Parris Afton Bonds

by The Captive

  "The captain sends his regrets at being unable to greet ye himself," the officer said, indicating the fruit and spirits.

  She nodded and began to untie her bonnet strings. There was still Duncan to deal with. "Now that I am safely aboard my husband’s ship, Duncan, I—”

  "But not safely at yer destination, me darlin’.’’ He faced her in a stubborn stance, his arms folded, his legs spread.

  She could order him thrown off the ship, but, alas, her affection for the grinning jackanapes stopped her just short of the command. Her shoulder blades felt the officer’s suspicious stare.

  “Quite right, Duncan. I charge you to guard my doorway.” But once at Fort William, she thought with impatience, I will send your smuggler’s hide packing.

  With a curt "G’night,” she dismissed him. After the door was closed she sighed and turned to the younger maidservant. "Unlace me, will ye, Mary Laurie?"

  A grumbling Elspeth was already prying open the portmanteau carrying her nightclothes. "A ship is no place for a bride.”

  Privately, Enya agreed as she let Mary Laurie take down her hair and braid it for the night. The resinous scent of cedar filled the hot, stuffy cabin. Four days confined aboard ship. Could she endure the monotony? No books to read, no horses to ride, no thought-provoking conversations with savants down from Edinburgh.

  At least her husband would have provided some stimulation. Because of his military genius, Simon Murdock had been selected for the task of subduing the rebellious Clan Cameron and its brutish warlord.

  "G’night, me darlin’,” Duncan called from the other side of the door.

  She did have Duncan to divert her for the next four days. With that comforting thought in mind, Enya dismissed Elspeth and Mary Laurie and retired to a less than comforting bed. The stale smells of mildew and pipe smoke clung to the bunk’s blanket. Already hot, she kicked it off. She was still awake when the ship slipped anchor. The gentle rocking of the boat and the groaning of its timbers put her to sleep, at last.

  Light awoke her. Too quickly. She rolled to her stomach and buried her face in the crook of her arm. "Elspeth? Draw the drapes, I beg you. I've barely closed my eyes.”

  With the closing of the cabin door, the light was extinguished. “An enticing posterior ye present, Lady Murdock. Albeit, a bit too broad for me taste,” a male voice added with brutal frankness.

  In an instant wide-awake shock replaced drowsiness. She pushed herself upright and hit the back of her head on the bunk top. Spurts of oranges and yellows and blues blinded her momentarily and she splayed down again on the bed.

  The hand clamped across the back of her waist prevented her from moving. “Do as ye are bid, me lady, and the experience willna be too unpleasant.”

  The baritone voice had a soft, musical Scottish brogue, with its rolling r’s and its clipping manner of the final consonants. She tried to twist around, but the big hand constrained her. “My Lord Lieutenant?"

  The unamused laugh prickled the hair at her nape. "What do you want with me? Who are you?"

  “I am not your Lord Lieutenant. I am your laird, Lady Murdock. Laird of the Clan Cameron of the Western Highlands.’’

  "Me laird? Are ye mad?” Her nervousness was splintering the years of hard-acquired English. If she wasn’t careful, she would be gibbering helplessly.

  She tried to turn her head to see the man behind her, but his grip on her loose braid held her head fast against the pillow. She strained to glimpse him from the corner of her eye. All she could see was a dark form. She got the impression of a massive man. It wasn’t just the immense weight bearing down on her; it was the heat of a body, much larger than hers.

  “That may well be."

  Fear began to stir panic. Where was Duncan? Had he ventured into one of the dockside brothels and missed the sailing? The lout!

  She drew a calming breath and tried reasoning with the man who was nearly crushing her. "Of the Cameron clan, you say. Then you cannot be my laird. I belong to the Afton clan.”

  “Ye are on Cameron territory,” came the low reply at her ear, his whisky-scented breath rustling the tendrils that had escaped her braid.

  Obviously, he was quite mad. A veritable lunatic. "I must disagree. My home has been the Afton estates of Ayrshire and will shortly be the town of Fort William, ruled over by His Majesty, King George."

