by Cathy MacRae
“Nae sign of him, Laird,” the soldier replied.
“Take as many men as ye need and secure this castle. I want him found!” His voice rose to a roar, goading everyone to action.
Gilda hunkered deeper into Riona’s lap, a short sob and snuffle escaping her as she buried her head against her mother’s breast. Riona’s torn gown shifted lower on her shoulder, pulling the tattered neckline to the brink of respectability. She reached for the ripped lace to tug on it, but Gilda’s weight held it fast.
Something akin to revulsion swept through Ranald as the image of MacEwen’s hands on Riona rose in his mind, gouging at a visceral part of him.
“Change yer gown,” he snapped, instantly regretting his words, but unable to soften enough to apologize for the wounded look that leapt to her eyes.
“I’ll sit with wee Gilda.” Young Brian, his face battered almost past recognition, hastened to Riona’s chair.
“Brian!” she exclaimed, coming to her feet. “What happened to ye?”
The young lad shrugged, his usual devil-may-care attitude no longer in evidence. “They thought I knew where Gilda was hiding.”
Riona encircled the lad’s thin shoulders with her free arm, holding him close. He allowed the embrace but for a moment before taking a deep breath and drawing away.
He held out his hands for Gilda. “Here, lass. I’ll sit with ye while yer ma runs upstairs.”
Pulling her thumb from her mouth, Gilda slid to the floor and placed her hand in his, tugging him toward her chair. He sat, drawing her into his lap, and the pair huddled together.
As Riona stared at Ranald, the sting of her betrayal stole his breath and he couldn’t speak. It wasn’t her fault the castle had been taken, nor was it her fault Gilda had been in danger. Both those things could be laid directly at his feet and he’d not deny his responsibility. But she had defied him, chosen to give herself to the MacEwen in exchange for Gilda, not trusting him to care for his own. Was the bond they’d formed rent beyond repair? Without trust, was anything left?
He found the answer in her eyes. Hurt blended with sorrow as she silently begged him to forgive her. The moment passed and he could not move past the pain in his chest.
Her expression grew aloof and he knew the instant the wall went up between them. He took a hesitant step toward her, but his words of apology froze on his tongue when she turned and walked away.
He had waited too late.
* * *
Riona stumbled to the stairs, tears blurring her vision. She struggled to draw breath, refusing to meet the eyes of those who stopped to stare as she passed.
How could he criticize me? Gilda meant everything to her. She would gladly die for her daughter, and she’d faced a fate worse than a thousand deaths to save her. Ranald couldn’t understand. Gilda wasn’t his.
She shuddered as she climbed the steps, her slippered feet barely supporting her shaking legs. He didn’t want her anymore, would never be able to look at her or touch her without wondering if she’d lain with Morgan MacEwen, if he’d taken her yet again.
Damn him! He’d promised Gilda would be safe! They’d been trapped by MacEwen soldiers the moment they’d entered the bailey. How could Ranald have hoped to prevail against such odds? She’d done her best to save both him and Gilda, and damn him for hating her because of her choice.
Her blood sang angrily as she yanked open the door to her room. The fire had died down again, but morning sunlight slipped through tiny slits in the partially open shutters. A band of light fell across the bed, reminding her where the MacEwen had held her down, rubbed against her . . .
She whirled, forcing herself to walk to the wooden chest where her clothing was stored. Reaching behind her, she fumbled with the laces of her gown, unable to still the trembling of her fingers enough to untie the ribbons. Giving vent to her anger, she grabbed the torn neckline, ripping the sleeve completely away, feeling the tiny stitches tear beneath her hand.
It felt good. She grabbed the other sleeve and yanked, and the bodice fell to her waist. With a tug and a wiggle, she pulled the dress away, stomping it into the floor beneath her feet.
Satisfied on some level she’d rid herself of the stench of the MacEwen, she knelt before the wooden chest. She opened the lid and plucked out the soft, nubbed silk of the first dress in the stack. Ignoring the wrinkles and not caring about the style or color, she rose and pulled it over her head, lacing it as best she could. With a shove, she closed the lid, the satisfying sound as it rebounded on the wooden frame ringing in her ears.
