“The French are so advanced,” Grace said. “A woman asking a man to dance.” She looked at Broc. “I like it.” And she held out her hand to him.
Broc set his crown on his head and boomed out through the hall, “Tonight, the lasses will ask the lads to dance.” Laughter floated up around them as Rose led Cullen out to the area before the stage.
Rose let the music and Cullen’s presence weave around her until she found herself laughing. She turned and bowed with the lilting notes. Cullen kept her close, his gaze making promises that sent shivers over her skin and joy filling her heart. Was this feeling love? Her chest squeezed with the possibility. It was the happiest Christmas she’d ever had.
Chapter Nineteen
Rose stretched in the sheets, her well-loved body enjoying the lingering warmth. She pressed her face into Cullen’s pillow. It still held his scent, and she hugged it to her chest. Contentment melted her spine, the bliss giving her the unburdened feeling of floating. He hadn’t broached the complicated subject of love during their night of passion. They’d lost themselves in each other, and surrendered to sleep wrapped together, until Errol had roused Cullen to ride out to where a lit beacon was spotted on the coast.
There hadn’t been time for talk of the future, where she would stay, and what name she would have. Even if she did live on Islay, would he want to wed her? She kept her eyes squeezed shut. Tha gaol agam ort. He’d said he loved her, in his language, but hadn’t asked her to wed. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t the type of woman to wed. She squeezed her eyes tighter and breathed deeply to dispel the worry. Or did he merely wait until she said she loved him?
Her eyes opened to the predawn shadows. Did she love him? He was utterly desirable, handsome, and strong. She lusted for him and felt herself wishing to be near him, even if it was just to see him smile. He was intelligent and kind and kept his vows. The thought of something terrible happening to him made her want to fight and weep at the same time. Was this love?
She breathed deeply, her mind twisting. She should sleep. Clarity came with a full night’s rest. The sun wouldn’t rise for an hour or more, and Cullen would be away until midday, checking to see if Henri’s ship had come out into the open.
Rose reached down the bed, her fingers finding the thin material of her chemise. She warmed it under the covers and slipped it on over her, sighing. Oui, they would have to talk. She wanted to be honest with him about the questions churning in her mind.
Knock. Knock. A soft sound tapped through the room, but oddly it wasn’t coming from the door to the hall.
Knock. Knock. “Cullen? Are ye there?”
Rose sat up in the bed, frowning. The feminine voice came from the door to the secret stairs.
“Cullen?” It was Beatrice. The contentment Rose had started to rekindle inside shattered. Anger seeped up in the shards, and Rose slid from the bed.
“He is not here, and you shouldn’t be, either,” Rose called back. She found her robe by the hearth and punched her fisted hands through each sleeve, tying the thick wool closed with a belt in the front.
There was a pause. “I saw him leave and wanted to talk with ye, find some peace between us. Could ye let me in? It’s cold out here with the wind coming up the steps.”
Rose wiggled her toes into her slippers and walked to the door. Unease prickled up her back. “You want to make peace?” Rose repeated, staring at the deep wood grain before her.
“Aye. For the good of Dunyvaig and Cullen, let me in.”
It was time to end the woman’s obsession with Cullen once and for all. Tell her…tell her what? That she was staying as Cullen’s lover? That there was a chance of him wedding her?
“When the sun comes up,” Rose answered.
“But he will be back,” she said, her voice taking on a desperate whine. “Let us settle this now, between women.”
With an irritated huff, Rose lifted the bar. The door swung, opening the black maw of the little room. Didn’t the woman even have a taper? Beatrice’s face appeared like a moon in the darkest of nights, and she stepped forward into Cullen’s room.
Keeping an eye on Beatrice as she walked to the hearth, Rose started to push the door shut. Halfway closed, it caught. In the space of a frantic heartbeat, rough arms yanked her into the blackness. She slammed into a chest, a foul-smelling hand covering her mouth, preventing her scream. Sour breath huffed against her cheek as she was shoved into Cullen’s room.
