Chapter 16
Fiona lay in the darkness, her mouth dry. The shooting pains in her wrists and hands had faded to numbness. She had no more tears to cry. When the door opened, and light filtered into the small room, she knew not the hour. A man entered, the MacLeod plaid skimming his knees as he walked toward her. She slowly looked up. It took a moment for his face to come into focus. She had not seen him before, but it was not his face that forced her eyes to open beyond mere slits. It was the tray in his hands. Without a word, he set it down at her feet.
Fresh tears stung her eyes. “Please,” she whispered.
“Don’t even try it, my lady,” the man growled. “I’ve been warned about ye. I won’t be helping ye escape this night or any other.” He shut the door, once again leaving her alone in the dark.
She had only wished to ask for a candle.
Slowly, she sat up and reached out to where she knew the tray was and felt for the mug she had glimpsed. Her hands shook as she brought the cup to her lips. Precious liquid brimmed over the top, spilling over her fingers. She froze, afraid her weakened hands would drop the cup. Once more, she tilted the mug to her lips. Warm ale coursed down her throat. She wanted to cry for the sweet relief. She grabbed the bannock, washing down each bite with another sip of ale, soothing the gnawing ache in her belly. When she was done, she lay back down on the pallet and prayed for sleep.
“My lady, ‘tis time to rise.”
The words pulled Fiona awake, but she was so weary, she rolled away from the noise. She had no intention on rising, not for some time, mayhap never again.
“Please, go away,” she muttered.
“But I cannot, my lady. I’ve been charged with the task of helping ye make ready for yer wedding.”
Fiona’s eyes flew open. “My wedding!”
“Aye, my lady.”
The maid was young, mayhap six or seven and ten. Her brown hair wound in a braid around her head. Delicate brows were pinched above her soft brown eyes. “If ye please, my lady, we do not have a lot of time.”
Fiona winced when she pushed against the floor to sit up. She ached all over. “I thought the ceremony was arranged for Sunday.”
“Forgive me for saying so, my lady, but I believe new arrangements were made after ye tried to flee.”
Fiona shook her head. “But I didn’t try to flee, not really.”
The maid lifted her shoulders before she turned away. At that moment, Fiona knew she had not made an ally in the maid.
The young lass turned back around with several garments in her hands, a simple linen shift, a plain brown wool tunic, and an unadorned cream-colored surcotte.
The garments were plain, even for a peasant wedding, but at least they would cover her ankles.
“My name is Julia. I will help ye dress, my lady.”
Fiona buried her face for a moment in her arms, her heart breaking for her father, Esme and Abby. Whispering a prayer for her maids’ safe and swift arrival, she took a deep breath and climbed to her feet. “What choice have I?” she said numbly, following the maid into the larger chamber.
Julia circled around Fiona and began untying the laces of Fiona’s finely embroidered but tattered surcotte. When it fell away, the maid bent and clasped the hem of Fiona’s tunic and pulled it over her head.
Then Julia gasped. “Saints above, my lady!”
The maid gently outstretched one of Fiona’s arms. Bruises lined her wrists and lower forearms from when Jamie had wrested the poker from her grip and pinned her arms behind her back.
“Who did this to ye?” the maid asked softly while she examined Fiona’s other arm.
“My laird, of course,” Fiona answered bitterly.
Julia’s face showed her displeasure, but she held her tongue and did not speak out against Jamie. Fiona had not expected otherwise. The MacLeod clearly held the loyalty of his people. Julia, no doubt, believed—as many did—that a husband had the right to punish his wife.
In silence, the MacLeod maid finished dressing Fiona.
“Follow me,” Julia said when she finished.
Fiona closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She did not want to dishonor her people and give into the weakness that had gripped her the night before. Praying for strength, she stepped out into the hall.
Julia led her down a winding staircase to the solar. “Wait here, my lady,” she instructed before dipping into a quick curtsy. Then she hastened from the room.
Fiona sat down in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. The flames flickered in a dance, drawing her gaze.