Something rustled on the bed behind her, and she whirled, her heart racing in fright. A dark form loomed over her and a bed sheet snapped down, wrapping tightly around her head and shoulders. She sucked in a breath and screamed, but much like the walls of the dark tunnel long ago, the folds of fabric absorbed her cry.
No one came to her rescue.
* * *
Finlay strode the floor, his face dark with anger. “They tell me the MacEwen cannae be found.”
Ranald grunted. “Nae.”
“I have locked away thirty men, MacEwens and Macrorys, in the dungeons. The rest appear to be loyal, though misguided. I sent most to the barracks where the healer will see to their wounds, and lined the walls with Scotts. He willnae get past us again.”
“How many dead?”
“A score. Men are sorting through the fallen. A few are badly wounded and will be moved as the healer releases them.”
Ranald clenched his jaw. “A long day ahead. I will keep those in the castle here in the great hall and allow none to leave. They can be protected here.”
Finlay searched the people huddled in the room. Some clung to each other, some stood or sat alone, seemingly too shocked at the day’s violence to do more than stare. He noticed those seated at the laird’s table.
“Who is that?” he asked, jutting his chin at the thin man next to Gilda.
“The old laird’s son, Kinnon.”
Finlay arched his eyebrows in question. “Now what happens?”
Ranald shook his head. “I dinnae know. I havenae asked him.”
Finlay shrugged. “A wee breeze would knock him down. Think ye the Macrorys would follow him?”
“I dinnae have time for this discussion. I want MacEwen found.”
Finlay peered around the room. “Where is yer lady wife?”
“In her room.”
“Is that safe?”
Ranald sent a look sideways at Finlay, then at the stairs. He hesitated but a moment, feeling the blood drain from his face. He shook his head.
“Nae.”
* * *
She couldn’t fight. Riona’s hands were bound tightly behind her, a wadded piece of cloth shoved so far inside her mouth she was afraid she’d choke. A blow to her chin had addled her wits long enough for her to be trussed and bound like a chicken for market, and the sheet covering her head and shoulders now wrapped around her like a shroud. It was difficult to breathe. Riona inhaled deeply through her nose, but the sheet flattened against her face.
Strong arms banded around her and she tried to squirm away, but there was no way to move her arms and legs within the sheet, and precious little air to fuel her rebellion.
She was lifted, and with a twisting movement her captor flung her upward. Her breath left her in a whoosh as her stomach slammed against his shoulder. Another blow to her midsection as he adjusted her weight made her dizzy from lack of air. Her head hung downward and blood rushed past her ears with a roar, sudden nausea choking her.
Swaying slightly, the man strode across the room. Riona heard the snick of the door latch and the subtle creak of hinges. After a moment’s pause, she sensed forward movement, jerky and fast. Her head clipped the wall and she cried out.
But the sheet muffled the sound and Riona could do nothing more than hang like a dead thing.
* * *
Ranald and Finlay rushed the stairs together, two at a time as they wound upward to the second level. Ranald
drew to a halt at the head of the stairs as two soldiers gently led three sobbing women from the room next to Riona’s. Another man turned down the hallway, a shrouded form over his shoulder. This one would go to the burial grounds.
They slipped past the overwrought women and approached Riona’s door. Fisting a hand, Ranald knocked on the wooden portal.
There was no answer.
Fear sluiced through him in a cold, bowel-clenching wave. He grabbed the latch with a sweating hand and jerked the door open. Entering the room with him, Finlay strode to the window and flung the shutters wide. Sunlight flooded instantly through the opening and the men searched the room.
A gown, ripped and wadded in a heap, lay on the floor. Ranald lifted it by a torn sleeve, gritting his teeth to remember the way the cloth had hung off Riona’s shoulder, baring bruises purpling on her pale skin.
