by The Captive
"I am afraid to stop. We may freeze in our tracks. Tis getting colder by the hour.”
Indeed, the breath descended from the Shetlands’ nostrils in icy white columns. The winter wind was biting cruelly. She pulled her bright plaid clan tartan up over her nose. The strong, sour smell of wet wool made her want to gag. She felt hot even though she shivered. She tried to keep from swaying in the saddle.
“Kathryn!”
The sharp word refocused her. She looked across at Arch. He was scowling blackly. "I am all right.” But her voice was hoarse in her ears. And distant. "Tis just the tartan is so bloody hot.”
In her ears, she heard ringing. Twas the pibrochs calling to her, those sad songs of the bagpipes. Calling like omens.
Suddenly, she was falling. Snow swirled inside her fiery brain. Warm breath burned her cheeks. "Kathryn, don’t give way now!”
Where was her breath? "Rest... just for a wee while."
“We’ll rest soon. I promise you. Only a few miles farther."
She heard the lie in his voice, but his dark eyes would not release her. She could get lost in them, forget who she was. Lady Kathryn, wife of Malcolm Afton of Ayrshire. “Your smile has the charm of sunrise, Arch. You should have been a Druid priest. You weave spells and incantations so expertly.”
"I would charm you if I could," he said, his voice sounding like the distant crackling of autumn leaves underfoot.
She felt his arms around her. Lifting, soaring. Then she realized she was merely being transferred to his horse. He cradled her against him. His body heat and his cloak were stifling. "Un-uhh,” she moaned.
He would not release her. "Only a wee bit longer, my love."
His love. At one time she had been just that. His love had almost hidden her path from her. But she had left the tempestuous girl in the illusions of the past. She was old now. As lined as he and graying rapidly. And too wise to betray all that was good and holy.
Her eyes drifted close. "I am as dead as mutton," she said with a rattling laugh. Why did she feel so hot when it was wintertime?
“No!” His lips touched her forehead. "Do you know that I still love you?”
"Do not say these . . . things. I have been . . . content with my life as it is.”
"You lie. But I ask not your love, my dearest one. Only that you stay here on earth that I may end my own days in peace."
She found the strength for a dry laugh. "Peace, you say? Peace would . . . be your death knell. You thrive on challenges."
"You were a challenge. I remember the first time I saw you."
She knew he talked to keep her from drifting off into that peaceful place between sleep and awakening. Still, she feared the moment. Never before had either of them made specific reference to the past.
"I was at the loch, helping my brother haul in a net of haddock. I glanced up and saw you riding toward us as if chased by the wind. At first I thought you were a boy. You were clad in breeches and a short tunic, and your feet were bare.”
"Please, say no . . . more."
"You leaped neatly from the bay’s back. I was impressed. More impressed when I saw your hair, braided in loose plaits."
“Three loose plaits."
“A bonny lass, no less!"
“Aye, though I rebelled ... against it at the time.” It was her beauty as a girl that had cost her her freedom and made her an adult too soon.
“Sunlight glinted in your eyes, Kathryn, and you shielded them with a little grimy hand. I looked down, and your toes were dusty. I was enchanted. Have been ever since."
“And I,” she added with a longing sigh, "I was newly married."
“Aye. I couldn’t believe this was Malcolm Afton’s bride. This young slip of a lass with her braids—all three—’’ he said with humor in his voice, "bouncing on her back. Somewhere along the way, you became a grand lady.”
“And the fisherman became a priest.” In between, she thought dreamily, was one glorious moment I shall never repent.
“You don’t remember that afternoon at all, do you?" he prompted.
"I weary of talking." She curled close into his body warmth. “I am tired, Arch."
"You cursed me as a scoundrel, taking the fish without tithing to the laird.”
A half smile tugged at her feverish lips. "You were astonished.”
"Aye. The mere fact that your husband was a baron had nothing to do with tenant tithing in the Lowlands. We Lowlanders come from a long line of scoundrels and smugglers and—”
"—and spies!" she challenged, teeth clattering with the cold. She gazed up at him through the mist of snowflakes. "Are you one, Arch? Are you a spy for the English?"