“We meet again, Madeleine,” Henri de Fleur hissed into her face. He turned her to pull her back against his front, one hand over her mouth and the other wrapped tightly over her ribs. “And you without my sword in your hands.” He inhaled fully along Rose’s ear. “I will never let you escape.”
Over the man’s hand, Rose watched Beatrice with wide eyes, hot betrayal once again slicing through her as if she were formed of butter. “Ye need to hurry,” Beatrice said. “Someone may have heard us.” She lowered the bar over the main door from the inside.
“Leave the letter,” he said. “And we will exit this stone tomb.”
Exit? He was stealing her away. Rose sucked air in as her heart pounded blood through her ears. She’d rather die. Rose twisted in Henri’s arms, but he squeezed tighter, apparently not weakened by two days tied up in the dungeon.
“Save your strength, mademoiselle,” he whispered with hot breath in French. “You will need it for my bed.” He inhaled against her hair. “So sweet,” he murmured. “I should thank Duffie for taking your maidenhead. No longer the virgin, you will belong to me instead of the king.” His breathy whispers sent a wave of revulsion washing grime down through Rose. But she was helpless against him. Her heart flew, and she sucked much needed air through her nose.
Beatrice dashed around the room, opening the clothespress and trunk at the end of Cullen’s bed. “I don’t know where he keeps the pearls.”
Henri cursed. “I want them. They are worth more than this whole damn island.”
Beatrice flipped open the few drawers in Cullen’s desk, her face and neck splotchy, her fear palatable. Could she sense the danger she was in? Rose had learned on the ship that Henri collected pretty girls like bored, cultured women collected pretty threads for their embroidery.
“Here,” Beatrice called, raising Cullen’s leather pouch high in triumph. She dumped the contents out in her palm; one of the pearls tapped the floorboards, jumping to lodge itself in the fibers of the rug before the hearth.
“Bring it,” Henri said. He looked back over his shoulder at the open stairway into blackness. “Let’s go. My men will be waiting.”
Beatrice poured the pearls back into the bag and grabbed Rose’s fur-lined wool cape from a hook. “She will freeze without it. Your king will want her alive, won’t he?”
Rose would have laughed if her mouth were free. Would the king even want her after Henri and his men took turns with her on the voyage back to France? If he even took her back to France. More likely Henri would keep her and sell the pearls, letting King Francis think that she’d died at sea, or worse, at the hands of the MacDonalds.
“Fine,” he said and gestured to the black descent.
Beatrice handed him the leather bag, which he tucked in his belt. She grabbed a lit candle and hurried to the top of the secret stairs. Gone was the woman who sauntered, a haughty sneer on her face. She was practically panicked. Was she afraid of being caught by Cullen? Or was Beatrice realizing that she would burn in hell for her betrayal?
Henri shoved Rose into the cold shadows. Maybe she could knock him off-balance, and they’d both plunge. For as soon as she ascertained that there was no escape, Rose intended to find the quickest way to death. Her own death was her only weapon at the moment.
Beatrice took the steps swiftly, obviously knowing her way from the nights of sneaking up to Cullen’s room. Henri bullied Rose down the first step and realized he’d have to hold on to the damp, jagged wall beside him. He’d have to choose between holding her mouth or her arm.
He leaned to her ear and spoke in French. “No one will hear your screams down the throat of this stone beast, Madeleine. And if you scream, I will kill the girl.”
Did he actually think she cared about the stupid woman who was helping him abduct her? Realizing how weak the threat was, he added to it. “I will also make certain to tie you around the neck on my ship while each of my men has a taste of you. Oui? One scream and your voyage will be beyond hell.”
The fact that the punishment already churned in his mind made it very likely to happen anyway, but at the moment, the threat dampened her natural response. Slowly he took his hand away from her mouth. She spit out the taste of him and drew in a full breath.
With a shove, his fingers pinching into her upper arm, Henri forced her to descend. They followed Beatrice’s candlelight, which sent shadows across the narrow passage.
“He will kill you,” Rose whispered, her French words harsh but controlled.
