Soon.
Walking with shuffling movements, as a chambermaid would, Rose stopped to open the door on several rooms, some of which were occupied, but none were occupied with Briar. She slowly, quietly shut the final door in that corridor, and heaved a sigh. She’d looked into five rooms so far on that floor. Cursing to herself, she almost missed the noise from the room furthest down the hallway.
Holding her breath, Rose waited for the noise to sound again, and when it did, she grinned. It was the sound of a rabidly unhappy woman.
Briar.
Her hand reaching for a sword she hadn’t brought with her—dammit!—she tensed, slowly moving forward. She doubted that Briar was shouting at no one, which meant there was someone in the room with her.
At the door, Rose pressed her ear against it, trying to make out what the woman was going on about.
“MacDougal promised I would want for nothin’, and that means if I want a plate o’ fresh tarts, I get a plate o’ fresh tarts!” she shrilled, and Rose recoiled.
Tarts? The woman was a prisoner, her life hanging by a noose, a noose Thorn would wear, and she was complaining about tarts?
This is not right…
A male’s voice answered, but Rose couldn’t make out what he was saying.
“When I am lady o’ Gleneden, ye will find that I am a vicious enemy, ye daft git, I promise ye that.”
Lady of Gleneden? To be the lady, she’d have to marry the laird. But Thorn was laird and he’d broken off their short engagement, hadn’t he?
As questions thrust themselves into Rose’s mind, the bitch behind the door shrilled again.
“Hurt but no’ dead, damn him. MacDougal swore he wouldnae kill Thorn—” Rose couldn’t make out what she said next, only sharp mutterings, and then—“Let me out o’ here! I want tae be with Thorn! If ye hurt him, I will never forgive ye!”
Slowly, Briar’s words formed into a hideous, slimy truth in Rose’s mind. Briar MacPherson wasn’t in danger, she was a betrayer. She had sided with MacDougal to get what she’d always wanted: Thorn.
Suddenly, all the blood in Rose’s body pooled in her feet.
Briar wasn’t a prisoner…she was a conspirator. A desperate, grasping whore of a traitor.
As she stood there, outside the door, listening to Briar and the unknown man mutter back and forth as though hell hadn’t descended on their world, Rose sneered diabolically.
Briar would pay for ever crossing a Rees.
Raising a hand, Rose knocked on the door—three loud slams of her fist.
The murmuring immediately stopped. Silence followed. Then, the latch clicked and the door swung open an inch.
Rose grinned up into the face of a man she’d never seen before, but before she was done with him, he’d only ever see her face in his dreams.
“What ye want, wench?” the man growled, scowling down at her.
“I am here to deliver a message,” Rose replied, her hands twitching and eager for action, to wrap themselves around the throat of the woman who’d dared wrong someone she loved.
Loved! Love? She loved Thorn?
Hell.
“And what message is that?” the man asked, his eyes narrowing at her.
Rose chuckled, a thrill shooting through her.
“Tell her Rose Rees has come to cut out her lying tongue.”
With that, a screech sounded behind the man and the man threw the door open, reaching down to draw his sword.
He didn’t have time.
Rose pulled her dagger from her waistband, thrusting it into the man’s throat, his blood spraying her cheeks with warmth.
Wiping the dagger on the hem of her tunic, Rose slid it back into her waistband and sighed dramatically. Stepping over the man, who was desperately trying to keep his blood from pouring from his neck, Rose met Briar’s wide, terrified gaze.
And laughed.
Chapter Seventeen
Thorn tossed his horse’s reins to an armor-clad man who was glaring at him with such hatred in his eyes that Thorn could feel it, like a dark flame devouring his skin.
Damn.
Raising his arms as a sign he was unarmed, Thorn waited for the two men by the large oak door to come down the stone steps toward him.
“Dubhach MacPherson,” one man sneered, “Honestly thought ye’d tuck yer tail n’ flee. A coward, just like yer brother.”
At mention of Aron, Thorn’s body tensed, growing taut to the point his finger joints popped.