Beneath the tasseled cap his face was set in lines as granite hard as the mountains surrounding them. "You ask questions whose answers might endanger you.”
“I am not afraid of danger."
“I am.”
"What?” The single word was but a whisper. She felt lightheaded but forced herself to speak aloud. "What are you talking about?”
"Aye. Each time I risk . . . take chances . . . my stomach churns. Have I endangered others needlessly? I bite my nails. I feel alone against enemies who have all the advantages. Is my indignation merely self-righteousness? Do I have the intelligence and ability to do the things I believe are needed? Or am I being pompous to a fatal degree? There are nights when I can’t sleep, I am so afraid. Tis then I remind myself I am not alone.”
"Your faith . . . supports you?”
He glanced down at her, his grin cocky. "That’s why they call me Arch. I always need support."
"You were never serious with me!”
His grin faded. “For once I shall be. Each of us needs someone to support us when the high road is rocky. You embody that faith, Kathryn."
"But there have . . . been years go by . . . when you were—”
"You were there for me whenever I returned— needing a handout, a change of clothes and a bath, or simply a listener. You’ve always been wrapped around my heart. Your memory is a living shield."
"I don’t want . . . to hear this." The arctic wind turned the perspiration on her forehead to crystals.
"Make up your mind. Do you want me to be serious or not? If so, I—"
He broke off as horsemen clattered from the density of trees on the left. She stirred, tried to sit erect. The riders brandished swords and dirks that could cut down herself and Arch with the ease of a scythe in a field of wheat. Fear slithered down her back. Beneath her cloak, against her belly, she felt the prick of a blade.
“Use it if you need to,” he whispered against her cheek.
The warning glance he gave her told her more than his words. The knife was for her to use on herself.
Chapter Eleven
Duncan, flat on his stomach, turned his head to one side. That wide, slow smile boiled Mhorag’s blood. "Say nothing, Duncan of Ayrshire, or I shall rub your wounds with salt."
Terrible wounds they were. Pulps of gored flesh fringed the welts that were like scarlet satin ribbons. He did not wince when she rubbed in the moldy-smelling salve, but his spindly hands gripped the rough pine frame of his cot.
She should have left him to the Lowland wench who demanded to tend his wounds, but she herself was responsible for what had happened. Damnation, but the dolt had forced her hand!
"Is Mhorag a Celtic name?”
She knew he talked to keep his mind off his pain. She fancied she glimpsed bone. She shuddered. "Aye. Mhorag is an ethereal mermaid. Daughter of the dragon of Loch Ness. She lives in Loch Morar, not far from here."
"I should have known," he muttered.
“What?" She dabbed rapidly at the blood that trickled lazily toward the straw mattress. It was already soaked in one spot with the thick red fluid: Duncan’s life sustenance.
"That ye would take me by surprise. This was unexpected.”
Her hand paused. “Ye make no sense. Your body has no fever, so ye canna be hallucinating.”
“Nae.
I am rhapsodizing.” He lifted his cheek, pillowed on the back of his hand, and looked over his shoulder at her. "Ye took me by surprise. This love was unexpected.”
"I dinna love ye, idiot!"
"Nay, but ye will.”
"A plodding fisherman? Do ye not realize I have been tutored in Latin and French, astronomy and literature? I doubt ye can even do your sums.”
He shrugged. "Ye can do them for me."
He amused her. "And what will ye do for me?”
"Temper yer bitterness. Gentle yer wildness. Slow yer headlong rush. Ease yer pain. As ye are doing mine at this moment."
Her hand slowed, then halted. Tears blinded her. She wiped angrily at them.
“Easy, lass,” he cautioned with a wry grin. “Yer tears are salt to my wounds.”
She swallowed her tears and snapped, "I should put you under the whip another dozen times.”
"But ye will na.”
“Ye are not even a virile man. Look at ye. No muscle. All bones and flesh.”
He grimaced. "Mangled flesh.”
The door of his quarters opened with a bang. Enya stood framed in the doorway. Her sun- burnished red hair straggled from its crown of braids to curl wildly about her square jawline. In that half light, the cleft in her chin looked even more pronounced. “What have you done to my Duncan?"
