by Cathy MacRae
“Riona! No!” Fear constricted his throat as she wriggled off Hearn’s rump and stumbled to her knees. Though she glared at Morgan MacEwen in defiance, Ranald could almost smell her dread.
His broad face creased in a triumphant grin. “Come to me, milady. I’ll give ye yer daughter back.”
“Ree! Don’t! He willnae harm Gilda.” Ranald pleaded with her. “Ree. Dinnae do this.”
Riona’s wide, frightened eyes didn’t meet his. “I cannae take the chance. Do ye not understand?” Her voice sounded tight and tremulous, scarcely above a strained whisper, and it wrung Ranald’s heart to hear her agitation.
“Ree. Please. We will find a way. Ye know what he wants from ye. Ye cannae agree to this.”
Her tears flashed in the torchlight, tracing dark stains down her cheeks. “She’s my daughter. I cannae risk harm to her.”
“Dinnae do this, Ree. Dinnae let him take ye.”
Riona’s shoulders slumped, and he was struck by the utter despair written in the lines of her body. The body that belonged to him, the body Morgan cared nothing for beyond slaking his lusts.
The woman he loved more than life itself, who Morgan would use solely as a means to govern Scaurness.
Her back straightened as she faced the MacEwen. “If I come to ye, will ye release Gilda to Ranald?”
Her question surprised both men.
The MacEwen lifted a brow. “She’s my daughter.”
“Aye. But only a daughter. Ye want a son.”
Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ye would give her away?”
“To Ranald.”
“Ye know I cannae marry ye if yer husband lives.”
Riona didn’t falter. “I will declare the marriage invalid. We are kin.”
“The king has granted dispensation. Ye arenae that close.”
“I’m sure the pope will think differently.”
“I dinnae want to wait that long.”
“He will divorce me.”
Morgan chuckled and looked at Ranald. “I dinnae think so.”
“He will.” Riona’s voice was firm. “Give him the bairn.”
Morgan took another moment to consider her offer. He shrugged. “Ye will come to me first. Then I will release the bairn to him. Ye will bear me a son.”
“No!” Ranald shouted, fury in every muscle of his body.
Neither Morgan nor Riona replied. Then Riona pressed, “Ye willnae harm Gilda or Ranald?”
“I will give them safe conduct across the firth. What happens to them after that isnae my concern.”
On a sharp intake of breath, Riona nodded and stepped forward.
“Riona!”
A sharp blow caught the back of Ranald’s head and he lurched forward, unconscious before he hit the ground.
* * *
Voices rebounded off the damp stone walls and the sound of booted feet clattered down the stairs. Torchlight flared, casting its smoky glow inside the chamber. Finlay lifted his good arm to block the light, the sudden glare scrambling his senses. He opened his one good eye. The sound of metal grating on metal rang loud as the gate was unlocked, and a soldier advanced through the portal.
The man perused the room, surveying those before him with a look of disgust. Finlay followed his gaze, noting the condition of the men imprisoned. Beside him, Ennis shifted on the rushes, his own head bandaged and his shirt, torn and bloodied, draping his shoulders. A dark stain of blood seeped slowly from a pulsating wound in his side.
“Where is the Scott captain, Finlay?” The man in the doorway barked.
Silence.
In a bid to gain his feet, Finlay took a breath and tried to move his good arm beneath him, but Ennis’s hand closed over his shoulder, holding him in place.
“I want the man called Finlay!” Again the soldier’s hard glare swept the room.
He was met by tired, insolent stares. And no answer. “I will slay the lot of ye if he doesnae step forward.”
Ennis pushed away from the floor, his body sluggish. “I am Finlay.”
“No!” Finlay choked under his breath, trying his best to block the pain shooting through his body. He grasped Ennis’s ankle, forcing him to halt. “They’ll kill ye.”
Ennis shook his head as he glanced at the bright blood staining the remnants of his shirt. “They already have.” He shuffled forward.
The soldier grabbed his arm and dragged him from the chamber. The slam of the gate reverberated behind them.
