WyndStones

by Wyndstone (lit)

  Lorna considered the brother she had loved so dearly as he hid in his bedroom while she was being raped. Any charitable thoughts she might have entertained had been trampled by his disregard of her honor and his lack of compassion.

  “I don’t want him dead,” she said, “but I do want him to suffer.”

  “Then suffer he will,” Chrysty said.

  “I want him to know shame,” she stated.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  Lorna looked at her husband-to-be as he came into the room. If her stare had been a bolt of lightning, he would have been seared on the spot. “Mayhap it was because I was not talking to you,” she snapped.

  He scanned the room, his face showing a touch of suspicion. “Then who were you talking to?”

  “Careful,” Chrysty warned.

  “Myself,” she said then ground her teeth when Cail made a dismissive sound before going over to turn up the lamp. The sun had vanished and the room was slowly leaching of light.

  “’Tis the longest day of the year,” he said as he glanced at the clock. “The sun set at thirty-nine minutes past nine. We’ve awhile before midnight.” He took a seat across from her on the settee, stretching out his long legs that were clad in black pants and wiggled his bare toes. “What would you like to do?”

  “Take a knife and cut off your piece,” she said with a steady, hateful glint in her eyes.

  Cail’s lips tightened. He met her glower for a moment or two then sighed loudly. “I am not made of stone, Lorna. Your insults hurt.”

  “Your rape hurt,” she flung at him. “And it did more damage to my pride than anything I could possibly say to you!”

  He fidgeted on the seat. “Aye, I am aware of that and I have asked you to forgive me for what I did. It .…”

  “Not as long as you draw breath and not even when they are laying you in the ground will I forgive what you and Daniel did,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Then I’ll not ask you again to forgive what I did,” he said, shooting up from the sofa. “But whether you forgive me or not, the Joining will be.” He pointed a rigid finger at her. “You will be my wife and you will show me the respect I am due as laird of the clan and your husband. I have no desire to beat you, Lorna, but if that is what is needed to make you fulfill your obligation as the laird’s wife, so be it!”

  Lorna tilted her chin up, looked him square in the eye and smiled so hatefully, so brutally he took a step back. She said nothing but slowly pushed up from the rocker, dragged the thin shawl covering her shoulders tighter then left him standing in the middle of the sitting room.

  “You can not run away from your duties, Lorna!” he yelled at her.

  “And you can not run away from the retribution I intend to see you get,” she said under her breath.

  “What?” he demanded, coming after her. “What did you say?”

  She looked around, that wicked smile still in place. “I said you may have bitten off more than you can chew this time, Cailean McGregor, and it may well choke you!”

  Flinging her long hair behind her like a living cape, she went into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She half expected him to come storming after her but she heard the screen door bang shut—signaling he had gone outside.

  The Joining gown was laid out on Cail’s bed—she would never consider it her own though she might be forced to share it with him. It was a lovely creation of aged white satin with a deep band of exquisitely-tatted lace forming the high collar and adorning the scalloped hem. The long sleeves were made of lace and ended in a soft point at the cuff. Tiny seed pearls were sewn along the empire waistline and at intervals along the lace-edged hem. On the floor by the bed were white satin slippers with flat heels. Beside the gown was a square black velvet box with a ribbon around it, a white lace kerchief for the sleeve with the initials MDT, and a blue garter placed atop a pair of silk stockings.

  “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue,” she mumbled as she fingered the delicate lace on the gown’s sleeve.

  For a long time she stared at the velvet box then snatched it up. She flipped it open and drew in a gasp.

  Lying on a bed of black satin was a beautiful medallion on an intricately knotted chain. She knew the medallion was the crest of the Tabor clan. She traced the engraved images with the tip of her finger.

  “Your heritage,” Chrysty said from behind her. “Wear it with pride.”

  “It might as well be a shackle,” she said, snapping the lid shut then tossing the box to the bed. “It will feel like one.”

