The Laird's Right

by Mageela Troche

  She leaned against him in a frozen state. Even Quinlan worried for her, fixing his attention on her and scanning the vista for the phantom of danger hunting her.

  Alec spotted the mast before reaching the shore. A boat cut into the rocky shore. The rest of this journey would be completed on water. Once back on safe land, he’d face the situation.

  Alec drew up near the boat. He kept his eyes on the woods curving along the shore. Portia stayed by his side, never straying a step from him. Quinlan stood off to the side, turning green with a glimpse at the boat.

  “Breathe in that sweet air.” Hurley sucked in a deep breath and let it out like a gust through Glen Coe. “The waters look choppy today.”

  Ronan and Hurley’s laughs drowned out Quinlan’s gagging.

  “Quinlan, stare at the horizon. It’s supposed to help,” Portia said. The response was a glare.

  From out of the woods, six riders galloped forward. Their swords were drawn.

  “Someone to see us off.”

  Portia clutched Alec’s arm. “They’re coming for me.”

  Chapter Four

  “Six more coming this way.” Ronan drew his sword. The men formed a protective circle around Portia as the men from the boat cut through the water with their weapons primed to kill a MacKintosh.

  “Liam,” Alec hissed the name. Here was the chance to get MacKintosh’s commander. He’d pay for the attack on the Camerons and those he’d killed on their return from selling goods. Then the coward went into hiding as Alec retaliated, yet he never caught the man. He blocked the swinging claymore blade with a lift of his own. Metal striking metal screeched, sending the ear-splitting sound through the air. The horse’s hot, rank breath blew across Alec’s face.

  With a shove, Liam teetered off-balance. Pressing the advantage, Alec grabbed Liam by the liene and flung him on the beach. Liam jumped to his feet.

  “Get the Sassenach bitch!”

  Alec roared a primal cry as he slashed and cut at Liam, wanting to cut his head off, slice him from gut to gizzard.

  “Cameron, you bastard.”

  Alec roared, adding to the grunts of men as their swords sliced the air.

  Portia knelt down and covered her head. Men surrounded her. There were grunts and clash of swords. The boat’s hull buried in the sand but that was her only option. The woods, at first, seemed the best plan but what if more men lingered there?

  She flew to her feet, stumbling on her skirt. A sharp pull of her hair whipped her head back. Portia slammed to the shore’s rocky earth, landing on her back. She cried out. The hold tightened, lifting her up to the tip of her toes. Each lap of the water and her toes sunk deeper, locking her in place. She struggled but sunk deeper.

  Blinding pain cut through her head. A flash filled her eyes. A blade pressed across her neck. She leaned forward, the blade cutting into her neck. A trickle of warm blood sprang across her neck. That didn’t stop her. With her all might, she swung her head back. A loud thump and a curse then she was free.

  She pressed her palm over her wound. Blood made her hand sticky. That knave dared to cut her. If only she had the skill to pick up a sword and defend herself, she would cut him down.

  A knot of men blocked her way. She darted away before the man recovered and caught her again. She needed to flee. The sand clutched at her feet, slowing her. Her stride was uneven. Her muscles burned. Her chest struggled for air. She kept on running, scraping at the sand to keep moving.

  Another warrior blocked her escape. She reared up. Her arms flailed to keep her balance and a fistful of sand flew in to the air. A burning sensation fired through her side and cut her legs from underneath her.

  A roar blasted from behind her. Alec. She knew the sound. She spun toward him. Alec. She stretched out an arm to him. One step and her legs gave out. She felt nothing but a fire on her side. Her mouth dried. She must have swallowed sand. She pressed her side to rid it of the pain. Blood spread through the wool fibers of her gown and caked in the lines of her hands and nails.

  The man spun her around.

  The bloody keen sword blade hovered before her eyes. Red droplets flowed down the thick blade and dropped into the sand. She couldn’t look away as it arced back and came forward. The whoosh of the metal cutting the air blared around her as the sword came for her head.

  Alec ran to her. She closed her eyes and prayed. The cretin threw her down. Sand flew into her mouth and stung her eyes.