With a despairing moan, Finlay sank into the fetid rushes, fading from consciousness.
* * *
A shove to his injured shoulder roused him. Finlay pushed the offending hand away, feeling the pull of darkness, reluctant to be awakened.
“Ye surly Scott,” a voice rasped. “If I dinnae need ye, I’d leave ye here to rot.”
Finlay opened his good eye and strove to focus on the face hovering above him. Long gray hair dangled from an untidy braid. The features were delicate, yet lined with age. The frown on the creased lips was unmistakable.
“What do ye want, old crone?” Finaly sighed.
“Old crone? Ye muckle heid! I’m here to save yer sorry arse. But I’m beginning to have ma doots about ye.” Tavia shoved him again.
Pain flashed through his shoulder, and he rolled to his other side, awake now, his temper worsening.
Tavia poked him with her foot. “Get up.”
He grimaced. “I cannae use my right arm.”
She surveyed him. “Aye. And ye’re fair puggelt as well.” Lifting the bandage gently, she peered beneath. Then with a sudden, deft move, she shoved his chest, pushing him prone to the floor.
At a jerk of her head, a burly man rose and ambled over. Pointing to Finlay, she ordered, “Hold him.”
He tried to roll away, but Tavia’s cohort was too fast, and Finlay found himself pinned amid the stinking rushes. Tavia grasped his upper arm in one hand and pressed against his shoulder with the other. Pain tore through the vestiges of fog in his head and he roared in protest.
“Wheesht, ye eedjit. Ye’ll alert the guards,” she snapped. “Yer arm is out of place, not broken. Hold still.”
She drew another man to Finlay’s side and spoke in a low voice. A moment later, pain sliced through him as the man wrenched his arm as Tavia directed. To Finlay’s surprise, the resulting agony began to fade. The burly man released him, and Finlay ran a hand over his shoulder. Other than a deep, aching throb, it felt normal.
He sat up, flexing his shoulder gingerly. “I thank ye, Tavia. I feared ’twas broken and a long time healing.”
Tavia tapped the side of his head. “Dinnae undo my work, lad. ’Twill be sore for a few days, but ye can use it.” She narrowed her eyes at him in warning. “Carefully.”
“What of the castle? How did ye get here?”
Tavia snorted, her dark eyes sparkling with mockery. “Men dinnae pay attention to an old crone, the fools. It dinnae take but a question or two to discover where the injured were taken.” She gave Finlay a frank stare. “I prayed ye would be here.”
“Tell me what is happening.”
“Quickly. I dinnae know how long before another guard comes down here. MacEwen has taken the castle. He waits for Ranald and Riona to make his claim firm.”
“How does he plan to do that?”
“I dinnae hear exactly, but he plans to marry Riona.”
“He would have to kill Ranald to do that.”
“Aye.”
“And what of Gilda?”
“He plans to use her to make Riona do as he commands.”
“Where is the lass?”
Tavia shook her head. “No one knows.”
Chapter Twenty Six
Riona’s stomach clenched at the triumph on Morgan MacEwen’s face.
“Riona!” Ranald’s cry ripped through her and she faltered.
A thud and a faint groan whirled about. Ranald slumped across Hearn’s withers and pitched past his shoulder. She reached for him but two men blocke
d her path. She shoved against them in a vain attempt to get by. One grabbed her wrists, holding them in the air.
Retaliating, Riona kicked, making hard contact with the man’s shins. With an explosive curse, he pushed her backward. Someone grabbed her from behind, pulling her away.
She struggled, flailing wildly with her arms and legs. “Let me go!”
Two other men approached Ranald. One drew back his boot and kicked him in the ribs. Though Ranald lay unmoving, the man kicked him again.
“Stop it! Ranald!” Riona fought harder until arms tightened around her and she could scarcely breathe. She gasped, her vision clouding. She shoved ineffectually at the imprisoning bands of muscle and bone, but the man lifted her feet from the ground and she found she had no leverage. With a choking sound, she surrendered.
“Put her down.” The MacEwen’s command ripped through her fading consciousness.
The man released her and she crumpled to the ground.