  “Every laird’s wife from Alinor on down has worn the crest of the clan but only those who are true Tabors will feel it’s power when it is around her neck.”

  She looked around at him. “There is power in it?”

  “Great power, my lady,” he said. “I put it there myself.”

  “And he won’t know.”

  Chrysty shook his head. “He sees it as that shackle to which you referred, as something to chain you to him as laird of the clan. If he knew he was giving you the key to his downfall, I doubt he would look upon it with favor.”

  She started to reach for the box but he put out a hand to stop her, wrapping his fingers around her upper arm.

  “He must put it around your neck at the Joining.” He caressed her arm. “The moment he does, you will feel the influence radiating from the medallion and you will then begin to absorb all the powers within the Book. They will be at your command.”

  Lorna turned into his arms, laid her head on his chest. “Help me to make it through this ordeal, Chrysty,” she pleaded.

  “I will be with you every step of the way,” he vowed.

  * * * *

  Long before the stroke of midnight, they began arriving. The stamp of hooves, the clink of harness and rattle of wood springs, the creak of leather signaled the appearance of the men of the Hill.

  “No women may attend the Joining of the Laird,” Chrysty had told her.

  “Why not?”

  “That is custom,” he replied. “No females attend matters relating to clan business and this is strictly a male affair. They wield the power.” His smile was deadly. “Or so they believe.”

  “For now,” she said.

  He had helped her on with the Joining gown, had knelt at her feet to draw on her stockings—drawing the garter up her thigh with a heated touch that made her womb clench. She had clasped his shoulder to maintain her balance as he slipped the satin shoes onto her feet.

  “Who will shoe your pretty little feet? Who will glove your hand?” he sang in a soft, low voice. He looked up at her—holding her gaze—as he got to his feet. “And who will kiss your red, ruby lips?”

  Lorna trembled as he wrapped his hands around both sides of her neck and drew her mouth to his. The touch of his lips to hers was electric and she shivered again.

  “Soon,” he whispered against her mouth. “Soon there will be just the two of us.”

  She nodded, caught like a dragonfly in the hot amber of his gaze. A soft knock on the door made her groan.

  “It is your brother,” Chrysty said then faded away, the touch of his hands still firm on her neck.

  “Lorna?” Daniel called. “Are you dressed?”

  “Go away!” she shouted but her brother opened the door and stepped in, coming up short when he saw her dressed in the Joining gown.

  “Oh, Lorna,” he said. “If mama could see you.”

  “What do you want?” she demanded and had the pleasure of seeing her brother’s face turn red.

  “You look so beautiful,” he said, reaching up to tug at the collar of his clerical robe. “I just wanted to make sure you were ready for the .…”

  She stepped up to him, jabbed a hard finger into his chest, punctuating each word. “No. I. Am. Not. Ready, Daniel!” She pulled her hand back and wiped it down the front of her gown as though touching her brother had soiled her flesh. She narrowed her eyes. “Nor will I ever be ready!
I am being forced into a marriage I do not want with a man I can not stand and the Joining is being performed against my will by a man who I am—at this moment—declaring dead to me!”

  “You don’t mean that!” Daniel gasped, his eyes wide.

  “You are nothing to me, Daniel Brent. You are less than nothing!”

  Daniel’s face crumpled and tears formed in his eyes. “Please don’t be this way,” he beseeched her, putting out a hand that she knocked away. “Lorna, I beg you. Don’t .…”

  “Get out of my sight,” she hissed. “I want nothing more to do with you!” She turned her back on him.

  When she heard the door close, she sank to the floor, covering her face with her hands. This was not her, she thought as her own tears pricked behind her eyes. She was not a vindictive, hateful woman and yet every word out of her mouth had been the truth. The love she had always had for her brother was gone. It had been replaced with something dark and miserable and filled with disgust.

  Gentle hands lifted her. Sobbing wildly, eyes squeezed shut, she pressed her face against a hard chest. “I can’t do this,” she cried.