  “Ach, no, me lady. You are on Cameron property at this very moment. The ship belongs to me, you see. So that puts you in my service, mo kinruadh?”

  Gaelic! That haunting accent wasn't the legacy of the Scottish mother tongue that had survived among ordinary folk but the unique bequest of the Gaelic culture of the Highland Scots. Gaelic was a beast that refused to die, though weakened by the British effort to exterminate all that was peculiarly Scottish.

  "Your ship? I beg your pardon, but the . . .” She paused to draw another breath. The pillow was stifling her. "The ship flies the colors of the British Union.”

  "A mere ruse.”

  With the ease of a Highland warrior wielding a claymore, he flopped her over onto her back. She saw only light-colored eyes in a dark face framed by darker hair. "But my Lord Lieutenant’s guards?"

  “Neither the vessel nor the mounted guard who escorted you belong to your Lord Lieutenant. They belong to me, your laird. Let me introduce meself." Sarcasm crept into his Gaelic-inflected voice. "I am Chief Ranald Kincairn of the Clan Cameron. Now it is time for ye to pay homage to your laird, me lady."

  Her breath stilled. Her heart pounded. She could smell him now. The scent of smoke, leather, blood, and unwashed male. "What do you mean?”

  "Ach, me lady, have ye nae heard of the droit du seigneur?”

  She gasped. The right of a lord to have sexual relations with a vassal’s bride on her wedding night was only practiced in isolated areas still adhering to feudal customs. “You have no right—”

  “Tis me perogative, as unalienable as me pride and me poverty."

  Highland chiefs, for the most part, had been well-traveled, well-educated men. She appealed to this. “You speak like a man of at least some education. You cannot act like a barbarian."

  "Canna I?" In the dark, his teeth glowed an unearthly white. As the spirits of the Druid witches were said to do. "The Lord Lieutenant is an educated man, I am told. He also carries out Westminster’s interest in sterilizing Highland women when it is his wish."

  She had heard of this horrendous policy of the British government, but had not known General Cumberland had instructed it to be implemented. In addition to sterilizing Highland women, the policy included the banishment of the wearing of the kilt, the playing of the bagpipes, and the carrying of weapons. Along with that banishment had been the outlawing of the very language itself, Gaelic. General Cumberland meant to stamp out everything relating to the rebellious Highlanders, including the people themselves.

  With angry misery, she cried out, “You canna hold me responsible for the British parliament’s policies."

  "Ach, but I can for the Lord Lieutenant’s. He is Cumberland’s agent and takes the devil’s delight in tormenting Highland women."

  "I don’t understand! Please, release me!” She tried to twist free, but his hand held her wrists fast above her head against the bunk. A beast of a man, he was.

  “It would be fitting, mo kinruadh, for the wife of Simon Murdock, an English cur, to give birth to a Highland bairn.”

  She trembled. "Ye cannot mean what ye say! I am innocent of any misdeed against your clansmen."

  His laughter was low, his breath hot against her cheek. “At first, me thought merely to ruin your bridegroom’s pleasure in bedding his virginal wife. But now that I have given it further consideration . . . aye, what I have in mind would be quite fitting retribution.”

  "Retribution? For what? I have done nothing." She was babbling, she knew. Anything to stall until rescue. Or was she being utterly foolish to hope? "Surely something can be worked out to recompense you for—’’

  "Recompense?
" His laughter was silky, but to her it roared against her ears. "Not all the gold in King George’s treasury would recompense me for the Highland clans’ death, dishonor, and degradation.”

  Obviously, his thoughts, like his language, were short, strong, and conclusive.

  He paused, then added, “Aye, degradation would be a fitting recompense, I wager.” He pressed his lower torso against her. She could feel his massive thighs crushing hers. The bulge of his genitals thrust insistently against the apex of her legs.

  There was to be no escape, she saw. Abandon hope she might; yet, cower she would not. “Go ahead with your raping then. Prove yourself the savage your ancestors have always been! Aye, have they not raped and pillaged the Lowlands for centuries? Get it over with."

  She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, waiting for the first brutal assault. Instead, she heard a laugh of genuine amusement. "A perfect martyr, ye make. And I wager a real shrew of a wife. I have a much better notion. Let’s play the degradation to the hilt."

