by Emily Royal
“Neither have I save my dear sister, Alice. Do you remember her? The day we met you by the well?”
His eyes softened at the mention of Alice’s name. Even a child recognised Alice’s sweet innocence for what it was. But when Elyssia moved closer, he shrank away from her again.
Sighing, she sat back.
“Do you believe in dragons and witches?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Let me show you something,” she said.
She held her hand up, palm facing him before rotating it to show the back, the once smooth skin marred by blisters and grazes.
“See? Not a scale in sight. Flesh and blood—just as you are.”
He touched her hand, his thin fingers ice cold. Curling her hand around his, she smiled, recognition calling to her once more as he lifted his eyes to hers, his lips curling into a wan smile.
Those eyes—Richard’s eyes! Once again, the shock of familiarity tightened in her chest, and the truth slid into place. They were not Richard’s eyes, but Papa’s. Why had she not understood it before?
The bastard child of the devil.
“Come with me,” she said, tightening the grip on her half-brother’s hand. “From now on you’ll share my porridge.”
Chapter 11
In the heat of the kitchen, the boy’s hands began to thaw against Elyssia’s skin.
“Lorna, may I give Conall a bowl of porridge?”
Lorna nodded. A harsh laugh stopped Elyssia, and she turned towards the sound. Callum stood in the doorway, Margaret by his side. His face was twisted in hatred and contempt, though hers was impassive, a benign smile playing on her lips.
“The whore and the bastard.”
The child tightened his grip at Callum’s words.
“Come, child,” Elyssia whispered, “while the porridge is hot.”
“Face me, whore, while I address you.”
Elyssia pulled Conall behind her, shielding him from the hatred in Callum’s eyes.
“What do you want?”
“You must address me as my lord,” the young man said. Behind him, Margaret shook her head, her golden hair trembling in the light of the kitchen fire, her eyes portraying nothing but gentle sadness.
Straightening her spine, Elyssia hardened her voice.
“What do you want—my lord?”
“I would know why the whore and the bastard take their meal from the same bowl as decent folk.”
“Decent folk?” Elyssia cried. “All I see before me is a man who takes pleasure in the suffering of others. Where must I take my meals? Outside with the swine? In the courtyard with the dogs? Or would you have me starve?”
“How dare you speak to me thus!” Callum cried, his face reddening with rage. He shook off Margaret’s restraining hand. “You’ve no right to taint my home—you and that bastard which hides behind your skirts.”
“The child you refer to is related to you by blood,” she said. “Have a little compassion. He is innocent.”
Callum lunged at her. “Innocent? Were it not for him, Flora would be alive!”
“Callum,” Margaret said, “have a little mercy, I beg you! Your brother will see the English reap their rewards. ‘Tis not for you to trouble yourself.”
“How can you, Margaret?” The young man’s voice broke with sorrow, raw emotion thick in his throat as he choked back a sob. “Flora lies cold in her grave, her body and soul destroyed…”
Margaret drew him to her. “Do not distress yourself.”
“But they must pay for their sins.”
“Aye, Callum. But you must trust Tavish—as I do. He’ll decide how that payment is collected.”
She nodded to Elyssia.
“Go, Lady de Montford. Take your porridge and eat it in your chamber. I will look after Callum. Forgive him. He loved his sister more passionately than even my beloved Tavish.”
At the mention of Tavish’s name, her eyes seemed to harden for a brief moment in the light of the kitchen fire before she blinked and her expression softened.
Callum pulled out of her embrace.
“Filthy whore!” He spat at Elyssia’s feet. “The day we return you to the English with a bastard in your belly cannot come too soon. I hope they treat you like the whore you are.”
Shouting for Tavish, he turned and left the kitchen. Margaret sighed, shaking her head.
“You must forgive us. Our quarrel is not with you. I’ll take care of Callum, but I would advise you to remain out of his sight. Perhaps you should spend the day gathering berries. The mountain air would be good for you. I’ll take care of your sister. Lorna, will you see to it for me?”
