by Lizzy Ford
Brian muttered a curse. “What does he want with more land and gold?” he complained. “We ‘ave neither.”
“But we will,” Cade said. “She’ll bring us both.”
Brian studied him. “Ye can do this,” he said quietly, as if aware of Cade’s troubled thoughts. “One fight.”
“Yea. One fight.” He shifted his sword at his back. “Find the lass. Make certain she is safe.”
“She is there.” Brian titled his head to the side.
Cade looked her way then back, once more charmed by her delicate beauty. He expected her to appear worn down or soiled and was surprised to find her dressed in finery befitting the lady of the hold. Her features bore faded bruises, but her chin was high, and she still wore his amulet, tucked into the bustle of her gown beside the similar medallion he had last seen with the knight left in a Saracen dungeon.
Warm pride slid through him. The fragile woman managed to hold her own, even as a prisoner of Duncan.
If she noticed him, she did not look. Her focus on the corner where Richard had gathered with his knights. One of them was larger than even Cade. He knew before Duncan spoke who he was facing.
“Ready the horses,” Cade whispered. “We will likely leave quickly.”
Brian darted away.
“Quiet!” Duncan roared from the middle of the Hall. “T’night, I bring ye a sight few ‘ave survived. Black Cade at battle!”
Silence fell as all eyes turned to him. He stepped away from his cousin towards the center of the Hall.
“Facing him, the most fearsome English knight e’er t’hold a sword!” Duncan continued. “This is as sight ye’ll speak of fer years t’come!”
A cheer went up.
The English knight stepped into the spaced cleared for their battle. Cade ignored him and went to a table. He set his sword down and peeled off his tunic and overtunic. His own amulet, a black talisman meant to ward off evil, swayed across his broad chest.
I am a master of myself, he repeated and bowed his head for a quick moment to center himself again.
Chapter Seventeen
Lady Isabel had never been able to resist looking upon Cade. The moment he peeled his shirt from his body, her breath caught in her throat, and she could not avert her gaze.
Wide of shoulder, sculpted down to his stomach, he was solid, powerful, from the melon size of his biceps to the ripple of muscles beneath his skin when he moved. The pendant at his chest swayed with his movement, brushing back and forth across the great expanse of muscles. Every part of him was built for battle – and to be lusted over. Her fingers twitched as she imagined running them through the tight, sparse curls of his chest and down the warm skin covering his hard frame. His trews were snug enough to display the thick shape of his thighs and the rounded mounds of his buttocks. Even the covered parts of him rendered her weak.
She was fevered once more, enchanted by the sight of him half naked and preparing for battle in the middle of the Great Hall. The barbaric sight was not one she would witness in England, but it was befitting the savages of the Highlands.
As if feeling her watch him, Cade glanced up. His penetrating gaze seared through her thoughts, scattering them until she could form no single, rational idea. What was it about this man that wrested her control away and left her wishing she had not slept alone in his bed?
Breathless, hot, she leaned forward until her thighs and hands rested on the table to balance her.
Cade’s gaze swept past her, and he turned away. Lifting his massive sword, he deftly swung it a few times. She admired the muscles of his back as they effortlessly supported the heavy weapon and then crossed herself, ashamed of her continued lust.
The servant beside her gave a sigh, and Isabel realized she was not the only woman affected by him. She reined in her senses, unwilling to let any of these heathens see her lose her composure, and looked past him to the knights with Richard.
The large one facing Cade wore his armor and a helmet while Cade appeared content in nothing more than his trews and boots.
“Should Laird Cade not wear armor?” she asked, frowning.
“Nay,” sighed the servant.
Lady Isabel pursed her lips. “I do not wish to see this,” she said and pushed away from the table. She turned and started through the crowd, not caring that she had been summoned to the Hall or that her handmaiden was too enamored with Cade to leave.
“Lady Isabel!” boomed her somewhat gracious host, Laird Duncan.
She paused near the door.
“Where do ye go, my lady? This is fer ye!”
She faced him. Those between her and the barbaric display melted from her path, and she strode forward, determined to represent her noble name well among the barbarians.
“I fear I do not understand, my lord,” she replied coolly.
“They fight fer yer hand.”
She opened her mouth, looked at Cade, and then closed it.
“They both claim t’be hand-fasted t’ye, lass,” Duncan continued, entirely too happy about this for her comfort. “Ye enchanted them both, did ye? I didna ken seillie magic ran in English veins.”
Laughter circulated around the Hall.
“Who do ye wish t’win?” he taunted.
“I claim neither, my lord,” she replied.
More laughter rippled around the Hall. Duncan joined them with a deep belly laugh. Wiping his eyes, he stepped out of the center of the ring. “As always, yer spirit impresses me, lass. But, as I ‘ave a wife, and no sons, I shall let them determine who wins yer hand.”
Panic stirred inside her. She had never desired to see battle this close, especially not when it involved Cade. As relieved as she was to learn she had not committed the sin of murder, she was also furious that Richard dared claim her hand. Being Duncan’s guest was more desirable than returning to England. She did not wish either man to fight for her and definitely did not look forward to wedding the winner.