  * * * *

  Blinking, her vision cleared as the beast fell to his knees. He wobbled once then fell face first. Ronan guarded Alec’s back as the MacKintoshes fled.

  “Portia. Look at me.” Alec pressed his large hands over her own and pushed down to the stem the bleeding.

  She cried out. “He hurt me.” She trembled beneath his firm touch.

  “Return to Faslane,” Ronan said.

  “Nay. Build a fire, quick.” Alec ripped off his leine. With one pull, he tore off the sleeves and with the rest, he bunched in to a ball, replacing their hold.

  She grunted. Her eyes could kept still, dashing left and right. Her head shook from side to side. Her body trembled.

  “I’m dying.”

  “Nay, it’s a paltry nick.”

  She lifted her head to see. She didn’t get far when she grimaced and plopped her head back down. Breathing hurt. She wanted to sit up. Then she might feel better. A slicing fiery pain cut through her, feeling as if the sensation chopped her muscles. She couldn’t move because that hurt too. Surprisingly, she wasn’t crying. She stared as a fire was built. Ronan puffed on the small sparks until the flames licked at the wood and heat wafted off it.

  “Your gown is ruined.”

  “Good. I hated this one.”

  She had heart.

  Quinlan held the knife in the fire. Alec ripped the slash wider. The clean edge of the wound puckered as blood flowed. One of the Cameron boatmen handed him a bottle of medicine. Portia squeezed her eyes shut and scrunched up her face.

  Quinlan pinned her down by the shoulders and Hurley by the legs. After receiving a signal from Quinlan, he poured the liquid over her. Her body bucked, almost knocking off the men’s hold. Quinlan put more of his weight on her. She roared a bear-like scream.

  “No more, my sweet. Just breathe. Breathe. Portia, look at me.”

  Portia shook her head. “You’re…going…to want me to be…brave.” Her eyes still shut. “I don’t want to be.”

  “Get the dirk. Be ready. Prepare a parapet for her. I want her comfortable.” Men jumped to fulfill his commands.

  With her head turned away, he took the scorching dirk and pressed it to her wound. She constricted. A gut-wrenching scream bellowed from her, not stopping as the searing heat cut through her. The foul stench of burnt flesh and cooked blood made her gag. He knew the pain racking her, having been sliced by his father’s blade after what his father deemed his betrayal. The suffering ache had stayed with him for days. He had forgotten the pain. It was nothing more than a scar and a memory. He knew it would be the same for her.

  Tears fell from her eyes. A string of blasphemies spewed from her. She cursed the devil and had a very inventive plan for the devil’s tail and his horns.

  “That’s not ladylike language,” Hurley said, his ears a little red.

  “I have to remember that,” Quinlan said, earning his respect.

  A faint smile tickled Alec’s mouth. “I liked it. She has fight.”

  * * * *

  The sail had caught the wind and brought them closer to Cameron lands. He hadn’t set her down. Alec cradled her on his lap. Her limp body barely curled up. She fought against the slumber that would heal her. Her arms fell to her side finally, releasing her hold on his plaid. He hugged her closer, giving her his warmth and a will to survive. The plaid provided her some protection against the windy rain slashing the boat. The plaid would get warmer as the weave tightened up under the wetness.

  “Rest if you must.”

  “Nay,” she whisp
ered. “I’ll…die.”

  Her blonde lashes dipped. Her plump lips rattled, too weak to close. Alec stared at her chest, mesmerized by the shallow rise and fall.

  A drop landed on his cheek as the rain fell. He took another plaid and wrapped it around her. This wasn’t the plan. Alec expected the attack. The one unexpected act was for those bastards to go after Portia. Mackintosh had to have ordered the act. What was his plan? Did the lairdess know? Did she agree to have her sister killed?

  Quinlan gripped the planks before him and focused on breathing. Hurley settled beside Quinlan, bumping in to him and making him gag again. Ronan leaned on the frame.

  “You think she agreed with that?” Quinlan voiced the thoughts Alec denied to follow.

  “She would have too,” Hurley snapped.