“Gently,” Morgan chided.
Riona pushed herself up on unsteady arms, half-sprawled in the dirt, her chest heaving to pull air into her lungs. She glared at Morgan, her breath coming fast and shallow.
“Ye bastard,” she choked. “Ye said ye wouldnae hurt him.”
Morgan’s twisted grin mocked her. “Such language from a lady. I dinnae think the lads killed him.” He shrugged. “If they have, ’tis a glitch in yer plan, not mine.”
“I want my daughter and Ranald both alive!”
“I’ve heard yer demands. Now listen to mine.” He pinned her with a vicious stare as he advanced. Stopping beside her, he knelt and grabbed her chin with rough fingers, tilting her head painfully back.
“Ye will come when I beckon and serve me in any way I require. Ye will bear me a son. Mayhap more than one. In return, I will let yer daughter and yon lad live. He will have to publicly divorce ye, however, and he will be hard to convince. I can only promise so much, lass. Dinnae cross me.”
Morgan released her and stood, motioning to the two men on either side of her. “Take her to her room.”
The men dragged her to her feet.
“I want Gilda!” she screamed.
With a look of disbelief, Morgan leveled a warning glare at her. “Ye have gained much spunk since I last held ye. And lost none of yer stubbornness. I willnae say this again. Go to yer room and await me. The lass will be there.”
Riona looked from man to man, testing the validity of Morgan’s words. Their features were inscrutable. Could Gilda really be waiting for her in her room?
The two soldiers gripped her arms, their fingers bruising her flesh. Thrusting her between them, they forced her forward. With a last agonized glance, she saw Ranald still had not roused.
How badly injured was he? Had she done the right thing?
If Ranald died, it was because of her. If Morgan MacEwen broke his promise to her and had her husband killed, it would be her fault.
* * *
The burly man helped ease him to his feet and Finlay took a deep breath against the flash of pain in his head. He pulled the bandage away, bending to Tavia’s level. “D’ye see any reason to keep this bandage?”
Tavia pursed her lips. “Dinnae bump yer heid again and ye’ll do.”
A half-grin lit Finlay’s face. “Then let’s be about returning Scaurness to its rightful laird.”
Those who were able, rose to their feet and stepped quietly after Finlay, Tavia on his heels. One by one, they slipped through the unlocked gate, leaving it ajar for any who would follow. Having something important to do energized Finlay, and his headache receded, the ache in his arm a dull memory, though his swollen right eye was not so quick to mend.
He set an even pace down the dungeon hallway, careful to make as little noise as possible, and not daring to leave Tavia behind.
Approaching the corner, he halted and leaned against the wall as he slid to the edge of the stone. Peering around, he spied a stairway. Crossing the narrow hall, he started up the long, winding stairs.
Shadows appeared on the wall ahead and angry voices echoed. Finlay stared at the shadows as they came closer and he discerned two men dragging something between them.
Motioning for the others to wait, he flattened himself against the curve of the stairway as the two men rounded the steps into his direct view. They clattered to a startled stop, nearly dropping the man hanging between them, head down, feet trailing in the dust.
Finlay stared at the top of the man’s head, the shape of his long, lean body, and knew him full well.
Ranald.
Before the two men could recover, their hands full of the burden between them, Finlay dropped them both with well-placed blows. Quickly, Finlay knelt at Ranald’s side and put two fingers to his neck, finding the reassuring pulse.
Tavia appeared at his side. “Is he . . .?”
“Nae. His hard heid is going to be fine.” He grabbed Ranald’s arm and hefted him up, but his injury protested and with a gasp of pain, Finlay let him slip back to the floor. He rubbed his shoulder, ignoring Tavia’s look of ye dinnae listen.
Ranald groaned and staggered drunkenly to his feet. He leaned heavily against the wall before sliding down to land on his arse.
Finlay shook his head. “We must find someplace to put him until he comes around.” He stared at the ragged group of soldiers clustered around him. Picking out the least injured, he motioned and the man dragged one of Ranald’s arms across his shoulders, helping him to stand.