He flung the gown to the floor and saw Finlay staring at the crumpled bed. Ranald’s nostrils flared, trying to reject the image of Riona writhing on that bed, the sheets rumpled beneath her as she fought the man who’d traded her life for Gilda’s. And his. He struggled to suppress the tightness in his chest, the empty feeling of trust lost.
The mattress was bare, the velvet coverlet pushed to one side.
“Laird?”
Another vision rose to his mind, that of a woman bound in a makeshift shroud as she was carried below . . . Why would they have used the sheet from Riona’s bed?
He turned on Finlay. “Who was the man carrying the woman in the shroud?” Ranald demanded.
“I dinnae know. He faced away, his back to us.”
The awful truth dawned with suddenness. “It was MacEwen.” Ranald tasted the acrid fear in his mouth. “He has Riona.”
Chapter Thirty
Riona’s stomach lurched with each pounding step her captor took as he descended the stairs. She pushed the gag against her teeth with her tongue and managed to spit it out, gulping air laden with the tang of whisky and ale.
Why were they in the buttery?
He dropped her to the floor. Still bound tight by the confining sheet and her hands tied behind her back, her legs crumpled beneath her and she landed with a whoof of surprise on the flagstone floor.
“Damn! Where is the door?”
What door? Hadn’t they entered through the storeroom’s door? There were no other doors. Thumping sounds echoed around her. The man must be addled to think there was anything hidden in the walls. She’d been in and out of these rooms all her life and the stores were limited to what was stacked on tables and in a few closed cabinets. Barrels of ale and whisky lined the walls, and it took stout men to move them when full.
“Ha!”
The explosive word was so sharp, Riona wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or satisfaction. Footsteps pounded in her direction, hands jerked her to her feet. She reared backward in objection, earning a hard slap across her cheek.
“Be still! I willnae have ye wreck my plans now.”
He pulled at the sheet covering her. Anxious to free herself of the confining cloth, Riona stood still as it unwound from her body. It slipped from her head and she blinked her eyes.
Her stomach plummeted.
Dark eyes glinted in the dim light. A sinister smile broke through the full beard and a shiver of panic skittered up Riona’s spine.
“Thought ye’d killed me, did ye?” He grinned, his voice mean. His eyes narrowed and Riona stared into the charred remains of his soul, reflected in those cold orbs. “Ye’ll wish ye had ‘afore ye’re finished, I promise ye.”
Morgan MacEwen grabbed her by an elbow and hauled her forward. “I cannae carry ye down the stairs. Ye’ll have to walk.”
“Stairs? We just came down the stairs. What are ye talking about?”
MacEwen halted, turning to her in surprise. “Why, the secret passage out of this cursed castle.”
“What secret passage?”
“The passage to the beach below. ’Tis called the Pirate’s Stair.”
It was true, then. There was a secret passageway. With mounting panic Riona fought to free her hands, but the bonds held firm.
“Move yer arse, woman.” He raised a threatening hand. When she didn’t move, he grunted in exasperation and shoved her through the door, her arm trapped within his punishing grip. He pushed the door closed behind them, and Riona’s world plunged from dim to dark, the panel thudding against the latch in finality.
* * *
Finlay strode from the kitchen, meeting Ranald’s silent question with a short shake of his head. Ranald turned to the laird’s dais.
“Have ye seen a man carrying a woman in a shroud?” he asked as he approached Kinnon.
“A corpse?” Kinnon’s voice echoed his lack of understanding. “Nae. The ghille wouldnae bring one through here.”
“’Tis not a corpse and the man is no ghille.”
“Who is it?”
“MacEwen and yer sister.”
Kinnon stumbled forward, his face blanched white, eyes wide. Ranald leapt to his aid, keeping him from falling as he grabbed wildly for support. Heads swiveled in their direction, voices rising in a sea of sound.
“Yer sister thought to trade herself for Gilda’s life.” He looked at the lass curled tight in Brian’s lap. “She also bargained with MacEwen to give her to me, hoping to save me as well,” he added, hating the memory of Riona accepting the pirate’s word over his.