It was her wedding day, but instead of feeling hopeful and excited, she was terrified.
A fresh rush of tears flooded her eyes. If only her wedding could wait until Esme and Abby arrived. Having them by her side would bolster her courage. But that was not to be.
She was both bride and enemy.
There would be no one who even thought well of her at the ceremony, not to mention, someone who might love her.
She fisted her hands together and straightened her spine. “For my people,” she whispered.
Taking a deep breath, she drew strength from her fury. Soon, she would boldly stand before Jamie MacLeod with anger in her heart, and she would bind herself to his dark soul.
Then she would pray for death to take her from her misery.
~ * ~
Jamie sat at the high dais with Matthew at his side. Otherwise, the great hall was empty. Everyone awaited his arrival in the kirk.
“Ye might have changed yer plaid,” Matthew said, shaking his head in disapproval. “Ye stink.”
“Do not make me regret asking ye to walk her down the aisle,” Jamie snapped.
Matthew waved a hand in front of his nose. “I already regret it.”
Jamie cast the older man a look that would have made other men cower.
Matthew chuckled. “I was only trying to lighten the mood. ‘Tis yer wedding day, after all.”
Jamie’s scowl only deepened. “Of that I am painfully aware.”
Matthew reached out and put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “She could always change. Mayhap if she spends time away from her indulgent father, she will learn compassion and honor.”
Jamie shook his head. “The only hope I have is that she gives me an heir quickly, so I can send her back to her father.”
“She may not wish to be returned to her father,” a voice said behind him.
Jamie turned around and saw Julia. She dipped in a low curtsy.
“Forgive me, my laird. I did not mean to overhear yer conversation.”
“Worry not,” Jamie assured the lass. “But please tell me what ye meant just now. Why would the lady not wish to return to her father’s home?”
Julia twisted the cord around her waist nervously. “I noticed she had some bruising. I know it was not my place to say anything, but I spoke without thinking and asked her who was responsible. She answered, her laird.”
“Ye look surprised,” Matthew said quickly, drawing Jamie’s gaze.
“I am,” Jamie admitted. “I’ve met Laird MacDonnell. I thought him soft and indulgent toward his daughter. I find it hard to believe that he would raise a hand against her.”
Matthew shrugged. “Mayhap, he’s not had a choice. Her behavior is unsuitable for a lady. No doubt he’s needed to put her in her place.”
“Mayhap,” Jamie said absently, struggling to believe Gordon MacLeod would willingly hurt his daughter.
Matthew stood up. “Ye will be able to question her after the wedding. Ye’ve delayed long enough. The people await ye.”
Jamie took a deep breath. His captain was right. He pressed his hands flat on the table and stood. “Julia, does the lady wait in the solar?
She nodded in reply.
“Then go ahead to the kirk,” Jamie instructed. He withdrew a strip of MacDonnell plaid from his sporran and handed it to Matthew. “Ye know what to do.”
Chapter 17
Jamie stood at the altar in front of F
ather Peter. Soft sunlight filtered through narrow stained-glass windows. The colorful beams were the only joyous sight in the whole kirk. His kin filled the chapel, standing shoulder to shoulder. Each person seemed more despondent than the last. The courtyard and the battlements of the inner wall were also filled with members of his clan—none of whom rejoiced on this so-called day of celebration.
The chapel doors opened. He flexed his neck from side to side when Lady MacDonnell stepped into the chapel on Matthew’s arm. She kept her gaze downcast. Her unbound black hair was swept over both shoulders, skimming her thighs. In her hand, she gripped a strip of her clan’s plaid.
His people strained to see his bride. Some wore expressions of curiosity while most glared at her with open hostility. For a moment, he worried that one of his kin might do something cruel or stupid that would demand he take action. He despised the woman slowly walking toward him, but he would not stand for her to be abused by his kin. To his relief, she made it to the front of the chapel without incident. Matthew bowed his head solemnly as he placed Fiona’s hand in Jamie’s.
