Her Wild Highlander

by Emma Prince

  “But would the man really go somewhere so obvious?” Niall asked quietly. “He is on the run and surely knows we will be hunting him. I doubt he would risk returning to one of his old haunts.”

  The English lad made a good point, but Kieran was losing his battle to remain calm. “Damn it all, he has Vivienne,” he growled. “He vowed to make her pay for the suffering she caused him. We cannae waste time wandering to every bloody corner of Scotland looking for her.”

  Just then, Mairin, who had remained quiet and watchful as always, stepped forward. “De Soules clearly had help,” she began, her voice tight as if she wasn’t used to speaking. “He managed to arrange an attack in Paris, and another just outside Scone. And he must have had a hand in organizing his escape. But he has been locked away in the dungeon this whole time.”

  Niall turned keen blue eyes on her. “What are you thinking, Mairin?”

  She darted a glance at him before looking away. “Someone has likely been paying him visits.”

  The Bruce’s features hardened. “I’ll have the guards questioned.”

  Mairin held up a slim hand. “Aye, do, but mayhap first we should ask the only other inhabitant of the dungeon what she kens—Agnes of Strathearn.”

  The King’s lips parted on a stunned exhale, and the other men all muttered curses. Kieran jerked upright in the bed.

  “Bring her here,” he rumbled.

  Niall ducked out of the room and said a quick word to one of the guards positioned outside the door. The guard must have understood the urgency of the situation, for in no time, there was a rap on the door.

  Niall opened it to admit two hulking guards flanking the much smaller, wide-eyed former Countess of Strathearn.

  Agnes had once been a grand lady, swathed in fine silks and lavished with all the luxuries of a Lowland noble. Now she stood before them in a simple, ill-fitting wool gown, dirt under her nails and her face drawn as if the events of the last year had aged her a decade.

  “Agnes,” the Bruce said coolly.

  The woman instantly lowered into a curtsy so deep that she was nearly huddled on the floor. “Sire,” she said in a small, pleading voice. “I hope I havenae done aught to offend ye in any wa—”

  “Nay,” the Bruce cut in. “But we have some questions for ye about what ye may have overheard in yer cell.”

  Agnes looked up with dark, obsequious eyes. “Aye, Sire, I am yer humble servant.”

  Kieran nearly snorted. The woman had been imprisoned because she’d participated in de Soules’s conspiracy to dethrone the Bruce. She was only alive now because she had confessed instantly upon being caught and had turned over the names of all the others she’d known had been involved.

  But he had to admit, though he’d spoken against the Bruce leaving any of the conspirators alive, Kieran was now glad Agnes was at their disposal—and grateful that the woman clearly wished to prove herself useful and compliant, if only to gain a sliver more of the Bruce’s mercy.

  He pushed himself up to sitting in the bed, ignoring the discomfort in his chest.

  “Yer cell shared a wall with de Soules’s, did it no’?” he began.

  Agnes nodded eagerly.

  “Do ye ken that he escaped while being transported to Dumbarton?”

  The woman’s eyes rounded.

  Kieran leveled her with a hard look. “Someone was visiting him, isnae that right?” he demanded. “He was plotting something even from his cell. Speak, Agnes, or God help me, all the leniency the King has shown ye will be wiped away.”

  The threat landed true. Agnes blanched and suddenly began to babble. “It was Bevin,” she blurted. “The big brute who worked in the stables. De Soules had something on him—something about his cousin, I dinnae ken—so Bevin did his bidding. At first he only visited to report to de Soules what went on aboveground, the state of the palace and such. But one night I overheard them speaking of a man named St. Giles—a Frenchman sent to kill that lady.”

  Hot anticipation surged in Kieran’s veins. “What else?” he snapped.

  “After St. Giles’s failure, de Soules ordered Bevin to hire men to attack ye and the woman outside of Scone,” she went on, nodding toward Kieran. “A few days later—the night before de Soules was taken away from his cell—Bevin returned and said the attack had failed. De Soules told Bevin to gather all those still loyal to him and set upon his convoy to Dumbarton.”