“She gave herself to that blackguard?” Kinnon’s voice choked with disbelief.
“Aye. When he went to her, she apparently cracked his heid, for the guard found blood on the floor in her room, but not the MacEwen.” Ranald raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “He must have hidden there, perhaps beneath her bed, and when I sent her upstairs to change . . .”
He met Kinnon’s bleak look. “Where could he have taken her? Is there a hidden passage or unused room I dinnae know about?”
A gasp interrupted the men, and they whirled about in unison at the sound. Tavia, her lined face stark with alarm, approached.
“Laird, there is a secret passageway leading from the store rooms.”
Kinnon nodded. “She’s right, I’d forgotten it. Father forbade its use and I believed it was boarded up many years ago.”
“Nae. ’tis there. A cabinet blocks the entrance, but ’twas never boarded over.”
Ranald pinned the old woman with an even stare. “Can ye show me?”
“Aye. In the buttery where the ale and whisky are kept.” Her eyes widened with dismay. “It leads to the beach below. ’Tis called the Pirate’s Stair.”
* * *
The walls oozed cold dampness, the stone steps slick with water. The MacEwen prodded Riona repeatedly, hurrying her forward in the dark, and she cried out as she slipped and fell.
“Hurry,” he growled. “We’ve a rendezvous to keep.”
“Where . . . are ye . . . taking me?” Her breath came in short gasps.
“To my ship, of course. Once I have ye secured, ’twill be easy for Manus to retake the castle.”
“Manus . . . is dead.”
MacEwen jerked to a stop, yanking Riona against him. “What?” he roared. The echo of his fury crashed around her.
If only she could see. The enveloping darkness was oppressive and even a glimmer of light had to be better than this uncertainty. Drawing strength from the knowledge of Manus’s end, she straightened her shoulders as she faced the MacEwen laird.
“Aye. He is dead. I shot him with an arrow and watched him fall.”
“Ye bitch!” MacEwen’s hand struck from out of nowhere, its unexpected ferocity felling her. With a cry of pain and surprise, Riona collapsed to the stones. Lights formed of pain burst in her head.
MacEwen grabbed her arm again and dragged her down the seemingly endless stairs, and she no longer possessed the strength to fight him. Dazed, she tried to focus on each step. How much further until they reached the end?
Suddenly she realized the blackness around her had li
ghtened to dark gray, the walls becoming more visible as faint light reflected on the uneven surfaces.
At the next bend a door appeared, outlined in a burst of sunshine. The sight lifted her spirits even as she agonized over what lay beyond.
With a grunt, MacEwen pinned her against the wall next to the door as he fumbled for the latch. He jerked the iron bar, but it held fast. Swearing under his breath, he patted the wall around the door, reached above the lintel, at last encountering a key. He shoved it into the latch and gave a turn. A grinding noise reached Riona’s ears. Another firm tug and the latch released with groaning protest. Hinges, victims of the sea air and disuse, creaked loudly before giving way to Morgan MacEwen’s determined assault.
Bright sunlight scalded Riona’s eyes and she squinted, blinking to ease the sting. MacEwen pushed her through the door, out onto the beach. Around a shallow bend, a small boat lay beached, partially hidden by a large piece of driftwood. MacEwen dragged her toward it, then tossed her into the boat, tying her to the mast before pushing out to deeper water.
Another perfect opportunity to bash him on his head was lost as Riona fought to loosen her bonds. But the man who’d tied them was a pirate. The knots held.
* * *
Torchlight flickered on the walls. Tavia pointed to the cabinet in the far corner of the room. “There, Laird. The panel on the left side is the door.”
Leaning against the wall inside the room, exhausted by the dash down the stairs, Kinnon wiped sweat from his forehead. “I was skelped as a wean for disobeying Da’s direct order to stay out of the passageway. ’Tis a long, winding stair leading to the beach.” He grimaced as he carefully shifted his stance. “Ye’ll have to go without me.”