Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Ceana’s throat tightened, her eyes burned with tears.

  The steward grabbed the plait of her hair at the base of her skull and yanked. She shrieked as pain radiated through her scalp and her head snapped backward.

  “You see, bitch,” he whispered in her ear, “I don’t have to make threats, because I’m a man of action.” His nasty, snake-like tongue flicked out to lick along her jaw. She gagged. “And when I see something I want, nothing, no ladies, no council, can take it away from me.”

  He tugged hard on her hair again, forcing her to her knees. Her eyes were at level with his belt, and the way his plaid jutted out made it obvious what fueled his cruel behavior. But Ceana would be damned if she let this filthy pig ravage her.

  “And you’re going to do exactly what I say without complaint and without a fight, then you’re going to do the same for my friends here, else I make certain Macrath is hung before the sun rises.”

  She glared up at him, pain centering on the ends of every hair on her head as he still held her tight. “You won’t. You can’t.”

  “Oh, can’t I?” He sneered. “The bastard is already on Lady Beatrice’s shite list. A few kind words from myself and he’s as good as dead.”

  “You won’t get away with this.” She nearly choked on the last words as bile rose in her throat.

  “Och, lass. You naïve, little bitch. I already have.” He yanked up his plaid, his red, angry-looking phallus protruding from beneath. “Open your mouth.”

  Ceana clamped her lips closed, and met his eyes with as much contempt as she’d showed the MacLeod who killed her brother.

  “You wish to fight me, then?” He touched his decrepit phallus to her mouth.

  And Ceana did open, but not in the way he wanted. Her insides rolled, forcing their way up from her stomach and coming out in a deluge of meat, bread, wine, sugared fruit and pure, unadulterated revulsion.

  “Fucking whore!” the steward shouted, letting go of her hair and jumping back.

  Vomit dripped down his legs, and thank the gods, his plaid had fallen back in place.

  The guards surrounding her laughed, slapping their knees, which of course only seemed to fuel the steward’s anger even more. He wrenched back his fist and slammed it into the side of her face.

  Ceana wavered a moment on her knees, pain shattering inside her skull. She tasted blood. And then she was falling down. Hands, then elbow, and then her head hitting the ground. The last thing she remembered was trying to force herself not to succumb to the blackness surrounding her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Where are you taking the lady?” Macrath asked.

  He stood in front of Ceana’s tent, arms crossed over his chest, leg’s braced. His chest was tight, and he was finding it hard to rein in the supreme fury racing through his veins. She was tossed over the game steward’s shoulder, eyes closed, though she didn’t look peaceful. Even in sleep she was disturbed by what was happening to her. He kept his face void of emotion as he regarded each of the guards who exited her tent. Though, it took an enormous amount of willpower to do so. He raked his gaze from their heads to their toes, counting weapons, assessing their skill.

  The steward had what looked like vomit down the front of his plaid. Ceana’s?

  In the dim light from their lanterns, he could easily see a bruise darkening her cheek that wasn’t there before. He wanted to rip the men to shreds. Why had he agreed to leave? This was his fault. Guilt only fueled his need for vengeance.

  “None of your business, Macrath. Stand aside.” The guard who stood adjacent to the steward answered, taking a menacing step forward but moving no further.

  “Well, as it happens, I’ve seen you take a lifeless entrant from her tent.” He stared hard at the steward. “Hence, as a witness, I believe ’tis my business.”

  “She’s not without life,” the steward said, “quite the opposite.”

  That got a rise out of several of the other guards who elbowed each other and laughed. Dammit. He should not have left her alone. Should have protected her and now she’d had to fend for herself and gods knew what they had inflicted on her. Oh, games and council be damned, he was going to rip these brutes to shreds.

  “I’d put her down if I were you,” Macrath said. He rolled his head to one side and the other, cracking the tension. Clenched his fists.

  A couple of women poked their heads out of their tents, one behemoth in particular with what appeared to be a milky-white, blind eye, came out.

