“Nay. I never lie!” Jacqueline bristled. “And I would not lie about my own name. Mhairi is my younger sister, she is but four summers of age.” ’Twas a golden opportunity to pretend she did not fear him and she lifted her chin proudly. “Most can tell us apart.”
This seemed to amuse him, however fleetingly. “The Mhairi I seek would be of an age with you.” He studied her intently, as though reaffirming his assessment, though Jacqueline could not guess his conclusion. “More or less.”
“Then she is not me.” Jacqueline spoke firmly, determined to save herself with her wits and the truth. None else could aid her here. “So, you had best release me. This is a simple enough error to amend.”
“Indeed?” His gaze flicked over her ample curves. “Then who are you, if you would not be Mhairi?”
Certain her identity would prove his error and win her freedom, she answered honestly, “I am Jacqueline of Ceinn-beithe.”
Something flickered across his features, though Jacqueline would not have gone so far as to call it doubt. His words, though, were even more terse. “Who holds Ceinn-beithe in these days?”
“Duncan MacLaren, my step-father. And my mother, Eglantine. Who are you?”
The knight shook his head, ignoring her question as he stood once again. “I do not know that name. You lie.”
“I do not!”
“Then how did this Duncan come to wrest Ceinn-beithe from Cormac MacQuarrie’s grip?”
“Duncan is Cormac’s chosen heir. He is the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie.”
“Nay, in this you clearly lie.” His lips tightened to a harsh line again. “Cormac is the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie and Iain his blood son. He would never surrender Ceinn-beithe to another.”
“Cormac has not been chieftain since he died, some ten years past. Duncan was his foster son and is his heir.”
The knight regarded her in silence for so long that his tongue might have been stolen. “And what of Cormac’s daughter Mhairi?” He eyed her distrustfully.
Understanding swept through Jacqueline. “Oh, you seek that Mhairi! She is long dead, for she killed herself upon her father’s insistence that she wed a man she did not love. ’Twas her loss that killed Cormac, to hear Duncan tell it.”
“That I can well imagine,” he said. He glanced back at his companion. To Jacqueline’s relief, the men who had accompanied her were not fatally injured, for they were being marshaled toward her. Their hands had been trussed behind their backs and the other attacker urged them forward at the point of his sword.
“Well?” the knight’s comrade called.
“She claims she is not Mhairi, that Mhairi is dead,” the knight replied. “She claims to be the step-daughter of the new chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie.”
He then smiled down at Jacqueline. ’Twas not an encouraging smile and Jacqueline suddenly doubted his intent to free her. He bent and picked her up in his arms, cradling her weight against his chest.
“Either way,” he said silkily, “she will do very well.”
“You cannot do this!”
That smile broadened, no less disconcerting from such close proximity. “Can I not?”
“But you have not even told me who you are, or what you want. I have tried to help, I have told you everything!”
He chuckled then, a low dark sound. “Your mistake, my beauty. Now you have naught with which to bargain.” His teeth flashed in a wolfish smile, and he suddenly looked both wicked and dashing. Jacqueline’s heart stopped cold. “And I, for once in all my days, hold every advantage.”
“Nay!” Jacqueline screamed but made little sound before the knight clamped one gloved hand over her mouth. She struggled, but to no avail. The man kept her silent and powerless with disconcerting ease.
She was helpless in a man’s grip once more, prey to his every whim, and his intent was naught good. Fear rose to choke Jacqueline with the taste of that leather, her memory of being captive beneath Reynaud too similar to be denied. She fought to stay aware, knowing that if she fainted she could not aid herself.
But the terror of that memory and the similarity of her circumstance was too strong to be denied. Jacqueline’s last glimpse was of the resolute lines of the knight’s visage, the flicker of desire in his eyes.
God in heaven, but she could not change the truth. She had fallen prey to a demon on her way to the Lord.
Chapter Two
Angus had not expected her to be so frightened.