“Aye, Mistress Margaret.” For a brief moment, Lorna’s voice betrayed her reluctance before she ordered one of the kitchen maids to fetch a basket.
Sighing, Elyssia took the basket and left the heat of the kitchen, ignoring the laughs of derision from the other children. Lorna admonished them and sent them scattering into the courtyard before she ladled a bowl of porridge for Conall.
* * *
With the rush of the wind in her ears, Elyssia could almost forget she was a captive—a whore—imprisoned by the man intent on ruining her; the man she had given her heart to. The cool air caressed her burning cheeks. It might never remove the stain of shame which penetrated her body and mind, but it soothed the flame which burned within.
On higher ground beyond the castle, the terrain grew rocky, though the trees did not begin to thin out until further up. Here, the trees were too thick for her to make out the side of the mountain. She yearned to venture to the top, to feel the wind tearing through her hair and hear the cries of the eagles that circled above the terrain in glorious unfettered freedom. But she remained where she was, confined by the trees of the forest as surely as the castle walls confined her body.
Not only did she bear the physical confinement, but her conscience bade her stay—the voice deep within that whispered of the need to atone for her own sin; a sin much greater than Papa’s. But she was not only shackled by her conscience. Her treacherous heart, which ever triumphed in the battle with her head, pulled her towards him. Her shame had been shattered already—admitting her body’s craving for the man who had awakened her desires two years ago. But her heart had been captured by the tender words he had whispered in the dark before the cursed dawn broke through the darkness when he had declared her a whore and sent her from his chamber.
Kneeling as a penitent sinner before her God, she plucked a ripe, round berry. She bit into the soft flesh, her teeth cutting through the skin until the sweetness burst onto her tongue. Closing her eyes at the memory of the last time she had tasted a berry in the forest—offered up by her saviour—she heard a soft rustling as if the trees swayed against each other. The song of nature.
Would she anything but a prisoner here! The rugged Highlands spoke to her from within—a primal voice telling her of the pagan gods. Those same gods had smashed the rocks against each other to form the sharp shards of the mountains, the hard granite upon which mere mortals dashed themselves against before bathing them in the rich, purple heather, the soft blanket to drape over the harsh rocks—silk over steel.
The song deepened in tone, soft musical notes turning guttural, deep rumbles morphing into harsh words accompanied by mocking laughter.
“We’ve found ourselves a whore!”
Elyssia snapped her eyes open. Four men emerged from the trees. Barely clad in ragged loincloths, they towered over her. One of them let out a bark of laughter, revealing blackened teeth punctuated by gaps.
“Who’ll be first?”
The thick accents were reminiscent of the grunts of the wild boar in Papa’s estate. And just as deadly. Though these men had no tusks, they would rip her apart, but not before they devoured her.
Heavy, thick frames, shaggy dark hair, and the stench of savagery and stale sweat—only once before had she smelled it.
The man at the fort—the barbarian who would have ripped her body apa
rt had Tavish not killed him. These men did not take prisoners—they tore their victims to pieces.
Holding her basket close, she struggled to her feet. Even at her full height, she could not hope to intimidate them into leaving her alone.
“I do not fear death,” she cried, as evenly as her voice would permit.
The man nearest her laughed.
“Death is not something we have in mind for you, woman, but something far sweeter. We shall enjoy you to the full.”
Savage lust glittered in his eyes. Death would be the better fate.
“Come no closer. I’m armed!” she cried. He laughed and drew a knife.
“As I am, woman,” he said, his accent thickening his speech. “A knife to keep the mare under control and a sword to spear her with.”
Thick, coarse laughter filled her ears, and they drew closer to form a tight circle. What chance had she against four men with bodies thick and hard from living on the land? The stench of lust thickened like a black cloud of smoke, threatening to engulf her.
“Who’ll fuck her first?”
“I saw her first. She’s mine by right.”
