by Emily Royal
“Good,” he said softly. “Your hatred will keep you alive and serve me well.”
Smoothing his face into an expressionless mask, not wanting to give the Englishman any satisfaction, Tavish did not respond. Allendyne chuckled.
“You made me much gold today, Highlander. I have a proposition for you which would be to both our benefit.”
He leant back in the chair, his smile broadening. “I wish for a champion. At the height of their power, the Romans had gladiators who fought to the death in the arena. A successful gladiator was revered by all, had many admirers; had his pick of women.”
“I will not fight for your amusement.”
“Surely you have no wish to spend the rest of your days imprisoned? As my champion, you would benefit from my patronage and my name. You would have a better life.”
“I would be a slave who murdered others for your personal gratification. Death would be a more welcome prospect.”
“We shall see,” Allendyne said. “You may return to your cell now.”
He fixed his gaze on Tavish before standing up and drawing his sword, holding it against Tavish’s chest until a scarlet droplet began to form at the point, spilling into a thin stream.
“A word of advice, Highlander. If I hear you have so much as looked at my woman, I shall have her thrown to my men, and you lashed until the flesh is stripped off your back. Do I make myself clear?”
Tavish nodded.
“Good, very good. I am not a man who takes pleasure in being denied. Do as I wish and all will be well.” Smiling, he called for the guards to remove the prisoner.
Allendyne was a cunning man. Even his betrothed he saw as a commodity—a means to secure his gratification with no thought of her welfare. If Tavish refused him, he would condemn not only himself but an innocent woman. He had been unable to save Flora, why would he wish to save a stranger? An Englishwoman?
The cell door clanged shut, and the prison guard’s footsteps receded. Tavish closed his eyes, and his senses and memory were heightened—her soft, ripe form; rounded flesh trembling against the hard planes of his own body; the heat of her gaze and scent of her need—a need which in her innocence she had yet to be awakened to. Once again he tasted her sweet mouth on him, the memory of honey and virtue, the pleasure he took from understanding her tentative gestures as her tongue danced with his. Her first lesson in passion, as the filly learns to walk, legs unsteady, trembling for fear of taking a wrong step before growing in confidence as she had begun to respond to him, shifting her thighs as her body spoke to him.
What sweet reward it would be to be the one to awaken the passion within her! But she belonged to another—an Englishman, his enemy.
He could never have her, but could he abandon her to her fate? Aye, he must. For the past four years, his life had been defined by one thing. Revenge for Flora, and for Ewan—his friend, the young man she had loved, who had never come home. He could not betray them now. He must escape and resume the path to vengeance against de Montford. His clan demanded it, and as their laird, it was his duty to perform.
Chapter 3
The crack of a whip cut through the air, followed by a scream. Another Highlander subject to the justice of the English. Tavish crossed the courtyard, chained to his fellow prisoner, towards the whipping posts. Under threat of the lash, Allendyne had ordered him to train in swordplay for his next fight to the death. Though he wanted nothing more than to defy the English, he played a long game. He’d already waited four years to avenge Flora, and he would do her no good dead in the ditch which surrounded the garrison. By training, he would conserve his strength for an escape attempt.
His young cellmate nodded towards their companion who hung limply against the post. Only the manacles at his wrists prevented his body from falling into the dirt, rough wet mud stained with the blood of his countrymen. As the body was dragged away, soldiers secured Tavish and James to posts and threw swords at their feet before darting back.
“Fear not, James,” Tavish said, “I will not harm ye.”
“Ah, my champion. Show me your prowess with a sword.” The smooth, quiet voice was unmistakable. Allendyne paraded round the perimeter of the yard—a safe distance just beyond the length of the prisoners’ chains—issuing the taunts of a coward who knows his opponent cannot reach him.
Tavish lifted his head to look his captor in the eye, and almost lost his resolve.