But then, the reason was so evident that he felt a fool for forgetting. Aye, one look upon him when he was angered might make even the bold Mhairi faint. His quest had changed more than his character—it had destroyed his face.
In contrast, Mhairi was more lovely than he had ever expected she might become. She was a beauty of flaxen hair and emerald eyes, a daintily wrought woman yet with fulsome curves. Her flesh was tanned to a golden hue, a shade that made her hair seem like burnished gold, her eyes more startlingly clear, of the particular green hue the sea could take on a summer’s day.
’Twas astonishing to Angus that it troubled him so much when she fainted. She was no more than a means to an end to him and one he did not intend to see harmed, but her terror troubled him.
He was simply not accustomed to the company of women any longer—nor indeed, prepared for her recoil from the sight of him.
His first impression was that she was younger than he had expected, but then, he had learned ’twas impossible for a man to accurately guess the age of a beauteous woman. They had secret arts to preserve their youth. If Mhairi had waited so long to wed because her father deemed her a prize, ’twould serve her well to hide the full number of her years.
Just as such women could hide the truth to suit their purposes. He was not surprised that Mhairi claimed to be other than herself in the hope of seeing herself freed. That was deceptiveness of an ilk with her father’s.
Aye, he had called it aright. She lied. She was Mhairi, she was his captive and Cormac would willingly pay his due.
Angus whistled to his steed and instructed him to stand over the woman now laid upon the ground, knowing that Lucifer would hold his place at his master’s word. He spoke softly to the horse, steeled his heart against what was undoubtedly the woman’s deliberate ploy to soften his resolve, then turned to the small cluster of men who had accompanied the maiden.
The captured man who Rodney urged forward was the first to speak. “Who are you?” he demanded in Gael. “And by what right do you make such an attack upon the very land of Clan MacQuarrie?”
His outraged manner did not hide either his suspicion or his uncertainty of his own fate. The trio of other men were similarly wary.
They had naught to fear, in truth. Angus had no desire for slaughter—if he ever had, his years in Outremer would have thoroughly sated any such yearning. On this day, he had need of naught but a messenger, and these four would suit him well enough.
He had, however, learned to anticipate treachery from every turn. These men would have no chance to pursue him or retrieve Mhairi.
“I am Angus MacGillivray, son of Fergus MacGillivray, once the comrade of Somerled and, as entrusted by the dictate of that King of the Isles, loyal defender of Airdfinnan.”
The man’s previous doubt was naught compared to the suspicion that now crossed his features. “You cannot be! Angus MacGillivray is dead, just as all of the family MacGillivray are dead. All know the truth of it.” His companions nodded in solemn agreement.
“Yet I stand before you.”
The man’s eyes narrowed further. “Then you are naught but a rogue, stealing the name and repute of a ghost.”
“Nay, I am Angus MacGillivray.” Angus drew his sword quickly and touched its tip to the man’s throat. The man flinched, expecting the worst, but Angus merely nicked the skin. “Perhaps you recall my father’s blade?”
The man’s throat worked silently as a single drop of blood trickled from the minute wound. He flicked a glance at the distinctive hilt, embe
llished with a pattern of Celtic knots, then paled as he clearly recognized it. “Odin’s Scythe. Where did you find it?”
“I did not find it.” The very suggestion that ’twas not rightly his own irked Angus as little else could have done. “’Twas granted to me, by my father’s own hand, as all men of honor come to carry legendary blades.”
The man stared back at him, disbelieving the truth in a most irksome way.
“And truly, as I am of that ill-fated family MacGillivray, I am a man with naught left to lose.”
The man held his gaze, clearly aware of the fate of Airdfinnan. He jerked his head in the direction of the woman. “And what has that to do with our charge?”
“It has little to do with her, and much to do with your clan. She is but a pawn in a larger game.”
“You cannot make the lady pay for the loss of your family! ’Twould be unjust!”
“Aye? And how is it unjust for the MacQuarrie clan to be asked repair what they have set awry?”