Henri snorted. “No doubt he hoped I’d fall asleep and kill myself on his damn noose. But non, I am alive, and soon there will be nothing the bastard Scot can do about it.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to stay and get your revenge on him?” she said, her toes feeling for the next step.
Henri chuckled low. “I am not foolish enough to remain here, not when I have the prize I sought. Even without your virginity, your value is beyond measure.” His mouth came down along her neck, leaving a wet mark, and she fought the revulsion that rose from her bubbling stomach. How could she have ever survived King Francis slobbering over her?
When they emerged through the winter-bare bushes on the outside, Rose saw a jumble of ribbons to the side of the path. Proof that Cullen had been a rogue. But that was all before. He’d told her about his past.
Henri laughed. “It seems you will not be missed if those are tributes from other girls.” He switched to English and grinned at Beatrice. “You should leave your ribbon tied here,” he said. “You’ve won the war to claim your man.”
“He’ll know I had a hand in this,” she whispered, looking through the deep shadows. There wasn’t even a moon to shed light, and the forest was dense, even devoid of leaves.
A twig snapped, and hope teased at Rose’s stomach, only to recoil back into near panic as the faces of half a dozen of Henri’s men appeared to surround them. Familiar, grotesque, leering faces.
Beatrice gasped, but before anything else could come from her, a gag was shoved between her lips, and a pair of solid arms wrapped around her.
Henri caught a rag that was tossed through the air. Rose screamed one piercing note, but he jammed the cloth between her own lips. Henri tsked and released her to his second-in-command, a foul-mouthed pirate named John. Rose could see Beatrice struggling as two crewmen wrapped her in rope, taunting her by turning her around and around like a toy top.
Henri uncoiled a rope he had hooked to his belt. “I knew my men would bring rope, but I thought you’d like to share mine from Dunyvaig’s dungeon,” he hissed and looped the rope, which he’d taken from his own neck, around Rose’s.
The rasp of the braid against her newly healed skin tore through her composure. Fighting tears of despair, she couldn’t help but tremble. Henri set her cloak around her shoulders, tying it under the coil of rope at her neck.
“Stay warm, my dove.” He leaned close to her face. “You will find I’m a merciful master.” His lips came around to her ear. “If you cooperate, I won’t let the rest touch you. You will be mine, and the woman who betrayed you will become their plaything. Eh? A fitting end for a traitor.” Rose watched Beatrice as she struggled in her bindings while the crew grinned.
“To the ship, gentlemen,” Henri called. Rope around her wrists and neck, Rose stumbled forward behind him.
…
Cullen dismounted his bay, Jasper, and trudged up the stairs to the keep, Broc and Errol striding behind him. Dawn had risen an hour ago while he watched the strait between Islay and the mainland, and he’d seen enough to know he had a traitor in his midst. He slammed through the doors, his boots striking the wood with a sharp cadence.
Several were gathered for breakfast: Tor and his family, Cullen’s mother, Ellen, and his two uncles. Even Agnes was present.
Cullen nodded to his mother, keeping his fury in check, as he grabbed a tankard of ale from the sideboard. Washing the dust from his tongue, he turned.
“What is it?” Tor asked.
Broc and Errol drank, too, and flanked Cullen as he began to speak. “The ship that was spotted is not French, but English. Captain Taylor is sailing over to Islay.”
Grace gasped, her wide eyes flying to Ava. “We need to hide you.”
“All the women need to be above,” Tor said.
“And the traitors who called them here,” Cullen said, his words hard, “need to be below in Dunyvaig dungeons.” He watched Farlan flinch, his eyes blinking rapidly. The man practically yelled that he was a turncoat.
“How do ye know they were called here?” Charlotte asked.
“They come from the east without a glimpse of de Fleur’s ship. And they are sailing over on their warship. Somehow they know about the French without seeing a single mast.”
“Perhaps they saw something while sailing the coast and just waited until after Christmas to strike,” Farlan said.
“The farmers along the shore would have sent word,” Cullen said. “And Captain Taylor would choose firing on a French galleon over dancing a Christmas jig without a second of hesitation.” His gaze moved to William. “Don’t ye agree, Uncle?”