The woman stood beside him. Another bruise adorned her face, and her lip was swollen. Eyes dulled with resignation, they ignited momentarily on meeting Tavish’s gaze before she lowered them again.
Allendyne drew her to him, holding her arm in a tight embrace and forcing a brutal kiss on her before releasing her to give Tavish a challenging stare.
His meaning was plain. Picking up the sword, Tavish nodded at James to do likewise.
By the time Allendyne gave the order to stop, the sun was high in the sky, casting shadows of the combatants against the wall. Exhausted and aching from sparring with the young man, Tavish threw down his sword at his jailer’s order. Looking up, his eyes met the woman’s again, but she lowered her lashes quickly.
“Ah, my Lord Tavish,” James sighed. “You’d have a better chance of whisky flying out of yer cock than you would with the likes of her.”
A soldier approached Allendyne and whispered in his ear. Allendyne’s face grew pale, and he pushed the woman away. He issued a sharp order, and she nodded and left, and he resumed his attention on the soldier, his voice sharpening with urgency.
“I wonder what has riled that English bastard.”
“‘Tis the rumours,” James said. “There have been sightings around the garrison. Some say Highlanders, but others say the barbarians are massing to take the fort.”
“Cardred’s people?”
“Aye. And when Morcar discovers you killed his son, you’ll not last long.”
“I had no choice,” Tavish said quietly.
“‘Tis murder, whether or not you were forced into it.”
“Then let us hope the rumours are wrong, James. But if the garrison is attacked, that would be our best chance for escape. Allendyne is too confident, but he is a weakling and a coward. He does not have the loyalty or respect of his men.”
“If he cannot hold the garrison, we are lost, Tavish. Morcar will not leave the building intact, ‘tis not his way. Every man in the building will die. As for the women—death would be the better fate.”
God’s blood—the woman! If the rumours were true of the barbarians’ treatment of the women they took, he prayed death would greet her swiftly.
* * *
Edward pushed Elyssia through the door, and she stumbled towards the bed. She lifted her arms to shield herself, but he was too quick for her. Another blow exploded across her face.
“Treacherous whore!” he cried. “I saw you leering at that savage. You’re mine, do you hear me? Mine!”
“Edward, I—”
“Silence!” he roared. The sound of material tearing rang in her ears before he was upon her, lifting her skirts up, his smooth, hard fingers digging into her thighs.
“You have the body of a whore—you may as well perform the duties of one,” he hissed. “That savage shall never have you. But if I find you played me false and are impure, I’ll wed that half-wit sister of yours instead.”
“No!” she cried. “Leave Alice alone. She does not understand. Edward, please, I have not known a man.”
“Let me judge that for myself.”
Clutching at the fur on the cot, she tried to drag herself away from him, but he was too strong. Doubtless, his men would take pleasure in watching rather than aiding her, but her instincts were too strong. Her voice hoarse with panic, she screamed for help.
Her prayers were answered as the door crashed open. Edward lifted himself off her.
“I told you I was not to be disturbed!” he roared. “I’ll have you sliced open for this!”
“My lord, we’re under attack!”
a man’s voice rasped. “The garrison is surrounded. You must come now!”
Cursing, Edward followed the soldier from the chamber.
Her face throbbed where he had struck her. Faint sounds penetrated the rushing of blood in her ears—the sound of her fear of what Edward was about to do to her, and relief at the reprieve. The pounding grew more insistent. Someone was hammering on the main doors. The clash of steel and screams of men in battle became entwined with a faint acrid odour.
Smoke! The buildings were on fire.
Now was her chance. Edward would be busy defending the garrison. Surely Papa could be persuaded to break off their betrothal. If not, she could take refuge with her brother. She could find Alice, and they could throw themselves on Richard’s mercy.
Aye, her dear brother would help, but first, she must escape.
The main door was on fire, surrounded by swarming bodies of men. Through the smoke, she could make out a glint of a sword as the light caught it and the sound of blades clashing. She must find another means of escape.