Her fingers trembled. He looked down at her. Her whole body quaked. For a moment, he wanted to reassure her, but then she raised her gaze. Her blue eyes shone with malice. Straightaway, his heart turned back to stone. The priest spoke words Jamie barely heard. Fury built within him with every passing moment. When it came time to make their vows, Lady MacDonnell nigh spat her “I dos” at him. His own vows he gave in kind.
He kept his face passive as Father Peter wrapped their hands together, binding them with strips of MacDonnell and MacLeod plaids. But when the priest spoke the final blessing and bid Jamie kiss his bride, he had to fight against his desire to recoil. Leaning down, he brushed his lips to her rigid mouth, the barest caress. Then he turned with her to face his people.
The silence was palpable. No one cheered. He walked down the aisle with his new bride, passing only grim faces—faces that mirrored his own heart. He felt as if he were walking to meet the henchman’s ax.
In the great hall, supper was being served, but without time to prepare a proper wedding feast, the meal was unembellished. At his side, the new Lady MacLeod did not even keep up the pretense of trying to eat, so he was glad he had not wasted the cook’s time or his clan’s food by giving special orders. He glanced sidelong at his wife who sat unspeaking with her hands in her lap. Even when the musicians struck up a melody, she made no acknowledgement of their song, nor did she glance at the dancers when they spun in a reel in front of the high table.
Frowning, he reached for his ale, but it was empty. Straightaway, the serving maid, Brianna, was at hand.
“I can fill ye up, my laird” she said, her voice sensual. She leaned over, her full, milky white cleavage on display. At that moment, he noticed his new bride look at him for the first time since the dinner had begun. Her scowl deepened, and she flashed eyes like daggers at Brianna. This only fueled his desire to enflame her anger more. He smiled at Brianna as though they were intimate companions when, in truth, he had hardly spoken to her beyond typical orders regarding the workings of the keep. Reaching out, he lightly clasped a lock of hair that had escaped her braid. “You’ve always been able to satisfy me.”
He received a snort from his wife, but she wasn’t the only one to react. A throat cleared on his other side.
Jamie sighed impatiently. “What is it, Matthew?”
His second in command gave Jamie a stern look. “Ye’ve had enough ale,” he said under his breath. “Ye don’t want to do anything ye might regret.
“I already have,” Jamie snapped. With a brisk gesture, he shooed Brianna away. Then he pushed back his seat and motioned to Julia who stood off on one side of the high dais awaiting her new lady.
Julia hurried over to do his bidding. “Take the Lady MacLeod to my chambers,” he said, his voice harsh.
His bride jerked her head around, her eyes wide. “But I’ve not yet finished.”
He glanced at the trencher of food that sat on the table between their chairs. Neither of them had touched the contents. “Ye’ve had ample time.”
At that moment, he realized a hush had fallen over the great hall. All eyes were fixed on the high table. He leaned close to Fiona and said in a low voice, “Ye only disgrace yerself by disobeying me. Rise and do as I’ve bidden, or ye will force my hand.”
The words had barely left his lips, when she pushed her chair back and stood. Without any further protest, she nigh raced behind the screen to the stairs that led deeper into the keep.
He expelled a long breath.
Despite how little he thought of her, he had no wish to throw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain in front of his kin. He sat back in his chair relieved that his new wife was not entirely lacking in sense.
~ * ~
Fiona followed Julia, wishing the maid would move faster or get out of her way so that Fiona could run. Had her husband just said that she would force his hand if she disobeyed him? Was this how she was to spend her remaining days, tiptoeing around him, afraid to spark his fury…or else?
Fiona had never been hit before. “And I’m not going to start now.”
Julia stopped and looked back at her. “Pardon me, my lady.”
Fiona shook her head. “’Tis nothing. Carry on.”