  Ronan stared at Alec. Both knew the betrayal families were capable of committing. His father had raged against his own brother nearly cutting him down.

  “If she hadn’t, it’s a gain for us,” Quinlan muttered Alec’s same thought.

  “She might turn away from MacKintosh.”

  “Or they want the monies,” Hurley said.

  “We have to see Auld Andrew. His daughter married a MacKintosh. He’d know.”

  “Then, Ronan, find out.”

  Not able to stop himself, Alec pressed his lips against her puckered forehead. “She’s strong for a Sassenach.”

  “Stubborn too.”

  “Talk to her.” Hurley helped Quinlan up. The men left him.

  Seconds passed before he turned his attention to Portia. What could he say? Not all the words he yearned to say to Ailsa.

  “I refuse to let you die.”

  Her eyes focused on his, clearing briefly. “Me…too.” The winds ripped her words away yet he caught them.

  * * * *

  Alec lingered outside the best chamber in Cameron Castle—the laird’s chamber. Behind the iron-banded door, Portia battled the fever besieging her. He slapped his hands flat against the wall. Cairine and Leah were inside, cooling her down. The ladies would care for her but he wanted inside.

  He wiped his hand down his face then paced a tight circle never relinquishing his guard. Her cries of delirium faded. The incoherent cries had raged and faded though the night. Again, in his life, he was powerless. He couldn’t stop his father from beating Ailsa and these months later, he heard her cries.

  Her heart ripping fears calmed him. For one simple reason, Portia still had fight in her. It was her quiet whimpers that sliced through him and haunted him hours after she had quieted.

  Quinlan turned from the castle stairs. Before Quinlan spoke, Alec ordered, “Leave me be. See to whatever needs be.”

  He began his pacing again then halted as the tapestry caught his attention. Alec had hidden under it when his mother lay dying as his father lingered in this same spot. He couldn’t think about death—his mother’s or Portia’s. That would be calling Death. Nay, he couldn’t lose her. Why he felt that way, he was unsure. His excuse was if she died, it meant war with England.

  Alec had another reason. He needed her alive for the betterment of the clan.

  A castle servant hovered at the stairs.

  “Aye,” Alec barked.

  “Should I prepare Ailsa’s chamber for the lady?”

  “Nay, she will not be moved.” Alec saw that she had another question. “Speak.”

  “Do I prepare your chamber or will you…” Her gaze landed on the door.

  “Leave my chamber alone.”

  More servants came to him along with guards, each seeking an answer to a question that need not have been put to him. Frustrated, he bellowed, “Cease and make a decision on your own.”

  He continued his pacing, going around and around. Sometimes, he kicked the wall or slammed his fist against it. But he returned to pacing. She had to live or all was lost for the clan.

  The fifth time about the small space, the door opened. Cairine stood in the doorway while Leah hovered near the bed. The heat of the room slapped him in the face along with the smell of herbs and broth and sick.

  “Alec,” Leah hesitated, horror on her face, Cairine nodded in encouragement. “She’s been beaten, recently and repeatedly.”

  He shook, ready to find someone to punish. He knew the baron was the culprit. He’d cut off his head.

  He approached the bed. Her blonde hair stuck to her forehead and hung limp on the pillow. The soft contours of her beautiful face appeared hollow and flushed with fever. “Explain.”

  “There are fresh scars on her back, chest, legs—just all over.”

  “She’s been whipped, even cut.”

  Leah’s dark delicate features widened with horror and Cairine bit her lip, readying to reach out and offer comfort. He wasn’t the one who needed it.

  “The curing is being brought up,” Leah said, leading the way from the chamber. Cairine followed. The clank of the lock falling in place echoed in the still chamber. The crackle of the fire and the huff of her breath were the only other sounds in the chamber. He wished to hear her English accent, hear her fight with him and just see the fight the baron failed to cut from her.

  Alec perched on the edge of the bed. “Portia.” A smile danced on her cracked lips. Her eyes fluttered opened. Her eyes were glossy and unfocused and her lashes fell down without a flutter. The fever dragged her back in to the fog. Behind him, the door opened and closed.