  “What are you doing with MacRae?” She walked toward the group, shoulders stiff with anger.

  “Aye, Steward, tell us all what you’re doing with her?” Macrath said, raising a brow.

  Six women came to surround the larger woman. Appeared he had some back up now.

  “I don’t have to answer to the likes of you, vagrants,” the steward sputtered.

  He shifted Ceana on his shoulder. She groaned painfully, but did not waken.

  Macrath bared his teeth. “Well, as I see it, you do. You’re not only outnumbered, but likely outranked.”

  The guards scoffed. “Shut the hell up and move out of the way. You know naught, you lying bastard.”

  Macrath shook his head. “You hold over your shoulder a laird, and though a bastard I may be, my father’s an earl.”

  “And, so is mine,” the larger woman said.

  “Best, leave MacRae to us,” Macrath said. “We’ll take care of her so you can be on about your duties.”

  The steward spit at Macrath’s feet. “You’ll pay for your interference.”

  “Not before you do, I’m certain. Put her down.”

  “Don’t be so definite in your confidence, bastard. I’ll be reporting you to the council for insubordination.” The goons surrounding the steward nodded.

  Macrath grinned. “Likely they’ll give me a good lashing.” It wasn’t anything he’d not gotten already. In fact, he’d gotten much worse. Beatrice had whipped his back, his buttocks, his thighs. Every inch of him stung from the swelling. But worst of all, she’d done it in the nude. Brushed her breasts against his marred back. Pressed herself between him and the wall, hooked a leg around his hip and rubbed the apex of her thighs against him. Grew angry when his body did not respond…

  Ceana groaned again, her eyes blinking open. He was relieved that she’d wakened, and pleased to release the unpleasant reminders of his ordeal in the castle from his thoughts.

  “ ’Tis all right. I’ll get my piece out of her later.” He slapped her hard on the arse.

  “Not afore it gets broken off,” Macrath growled.

  About to step forward and punch the man in his pock-marked nose, the guard tossed Ceana to the ground. Already in motion, Macrath dove forward in enough time to catch her head before it hit, but not before a wicked kick of a boot landed in his ribs. He kept his grunt muted, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of knowing it had stung.

  Ceana’s eyes opened, the moon reflecting in their depths. “What…?” But she clamped her lips closed as she took in everyone around her. Rain splattered on her pale cheeks and she shivered in his arms.

  A loud horn broke the silence, and everyone stopped what they were doing to momentarily look at the sky.

  Then the steward began to chuckle. “Looks like you curs are all about to be beaten.” He glanced back at his men. “Let’s go.”

  The guards shouldered their way through the women, not giving a fig when they bumped a little too hard and a slighter female fell.

  “We’ve just finished a game! Haven’t even slept a night and now we have to fight again?” one of the women sobbed.

  “We are not on holiday. Suck in your tears, wench,” the larger, one-eyed woman growled.

  “Macrath…” Ceana croaked. She swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. Clutched at him with her free arm. “I am beaten.”

  He gathered her in his arms and held her close. The other women dispersed through the tents toward the center lane where they were all to
go line up.

  “I gather we’ve both been through hell this evening,” he murmured, kissing away a tear that slid over her temple. “The only way to show them that we are not well and truly beaten is to forge ahead, lass. We must not show our weakness.”

  “But I already have,” she choked on a sob. “He put his…”

  “Shh…” His chest swelled, and he found his own eyes prickling. They’d both been violated this night. “I should not have left you. I’m so sorry.”

  Ceana shook her head against his chest. “They would have done worse to you.”

  “Nay, lass. Nothing is worse than despoiling a woman.” Not even the battering Lady Beatrice had given him.

  “They were looking for you. They knew you’d be here with me.”

  He nodded. Lady Beatrice had said as much when she let him go. Warned him not to go to Ceana or she’d send the guards after him. But after the lashing she’d given him, he’d not known where else to go, save for the comfort of the only person he trusted. He needed security of her innocence and sweetness, the strength of her will to go on. And it had worked.

