it beneath her pillow and wiped her damp palms over her skirts to dry them as she crossed the room to the window.
Footsteps again sounded in the hall. Riona froze, straining to hear, every part of her praying the steps would move on. But they stopped and the door lat
ch rattled.
She had run out of time.
Her breath quickened and her heart raced, tightening her chest. She sent a quick look to the ewer on the floor next to the door. So close, and yet she had no time to reach it. The door swung open and Morgan MacEwen strode through the portal. Riona met his eyes defiantly.
He laughed. “Ye willnae surrender gracefully, will ye, milady?”
“Ye have nae right to me.”
“As master of this castle and all within, I have every right.”
“Ye havenae shown me my daughter, nor given her and Ranald safe passage.”
Morgan approached. “And ye havenae fulfilled yer side of the bargain.”
Riona shook her head. “Nae. I will see my daughter first.”
“Ye mean, our daughter.”
“She is yer daughter in but one way. And that is no’ her fault.”
Morgan’s grin broadened. “Nae. ‘Twas yers.” He stopped in front of her, far too close for Riona’s comfort. “Do ye no’ remember the night I asked yer father permission to marry ye? Do ye no’ remember what ye said?”
Riona swallowed. She remembered. “I said the likes of a MacEwen pirate was nae good enough for a laird’s daughter.”
Rather than appease him with her accurate recitation, hearing the words apparently angered him. Morgan’s eyes narrowed hatefully. “Ye were a haughty brat then. Ye are a haughty bitch now.” He grabbed a handful of hair at the back of her neck, twisting her head painfully to the side.
“Ye were nae but an arrogant bastard, and ye havenae changed at all,” Riona hissed at him, tears of pain pooling in her eyes as he wrapped her hair tighter about his hand.
Morgan looked her over from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her breasts as her breath heaved in and out.
She’d had enough. Riona twisted in his grasp, catching him off guard as she swung one hand with resounding accuracy against his cheek. He shook his head once as he dragged her against him. Riona jerked her knee upward, making satisfying contact with his fleshy balls. He gave a shout of pain and reeled backward, slinging Riona to the ground, releasing her braid.