  A hand smoothed down her hair. “Aye, you can.”

  Lorna pushed away from the comfort and staggered back. It wasn’t Chrysty’s arms around her but Cail’s. She put out a staying hand when he would have reached for her again. She shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “No.” Tears streaking down her face, lips trembling, she looked at him with pleading. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You are the last of the Tabor line,” he said gently. “You have a duty to the clan.”

  “No!” she denied. “I don’t know anything about them.”

  “You’ll learn,” he said in a kind voice. “I’ll teach you. Maggie and Sadie will teach you. It’ll be all right, Lorna. You’ll see.”

  She felt a phantom arm go around her shoulder and knew her demon lover was bolstering her. He, too, meant to see her wed to McGregor but the thought of it terrified her. She did not want to be at the mercy of a man—any man—and especially not one who had the intention of ruling her with an iron hand. She shrugged off Chrysty’s ghostly hold.

  “This is wrong. Wrong!” she sobbed. “I’ll write to the Citadel, tell the Shadowlords what you’ve done!”

  Cail sighed. “And who would take the letter for you, Lorna?” he asked. “Certainly no one from the Hill who is allowed to leave it. You will not be allowed to leave. No woman has ever crossed the river since the clan settled here. No woman ever will.”

  The hopelessness of her situation slammed into her with the force of a brick wall. She was trapped here on the mountain, a prisoner. She thought about the wyndstones, the forest beyond. Surely there had to be a way to escape the madness into which she was plunging. They could not watch her day and night. She had to get away. She had to!

  “I have vowed to be a good husband to you, Lorna,” she heard Cail saying. “If you will only meet me halfway, give me a chance, I can make you happy. I know I can.”

  She stared at him. He was an imposing man in the black suit, shirt and tie of his new station—there was no denying that—and she supposed most women would consider him a true catch with his broad shoulders and tall, dark male beauty. He was looking at her with gentleness, but she’d seen the rough side of him, the side that brooked no argument from her and it was that side she feared. A man who would rape a woman was not to be trusted.

  “Bide your time, Lorna-love,” Chrysty whispered in her ear. “Lull him into a false sense of security. Your vengeance will be all the stronger if you make him love you then pull the rug out from under him.”

  She thought of Kurt and how he had laughed at her tears after he had ruined her. He had walked away as though she had been nothing more than a moment’s distraction—and she supposed she was to his way of thinking. She had loved him and he had betrayed her. That betrayal had nearly killed her.

  “We can have a good life together, Lorna,” Cail said. “Just give me a chance.” He held out his hand.

  “You can attract more flies with honey than vinegar,” Chrysty said slyly.

  Lorna glanced at the clock ticking away on the dresser. It was nearly midnight—the traditional time for Joining, the starting of a new life at the beginning of a new day.

  “Think of the power contained in the medallion,” Chrysty reminded her. “Think of all you can do for yourself and the women of the clan.”

  Her eyes shifted to the bed and the velvet box and she saw Cail look that way, too.

  “Did you open it?” he asked, lowering his hand as he walked to the bed to retrieve the box. He opened it and removed the chain from its satin bed. “It’s one of a kind, each medallion made by hand after the original. Wiley Shaw does fine work, doesn’t he?” He turned it over. “Did you see our initials entwined on the back?”

  She had not and didn’t care to do so. The thought of the combined initials lying against her skin made her stomach turn. It would be like having him lying atop her all the time. She was relieved when he dropped the medallion into the pocket of his suit coat.

  Cail squared his shoulders. “It’s nearly midnight, sweeting. They are waiting for us.” Once more he extended a hand to her. “Will you come of your own accord or will I need to carry you?”

  That he would she had no doubt. If he had to take her kicking and screaming and pounding her fists on his back, he would. Her face burned at the thought of such humiliation. Knowing nothing she did would stop what was about to happen, she wanted to throw her head back and scream and scream until she blacked out. But even then—when she awoke—the deed would be done. No matter what.