  “The cooling down must have exhausted her.”

  “Aye,” Leah started. “I think her screams ceased because her throat must be raw. At least she may have some peace to recover now.”

  He yearned to hear her cries that meant she was still fighting. This silence twisted at his gut. He wished to shake her, get her to move, to get a response and show him her life.

  “I have the curing. Shall I feed her?”

  “Nay, Cairine.” He took the tray from her. He had a cow slaughtered so its blood could be added to give her strength to survive this. Liam would die for this.

  * * * *

  Portia ran through the halls. She just had to escape the castle. But at each turn there were soldiers standing guard and gave chase when she was spotted. Somehow, she had to get out. The villagers would aid her and somehow, she had to get to her father.

  Her brother-in-law had swaggered into Fenwick with the news of her husband’s death. His men crowded the great hall. Each man stood around as he grabbed her and grounded his mouth against her own.

  She slapped him, feeling the strike trembling up her arm. His punch knocked her on the floor. He stood over her and laughed at her. His teeth seemed like fangs ready to bite into her. She climbed to her feet and ran without a glance back.

  “Run, my little lady. Run.”

  She did. Too bad, he was faster than her. He grabbed her by the back of her gown. The rent of fabric echoed throughout the hall. Somehow, she got to the chamber. She turned and slammed the door. Not fast enough, it came back and crashed in to her face. Blood gushed from her mouth. But she didn’t feel pain. Her fear numbed her to everything.

  She backed up, scanning the room for a weapon. She jumped for the wood stack only for him to grab her.

  “Do you know what happens when women disobey? They are beaten.”

  She noticed the whip in his hand and raised her hands for flimsy protection against its force as he struck her again and again. The leather slashed into her flesh, deeper and deeper. Her skirts failed to soften the blows and finally ripped as the strikes landed, faster and faster with each one. She screamed, cried and pleaded but her desperation fuelled him. She crawled away only to be caught.

  He threw her and she hit the wooden floor. Blackness over took her. The sharp stabs of pain cramped her body. She awoke to find him sitting beside her, cleaning his nails with a dirk.

  “You will be my wife. I cannot be baron without your dowry. You shall obey or be beaten. You will not speak unless I wish it or be beaten.” He smiled, appearing the brave knight ladies of the court sighed over.


  “My father shall never allow this.”

  He spread his arms and motioned about the room. “Where is your father now? Fighting against the king.” He tapped the dirk’s blade against the tip of her nose.

  “He will come for me.” She prayed he came soon.

  He rose, straightening his lavish cote, the green as rich as a forest in the summer. He ran the blade along her arm, cutting flesh. “My brother liked your wilfulness, asking about your thoughts. But you are a foolish woman that I have no need for. In a year, you shall fall and will not survive.” He shook his head.

  Chapter Five

  Someone had taken a blade and scraped the inside of her throat then stuffed her mouth with a ball of sheep’s wool without washing it. Dull pounding aches were the only sensation that let her know she was alive because moving her head stole the final reserve of her strength. All of her felt heavy. She lacked control of her body. She couldn’t lift her hand to rub the grit from her eyes. The smell of sick radiated around her. Her hair stuck to her scalp and a coat of sweat and medicine rested thick against her skin.

  But she was alive.

  In a chamber, she had never seen.

  She knew the man throwing peat in the fire. In the dim chamber, the flames shined about him, showing his broad back and the cut of his muscles. His hair hung about his face, shielding his profile from her eyes. He rose and stretched with his arms over his head. The light played about his muscles, showing his reined in strength.

  He had cradled her tight in his arms. She had felt safe, protected. Worse of all, she yearned to stay in his hold.

  She parted her lips then winced as her dry lips cracked. She smacked her lips and called to him. Her voice came out like a beastly moan. She tried again, then once more.

  “Alec.” Her words barely reached her ears yet somehow he heard her.

  Three steps and he was at her side. “You’re awake.” He brushed her hair from her face. The touch was light—more of a caress than an act of kindness. Without her asking, he poured her some water. Settling on the bed, he cradled her head in his hand for her to drink.