  The horn blew a second time.

  The rain fizzled to barely a mist, and somehow when they’d been lying there, the clouds had mostly disappeared, a few left to float on the horizon, giving way to the stars and moon.

  “We must go,” Macrath said. He turned her chin to look at the bruise marring her skin. He vowed right then and there, before the games were over, he was going to see the steward bleed. “Can you stand?”

  Ceana nodded, tried to push up but collapsed against him.

  Macrath stood, lifting her as he went. She trembled against him. “I’m so tired. And dizzy.”

  “Lean on me, mo cridhe.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d called her his heart and it wouldn’t be the last. She wrapped her arm around his waist, and he tucked his hand around her hip.

  “Thank you, Macrath.”

  “There is no need for gratitude.”

  “But there is. If you’d done as I suggested and gone back to your own tent, I’d be…”

  “You’d be right here, because there is no way I would have ever gone back to my tent knowing those jackanapes were with you. I’m only sorry the storm raged loud enough that I couldn’t hear what was going on inside. Know this, if I had to do it again, I never would have left. I never should have.”

  She shook her head as they slowly eased through the tents. “We cannot live with regrets.”

  “Aye, but we can learn from past mistakes.”

  She nodded. “ ’Twas a mistake for me to provoke the guards. I… I vomited on him.”

  “You what?” That was what had been all over the steward’s plaid and legs.

  “He tried to put his… And I couldn’t stomach it. I vomited all over him.”

  Macrath tilted his head back and laughed, breaking through even the sound of the thunder. It was as much for relief that the man had not succeeded in his purpose, but also that she’d retaliated.

  “Good gods, lass, you’re a genius.”

  “ ’Twas not planned,” she grumbled, though a spark of humor lit in her eyes.

  “Aye, I know it, but ’twas just what he deserved for preying on a lass.” He pressed a kiss into her damp hair, drawing in her familiar scent.

  “I wanted to fight,” she grumbled.

  “And you would have had it gone further.”

  “But he was stronger. Hit me so hard the world went black.”

  “And he’ll likely try it again, but this time you’ll be prepared.”

  “How?” Her voice sounded so small.

  They were nearing the line. “Aim for his ballocks, lass. And if that doesn’t work, his throat. Never stop moving.”

  “The women, they were standing with you.” She seemed amazed.

  “Indeed. They did not want to see him leave off with you.”

  “She-muscle, she continues to protect me.” Ceana shook her head as though she couldn’t believe it.

  “She-muscle?” They stepped out of the line of tents.

  Lady Beatrice sat on top of her horse, the torches flickering in the rain and wind. She glared in their direction and Macrath had to keep himself from shuddering. He was going to pay heavily for having gone to find Ceana.

  “The big woman, she’s about your size,” Ceana said.

  “Is that her true name?”

  Ceana laughed. “ ’Tis what I’ve called her in my mind since day one.”

  “I bet she appreciates that,” Macrath said wryly, ignoring the sharp daggers shooting from the council woman’s eyes.

  “I ought to learn her name in truth since she knows mine.”

  When heads began to swivel in their direction, and Lady Beatrice shifted in her saddle, Macrath gave Ceana’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “I’ll be all right. Leave me here; this is my place in line.” Ceana stared straight ahead, the smile she’d worn a moment before gone.

  But he couldn’t just leave her. Not after what had happened with the guards. He didn’t care how angry it made the council members—Lady Beatrice in particular. “I will stay.”

  She straightened her back. “Please go. We’ve already called enough attention to ourselves. I can see you from my place here.”

  “Aye, but I can better protect you if I’m right next to you.”

  Ceana pressed her hand to his chest. “Not if she locks you away again.”

  From the men’s side, her guard Aaron looked on with murderous rage.

  “I may not be safe away from you.” Macrath tried to make a jest of it, but in truth, he was in more danger than most. He not only had to contend with the games, but the many enemies he’d made, as well.

  “Don’t mind Aaron, he is harmless. Now go.”