  “Lorna?” he questioned and this time his voice had a hard edge of command to it. His eyes had lost their gentleness to be replaced with steely determination.

  Her own shoulders slumped and she hung her head, digging her fingernails into the palm of her hand. “What choice do I have?” she asked in a listless voice and took the first step toward him.

  * * * *

  Her body felt numb as she walked out of Cail’s house and into the torch-lit front yard where all the men of the clan who had reached their majority stood. Each of them dressed in unrelieved black from broad brim hat to boot, they were gathered there with stony faces and hard eyes, glaring at her as McGregor led her down the front steps. Daniel—dressed in the robes of his Order—stood off to one side along with an elderly man whose long beard was snow-white against the black of his robe.

  “The Arch-Elder, Gerard McFadden,” Cail said softly. “He will bless the Joining, too.”

  From that moment until the medallion was settled around her neck, everything would forever remain a blur to her. There had been chanting, praying, then she had been forced to kneel before Daniel as the words of their religion were spoken over her and McGregor. She did not feel the weight of the medallion he placed around her neck when Daniel pronounced them man and wife but the moment the Arch-Elder stepped forward to lift his hands in blessing over them, a shaft of pure energy spiked from the medallion and spread to every inch of her body. It was all she could do not to gasp, to keep her eyes from widening, or to cry out as that energy rippled along her nerve endings.

  “By the power of Clan Tabor, I pronounce you Laird and Lady of Tremayne!” the Arch-Elder intoned in a deep, sonorous voice.

  A resounding huzzah sounded from the men and then words spoken in a language she did not understand.

  “It is the clan motto,” Cail told her. “Dy sniemmey ry-cheille; Dy chochaggey; Baase y gheddyn gyn arrys. To join together; to war together; to die unrepentant.” “Unrepentant,” she repeated. The word echoed through her mind with its many meanings—unremorseful, unapologetic, shameless. She looked about her at the menfolk of the Hill standing there staring at her with gloating in their eyes and hated every last one of them to the depths of her being.

  “Revenge,” Chrysty breathed into her ear. “For every woman who has stood where you stand now.”

 
“Aye,” she said. “It will be exactly that.”

  She reached for Cail’s hand, entwining her fingers with his. He jerked and looked down at her with surprise. Forcing a smile she did not feel to her lips, she lowered her eyes demurely. The moment she heard his ragged sigh of relief, her smile became genuine but in the depths of her green eyes there was an evil light that sparked with the red flames of the Abyss.

  Chapter Eight

  If the medallion had not shared its immense power with her at the Joining, the power that shot through her at the moment Cailean McGregor spilled his seed into her unwilling body might well have pitched her into insanity. As it was, that power—combining, swirling, lacing together with that of the medallion—shone like a dazzling beacon in the darkness. The room lit up as bright as day and flashes of times past, of women long-dead played in front of her in moving pictures. She saw them all—Alinor, Ilene, Meghan, Mable, a hundred others. Each one was beautiful, most with bright red hair and green eyes like hers. Each looked sad, downtrodden, and miserable. Some bore scars; all bore bruises from the heavy hands of their husbands. A few lay in their caskets or on cooling boards, rigid in death, hands clasped in fervent hope there was a better world awaiting them. One or two had unsmiling little girls at their side, clinging to their skirts and one stared at Lorna with hollow sockets where once eyes had been.

  “I saw him and told that I did,” the pitiful woman said. “Do not make the same mistake.”

  Sitting up in the bed as Cail lay snoring beside her, Lorna watched the women moving across the stage of her mind until the last hem disappeared beyond the periphery of her vision and the bright light began to fade. She reached up a trembling hand to swipe at the tears of sorrow that were flowing down her cheek.

  “Avenge us,” the women said in unison, the voices sad and forlorn. “Avenge us one and all.”