Mhorag sprang to her feet. "Your Duncan? I dinna see your name signed on his Bond of Maintenance. Tis my name. Duncan belongs to me.”
Enya stormed forward, her loose hair flying. "Ye swore to defend Duncan and his rights.” She stopped within a cloth’s yard of her and stared past her at Duncan. "God’s blood, but you are inhuman, woman!”
"She’s a mermaid,” Duncan put in.
Enya glanced down at him. Her eyes widened. “Dear Lord, look what she has done to you, Duncan!”
A droll smile exhibited those two overlapping teeth. “I did it to myself, Enya.”
Enya’s gaze swung back to her. “He’s delirious! You self-indulging, unfeeling bitch!”
The urge to smack the impertinent woman flitted across Mhorag’s mind. She rejected the desire in favor of a more striking taunt. “He suggested the flogging in exchange for my bed. More than my brother wants from you, 'tis said by the chambermaids.”
She watched with delight as a pink flush rose up Enya’s neck and over her cheeks, to clash with the burnt red of her hair.
Immediately, the flair of rage was shuttered in those dark eyes. The Lowland woman smiled with condescension. "The lack of bloodied sheets tells nothing. I never claimed to be a maiden, did I now?"
Duncan groaned. "Do ye two mind? Me back is killing me."
"My poor darling.” Enya went to bend over him.
"Touch him, and I’ll have you flogged." She ached for a reason to flog the Lowland woman herself. To strike at the symbol of her own agony.
After Simon Murdock’s violation of her before a dozen ogling soldiers, her mind had imprinted his face forever on the backs of her lids: his saliva-dripping mouth, his eyes drowning in devouring malice, his teeth bloodstained by her own teeth ripping at his tongue. For weeks afterwards she had not been able to sleep, but had sat crooning gibberish to herself. Or so she had been told. Those weeks didn’t exist in her memory. Only Murdock’s evil raven’s face.
And now the Lowland woman had stolen away the security of her brother’s comforting affection.
“Milady!" From the doorway the old hag Elspeth beckoned her wayward charge with the curl of a gnarled finger.
Duncan moaned." Tis a sewing circle me quarters have become."
“The laird has returned,” Elspeth hissed.
Enya directed a questioning glance at her maidservant. “Aye? So?"
Elspeth flung a cautious look at Mhorag. "Go on with it, old woman,” she said.
"He has returned from the hunt with more captives. Your mother and Brother Archibald."
“Mother!" Enya grabbed up her skirts and rushed from the room with Elspeth in her wake.
Mhorag stared after the young woman. “Your savior has abandoned ye to your fate," she drily told Duncan.
With a visible shudder of pain, he rolled onto one side. “Ach, but what a fabulous fate."
She slapped away the fingers that sought hers. "Ye did not earn your night in bed with me."
His face contorted into a mask of mock misery. "Surely, m’lady, thirteen lashes earns me at least a kiss from thy lips.”
She stared at his mouth. Flecked with blood, as had been Simon Murdock’s. She cringed at the thought of kissing the Lowlander. Even had his lips been spotless.
But then, she was no longer spotless, was she? She brought herself to do the deed. Leaning down, prepared to withdraw should he make a lunge for her, she dropped those softly mocking lips a hasty kiss. Just as hastily, she withdrew. At least he had not tried to hold her against her will. Not that he could.
"Ye are stingy with yer lips, m’lady. Was the kiss that unbearable?’’
“I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“I’m told ’tis quite pleasant. Why don’t ye try again?"
She shrugged. "Why should I?”
"Why shouldn’t ye . . . unless, mayhap, ye are but a lass? Skittering away from feeling like a real woman?"
Her eyes flared. Her lips bared in a snarl. "A real woman, ye say? Does sex with a man make a woman real? How about hollow? How about burnt-out inside?! How about hurting and used and—’’
"How about soft and surrendering and loving?"
Never again would she have those qualities of innocence. That gossamer thread of sanity snapped. Her hand, aching to swat something, found a target.