Running down the staircase which led past the dungeons, she heard pleas for help. The prisoners. Edward would spare no thought for them, leaving them to die in the fire and taking pleasure in doing so. Taking a detour to the passageway that led to the prisoners’ cells, she bumped into one of the sentries running in the opposite direction.
“My lady, you should leave,” he panted. “Come with me.”
“What about the prisoners?”
“Leave them to burn.”
“We cannot! Give me your keys.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
She drew her knife. “Do as I say.”
He pulled the keys from his tunic and threw them at her feet before leaving her, his footsteps drowned by the crackling of the fire and the sounds of battle which grew nearer.
Holding the huge keyring in her hand, the memory of four years past seeped into her consciousness as if it were yesterday—creeping down the stone steps which led to the dungeon at de Montford Castle, a pale young girl with flaming red hair and wild green eyes, almost catatonic with horror at what had been done to her.
Those eyes! How they had mesmerised her—the last image of her as she had turned to acknowledge Elyssia before she was led to her freedom. Eyes which, instead of showing the hatred which Elyssia deserved, instead had looked at her with understanding.
It had all been for Alice. Elyssia would suffer pain at Edward’s hands and bear the burden of guilt if it would keep her beloved sister safe from harm—a sister with the mind of a child. But the girl, who had once been a beauty, had been reduced to nothing. Shame coiled tightly within Elyssia’s gut—a stinging hot needle of shame. The screams of the men in the garrison echoed the memory of the girl’s own screams.
She could never atone for what had been done to the girl—for what she herself had done. But by freeing these men—men who had been imprisoned for their lineage—she could repay part of the debt.
On hearing her footsteps, the prisoners called out, one voice dominating the rest.
The Highlander. Fingers curled round the iron bars in his cell door, his eyes flashing in the torchlight.
Heat rising in her face, she held out the keys, and he clasped the iron ring, sending a spike of need as his skin brushed against hers. Unwilling to face a swarm of savage Scotsmen, she withdrew her hand and fled the dungeon.
The courtyard was a melee of bodies, thick muscular barbarians swarming among the slimmer English soldiers, slicing through their armour with thick iron blades.
The English stood no chance. The garrison was lost, and the barbarians would sweep through, taking everything of value. There was no escape—all ways out were blocked by fighting bodies. Drawing her knife, she tested the sharpness of the blade against her wrist as her only choice became clear. She would not let herself be taken alive.
* * *
Snatching the keyring from the woman, Tavish glimpsed her retreating back as he fumbled with the keys. Within minutes, he and his fellow prisoners were unshackled and free. Ten men in all, most of them so badly injured at the hands of Allendyne’s torturers they would not survive an escape attempt—the barbarians or the English would cut them down on sight. But hope drove them, and one by one they limped into the noise and smoke, spurred on by the faint glimpse of freedom after so long in captivity.
A giant of a man flung himself at Tavish. Unarmed, he dodged the iron blade which hissed past his face, only to hear a faint cry from behind.
James. Eyes wide with surprise, the young clansman toppled forward, red liquid spurting from his chest in thick pulses. With a roar of rage, Tavish flung himself at the assailant, knocking him off balance. The two men crashed to the ground, the impact making the barbarian lose the grip on his sword. Spurred on by a need to avenge his cellmate, Tavish grasped the sword and plunged it into the man’s chest, twisting it as he moved it deeper, leaning on the hilt to put his full body weight on it. He grimaced at the sound of bones crunching as the sword found a route between the man’s ribcage to burst his heart open. Blood swelling in his mouth, the man let out one last cough before his body shook and he lay still.
Tavish wiped the sword on the dead man’s tunic and limped toward the courtyard. The sounds of battle had faded. Bodies were strewn over the ground—mostly the English, but a number of barbarians. His fellow prisoners’ bodies lay scattered: their eagerness for freedom had been their downfall. Doubtless, they had expected mercy, but barbarians on a quest for violence and pillage would not discriminate between Englishman and Scotsman.