Cade is fighting for me. The man who was betrothed to another, last she heard, who had not been interested enough to bid her farewell, was now fighting for her hand?
She gasped when their swords first clashed. The people around her, however, roared in approval.
Isabel stared in thinly concealed horror at the very real battle before her. This was not a sparring match she had witnessed many times on her father’s lists. The men did not try to draw their strikes. Exposed and powerful, Cade swung his sword with speed she did not think possible with such a large weapon.
His opponent was likewise able, blocking and striking without appearing slowed down by the armor he wore.
Wincing whenever steel met steel, she glared past them at Richard, despising him even more to know he was responsible for this. Cade was a mystery to her, claiming to respect her desire to return to England then appearing here. But Richard … he would stop at nothing to take her lands. His intention of maiming her and lying to her uncle left her furious enough to hope Cade won this battle, even if she had no intention of marrying him, either.
Richard was an undeserving man. Why had it taken him almost killing her before she felt ready to openly oppose him? The moment she could, she was sending a message to her uncle to warn him about Richard. Whatever her place was, she was still the daughter of the Baron of Saxony.
Thunder boomed overhead loud enough to drown out the crowd’s roaring. Lightning lit up the side of the Hall lined with windows to reveal a sky in turmoil and rain sweeping down from the heavens. Another crash of thunder made the stone beneath her feet tremble.
Her eyes went to Cade in alarm. She knew nothing of his power, aside from what little he had shown her. That it could become vengeful, or respond to his emotion without his control, had not entered her thoughts.
The storm brewing outside, however, was something far more destructive than the steady rain he created to prevent Richard from leaving Cade’s keep.
She tugged the pink amulet from her dress and clenched it. It was a talisman of the heart, of lo
ve and peace, according to the healer. Would it work on the laird of the seillie?
The cheering crowd grew louder, drowning out the thunder. If not for the shuddering of the stone, she would not have known the booms were continuing to sound. The battle grew far more heated, too, with both men drawing blood.
Covered in sweat that only made his perfect frame more appealing, Cade fought with the fury of a violent sea tempest, his face a mask of resolute anger, of determination that frightened her with its intensity. He had been merciful to her despite his strength, going so far as to take pity on his homeless neighbors when his own people were suffering.
That Cade was gone. This one was bloodthirsty, shouting in triumph when he drew blood. His features were obscured by shadows, as if one of his clouds was above his head, blocking the light of torches from reaching him.
His opponent was starting to weaken at his onslaught. Stripes of blood crossed Cade’s body, along with the thick scars of his back and chest. She found herself thinking of her brother once more, of the torture he had endured in the dungeon, and her chest grew tight enough she could barely breathe. If he had been alive when Cade left him, what happened? Was he still imprisoned?
She clutched the arm of her handmaiden until she was able to breathe deeply once more, eyes riveted to the terrifying storm that was Cade. Fierce, brutal, merciless, he knocked the sword from his opponent and flung his head back with a roar.
“What shall his fate be?” Duncan shouted, fueling the blood lust of the crowd.
“Death!” screamed everyone from her handmaiden to the lowliest servant boy.
Any hope she had of Cade showing mercy disappeared when she saw his eyes. What had made her challenge him? Why had she ever considered being wed to him better than Richard?
“Ye heard ‘em!” Duncan said with a large grin.
Cade needed no encouragement.
Isabel looked away quickly as he raised the sword. The crowd was soon screaming in triumph. Lifting her gaze, she saw the body of the beheaded challenger fall to the ground.
Two of Richard’s knights plunged through the crowd, swords in hand, to smash into Cade. He rolled, barely avoiding the sword of one and driving his fist into the knee of the other.
Isabel covered her mouth. Any restraint he had showed with the first challenger was gone. Soon, it was four of Richard’s knights, and more than the rain swept into the Hall. Dark clouds were drifting in as well while lightning rendered the world outside as bright as midday. The sky was black, the clouds roiling unnaturally.
Cade was losing control.
“We must stop this,” she said to the handmaiden.
Incensed with the blood spilling in the center of the Hall, the woman did not hear her. Isabel pushed through the people towards Duncan, who was grinning broadly at the display that left her ill.
Reaching him, she took his arm. “M’lord, you must stop this!”
“Och, lass, leave it!” he replied.
“Laird Duncan! He is not –”
“I said, leave it, lass!” he said and shoved her.
She caught herself against the wall behind him. No match to challenge any warrior, she sought the familiar faces of his cousins in the crowd. Neither was present.
When the English knights were dead at his feet, the last man’s head ripped from his body by Cade’s hands, he straightened and looked around for more.
“Black Cade, my vassal and laird of the MacLachlainn!” Duncan shouted in triumph. “English, ye’ve been bested!”
All eyes turned to Richard, who stood alone, next to his master-at-arms. He was tense and pale, his look blazing. With a bow of his head, he admitted defeat with grace, surprising her.
Was he so quick to relinquish her after a year of ugly pursuit?
“Where’s my priest?” Duncan bellowed.
Her attention slid to the towering, muscular form of Cade, who rippled with unrestrained power and was coated in the blood of others, and she abruptly agreed with Richard’s decision not to challenge the madman further.