“Silence!” The first man roared. “‘Tis my claim to make. I’ll ready her for you, have her moaning underneath me.”
Another man laughed coarsely. “Then I’ll be last, so she realises what she’d be missing with the three of you. Would ye like that, wench?”
“Mayhap she could satisfy two of us at once—who knows what these English whores do?”
The first man held out his hand, a broad grin stretching across his fleshy face.
“I’ll treat ye right, whore. One taste of my cock and ye’ll never crave the MacLean again.”
She swung her basket at him, but he ducked and slapped it out of her hands. Anger deepened his brow before he leapt towards her and knocked her to the ground, the shock of the fall forcing the air from her lungs. Before she could move, he was on top of her, his lust-fuelled snarls of fury not quite obscuring the laughter from his companions.
“Turn her over!”
“Rut her like the sow she is!”
Striking out, she spat and cursed, her hands meeting flesh. As she had done that terrible night when the Highlanders took her, she curled her fingers and clawed at his face. She would not survive this—no pleas for forgiveness lay beneath the man’s voice as he cursed her; she heard only pure, savage, animal lust.
Pain exploded in her jaw, and her head snapped back sending a firebolt through her neck. A roaring sound began to build in her ears—a precursor to oblivion and death. Her mind fought against her assailant, but her body could not prevent her fate—an unarmed woman against four savage men intent on tearing her apart.
The roaring increased, forming deep cries as if her mind screamed in anger and the earth cried back.
Not the earth. A man’s voice.
“No!”
A deep scream of rage cut through the roar, bringing her back from the darkness. Angry words cried out in a familiar voice before the sharper sounds of steel against steel cut through the thick pain clouding her senses.
“Begone, MacLean! Our quarrel is not with you. Leave us be, and we’ll leave ye alone. We want only the whore.”
“Nay! The woman is mine!”
Tavish’s voice rang clear and true, cutting through the barbarians’ hoarse calls as the bitter juice of berries cuts through fat. Deep screams, battle cries followed by choking and splutters of hatred.
Elyssia tried to stand but lost her balance as the pain in her head throbbed, blurring her vision.
Three men lay dead, their life essence draining into the heather-clad ground. The fourth had forced Tavish to his knees. He snarled with battle-lust and fury, his huge hands wrapped around Tavish’s throat.
The urge to protect the man whose body and soul called to her in her dreams overpowered her mind as surely as the men he fought had overpowered her body. Screaming, Elyssia lunged at the barbarian. She clasped her hands around his head and dug her fingers into his eye sockets.
With a howl, he loosened his grip and fell back, taking her with him, and they landed on the ground with a grunt. The breath jolted out of her body on impact.
He dealt a blow to the side of her head. Through greyed vision, she glimpsed a fleshy face, dark shaggy beard surrounding a gaping mouth, red droplets on his lips. He raised his arm again, but before he could strike a second time he threw his head back and screamed. Red liquid spurted from his lips, and he fell forward, his body landing in a lifeless heap beside her.
Tavish stood before her, blotting out the light of the setting sun, his body casting a long shadow over her. With a sharp, swift movement, he drew back and withdrew his sword from the body of the man he had just killed.
Shaking, she struggled to her feet. Tavish stood still, body tense, shoulders heaving with exertion, puffs of breath visible in the frigid evening air.
The shadow lengthened as the light fell, but his eyes—deep, strong eyes that had looked into her so intensely—shone with lust from the kill. Standing before her, he was a wild animal, a beast from the Highlands who had killed the challengers who’d dared to encroach on his land. He lifted his head, exposing his throat, the Adam’s apple bulging as he growled at the sky. The hunter reasserting his supremacy over his territory and all that lay within it.
Raw, primal power shimmered in the air as if the earth responded to his call. No place for a civilised man; no place for a woman. She moved back and lowered her head, averting her gaze from the beast before her.
“Stay.”
The low voice growled—the stag exerting his ownership over his mate.