The man snorted. “If you speak of the assumption of Airdfinnan, that had naught to do with us!”
Angus let his own skepticism show. “Nay?”
“Nay! Your father died without an heir! Your brother was dead and you were well known to have died in Outremer.”
Angus leaned closer. The man could not step back as Rodney’s blade was still behind him, and the color drained from his face in his fear.
“My father was murdered,” Angus said deliberately. “My brother was murdered. ’Tis by the grace of God alone that I survived, and that I did survive means they will be avenged.” He stepped back and sheathed his blade. “Tell that to the Cormac MacQuarrie.” He turned to Lucifer, that beast bristling with impatience to be gone.
“Cormac is dead,” the man retorted.
Angus turned back to find the man watching him, arms akimbo. “Then who is the chieftain of the clan now?” he asked softly, fully expecting to hear Iain’s name.
But the man replied as the woman had done. “Duncan MacLaren was named Cormac’s heir by Cormac himself. ’Tis he who rules the clan and he who will demand restitution for the capture of his daughter Jacqueline.”
Angus glanced to the woman, marveling that she had not lied. Still, ’twas as he said—she would serve his purpose as well as Mhairi would have done. “Then ’tis to this Duncan you shall give my message.”
“But what of Jacqueline?”
Angus granted the man a smile so cold that he visibly shivered. ’Twas important to not reveal too much of his intent too soon. “You shall hear, eventually.”
“But you cannot do this! You...” The man fell silent, undoubtedly encouraged to do so by the tip of Rodney’s blade.
Angus ignored him. The woman stirred as he approached his steed. Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes opening wide when she saw him so close and she stiffened.
“I have told you once to be still lest you frighten the steed,” he said sternly, for only her panic could disconcert the horse.
Her gaze flew over Lucifer, who stamped his great hooves with excellent timing. She swallowed and closed her eyes as though drawing upon some inner strength, but moved no more than that.
At least she did not faint again. And color blossomed again in her cheeks. Perhaps she was wrought of sterner stuff, in truth.
He fetched some cloth from his saddlebag, spoke again to the steed, then returned to Rodney’s side, deaf to the protests of the captured man. Without further ado, he blindfolded the man.
That man sputtered. “You cannot do this. You cannot steal our steeds...”
“I have stolen naught. Your skittish steeds have fled, as poorly trained mounts oft will do.”
“But what of us? I beg of you not to kill us!”
The other men were blindfolded quickly, though Angus did not waste time with reassurances.
“Turn in place,” he commanded, touching his blade to the throat of the man before him when that man hesitated. Rodney did the same, until each man was so encouraged to spin mutely in place.
“You cannot leave us to perish in the wilderness,” the leader protested, evidently guessing what transpired.
“Nay, you cannot!” argued another, all beginning to clamor. Angus was not stirred to sympathy for he knew they only sought to be aware of each other’s locations.
Rodney dug his blade a little deeper into that man’s flesh. “Hush, or you shall have to be gagged, as well.”
The man’s lips clamped in a tight line.
“Tell your comrades to do the same.”
The man gave a terse command, the four men shuffling in silence then. Rodney and Angus exchanged a nod, then led two of the men in differing directions, leaving the others turning in place.
Ultimately, the four men stood spinning silently, hundreds of paces apart from each other. Their footsteps could not heard at such a distance, though Angus could nigh taste their fear and uncertainty.
Angus lifted his captive before himself and mounted his steed. She held herself stiffly, as though she would make space between them, but he had no patience with such maidenly modesty. He pulled her closer, then touched his spurs to the steed.
He rode towards the man who had said so much, Rodney riding by his side. “I will watch you to the count of five thousand,” he whispered, making Lucifer walk around the man in the opposite direction to which the man turned. “Have you sufficient skill with numbers to count so high?”
“Nay!”
“Ah, then count to a hundred, and do so fifty times.”
“But I cannot.” The man was already becoming dizzy, his steps faltering.