“You will not speak of my brother, you swine,” Thorn growled, taking a step toward the man who ignorantly continued to grin at Thorn. If Thorn were armed, he would have removed the man’s head from his shoulders with a single swing, and he’d enjoy it.
“Let him alone, Francis. MacDougal isnae willin’ tae wait until yer done shakin’ yer willy at MacPherson,” the other man snapped, obviously a higher-ranking guard.
The other man, Francis, grumbled but backed away, allowing Thorn to pass by.
He knew he was walking through the door to his doom, but what choice did he have? Briar didn’t deserve to be MacDougal’s prisoner, not for something that had nothing to do with her.
She had better be grateful for this!
Damn. He hated that his life was on a perilous edge, that he was placing his hope on a deranged man’s sense of mercy.
As he entered the great hall, he noticed that both sides of the large room were lined with people, all staring at him with curiosity, and some with hatred.
Thorn couldn’t believe that people with such a dislike of him lived so close to him, his family, his people. What had MacDougal told them? What lies had he spread that had made them all so willing to watch this farce of justice?
Suddenly, that one sliver of his mind that believed this was a good idea disappeared.
Seeing now, the look on Malcolm MacDougal’s face, Thorn knew there would be no mercy.
He would die here.
So be it. Squaring his shoulders, he straightened to his full height, refusing to look away, to give the madman before him the satisfaction of seeing him cower. He would never cower, not when he could save a life—even if it wasn’t his.
“Dubhach MacPherson, ye have come tae face justice for what ye have done,” MacDougal bellowed, already sweating and red-faced.
“And what have I done, MacDougal?” Thorn asked, his voice unwavering.
MacDougal’s face deepened to apoplectic purple. “Ye dare deny that ye are responsible for the death o’ my boy, my Bruce?” he spat, his fists shaking at his sides.
Thorn lifted a single eyebrow. “Aye, I deny it. I was not there. I had nothing to do with Bruce’s death, and you know that. And yet you continue to spread your hate and your poison, unable to face the fact that he is dead, and the one who was responsible is dead. What happened was a tragedy, one that was felt by all. You are not the only one who lost someone that day. So, should I, who lost a brother and a friend, seek vengeance against you? Was it not your river they jumped in to? Could you not have stopped the flow of the water, perhaps slowed it enough for them to struggle to the shore? Could you not have demanded the water level to decrease so their feet could touch the bottom?”
“How dare ye!” MacDougal squealed, but Thorn raised his hand to silence the blubbering fool.
“Nay? ’Tis ridiculous to blame you for your inability to control the river? Is it not just as ridiculous to seek justice against someone who could not control the actions of another, who was not even present during the ill-fated event? And yet, that is what you are doing, that is what you have been panting for for decades.” Thorn’s blood pounded through his veins, his chest heaving as his emotions surged. “You are a fool, MacDougal, a mad old fool.”
The people lining the walls all stared at him, mouths agape, their faces pale. How had they not realized the truth of things before now? They were all fools, dammit!
Without warning, MacDougal screamed, jumping from the dais on which he stood, like a judge presiding over a h
ellish trial. He reached Thorn in a moment, his mouth twisted, his body trembling in his rage. And yet, Thorn stood still, watching, waiting for the inevitable.
He’d said his piece and now, whatever would come would come.
“Ye will die, and then I will watch as Gleneden burns and the MacPhersons are wiped from existence.” His words were loud enough to echo through the large room, bouncing off the walls to slam into Thorn’s chest.
“You would kill innocent people?” Thorn demanded, incredulous.
MacDougal roared. “There isnae a single innocent MacPherson. They must all pay!”
Shocked gasps rose up, and the people around them began to murmur. Did they not realize their laird was willing to kill innocents in his quest for unrighteous vengeance? It was what he was doing just then, with Thorn, a man who had done nothing but be born a MacPherson. A man who had already spent twenty-one years of his life making up for the loss of Lord Owains’s heir? He’d sacrificed twenty-one years of time he could have spent with his father, with his mother, a woman who died only two years after Thorn was sent to foster in Wales for a tragedy he had no hand in. But he went willingly because it was the right thing to do, just as it was the right thing to do to sacrifice his life to save Briar.
