Sweet Revenge

by Lynsay Sands

  She was frowning over the tangle she appeared to be in when the solution suddenly popped into her head. The Fergusons. Surely were she to send word of her predicament to them, they would be moved to send an escort for her? That was at least something to think about, she decided, then pushed these thoughts aside and murmured a thank-you as she was set upon the bench seat at the head table.

  Shifting to a more comfortable position on the seat, Kyla set about brushing the creases out of her skirt, then glanced curiously around at the other people in the room as space was made for the man who had carried her.

  If her expression was curious as she peered around her, the people she faced showed both that emotion as well as obvious and intent worry. The curiosity was to be expected, she supposed. The worry, however, was a slight surprise. She understood that their fear was for her well-being, but was surprised by the extent of it. They were virtual strangers to her, after all. A little concern and consideration for her would not have gone amiss, but most of the people in the great hall were eyeing her with unmistakable anxiety.

  Kyla smiled nervously at the room in general, then glanced down at the trencher the man who had carried her suddenly plopped before her. It was only then that she realized that she had not a clue what his name was. She knew he was the MacDonald chief from his position at the center of the head table--not to mention his high-handed behavior--but that was all she knew about him.

  Realizing now that she should have spared the time to ask a few more questions of Morag, Kyla sighed unhappily. She searched her waist for her dirk to eat with, but became flustered as she realized it was no longer there. She had forgotten to collect it on dressing, she realized. She muttered her thanks when one was placed in her hand. Kyla raised it to stab at a hunk of meat on her trencher, only to pause when she saw that the dirk she was using was her own.

  Raising her head, she peered at the man who had given it to her. She gasped. It was Robbie, the man she'd stabbed.

  "You were in no state to hold on to it on the journey, so I took the liberty of holding it for ye, me lady," the man murmured and Kyla tried to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat, then offered a sickly smile and glanced toward the man who had carried her to the table. While everyone else in the room seemed to be smiling and nodding at her, he was eating and paying her no mind.

  Kyla turned back to Robbie. She had not been mistaken about the man's attitude earlier in the day. He truly did not mind that she had stabbed him. And judging by the smiles everyone else was giving her, they didn't either. It seemed she was in a castle full of crazies. To her, there could be no other explanation for such a ridiculous attitude. They were all insane, she decided.

  "What was that?" The MacDonald laird peered at her suddenly, one eyebrow raised and Kyla flushed as she realized she had been muttering her thoughts under her breath. It was a bad habit she had, and one she wasn't even aware of most times. Sooner or later it would land her in deep trouble.

  "Nothing," she croaked, then cleared her throat and forced a smile.

  The MacDonald frowned at her briefly, then gestured toward her trencher. "Eat. Ye need yer strength."

  Nodding, Kyla ducked her head and began to eat. The man seemed in a surly temper and there was no sense in aggravating him. After all, she did need to regain her strength to leave here. Travel could be wearing on the healthy, let alone someone just getting over an injury. And Kyla now intended on traveling away from this castle of lunatics at the first opportunity. She would write a message to her Ferguson uncle as soon as she was back in her room, she resolved.

  With that thought in mind, she set determinedly to work at the food in her trencher. It was tasty fare. Stewed beef of some sort. But Kyla hardly noticed as she chomped away. Her mind was racing, puzzling over how to phrase her letter so that her uncle would understand her urgency and not refuse her request. When she began to feel full, she peered down at the contents of her trencher, disappointed to note that she had only managed to eat half the food placed before her. She briefly considered forcing herself to continue eating, then decided against it. Healing could not be forced.

  Sighing as she came to that conclusion, she pushed her dish away and sat back on the bench to peer around the room again. Morag had found herself a place at one of the two side tables and seemed deep in conversation with a woman sitting beside her. Kyla wondered briefly who the woman was. She and Morag seemed to be the only people in the room, besides the MacDonald himself, who were not staring at her. The rest of the diners were still gawking, even as they ate, she noticed. It was terribly discomfiting. They all watched her with mingled speculation and concern. Here and there she saw a face or two filled with displeasure and doubt, as well. Kyla wasn't sure what to make of it all. Her gaze fell on the fellow who had carried her necklace and a message to Shropshire. When he beamed on her brightly as her gaze met his, Kyla managed a small smile in return.

  "Are ye finished?

  Startled at the sudden question from the MacDonald laird, Kyla turned sharply and managed to nod, then cried out in surprise when he suddenly rose and scooped her up into his arms.

  She started to protest at once, then shrugged inwardly and gave up. She was too tired to bother arguing over his high-handed behavior. Besides, she supposed she had learned one thing about Scotland. Clan chiefs were a law unto themselves who seemed to think whatever they wished was the way it would go. She supposed her brother was not unlike that himself. Give men a little power and it did seem to go to their heads.

  Sighing again, she relaxed into his arms as he mounted the last of the steps and strode toward the door to her chamber. The last time he had carried her, she had been too dismayed at the idea of being returned to her room so abruptly to enjoy the sensations that being lugged about by him engendered. Now she was much more relaxed and hard-put not to notice.