  "What?"

  Once more, he pressed his pelvis against hers. "I shall let me men take turns with ye. Once ye are fertilized, ye will be incarcerated until the birth of the we’an. Then the process will began anew.”

  His free hand slipped down to caress the curve of her hip, then moved up to cup her left breast. "Aye, I think ye are built well for childbearing. Wide of hip, though your breasts are somewhat meager. Ye will produce many fine Highland bairns.”

  She spat into the shadowy face. "Be damn to your black Highland soul!"

  His low growl of response both frightened and pleased her. She had penetrated through that steely veneer and insulted him. That was a beginning. For the plans he had for her degradation, she would find a way to retaliate tenfold. This she swore, even as his fingers, thick as musket barrels, stroked her breast with brazen familiarity.

  "Mayhap ye are not a virgin." His words dripped into the darkness like hot wax onto the flesh. "Mayhap, that snapping puppy outside your door has sampled his mistress’s wares."

  "You foul—!” The thought of Duncan and his fate cut short her oath. “What have you done to my friend? I swear, if you—”

  "Ach, merely a friend, cinaed? It beggars the imagination what the Lord Lieutenant’s lady might do for a friend."

  She hated the sardonic amusement that colored his voice. His voice, the weight of his body, his callused hands. . . that was all she knew about him. That, and the fact that he was a demonic artist skilled at instilling fear in his captive.

  "You are afraid of the dark, you are. Light exposes your ugliness. Your ugly face and your ugly soul.”

  She felt him flinch. Obviously, he was not a man to be charmed; but then, she was not the kind of woman to charm a man.

  "So you come to me by night and do your dastardly work," she continued, taunting. She would not submit docilely to her defilement.

  "I might tell ye I come by night because I cannot bear the loathsome sight of a Lowland traitor. The sight might tempt me to order for ye the same torture Murdock perpetrated on me family.”

  "You will regret this—”

  "Me oldest brother was tortured by—”

  "I do not want to hear this.”

  "At Murdock’s command, three of his dratted Lobsterbacks went to work on me Davy. Their torture must have vastly amused them. Too late, they noticed the intruder in the dungeon cell and the dirk that ultimately slit their throats.”

  "As for me sister, Mhorag—I have yet to take me reprisal."

  Surging blood threatened to burst the veins at her temples. The image was too grisly to contemplate. "What have you done with Duncan?"

  "The puppy is learning to heel. As will ye, me lady.” The bed creaked as he removed his weight. "Do not consider escape. Should ye be able to swim, there are nevertheless others to consider. They remain safe as long as ye cooperate with your laird.”

  "You are not my laird, and my cooperation is limited by the—"

  "By the length of your tether," came his melodic reply. "Whether your tether remains invisible or becomes very real is up to ye. I trust you will choose wisely. G’day, cinade."

  When she heard the door close she sprang from the bunk, this time careful of the overhang. Naturally, the door was locked. She could scream, but it would be of no avail. Most likely, every hand on the vessel was a Cameron clansman.

  Nay, she would have to use her intelligence, guile, and wit to delay her captor’s machinations until rescue came. She would not allow herself to doubt it would.

  Without the aid of Elspeth or Mary Laurie, she began to dress herself by the light of a candle stub. Considerable time was required, which presented no problem. Time was all she had. She didn’t even know the hour.

  She chose a simple sack gown of glazed, lavender-striped lawn with flounced lace ruffles at the elbow. A gauze handkerchief was secured by a breast knot, modestly covering the gown’s low, lace-bordered décolletage. A small round cambric cap perched over a less-than-artfully arranged chignon.

  Then she could only pace. And wait. The cabin grew hot and stuffy. How long had it been? How much longer? Perspiration dampened her clothes. From the heat—or from fear?

  She spotted the hourglass and cursed her forgetfulness. Inverting it, she began to pace again. Her gaze flickered ever so often to the hourglass. The sands trickled so slowly!

  She was hungry. Surely, the chief of the Cameron clan would see that she was fed.