But he couldn’t think about the fate of the other MacPhersons; he needed to focus on the here and now. Perhaps the other MacDougals could sway their laird.
He took a chance to peer from the corner of his eye, seeking any expression that showed horror where there was once hatred. Some were whispering to one another, and some were moving toward the door, turning their backs on the proceedings.
And they thought him a coward.
Nay! This cannot happen! ’Tis unfair! Where was the justice for him? He was the Laird MacPherson! How could there be none who would voice outrage for him, or cry out in defense of his innocence?
His jaw muscles tensed, grinding his teeth together until he tasted his own blood. He sucked in a ragged breath, forcing a calm he would never truly feel again.
Nay, it was impossible for him to die that day. He refused to. He would fight with his bare hands, until every one of his bones was broken, until every ounce of his blood stained the stone floors, until his last breath was cast into the heavens.
“I am here, just as you demanded. Release Briar, allow her to return to Gleneden,” Thorn ground out, pinning his gaze back on the man who held Thorn’s life in his hands.
“I doubt you want that,” a familiar voice chirped into the void left by the silence after his demand. Alarm blazed through him as he watched Rose stride into the great hall through a door behind the dais. She was holding a length of rope, and at the end of the rope was a pale-faced Briar, her dark hate-filled eyes glittering with recently shed tears.
MacDougal took one look at Rose and began to chuckle. It was a hideous laugh, one that kicked Thorn in the belly.
“Ye must be the Welsh whore that usurped Briar’s position in MacPherson’s bed,” MacDougal sneered wickedly. MacDougal raised his hand toward where Briar and Rose were standing, his lips curling up once more. “She has done naught but mutter about the ‘bitch who stole her Thorn’.”
Struck by what MacDougal was saying, Thorn watched as Briar ducked her head, hiding her face from his view. A sick tingling began in the back of his throat.
“What have you done, Briar?” he ground out.
Rose answered for her, “She betrayed you. She told me all about how she came to MacDougal, promising to get you here so that MacDougal could have his revenge. Idiot actually believed that MacDougal only meant to torture you a little, leaving you alive so she could come to your side, playing the loving and attentive woman you wronged. You would be grateful, you would cast me aside, and she would finally have you all to herself.”
Dumbfounded, Thorn could only stare at Rose as her announcement rang in his ears.
“That cannot be true,” he murmured, anger slowly boiling within him. “What have you done, Briar?” he demanded again.
Again, MacDougal chuckled. “What does it matter? It worked, did it no? And now ye are here, and so is the woman ye have been waitin’ yer whole life tae marry. Och, aye, I ken that she is Rose MacDeargh, long-lost daughter of Angus MacDeargh, thought dead for these twenty-one years. Not only does she look just like her dear da, she has a head o’ fire, just like her mother. Also, it was easy enough tae uncover the truth. Ye really shouldnae asked so many questions in the village. They are gossipers, the lot o’ them.”
As MacDougal was speaking, a tall, blonde stranger edged along the room, sticking to the shadows until he came up, right behind Rose. The man’s striking sea green eyes shone with something akin to terrible joy.
Thorn opened his mouth to yell, to warn Rose, but it was too late. The man reached out, throwing his arms around Rose, pinning her arms to her sides. The dagger she’d been holding fell to the floor with a clang.
“God dammit, no!”
He needed to get to her, to save her, but his feet wouldn’t move. Overwhelming fear held him in place, fear for himself, fear for his people, even fear for the treasonous Briar, but most of all, he feared for Rose. If he moved, the man holding her could easily end her life. Right before his eyes.
Never in his life had he felt so helpless. Rose was caught, and there wasn’t anything Thorn could do to save her.
Hold on, my love…
Chapter Eighteen
Twisting to get a better look at the dog holding her, she cursed. The bloody bastard! She would kill him the first chance she got. Rose struggled against the man’s hold, kicking her heel back to connect with his shins, but he maneuvered, easily avoiding the hit.