Dropping the knife, he tensed his body, ready to strike.
Without warning, he let out a roar and lunged forward, grasping her shoulders. Pulling her to him, he crushed her mouth with his; hot, hard lips devouring her, his tongue insistent, demanding entrance.
Unable to keep her balance, she fell backwards onto the soft heather. She opened her mouth to cry out, and he silenced her, thrusting his tongue in, claiming ownership, probing, insistent, overpowering. His hard, strong body pinned her to the ground, hands plundering her body. His flesh called to hers, and her willing body responded, conquering her unwilling mind, a deep groan bubbling up from her chest, her warm lifeblood calling to him.
She tasted triumph in his kiss. Sealing his ownership, he speared her with a rough, hard movement, the dominant male making his mark—confirmation of his own supremacy and a warning to all challengers.
Her treacherous body arched its back, and she threw back her head, hips lifting to meet each thrust, her mind at war with her voice which cried his name, a cry of recognition, acknowledging how their bodies moulded together as one.
Her Highlander.
“Oh God, sweet Flora forgive me!” he howled into the twilight air as he thrust into her one last time, his body bursting with the life he poured into her.
He fell forward, collapsing on top of her with a sharp cry before rolling onto his side, taking her with him, still inside her, their bodies joined as one, twin souls connecting at the most natural level—the unconscious calling which transcended rational thought. Instinctive, pure animal lust, a man seeking his mate, taking her and branding her as his.
For she did belong to him. Unwilling as her conscious mind may be, she knew she was his and always would be. Not only had he branded her body, but he had also etched himself indelibly into her soul.
He held her to him, their hearts beating to the same rhythm, the rhythm of the earth. Her pagan god.
A soft whisper, barely audible, made her skin tighten with want.
“My Elyssia.”
His body shook as if he fought another battle—one with his conscience—before he let out a low moan of anguish.
He withdrew from her, rolling onto his front, and brushed himself down. Smoothing his plaid, he picked up his sword and wiped it on the sleeve of his tunic.
“Clean yourself up before you return to t
he castle.” His cold words sliced through her heart and she bowed her head, closing her eyes to hold back tears of shame and self-loathing.
“Did you hear me, woman?”
“Aye,” she whispered, nodding her head. Brushing the leaves and dirt from her mud-stained skirts, she avoided his eyes and reached for the basket.
“Go,” he said, his voice shaking. “Go. Now.”
Setting her mouth into a firm line, she met his gaze. He would not have the satisfaction of seeing her shame. She dropped a slow curtsey before speaking clearly and coldly.
“As my captor wishes.”
His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed as if in pain. She drew strength from every crease of his brow. Let him war with his conscience—hers was clear.
No, not clear. Flora. Always it came back to her. The girl in the dungeon. One day Elyssia’s sin would return to haunt her.
Eventually, he dropped his gaze, speaking in a pained voice.
“Go.”
Turning her back on him, she returned to the castle. Escape was futile; she had nowhere else to go.
Chapter 12
“Tavish, what have ye done?”
Tavish strode past Duncan, but his friend gripped his arm before he reached the doorway.
“What happened in the war with your conscience, Tav? Has your thirst for vengeance emerged victorious?”
“Of what do you speak?”
“The lass!”
Elyssia.
His Elyssia. The woman his body craved. Unable to deny it, he had sought her out in the forest, wanting to speak to her, to beg her forgiveness. He wanted to explain how loyalty to his clan had driven him to commit unspeakable acts—acts he’d suffer for until the day he died. But more than anything he wanted to bury himself inside her once more, to have her come willing to him as she had that first night at Glenblane when he had become her Highlander and seduced her in the dark.
To see those animals circling his woman like a pack of wolves circles a deer, primal rage had risen within him, the need to kill and maim those who would seek to harm her. Ignoring the voice uttering ‘hypocrite’ in his mind, he had fought to protect her and lay claim to his mate. He was a man, protecting his woman.