  The man had massive shoulders. Their very size made her feel safe, while the gentleness with which he held her made her feel small and delicate. Odd how pleasing those sensations were. Kyla was a particularly independent young woman, an unusual trait for a female, she knew. Her brother and father had shaken their heads in dismay over that flaw when she was younger. Only her mother had encouraged it. Lady Forsythe had been a particularly independent woman herself. She, like Kyla, would normally have struggled against any behavior insinuating she needed assistance...such as being carted about as she was now. Oddly enough however, Kyla didn't feel any desire to fight the MacDonald's present kindness. She pondered that briefly, then frowned as they reached the door to her bedchamber and--rather than set her down and wish her a good night--her host simply shifted her, reached out to unlatch the door, and pushed it open.

  It seemed her host was slightly lacking in knowledge about proper protocol and behavior becoming toward a lady, she thought wryly, wondering if she should comment on the faux pas or let it slide. The question remained undecided, her attention taken up by more important issues when her host carried her directly to the bed, set her on the side of it, and immediately began tugging at her laces.

  Kyla slapped at his hands at once. "What do you?"

  "Helping ye to bed." He spoke in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice that left her gaping.

  "I can tend to it on my own, thank you," she managed at last when he continued worrying at her clothing.

  Shrugging, he let his hands drop to his side and took a step back, then simply stood there.

  Kyla scowled, then raised her chin slightly and announced, "A gentleman would have left me at the door."

  He gave an unconcerned shrug. "I'm no' a gentleman."

  Kyla's nose rose at that. "Well, I am a lady and 'tis not proper for you to be here. So if you would not mind...?" When he simply stared at her blankly, she ground her teeth together in frustration. "I would like you to leave my room."

  "My room."

  "What?"

  "'Tis my room."

  Flushing at that, she stood abruptly. "Well then I shall leave your room."

 
; "Nay, ye'll sleep here." Pushing her back to sit on the bed, he tilted his head to eye her curiously. "Do ye still possess all yer faculties?"

  "What?" She gaped at him in bewilderment.

  "Do ye recall how ye came to be here?" he asked now and Kyla sighed with exasperation.

  "I have been through all this with Morag. I was on the way to the MacGregors to be married. You attacked our traveling party."

  Grimacing, he shook his head and corrected, "Nay. Ye were being transported to a murdering bully of a coward and me and me men rescued ye."

  Kyla's gaze narrowed at that. "Murdering bully of a coward?"

  "He beat his last wife to death," he informed her calmly, adding for good measure, "She was pregnant."

  Kyla stiffened at that. She should have realized that Catriona would not have been overly concerned over the suitably of this MacGregor as a husband. After all, the woman had tried to murder her own husband. Still...

  "Do ye remember the time yer brother pushed ye into the mud in yer brand-new gown and ye got him back by making his bed with manure?"

  Kyla blanched. "How did you know of that?"

  "Ye told me."

  "I told you?"

  "Aye. While ye were with fever."

  What else had she told him, she wondered with horror, then stood abruptly. "I am most tired, my lord. I assure you my faculties are all intact, but I am most tired. So...if you would kindly leave me be I'll disrobe and retire."

  "Hmm." He tipped his head to the other side, then sighed himself and nodded. "Aye. I'll leave ye be to rest. I'll find out soon enough if yer addled."

  Chapter Six

  Shifting in the chair that Duncan had placed by the fire for her, Kyla glanced unhappily toward Morag and Guin. They had been her constant companions for the past three days.

  Three days? Was that all it had been? It felt more like three years since the MacDonald had left. The minutes had crawled by like hours and the hours like days since the morning after he had carried her above stairs. Kyla had found out from Morag he was gone as she helped her dress the next morning. She had mentioned her intention to send a message to the Fergusons and her maid had said it would have to wait; the MacDonald had headed out at dawn and would likely be gone for days as he was tending to outlying business. Whatever that was.

  Morag had then added that he had left certain orders regarding Kyla herself. Firstly, Morag and/or Guin, the servant who had apparently assisted in nursing her back to health, were to be with Kyla at all times. Secondly, she was also to have at least one guard with her at all times. He had left Angus, Duncan, and Robbie behind to see to that. The final order was that she was not to leave the castle, not even to go out into the bailey, until he returned.

  Kyla wasn't sure whether she was angry about this or simply frustrated. She did hate to be told no. She had not been pleased to find her way barred each time she had tried to leave the keep since then. Despite the MacDonald's order, she had twice gotten up now and tried to simply exit the keep. Both times she had waited until her guard had seemed distracted, then calmly got up and headed for the door. Unfortunately, her guards took their job seriously. Distracted or not, they always seemed to know where she was and were quick to escort her back, explaining politely that she could not go out. "'Twas for her own good."

  As far as Kyla could tell, every last person in this place was preoccupied with her "good." Too much so. It was positively smothering.

  While officially the only orders he had left were that she was not to be left alone or leave the castle, her jailers had taken their own translation of this. In their translation she was not allowed to actually do anything. Should she try to pick up something, there was immediately someone there to do it for her. The only thing they allowed her to hold on to was her needlework.