“Easy, wench!” the bastard barked, and Rose bit back the urge to bend down and take a bite out of the arm wound around her chest.
Across the room, MacDougal threw his head back and laughed into the ceiling, his maniacal gaze dancing.
“’Tis beautiful tae see justice comin’ from all sides, is it no, MacPherson? Ye will die here, I promise ye that, but first, I think ye should watch yer woman die, slow ’n painful.”
Thorn roared, breaking free of the invisible barrier that had held him in place throughout the disgusting show of madness. In two strides, MacDougal’s men had drawn their swords, holding them to MacPherson’s throat.
“Nay! Rose!” Thorn bellowed, looking to force his way through despite the blade points at his neck, but two other men appeared, pulling his arms behind his back. Thorn struggled, and Rose’s heart fell into the pit of her stomach.
If Thorn died here, she would kill MacDougal herself. Then she’d deal with the bastard behind her now, cutting his nose from his pretty face.
“Now, now, MacPherson. Is that any way tae greet my honored guest? He is all the way from Wales, and I was able tae secure his services. I am sure ye have heard o’ his family—a lot o’ savages, and this one is the most vicious. Said tae be the best torture master in Europe, and I paid him tae be here, just in case I had need o’ him.” MacDougal grinned. “Lucky that, aye?”
Bile flooded Rose’s mouth and she turned to glare at the man behind her.
In Welsh, she grated, “Have you no pride?”
He pinned her with a smile utterly free of guilt. “What of you, Cousin? When did you start bedding nobility, and Scottish nobility at that?”
Rose stiffened at Thorn’s gasp, and when she turned to face him, there was a look of disbelief on his face.
It hit her then; he’d lived in Wales, no doubt he’d learned to speak Welsh, which meant that he’d just heard and understood her exchange.
“What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into, Red?” her cousin asked, bending low to whisper into her ear. Though he spoke in Welsh, it was best that MacDougal not realize their familiar connection, at least not yet.
“Rees,” MacDougal called, “Ye will get yer chance at her shortly, but nae before I am finished with her lover.”
“Rees?” Thorn snapped. “You are a Rees?”
“Lucian Rees,” her cousin announced, far too cheerfully for the situation. If he weren’t holding her, she had no doubt he would have offered a pretty curtsey.
Rose tossed Thorn a look that told him to remain silent, and he caught the look, pinching his lips together to keep from saying anything else that could ruin whatever plan her cousin was, even now, conjuring to get them the hell out of there alive.
Still speaking in Welsh, Rose murmured, “What are you doing in Kinloch Rannoch?”
Lucian puffed an annoyed breath against her cheek.
“What do you think? That you could run off without one of us chasing after you? We could not just leave you to your own devices, especially since you have become so…restless.”
Restless? Oh, aye. She’d always felt apart from the other Rees, knowing she wasn’t blood-tied to any of them, but it wasn’t until Robbie, one of the long-lost Rees, found them that Rose began to wonder what it would be like to find her own family. It had eaten away at her, day by day, until sex and booze were the only things to take the edge off the ache that drowned her.
And now, she knew the answers, she knew where she came from, she knew where she belonged. She belonged with Dubhach MacPherson.
So why are you fighting him? Why can you not let him be what you want, what you need?
Because she was terrified! If she let Thorn in past the wall she’d built around her heart, how could she guard herself against the hurt that would come if he, too, left her, just as her father and mother had? Nay, they had no choice in the matter, but that hadn’t stopped the anguish from souring many of her relationships over the years.
Lucian’s embrace loosened, and Rose leaned back into him, conscious of how it would look to anyone watching them. It would appear that she was weakening, and giving in, falling into her captor’s hold. In reality…she just missed her cousin. She’d forgotten how comforting his embrace was, how warm and welcoming he was—when he wanted to be.
“The day after you disappeared, Burgess at the Bearded Lady told me about how you’d seemed keen on whatever the MacGuilliams were telling you. It did not take much to discover you had gone north to find your family. So, we came north as well.”
The Rebellious Red Page 10