His head snapped to one side. Again, that silly grin. "Does that count toward the twenty-three lashes?"
So hot was her anger, she couldn’t even manage a single word of scolding. What she did do was stalk from the room with scalding tears blinding her eyes.
Some might have termed her exit an escape.
Enya’s world seemed to be falling apart around her. First her own capture. Then Duncan’s flogging. And now her mother and Brother Archibald were captives.
Rage overrode all caution. She had forgotten lessons in watching her father cope with his disease: that rage was really fear. That there were only two feelings in all the world: fear and love.
She sallied into the great hall like a Celtic warrior queen into battle. Her gaze fell on Brother Archibald first. Hands tied behind him, he was dressed in rough garb. A bloody furrow bisected one cheek.
Her mother was dressed no better, in common attire that might have clothed a Glasgow harlot. Her hands, too, were tied. The two captives trailed behind Ranald, who swept through the halls calling out orders.
Enya pushed through the scurrying servants to reach the two. "Mother!"
The woman halted, turned. A suspicious tint reddened her cheeks. French rouge? Her mother never used cosmetics. Enya enveloped the older woman in a tearful hug. “Oh, Mother!” Intense heat emanated from her mother. Dismayed, Enya drew back. "You’re feverish!"
"I'm all right, Enya.” Kathryn swayed unsteadily. "Now that I know you are indeed safe.”
“You are . . . unharmed, Enya?” Brother Archibald demanded. His eyes searched hers with such anguish that she realized what he feared.
"Aye. I am unharmed. Truly, Brother Archibald. But you—what happened to you?”
He raised his fettered hands to finger the still-bleeding wound. A rueful grin tugged at his mouth. "An enemy picked me to pieces.”
She whirled away. Her gaze scanned the heads, finding the one that towered above the others. "Kincairn!”
He half turned and looked over his shoulder. His brows drew together over warning eyes.
She stalked toward him. The others in the great hall parted a path for her. He wore an oilskin against the wet weather, a brace of grouse slung over his shoulder. He looked weary.
Only when she could see his eyes, the color of a frosty blue moon, did she halt. "Is there n
othing you won’t stoop to? Is your thirst for revenge so great that you must harm innocent people? My mother and Brother Archibald had nothing—"
“Brother Archibald?”
“Ye—you heard me! How many must suffer at your bloody hands?"
"If you wish to protest, appear in the Justice Hall on the morrow."
"My mother can’t wait until the morrow. She is ill! Can’t you see, you simpleton!”
The sharp intake of breaths warned her she had overstepped her boundaries. Still, she would not back down. She would not show weakness. "For all your education," she said, enunciating each word distinctly, “you are little more than an ignorant heathen. You represent well the idea that Highlanders are barbarians!"
Veins stood out in his temples like pulley chains on the portcullis. Both apprehension and anticipation strained the silence of the room. "Jamie. Take her to the donjon.”
Jamie stepped forward. Regret mingled with reproof in his countenance. She jerked her arm from his clasp. "I won’t go without my mother.”
"Milady," Jamie murmured, "do as—”
“Jamie.” The single word rent the air. Ranald merely raised one brow, but the glowering gaze was not misspent. Like a steel-tipped arrow, it pierced her. "Mistress Enya has obviously lost all reasoning and caution. I do not wish her running amok in the dark of night. She might hurt herself. See that she is clapped in chains.”
She would have flown at him, screeching, and scratched his eyes from their sockets had not Jamie’s grip manacled her. “Ye forget your Bond of Maintenance!" she cried out over her shoulder.
Jamie dragged her with him. "Hush, milady. Dinna you see that you are only making things worse? Ranald is in a foul mood."
“Willna make a difference. If you kicked the man in his heart, you’d break a toe."
“He lost Nob today."
“What? The princely troll?” She almost tripped over the first step of the stairwell. It twisted downward into a dark hell. A cold hell.
“Aye." Jamie’s handsome face wore a haunted expression. "Took an arrow through the back.”
The rickety staircase spiraling down to the buttery was lit only by intermittent sconces whose candles sputtered. "One of the other hunters?"