  The Bruce stiffened at that. “And how many was that?”

  Agnes shook her head, her gaze darting between the King and Kieran. “None, Sire. Bevin said he’d tried to rustle up all their allies, but none would step forward. So de Soules told him to spend coin to hire however many he could.”

  The Bruce let out a breath, his gaze flicking to the others. “It is a small victory in light of the circumstances, but now we ken that de Soules is on his own without a friend left in Scotland.”

  Though the Bruce was right, that knowledge was little comfort to Kieran given the fact that Vivienne was still in the madman’s clutches. “What else, Agnes?”

  “De Soules said that after Bevin and the hired men set him free, they were to ride north—to find ye and the woman. And…and that is all.”

  “Bloody hell and damnation.” Kieran pounded his fist against the bed so hard that the wooden frame shook. “He didnae say aught else—aught about where he would go after he got the woman?”

  Agnes’s brows drew together, her eyes fluttering rapidly over the floor. “He mentioned…”

  “Speak!” Kieran roared, making Agnes, as well as Jossalyn, who still stood beside the bed, jump with fright.

  “He told Bevin that if aught went wrong with the attack on the convoy or if they became separated, to meet him on the isle of Ailsa Craig,” Agnes cried hurriedly.

  The air seemed to whoosh from the room as everyone froze.

  “That is all I ken, I swear,” Agnes whispered.

  “Thank ye for yer cooperation,” the Bruce said, waving distractedly at the guards to take Agnes away. “I may see fit to reward ye if yer words prove useful.”

  Agnes was led out of the room, curtsying and praising the King’s mercy repeatedly until the door closed behind her.

  When the Bruce turned back to the others, his dark eyes were flinty.

  “I should never have let that weasel de Soules live,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Martyr or nay, I should have put his head on a pike atop the palisades to show the world the fate of traitors against Scotland.”

  The Bruce drew in a fortifying breath, smoothing a hand over his beard. “I cannae change the past, but I damn well intend to bring the might of the entire Scottish army down on the bastard’s head.”

  “Nay,” Kieran replied. “An army will be far too slow. And he’d see them coming with plenty of time to finish Vivienne off.” The words made bile rise in the back of his throat, but he forced it down. He needed to think clearly, not lose himself in his rage and fear once more.

  “What are ye suggesting, then?” the King asked. “At best, the island is a several-hours’ sail from Girvan, which is a two-day ride from here.”

  “We can make it in a day and a half,” Kieran bit out.

  “We?” The Bruce fixed him with a sharp stare. “It is obvious that yer concern for the lass goes beyond yer duty as her protector, Kieran.”

  “I love her,” Kieran said baldly.

  “Be that as it may, ye are in no condition to—”

  “I am going.”

  The Bruce worked his jaw for a moment, but he couldn’t quite seem to form a response to Kieran’s blunt declaration. In the ensuing silence, Jossalyn stepped forward tentatively.

  “You need to rest and heal, Kieran,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t be riding, let alone wielding a sword.”

  “I am going,” he repeated stubbornly. “It isnae up for debate. If I remain here, I will tear the palace apart stewing over Vivienne’s wellbeing.”

  “I am going, too,” Mairin said abruptly, lifting her
chin.

  “Mairin, nay,” Niall said softly, his worried gaze fixing on the lass. “It is too dangerous.”

  “I have been training in the Highlands just like ye, English,” she snapped, her dove-gray eyes flashing. “I am a member of the Corps, arenae I? Besides, I cannae sit idly by while that bastard hurts a woman.”

  “I won’t let you go without someone to watch your back,” Niall replied. “I’ll go, too.”

  “As will I,” Will said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Jerome turned to the King. “Someone ought to stay close to ye, Robert,” he said. “Though I hope ye and the others find de Soules on Ailsa Craig, Kieran, the King is still one of his main targets.”