Fiona tried to steady her breathing. They had crossed through the solar to the familiar stairwell, but when they crested the top, Julia led her down a new hallway. The corridor seemed increasingly narrow as if the stone walls were closing in around her. Her breaths were coming shorter and quicker. Her heart pounded even harder. She strained to swallow, her throat thick and tight.
She froze again.
She was panicking. She couldn’t protect herself if she panicked. She took a deep breath and straightened her back.
She was Lady Fiona MacDonnell.
She had stood on the battlements of her people’s castle and aided warriors.
Now, a new battle was being waged—one against her body—but her courage would not fail her. Jamie MacLeod needed to know that she would not submit to his cruelty. She would fight him to her last breath if need be.
Ahead of her, Julia swung a door wide. Fiona stepped inside and almost lost every ounce of courage she possessed.
Everything about Laird MacLeod’s chambers screamed at her like a battle cry. Tapestries depicting bloody battles lined the walls. Her eyes scanned over the decapitated heads and bodies skewered on tall pikes. A massive four poster bed was carved from dark oak. Blood-red velvet curtains hung from the cross posters and fluttered in the breeze from the open casement, the fabric fluttering like licking flames.
She turned away from the bed toward the massive hearth and gasped, stumbling back. Fanged demons were carved into the mantle and up both sides of the hearth. More tortured, demonic faces stared up at her from the hearth bed, their mouths straining wide as if they were being burned alive. She scurried away, tripping over the black pelt of a massive wolf. Her gaze scanned the floors. Animal pelts were scattered across the stones. In her mind, their eye’s opened, locking with Fiona’s gaze. “Run,” they seemed to scream at her. “Run!”
She had to get out of there!
She turned and reached for the door. With a desperate cry, she flung it open only to stumble back an instant later.
Jamie MacLeod’s massive frame filled the doorway.
“Going somewhere?” he sneered.
Chapter 18
Again, his reluctant bride was ready to bolt the first chance she could.
Honor was something Jamie valued more than anything else. Without it, nothing else rang true. Without honor, kindness could never be sincere, courage failed, and strength was nothing more than a lie.
And here was his wife already breaking vows of obedience and fidelity spoken only hours before. He stepped into the room, and she scurried back.
“Ye can leave us,” he said to Julia.
Fiona’s gaze darted around the room still searching for e
scape.
“Ye’re my wife,” he growled, wanting to get the truth through to her. “I am yer laird. God’s Blood, woman, ye’re lady to my people. Act like it!”
Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed on him. “By that ye mean ye want me to be silent and submit.”
He raked his hand through his hair. “Nay, I want ye to be forthright and true.”
“True to what ye alone value or else,” she cried, her voice rising with her every word.
“Or else, what?” he demanded
“Or else I will force yer hand,” she said, shaking a fist at him.
What was she talking about?
“Are ye referring to what I said just now in the great hall?”
“Of course,” she snapped.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “’Tis true. If ye had disobeyed me and refused to follow Julia to my chambers, I would have tossed ye over my shoulder and carried ye out, even if it meant shaming ye in front of my people.”
Her nostrils flared. “Aye, and then, when we were alone, ye’d have beaten me to within an inch of life.”
“Aye, then I…” Jamie froze.
What had she just said?
His hands dropped to his sides. He took in her defensive stance, realizing that she was more afraid than angry or defiant. And then he remembered what Julia had said before the ceremony.
Of course she was afraid. Her father’s abuse had taught her to fear men.
“I know about yer da,” he said gently.
She looked confused. “What are ye talking about?”
“Julia told me about the bruises she saw when she helped ye dress. Ye told her yer da beat ye, but—”
Her eyes flashed wide. “My father has never laid a hand on me!” The words blasted from her lips. Jamie took a step back.
“Was Julia referring to these bruises?” she spat as she lifted her arms. The bell sleeves of her surcotte fell away, revealing her forearms covered by the fitted sleeves of her tunic. A screech tore from her lips as she started to yank at her laces from behind. Ripping and tugging, she finally heaved her surcotte over her head. Then she began tugging at her tunic. Her struggles reddened her face.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 115