  An hour had passed. She inverted the hourglass once more. How long before it became obvious she had been abducted? And then how much time could elapse before a rescue party was mustered? Days? Weeks? More like months, if she was realistic about her predicament. The Highlands’ hazardous geography, which helped the remaining Jacobites fight back effectively, would work against her and her servants.

  Elspeth, Mary Laurie, Duncan—what had become of them? God forbid that their lives had been taken!

  Five more times she turned the hourglass over before apathy dulled her agitation. She sought the solace of sleep. Sometime much later, the opening and closing of the cabin door roused her. The candle had gutted out. She could not see her visitor, but she knew who it was. She was alone with her captor.

  "G’evening, Madam Murdock. I imagine ye must be hungry."

  So it was evening. She picked up the pillow and hurled it in the direction of that marvelous deep voice. "You are a simpleton, Ranald Kincairn. A starved captive will bring you no ransom.”

  His rich laughter infuriated her. “I never spoke of ransom. I spoke of retribution.”

  Fear smote her anew. "You willna get away with this! This outrage!"

  The bed shifted beneath her. She smelled food: hot porridge. "A simple meal I have for ye, perforce one of the nuisances of voyages. Gratefully, ours shall not be a lengthy one. Open your mouth."

  She could not credit what she was hearing! The man meant to feed her like a chained dog! She felt the spoon nudge her lips. With a backlash of her hand, she knocked the spoon from her lips.

  A softly murmured Gaelic curse enhanced the darkness. "I take it ye are not hungry."

  "I’m famished, you brute! You dolt! You black-guard!”

  The bed creaked with the release of his weight.

  "No! Wait! Come back!”

  The cat-quiet tread, unusual for so big a man, halted. "Aye?"

  "Please, my servants? Assure me they are alive and all right!"

  "That they are. As for ye, I keep ye alive, me lady, not out of kindness. I do it for the perverse pleasure I shall take in observing your degeneration from highborn lady to a slut who inhabits closes and wends and whom none but the lowest of humanity deign to touch. I shall return tomorrow.”

  “Oh, God!" Tears stung her eyes. She swallowed back their salty taste. "What must I do?”

  "I’m not God, so I canna answer as to His opinion," came the sardonic reply. "I, however, would suggest an apology for your crudeness. When last we talked I had thought ye spirited. Ye sink much faste
r to the dregs than I had anticipated. That shortens me pleasure."

  A neat psychological trap he had prepared: surrender now and assure her own self-destruction; defy him and give him diversion.

  Delay was the only prospect she had. "Then I proffer an apology." Her tone was flippant. Her brain raced. The words she next chose were of the King’s finest English. She would not betray her cowardice to her captor again. "But if it is entertaining you I must, I would hope the same from yourself, sir."

  “Ye are not in a position to hope for such."

  Good. She heard the humor in his voice. "Alas. But you will feed me?”

  "A pleasure.” His voice, as smooth and potent as Scotch whisky, made her grit her teeth.

  Once again, the bed shifted beneath her. As he fed Enya the less-than-appetizing porridge, she could detect his easy breathing. Detect, too, a fresh scent about him. "You have bathed since last you entertained me with your presence, Highlander.”

  He chuckled. "Not for your sake, sassenach,” he said, using the Gaelic term of contempt for all Saxons. "I had ridden hard and long to make the sailing of the sloop. I might add that ye could use a bath."

  She couldn’t help herself. Before she realized the costly gesture, she spat the mouthful of porridge at him. "You bloody oaf!”

  "And I had thought you a bright lass. Or perhaps you weren’t hungry after all. Tomorrow I shall bring you a bowl of leek soup. That may suit your palate better, eh?"

  "Leave me, you cad!”

  Again, that abominable laughter. "I look forward to your next apology, me lady. I trust your imagination will create a more amusing one on the morrow.”

  The door closed on her and her imagination. The horror of what awaited her was more than she wanted to contemplate, and she sought once more the oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Sunlight, though mist-shrouded, nevertheless blinded Enya. She put up her palm to shield her eyes. The Pelican was putting into what appeared to be a wide bay. Bulbous fishing boats clustered at the far end.