  Macrath reluctantly left her. As he crossed the center road toward the men’s side, the guards he’d infuriated earlier walked menacingly toward him, issuing threats under their breath that didn’t quite carry on the wind.

  “Stand down,” Lady Beatrice said sternly.

  The guards backed off and Macrath took his place front and center. He kept his gaze steadily on Ceana, and she on him. In the light of the torches, even with her hair a fright and her face bruised, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. How was he going to keep her safe in game three? Game four? Game five? All the time between?

  “There is no rest for you, weary warriors. Just as it is during battle, you do not get a reprieve for the night when a siege is laid upon your doorsteps. Neither did King Olaf who ruled these lands over a hundred years ago. The women are tired, weak, and their numbers greatly reduced. ’Twill be the male warriors who decide their fate.”

  Ceana’s eyes widened, and the women surrounding her shifted uncomfortably. The men stiffened their backs. Macrath would protect her.

  “The next game has been prepared within the woods, when the dark of night is even more oppressive. The women will step into the croft that has been built for the games, and the men are to remain outside. A battle will ensue, but do not think that you will simply fight other men. Nay, it would not be the war games if it were to be so simple.”

  Wolves, again. And assassins in trees. Maybe a bear or two. What other horrors could they unleash on them?

  “Each male warrior will be provided with a shield and a single hand-held weapon of choice that you brought with you. If you did not bring a weapon, you will have to make do with your shields. No quarter given.”

  Macrath could use his father’s claymore. Finally—a worthy weapon.

  Lady Beatrice took the time to stare each male entrant in the eyes. Her gazed lingered overlong on Macrath. If he were less of a man, his ballocks would have been sucked up into his abdomen. “You will have exactly to the count of one-hundred to get your weapons.”

  She raised her hand in the air, then swiftly brought it down. A drum beat started the count and Macrath leapt into action.

  With only to the count of one-hundr
ed to dig up his father’s sword, he had no time to waste. He shoved past several warriors, glad the guards did not follow him, and dove inside his tent. All the while, the sound of the drums made his heartbeat kick up a notch. He tossed his bed roll aside and started to dig into the cold, hard earth with his bare hands. With every passing second he expected the guards to rip through his tent and hold him down so he didn’t make the cut. But, oddly enough, they left him alone.

  Macrath dug until his fingers grew painfully numb and then he felt the coldness of the claymore’s hilt. He wrapped his fingers around it and tugged, the earth slowly letting go of its grip on the weapon.

  Once free, he donned his back scabbard, secured his claymore between his shoulders and charged out of his tent and ran at full speed back to the lines. A pile of wooden shields had been tossed in the center road and the guards were ordering the men to grab one as they returned. Macrath grappled his up, catching sight of Ceana. He nodded, confident they would succeed in this next round.

  The drums’ pounding grew louder until finally it ceased altogether and the silence echoed like a night-terror.

  “If you have not returned to the lines, stay where you are.”

  Macrath took count of the men who’d returned. There appeared to be only a few who’d yet to reappear. He grimaced when he saw Aaron standing in line. He didn’t trust the man at all. There was something odd in the way he looked at Ceana. Something beyond simple caring, beyond that of a guard. Aaron wanted her, but it was obvious the feeling was not mutual. And, she was completely oblivious to his affection. There was a sinister twist of his lips. She was also unaware that her guard was capable of depravity, but Macrath could see it.

  Macrath turned back to Ceana. She spoke discreetly with the woman beside her.

  A loud wrenching noise drew the entrants’ attention to the gate as the guards raised the portcullis. The darkness of the void beyond the bridge beckoned them into death.

  “Follow your guides. May the gods be forever in your favor!” the council shouted all at once.

  Feet began to pound against the earth as the male and female entrants followed two guards on horseback through the gate and over the bridge. The guides carried torches, lighting the path over the moors. Macrath held back, waiting for Ceana, but Aaron did the same. The two of them scowled at each other as they flanked her—and she appeared unaware of their dislike of each other.