His slaughter confirmed every rumor she had heard of his ferocity. What would he do to her? Richard was willing to kill her to obtain her lands.
She took in the dead bodies of knights. For the third time since encountering Cade, Isabel panicked. She bolted to the door and out of it, ignoring the laughter that trailed her.
“Fetch yer wife, Cade!” Duncan shouted gleefully.
Isabel ran through the keep without paying heed to where she went. She stopped only when she was close to breathless and ducked into a quiet, dark hallway, mind racing with alternatives. If she could reach the stables and find her destrier, she could flee. No tempest would stop her, not when what chased her was far worse than a bit of rain and possibly, far worse than even Richard.
Hearing the pad of boots against stone in the hallway, she held her breath and waited, inching back from the corner into the darkness. She wiped tears from her face, not about to appear weak in front of anyone, even if he had just murdered five men before her eyes with ease.
Thunder grumbled and wind wailed outside the keep, and she listened hard between the sounds to gauge the progress of her pursuer.
“Isabel.” Cade’s voice was a low growl.
Her heart flipped in her chest, and she sank deeper into the hallway.
How a man his size moved so fast, she did not know. She glanced behind her to ensure her step did not trip her or encounter anything that might alert him. Before her attention returned to the corner, he had snatched her.
She cried out and began to fight him, but it was akin to fighting a stone wall. Her fists fell against his solid chest and were quickly grabbed and forced to her side. He leaned into her, trapping her between the wall and his hard body. The difference between them, his size and steely frame, left her close to sobbing.
He shuddered at their touch, some of the madness appearing to leave his gaze.
“I will not marry you!” she said, her voice trembling. She squeezed her eyes closed.
“Ye ‘ave no choice, lass.” His tone was softer than she expected. He gripped both her wrists in one large, calloused hand and rested his other palm against her face.
“Then you have to kill me.”
He chuckled. She heard the rough edge and unwillingly breathed in his scent. The familiar smell of forest and man – mixed with blood – stirred her desire, made her hate her own weakness when it came to Cade.
“I’ll no’ kill ye,” he said. “But I will drag ye there if I must.”
“No.”
“Yer strong, Lady Cade, but ye doona ken how t’survive my world. We do this, or we both die. Laird Duncan willna let ye live the night, and I canna rescue ye any other way.”
She said nothing, hating that there was sense in what he said. Unable to reconcile the man gently but firmly holding her wrists, and the man who had done unspeakable things to the English knights, she sought to rein in her fear and cease quaking in his presence.
“Verra well,” he said, darkly amused. He released her and bent, lifting her over his shoulder.
“What … this is no way to treat a noble!” she sputtered.
He didn’t speak but began walking confidently through the hallways, back towards the Great Hall. Humiliated, helpless, she fought back tears of frustration. Laughter and cheers greeted their return, and she struggled once more to center herself, to find the calm, regal carriage befitting an English noble.
Cade lowered her to the ground, his hand around her forearm. She did her best to ignore the jeers and shouts of the crowd and Laird Duncan’s fit of laughter so hard, he bent over and could not speak. A young priest fidgeted before them, eyes darting between the dead knights and the bloodied Black Cade.
Isabel refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge him. It was, by far, the worst day of her life, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up and sob.
But this, too, was of her making. If she had settled with Richard or another noble in England … if she had no
t tried to avenge her family … if she had never traveled to the Highlands in the first place …
The priest motioned for them to kneel.
Resigned, if furious with herself, she obeyed and bowed her head.
The ceremony was fast and interrupted more than once by cheers from the onlookers. She went through the motions and spoke the words required of her, despair sliding through her.
When it was over, they were swarmed by well wishers and proudly marched around the Hall by Laird Duncan himself. Richard was noticeably absent, and she resolved to send the letter to her uncle warning him about the ambitious man in the hopes of reaching her family before he did.
“Escort the hand-fasted to their bedchamber!” Laird Duncan bellowed. “Laird Cade has a long night with his sword!”
Isabel ignored the laughter, her heart toppling to her feet. She had considered her wedding night with little joy, but with him, a man who could hurt her so much more than Richard …
If I survive, I will escape, she vowed.
Servants threw down flowers before them to lead them to their bedchamber. Each step was filled with absolute dread so heavy, she did not dare look at Cade. He was surely not thinking of their wedding night as she was; men never did, from what she knew.
The crowd and servants left them at the door of the bedchamber Laird Duncan had given her upon her arrival. Someone had anticipated them. The hearth glowed and the air smelled of rain and incense. It was quiet, dark, and peaceful.
He released her for the first time since finding her in the hallway and crossed to a table with a pitcher and water on its surface.
Isabel hugged herself, her insides quaking and thoughts bouncing around her mind. She went to the hearth and stared at the flames. When she learnt of her brother’s death, she never would have known how her own path would change from that of a proper English noble to … this. The bride of the most feared Highland warrior. She braced herself and waited for him to ravage her with the same brutality he used to fight, to tear off her clothes and force her to consummate a marriage she did not want.
A knock sounded at the door.