William leveled his gaze on Cullen. “It is the better plan for Dunyvaig’s safety. To show the English that we’ve captured a French captain. And they can capture his ship. We don’t have a warship.”
“William!” Charlotte yelled. “Ye sent word to Captain Taylor?”
“If the French have already sent their missive, and we let de Fleur leave, we’d look like traitors,” he yelled back, his face growing red.
“Good God,” Agnes said, her nostrils flared. “Ye called the English over to give them de Fleur?” The woman grasped her hands together before her. “Ye imbecile,” she hissed.
“Dead or alive, giving de Fleur over is a show of English support,” William said.
In that second, Cullen realized that William MacDonald was more irresponsible and dangerous to the clan than Cullen’s father ever could have been. No longer would Cullen try to be the leader his uncles demanded. William was a traitor and a coward.
Cullen strode up to his uncle and loomed over him, his face right before William’s. “In case ye didn’t know, Uncle, I do not support England.” His words seethed out from between his teeth, each one punctuated with fury. “Your father would be ashamed of ye.”
“Do we know if de Fleur survived another night?” Tor asked.
Cullen stared at William until the man wisely stepped back, his face red, lips sucked in. Cullen gestured to Broc to check the dungeon. Now he had Captain Taylor coming, who would most likely demand to speak with Rose. And even if Cullen managed to convince him that she was indisposed, de Fleur would tell Taylor all about Madeleine. Cullen wouldn’t get a chance to run the pirate through with his sword, and although Captain Taylor might be an obedient dog to his master king, he wasn’t an idiot. He’d guess that Rose was the woman de Fleur sought.
Agnes, the shock on her face turning to outrage, walked up to William and slapped him across his bristled cheek. “I can’t believe ye would call the English over here. They will see us only as criminal. Ye’ve ruined everything.”
William took her ranting silently, and Farlan put himself between them.
“Not now, Agnes,” Farlan said.
“I’m sure ye’re behind this scheme, too,” she yelled. “Ye two will destroy Dunyvaig!”
Cullen stared at the woman, her face contorted with rage. He’d known Agnes had a foul temper, but he’d never seen the sharpness of her unchecked fury. Something more than his uncles’ stupidity was shatteri
ng her composure.
From behind him, he heard Broc yell. Errol and Cullen exchanged glances and took off toward the dungeon, Tor running behind them. As they reached the top of the narrow steps, Broc’s voice shot up out of the dank. “He’s gone. The bloody bastard’s been freed.”
Errol stopped, his hand slapping on his leather pouch where he kept the key. He looked at Cullen, his face telling Cullen all he needed to know. Someone had lifted his key. Cullen took the steps three at a time as he ran down to the dungeon where the cell stood empty, the door open.
Cullen stalked inside, his gaze going to the iron loop in the ceiling where the rope had been strung. A stool sat overturned on the floor. Cullen stared at the ceiling as the details around him fisted inside his chest. Bloody hell! The rope. The bastard had taken the rope with him when he escaped.
“Rose!”
Chapter Twenty
Rose sat on Henri’s rumpled bed, her hands bound and the rope around her neck tied to a hook protruding from the rafters. Next to her, Beatrice sobbed. Henri had left them in his cabin as he worked on deck.
“Crying won’t help you,” Rose said softly, her head aching from lack of drinking water, cold, and the woman’s piercing cries.
Beatrice gasped for breath, sniffing pathetically. “How could ye not be?”
Rose met her red-rimmed eyes. “I’ve been through all this before.”
Beatrice stared at her, her face contorting. “Mother said he’d take ye back to your palace. That he would sail ye away to where ye belong.” She looked around the cabin. “Not anything like this.”
“And what did your mother say about the rope burns around my neck?” Rose asked. “That someone who would carry me safely home would tie me up? Are you really that senseless?”
Rose turned away from Beatrice’s streaked face and heard her sucking in short pants of tortured breath. “Your mother let Henri out, didn’t she?” Rose said.
The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Page 19