Stripping the guards of their weapons and tying their wrists and ankles with a length of torn cloth from the hem of their shirts, Finlay jerked a chin toward the soldiers. “Follow me.”
A single guard remained in the watch room at the top of the stairs. With his interest focused on getting beneath the skirts of the serving girl tasked with bringing them their meal, he was unprepared for an attack from behind and never saw the fist that felled him. The girl sobbed her thanks and hurried from the room, tugging her skirts down as she fled.
Finlay glanced around as he sidled to the door. Streaks of dawn lit the sky and smoke from cooking fires cut the morning mists. Timing their escape couldn’t be better.
But where to go? MacEwen soldiers would be in the castle, in the guardhouse and the stable. Finlay eased out the door, seeking another option. The misshapen remains of the abandoned stables loomed, a dark grey hulk in the mist. They would have to find the door through the mass of brambles and vines. But it would be empty. It would be safe.
* * *
Riona tripped crossing the threshold into the great hall, tugging from the punishing grip of the two men flanking her. Before they could grab her again, she recovered her balance and jerked away, warning them off with a glare. “I will walk without yer assistance.”
The two men exchanged glances and shrugged. One gestured with mock courtesy across the room to the stairwell. “My lady.”
Riona strode past the destruction wrought by the MacEwen and his men, infuriated to see the overturned tables, legs and planks snapped in two, left in ruins. But it broke her heart to see the dark stains on the floor, knowing it was the spilled blood of her kinsmen. She steeled herself against the lump in her chest, focusing on attaining her room and finding her daughter.
She hurried up the stairs, making her two guards scurry to keep up. She took the turns in the stairwell at a clip, anxious to reach Gilda, frightened and alone.
She reached her door, but the way was barred by a pair of soldiers, regarding her with suspicion.
One of the guards following her gestured toward the door. “Let her in.”
The men stared at her but allowed her entrance to the room. The door closed behind her.
Riona scarcely heard the click of the latch. There was no light in the room save a faint glow from the hearth. She stretched her hands before her, searching. “Gilda?”
She reached the bed and her fingers sped across the velvet spread. Empty.
Moving to the hearth, she blew on the embers and br
ought them to renewed life. After a moment, flames leapt high. She whirled about, using the flickering light to scan the room. Her gaze lingered on the chair by the hearth, beneath the table against the wall, on the linens piled on the bed.
“Gilda?”
Puzzled, fighting back the hollow fear in her gut, she walked to the bed and knelt, peering beneath the coverlet that hung to the floor. “Gilda!”
Riona jumped to her feet and rushed across the room. Jerking hard on the latch, she yanked the door open, finding the way blocked by the two guards at the portal.
Tears built behind her eyes as a burning sensation lit her chest. “I want my daughter!”
Neither man spoke.
“Give me my daughter!”
Without a word, they closed the door in her face. This time the dull click of the latch settling tripped something within her, and Riona leapt at the panel, beating against it with her fists. Wild with anger and fear, she pounded the door, feeling the trap closing in on her. No one responded to her demands, and at last she stopped, sliding in a heap to the floor with a choked cry, cradling her bruised hands. With a whimper of despair, she bowed her head.
Gilda.
* * *
Finlay and his men hurried across the bailey yard, keeping to the long morning shadows as much as possible. The MacEwen sentries on the wall watched only outward, not in, and Finlay vowed he would re-task the guards’ duties once the job fell to him again.
They reached the relative safety of the tumbledown stable and probed the weeds and vines around it, searching for a way inside.
“Captain.”
Finlay turned. “Aye?”
“Here.” One of the men pointed to a small opening.
“Right. One after the other.”
Quickly a man knelt and pushed his way into the thicket. The others followed, Ranald groggily bringing up the rear. They reached the door hanging askew on one hinge and ducked through, into the murky darkness. The odor of old, rotted manure and even older dust met their nostrils, and several sniffed to hold back sneezes.
Ranald leaned against the wall, a hand to the back of his head. Confused, he glanced about the room, the gathering sunlight chasing away fragments of the darkness.