Guttural roars of victory spoke of the barbarians’ success. Now they would ransack the building, taking what they could carry of any value before the fire destroyed the rest. Gold, trinkets, women…
Not her!
Where had she gone? Straining to hear her voice, he could only make out the crackle of the flames and the cries of the dying men. She had saved his life and risked her own. He had to find her.
A scream sent a chill through him, followed by deep, hoarse laughter. He followed the sound through a doorway and up the staircase which led to Allendyne’s office. The foolish lass must have returned there to hide.
Halfway up the staircase, he came upon a dirt-covered man, towering over her crouching figure. The man had her by the wrists. He smashed her wrist against the wall, and she dropped the knife she had been holding with a cry of pain and despair.
The man laughed again, chuckling in his thick accent of the things he planned to do to her. With a roar, Tavish ran towards him, barrelling into his body and knocking him sideways. With a scream, the woman tumbled down the staircase, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Before Tavish could follow, a thick muscular arm curled round his throat.
“You dog!” he cried. “The whore is mine. I found her!”
A glint of metal caught Tavish’s eye. Her knife. He reached out, fumbling toward it until his fingers found the blade. It was blunt but would have to do. Using the man’s weight against him, Tavish twisted his body to one side, letting him pitch forward. Losing his footing, the man toppled down the staircase, landing beside the motionless woman. Before he could rise, Tavish was upon him, slicing across his throat with the knife. The blade did not penetrate deeply enough, and though red liquid trickled across the man’s neck the injury was not severe enough to impede him, and he struggled, his thick arms trying to get a purchase round Tavish’s own throat. Gritting his teeth, Tavish plunged the blade into the man’s neck, using his full weight. He twisted the knife until the thrashing grew weaker and the man lay still.
Shouts echoed from above. Too many voices—he was outnumbered.
The woman stirred, her chest rising and falling in a shuddering motion. She was alive.
Taking her by the arms, he hauled her over his shoulder, ignoring his body’s reaction at the feel of her curves under his hands.
He picked his way over the bodies in the courtyard, under cover of the smoke which billowed round in thick swirling ci
rcles, a black cloud rising through the air, obscuring the sunlight.
Harsh voices followed in his wake. Ignoring the pain in his lungs from the smoke, he broke into a run as soon as he had cleared the building, following the path towards the trees surrounding the area.
Deeper and deeper into the forest he ran, the effort warming his limbs. At length, exhaustion overcame him, and he stopped, his chest aching. Laying the woman on the ground, he knelt beside her and ran his hands over her body. The bones seemed sound, but a stickiness on the back of her head indicated the source of her unconsciousness. Her breathing seemed sound. Cradling her in his arms, he lay beside her. He must rest. With luck, she would not wake while he slept.
Chapter 4
When Elyssia woke, coldness seeped into her body from beneath and light raindrops spattered on her face.
How did she come to be outside?
She tried to move but was restricted by something warm—a body. She turned her head and let out a cry as a sharp pain penetrated the back of her neck.
The body moved, and two arms tightened their hold on her, releasing a sharp scent of smoke, sweat, and man. She tried to scream, but her chest spasmed into a cough, retching at the acrid smoky taste in her lungs.
“Easy!” a voice rumbled against her, and a large hand caressed her face, turning it slowly until she looked into the clear green eyes of the prisoner.
She struggled against him. “Let me go!”
He shook his head, holding her gently but firmly. Weakened by the cold, she was no match for him, and eventually, she yielded.
She was surrounded by trees. The only source of light came from above, where a pale moon struggled to cast light on the forest floor. There was no sound apart from the breeze rushing through the needles of the pine trees and the occasional call of a bird concealed in the darkness. In the distance, musical notes of water dancing over rocks drifted across the air.
“Are we close to the garrison?”
“Nay, lass. The barbarians killed all the English and were stripping the building of everything of value. You’re safer here.”