  “Aye,” the Bruce replied with a nod of assent to Jerome. “Ye’ll stay, Jerome. And when they return to Scone, Colin and Garrick will remain by my side as well.” He turned to Kieran. “Ye’ll have my fastest horses and all the coin ye need to reach Ailsa Craig. I only wish I could take that bloody traitorous bastard’s head myself.”

  Kieran rose slowly from the bed, his limbs stiff and his chest aching, but his blood fired with determination. “Oh, ye’ll have his head, I vow it.” He turned to the others. “I only have one request.”

  Will assessed him with his good eye. “What is that?”

  “De Soules is mine.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Over the last five days, Vivienne had done her best to slow de Soules and his men down. She begged and pleaded nearly every hour for them to stop so that she could relieve her bladder.

  After the first day, the men were grumbling about foolish women and their problems, but fearing de Soules’s wrath if he believed they were mistreating her, they stopped more often than not, and left her alone as well.

  The problem was, slowing them down wasn’t enough. Oui, she was buying herself more time, but she held no hope that anyone was looking for her. Who—besides Kieran—would even know she’d been taken? And Kieran lay in the Highlands, cold and still, exposed to the elements, his life drained away.

  She could not let herself dwell on that, though, else she break down once more. Nay, she needed to be strong for him. But she also needed to do more than simply bide her time.

  So when the briny scent of the sea reached her as they rode southwest on the fifth day, she knew she had to act.

  As dusk began to fall, de Soules drew them to a halt in a dense patch of woods. They stood on a rise overlooking a small village set along the sea.

  “Ye, and ye,” he said, pointing to two of his men. “Move closer to the village. When it grows dark, see about liberating a birlinn for us.”

  Even as she pretended to ignore his orders, Vivienne’s mind churned. They were traveling by water now? Her stomach lurched at the thought, but she managed to hold on to the meager contents of her stomach. This would be her best—and possibly last, depending on where they were headed—chance to escape.

  She forced herself to remain docile and submissive as Bevin undid the bindings on her hands, as he always did, and led her away to relieve herself. With her hands free, she pulled away the gag, but let him guide her to a nearby shrub.

  After de Soules had lashed out at him for touching her, Bevin was now in the habit of turning partially away and standing several paces back while she saw to her needs.

  She pretended to lower herself, but the moment he shifted his gaze away, she straightened and bolted. Lifting her skirts to avoid getting them tangled in her legs, she ran down the slope toward the village, hoping that someone would come to her aid.

  “Help!” she screamed. “Help me, plea—”

  Suddenly it felt as though a boulder had crashed into her back, driving her into the muddy and leaf-strewn forest floor. All the wind rushed from her lungs at the contact, making stars dance before her eyes as she wheezed for breath.

  Rough hands rolled her over, and she found herself staring up at Bevin’s coarse face.

  He jammed the gag back into her mouth and tightened the strip of cloth around her head roughly. Then he hoisted her up and tossed her over his shoulder like little more than a sack of barley.

  “Foolish bitch,” she heard de Soules hiss as Bevin strode back to the others.

  To the chuckles of the other men, Bevin dumped her unceremoniously on the ground once more and began binding her again, but this time he tied her hands behind her back, then bound her feet and secured her wrists to her ankles.

  She lay there helplessly as she was trussed up like a lamb to the slaughter, silent tears streaming down her face.

  She had failed. But as dusk deepened to night and the men continued to wait in the woods, she forced herself to hold on to hope. She was still alive, she reminded herself. Her heart still beat, powered by the memory of Kieran’s love and his faith in her.

  And because of that, she could never give up.

  * * * *

  By the time Bevin lifted her from the birlinn and onto the dark, rocky shore of some unknown island, Vivienne felt wrung out and limper than a rag doll.

  When the two lackeys de Soules had sent to the village had returned with confirmation that they’d secured a boat, Bevin had thrown her over his shoulder once more. They’d abandoned the horses, stalking toward the water under cover of night. She’d been tossed into the bottom of the birlinn, the soft rocking of the harbor instantly making her sick.