  Embroidery. Kyla detested embroidery. She did it badly and despised the doing. It was a punishment for her to be forced to rely on embroidery to fill her time. Here she was in the Highlands of Scotland, a land she had pondered over for many a year now and she was restricted to the castle. Castles were the same the world over. She wanted to see the land and meet the people. However, it seemed she would not be allowed to do so until the chief of the MacDonald clan returned. So, for that reason and that reason alone, she wished he would return. Well, that and the fact that she could not send her message to the Fergusons until he returned. Other than that there was little reason for her to wish for his homecoming, she assured herself. She hardly knew the man and what little she knew was not very impressive. He was bossy, arrogant and...Well, he did have a nice figure and quite the loveliest red hair she had ever seen, she allowed thoughtfully. She pushed all thoughts of him aside and feigned a yawn.

  "Oh my, 'tis fair wearing to work at this all day," she murmured.

  Morag and Guin both glanced up at that comment, suspicion rife in their expressions. And no wonder, Kyla decided with a sigh. After all, she had hardly touched the sampler in her lap. Still, they could have shown a little more respect and kept their suspicions to themselves, she decided irritably.

  Trying not to show her annoyance at their expressions--and the wary stiffness it immediately produced in Duncan as he caught their facial casts--she rolled her embroidery into a ball and set it in the basket beside the chair, muttering, "Or mayhap 'tis just too boring. Whatever the case, I am fair worn out."

  Morag relaxed at that and Kyla smiled at her.

  "I think I shall retire for a nap. Mayhap you could wake me for the sup?" She waited until Morag and Guin nodded, then turned and moved toward the stairs, smiling sweetly at Duncan as she passed him and forcing herself to move slowly and calmly as she went. It would not do to rush about after claiming exhaustion. She would never escape that way. And Kyla had every intention of escaping this dull keep...She had a plan.

  Desperate to get out for a bit of fresh air, Kyla had wracked her brain for two days for a way to give her guard the slip and make her way outside. In the end, she had come up with her idea after accidentally mistaking her host's chest for one of her own.

  Kyla had retired early the night before. She had grown tired of being stared at by the hordes of Scots in this place. They did seem to enjoy gawking at her, and having all eyes fastened on her for so long was terribly wearing. It made her self-conscious and nervous, her movements becoming awkward and jerky. She had dropped more food on her lap than in her mouth the night before under those stares and every time she had, the people in the room had seemed to glance at each other meaningfully and shake their heads a bit sadly. That had only made her more nervous, causing more spills. Kyla had been more than eager to escape such scrutiny and flee to her room by the time the agonizing meal was over. Only, once there, she had quickly become bored and restless.

  After pacing about for a bit, she had decided to retire. In search of a fresh under-tunic to wear to bed, she had popped open the chest at the foot of the bed. It had taken a mere glance for her to realize her mistake. The chest's contents were obviously a man's. Curious, Kyla had rummaged through it briefly anyway, examining the two plaids it held, the small sword, the animal hides...It was her host's chest, of course, and Kyla hadn't been able to make herself look further. She hadn't wanted to pry. Besides, Morag had come into the room then and interrupted her.

  After helping her find an under-tunic and assisting her to change, the servant had slid silently out of the room once more, leaving Kyla alone to ponder what she had found. The plaids she had seen in the chest had tickled her mind for hours as she had lain awake in bed, eventually giving her a plan.

  It was a relatively simple plan, the success of which hinged on whether Duncan would stand guard at her door. He was following her up the stairs now she knew, but she hoped that after standing about outside her door for awhile, he would grow bored and move back to the great hall where he could watch both the stairs and the door in comfort. Then she would merely have to wait for her chance. The moment his attention shifted even briefly away, she would make her exit. Of cours
e, should he see her, he would stop her...if he recognized her.

  That was the crux of her plan. Kyla had considered various ways of giving her guards the slip over the past two days, but knew she could not get far dressed as she was. Because of her long English gown she stood out, but she had seen no way to change that until she had spotted the plaids in the chest at the foot of her bed. She just might blend in a little better and make good her escape if garbed in a plaid as all the other women wore. It seemed worth a try. She would borrow one of the plaids and slip out for a bit of fresh air.

  Reaching the bedchamber, Kyla slid inside and eased the door closed, then moved quickly to the chest at the foot of the bed. Opening it, she reached for the plaid, a frown plucking at her lips as she shook out the huge strip of cloth and peered at it unhappily. It looked just like a blanket, she thought with a mixture of worry and disappointment.

  What she hadn't considered, she realized, turning the material in her hands, was that while she had seen Morag don the plaid several times over the years, she was not at all sure she could replicate the act herself. At least not satisfactorily enough to pass as a Scot. She had a vague recollection of the maid laying it out, folding it into creases, laying on it, then bringing the edges about her body to fasten it in some way that she could not readily recall just then.

  Well, she thought with a sigh, there would be no success without trying.

  Duncan frowned unhappily at the closed door to his laird's room, then moved to the head of the steps to peer below. The old woman was seated by the fire nattering away to Guin. The rest of the hall was empty, though. Angus and Robbie were out in the yard just now, no doubt spending their time bemoaning the fact that their new mistress was English, weak, frail...and mad.