All the better to disorient him. He would not be able to guess in which direction they departed.
Angus leaned down, his words a low threat. The woman held herself so rigidly before him that she might have been carved of wood. “Count as high as you can, then count that high over and over again. For if you move too soon, speak too soon, cease to spin too soon, I will ensure you feed the worms as surely as my kin. Do you understand?”
“Aye.”
“And if indeed you find your way back to Ceinn-beithe, I would have you tell this Duncan MacLaren that the payment for the sins of Cormac MacQuarrie has come due. I care only for the return of what is rightly my own. And your chieftain’s sole desire, I would expect, would be for the survival of his beauteous daughter.”
“But how...”
“Have you not heard that when the will is sufficient, the way will be found?”
“But, but...”
Angus had no interest in excuses. “Tell your chieftain to await my terms at Ceinn-beithe. Begin to count immediately. Keep your voice low.”
The man did so, punctuating each number with a step in his circling. Angus cast an eye over the foursome, watching as Rodney gave the same instruction to each in turn. The sun was yet high and he knew they would become bold enough to call to each other before long. Aye, they would be safely home at Ceinn-beithe before night fell, even walking as they must.
Satisfied with what he had wrought, Angus turned his steed for the hills, his captive clasped to his chest. He halted at the last turn of the road, while Rodney’s steed galloped toward them, and smiled at the sight of the four men turning silently on the moors. ’Twas a sight he would not soon forget, though ’twas but the beginning of his vengeance.
“They will perish, and for what reason?” she asked in soft recrimination. “How does this ensure your message will be delivered and this Airdfinnan surrendered to you?”
He realized with a start that she might well reveal their course, if she was ransomed as he fully expected. And the MacQuarries were a vengeful lot—he would not have them know who had sheltered him before Airdfinnan and its high walls were not his own.
Although he could not guess whether Edana still drew breath, he meant to seek refuge at the old storyteller’s hut. If she lived, she would aid him, and she could tend the woman’s ankle far better than he. He intended to return this woman in the fullness of hea
lth so that no insult could be taken.
In addition, Edana’s abode was deep in the forest and not readily found—even if the seanchaidh drew breath no longer, Angus would find shelter of a kind there while he allowed Duncan to fret. Indeed, anxiety would bring a quicker resolution once his demands were made.
He wanted naught but to see this injustice resolved.
All the same, Angus would see that none paid a price for aiding him. His captive could not witness where they rode, lest she alert her father of Edana’s location once she was ransomed.
“Give me another length of cloth,” Angus demanded of Rodney. The woman caught her breath and shrank away from him, but he blindfolded her all the same.
’Twas her hair that slowed his task, for he hesitated to tighten the knot lest it pull at her golden tresses. He shed his gloves and carefully worked each silken strand free of the cloth. Her lips worked in silence, their movement drawing his attention to their ripe softness.
He wondered how sweet she would taste. It had been long since he had lain with a woman, and longer still since he had lain with one who was not a whore. This woman was all soft curves, her fine if simple garb revealing her privileged station. She was indeed a beauty, and unless he had forgotten much of the world, an innocent who had been sheltered from men.
Which would explain her fear of him. Indeed, he knew that he cast a fearsome image, what with the scars he now bore. He wondered where she had been going with this group of guards, what man had won her as his bride.
To his surprise, her lips set as the blindfold was finally knotted, as though she was annoyed with him.
Perhaps she was not so meek as he might have believed.
No doubt, she rode to her nuptials on this day, regardless of her name. The unwelcome thought came to him that if she was to wed an ally of the MacQuarries, then there was another compensation he might claim. He could steal what another man had bought, and thus render injury against his father’s traditional foes. Angus let his gaze wander over the woman’s ripe curves and was tempted by the possibilities.
Another man might have taken what he could. But Angus was not a man to claim what was not offered, and he heartily doubted this beauty would offer him much beyond her fear and then her scorn.
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