  And when they’d hoisted the sail and reached open water, she’d retched until there was naught left in her stomach but bile, and then retched some more. Luckily, at her first heave, de Soules had removed her gag, else she would have choked on her own vomit. But non, he still wanted her to suffer more than that.

  Blessedly, the journey had only lasted a few hours, and the ground felt solid under her feet once Bevin lifted her from the birlinn and cut the bindings on her ankles. He allowed her to walk but held her tightly by the elbow as the others dragged the small wooden birlinn onto the beach and into a small alcove in the island’s steep, rocky cliff sides.

  “Give her to me,” de Soules snapped, grabbing Vivienne’s arm.

  As he pulled her away from the beach, she tried to get her bearings. She hadn’t seen their approach to the island, for her head had been lowered over the side of the birlinn the entire voyage, but now she squinted through the dark to get a sense of their surroundings.

  The rocky beach onto which they’d landed seemed to be the only entry point onto the island, for the rest of the island’s sides were sheer, tall cliffs rising up from the water. She could make out the faint tinge of greenery well above them on the dome-like top of the island, but she saw no way—other than to climb straight up the rocky cliff-faces—to reach it.

  De Soules continued striding across the pebbly beach straight for one of those rock faces. It wasn’t until they had nearly run into it that Vivienne realized the stone opened up into a cave.

  He dragged her through the cave’s mouth and deep into its dripping, dark recesses. At last, he released her, shoving her to the ground, and she heard him fumbling with two flint stones.

  A spark caught and struggled to light an already-laid fire. De Soules must have been here before, for he seemed to be familiar with the island and knew the cave well enough to navigate it even in the dark.

  “Is this where you plotted your rebellion?” she ventured, watching his face in the weak, flickering light.

  He glanced at her. “Clever whore. Aye, it was one of many locations,” he commented. “But no’ a soul who came here with me before is still alive, so dinnae imagine that anyone is coming for ye.”

  Despite her determination to remain brave, she couldn’t suppress a shudder. There was still hope, she reminded herself. There was always hope as long as she remained alive.

  But as de Soules slowly rose to his feet and stalked toward her, panic seared through the last of her courage.

  He was no longer the quiet, obsequious man she’d first met all those months ago at the French court. Of course, his outward sycophancy and courtl
y manners had all been a lie, meant to lull those around him into thinking he posed no threat, but even after he’d been found out for a traitor, he hadn’t borne the wild, feral look in his eyes that he had now.

  In the five days she’d spent with him, he’d possessed knife-sharp focus at times, but at others it seemed his mind was hazy. She’d heard him mumbling to himself more than once, his words running in circles and his thoughts seemingly scattered.

  Perhaps his time in Scone’s dungeon had not only stripped him of his fine clothing, titles, and polished mannerisms, but had also chewed away at his sanity. Non, it likely wasn’t just imprisonment that had warped him, but also his obsession with revenge.

  Whatever the case, she was alone with him now, at his mercy—and he’d already made it clear that he planned to show her none.

  “There is no one to hear ye scream anymore, bitch,” he said, sinking on his haunches before her. “Except me, and I’ve been looking forward to the sound for a long while.”

  She sucked in a breath, trying to scoot back from him. “You are mad.”

  “Nay,” he replied, “Just giving ye a taste of what ye did to me.”

  “All I did was dose you with a draught to lay you low, to force you to remain close to the garderobe,” she said. “I never tortured you.”

  “Ye humiliated me!” he hissed, his control slipping. He drew a breath to calm himself. “And for that, ye’ll pay.”

  He reached for her, but to her surprise, he merely caressed her cheek with his grimy fingers. She flinched back, but there was nowhere to go with the cold, wet cave wall behind her. Abruptly, he drew his hand back and slapped her hard across the face.

  She gasped and sputtered, stunned.

  “Och, I think ye can do better than that,” he said with a grin. “I said I want to hear ye scream.”

  He drew back his hand again, this time balling it into a fist. Her mind scrambled wildly for some way to stop him, delay him—anything.