Highland Dragon

by Kimberly Killion

  And what they did to the virgins was horrific beyond imagination.

  Chapter Two

  “How many men do ye think I killed in Drumchatt, cousin?”

  “I dinnae know, Jaime. But I’m certain ye believe ’twas more than I.” Calin rolled his eyes beneath his lids. After listening to the tenth battle story, he regretted bringing his cousin along to rescue his bride. Although Jaime was like a brother to Calin, he’d always been undisciplined. Though three years younger, Jaime constantly strived to best him. If Calin killed a red deer with six points, then Jaime set out to kill one with ten. The desire to surpass Calin made Jaime a determined warrior, and Calin admitted to being proud of that quality in his cousin.

  “Think ye the number was greater than fifty?” Jaime asked, continuing his exaggerated tale of valor as Calin crested the rise.

  Morning’s blue mist blanketed the small island of Bania. Scores of MacLeod men littered the landscape below, but this breed of MacLeods weren’t brethren Calin cared to call kin. He reigned in his warhorse, every muscle in his body ached from the three-day journey. Not conditioned to the wider saddle, his arse had long since gone numb. The three MacLeod warriors along with Kendrick cantered up beside Calin and paused to look down at the tented pavilions.

  “I’d bet my hind teeth the number was closer to a hundred,” Jaime said, oblivious of the fact that they’d reached their destination. “Think ye the number—”

  “Jaime,” Kendrick interrupted, agitation pinching his brows tight. “Ye speak another word, and I’ll remove those hind teeth ye just wagered.”

  Calin grinned, causing Jaime to frown, after which they spent the final leg over the knoll in blissful silence. Calin had little trouble gaining admittance. His gold proved all the encouragement the bastards needed to permit him, his three kinsmen, and Kendrick beneath the canvas with the rest of the swine.

  By late afternoon, attendants shuffled in and out of the main tent. Most wore the heavy Highland plaid, but some were clad in dress fashionable in France and Germany. Surcoats embroidered with their country’s crests identified the nationality of each man not wearing a plaid. Trimmed in gold braids, their heavy tunics hung loosely over snug-fitting trews. Though the year was well into summer, the salty gales from the sea crept beneath the walls like icy splinters. The bystanders shivered from time to time while they bartered for one woman after another on the auction block, but Calin’s skin didn’t even pebble. The depravity surrounding him heated his blood and sent waves of fury through his very soul. The bidding ceased at dusk at which point the wastrels spent their coin on hearty amounts of ale and told stories of battle. Their lies grew bigger with every barrel rolled onto the dais. Calin would’ve given anything to be back astride his steed with his bride safely in tow, listening to one of Jaime’s tales. Instead, he was buried within a crowd of rancid-smelling Highlanders, wondering if their stench had seeped into his pores.

  At dawn, the auctioneer took up his gavel and began the day anew. After a grouping of olive-skinned women were sold, a blond child was hauled onto the wooden platform. She was easily the youngest maid brought to the dais since they’d arrived. The girl hadn’t even grown into her overbite and, as clearly seen through the thin gauze of her shift, she hadn’t developed. She couldn’t be more than ten years of age. Her hands were bound loosely in front of her, and her head bowed in obedience while tears of humiliation rolled down her cheeks. Calin couldn’t bear it. He would find a place for her at Cànwyck Castle. Mayhap with the laundress. He motioned to his man in the back to prepare the funds. The baritone hum within the pavilion dwindled when the shrilling cadence of the auctioneer began. “How much am I offered for such a prize? Now, my good men. What a sight the lass will be in your beds. How much am I offered? Speak quickly, for she will surely sell.” Standing behind a scaffold, the auctioneer slicked graying strands over his balding head while awaiting the bids.

  “Is she a virgin?” one of the bystanders asked in a surly voice.

  “Lass, answer the mon’s question,” the auctioneer ordered.

  The color rose in her cheeks, and Calin damned each and every one of these men to the fiery pits of Hell.

  “Nay.” Her answer was barely audible.

  Disappointed moans filled the air, which disgusted Calin further. Half these men weren’t here to purchase brides or servants, but to witness the entertainment Tigh Diabhail provided.

  Calin assumed the girl lied, as most of the bystanders did, but the bylaws stated that each captive must answer the same question prior to purchase.

  A man sobbed at Calin’s left, catching his attention; his wrinkled face shone wet with tears. He clutched a satchel in one fist and stared glassy-eyed at the girl.

  The auctioneer slurred over a string of numbers, guiding three men through their bids. The man at Calin’s side only managed to enter a small bid early on.

  “Is she your kin?” Calin asked without looking at him.

  “My daughter,” he finally answered after a long pause.

  “Bid what ye must. I will cover the remainder.”

  “I cannae repay ye.”

  “Ye will owe me nothing.”

  Within seconds the bidding ended and the man successfully purchased the girl for thirty groats, twenty of which Calin gladly supplied.

  “Bless ye, sir,” the man offered then pushed his way to the front. The guards tossed the girl from the dais with no regard for her safety, and Calin wanted nothing more than to see them hang from the tallest tree in the Highlands. The thought of Akira manhandled by these foul heathens made his jaw lock and his palms sweat. Desperation clawed at him, making his fingers pulse. What if she’d already been sold? What if she’d never even been brought here?

  Just as the questions entered his mind, the untamed hiss of the next captive pierced through the drone of bidders. Hair black as midnight framed her porcelain face—a face twisted into a ferocious expression of revulsion. Oaths spewed from her mouth in English, French, Gaelic, and another language Calin didn’t recognize. Two sentries in black hooded robes restrained her, and unlike the other women, her hands were bound tightly behind her.

  “Christ, that’s Akira,” Kendrick announced in a loud whisper then started for the dais.

  “Nay.” Calin placed a firm hand on Kendrick’s chest. “Dinnae draw attention to us or our interest in her.” Calin spoke calmly enough, but his insides were erupting. If the guards dared to strike her, he was fully prepared to start a war. She lunged at the men confining her to the platform. The woman certainly didn’t lack for spit and fire. She was a fighter. Though relieved he’d found her safe, Calin worried over their initial meeting. Introducing himself to his bride under these circumstances might prove to be an awkward task.

  When she drove a knee into the groin of one of her guards, Calin recoiled and instinctively cupped his bollocks. The injured sentry grabbed a mass of her hair, twisted her sideways, and forced her to her knees. Her eyes bled desperation just as she hollered out. The high-pitch note of pain bounced off the canvas walls.

  Calin’s hands fisted into tight knots. Had he been permitted to keep a weapon, these men would be skewered over the end of his broadsword. He gestured to his clansmen dispersed amongst the crowd. With the silent order, the three men exited posthaste. “Remove your hood,” he commanded Kendrick. “If possible, I want her to see ye. Mayhap ’twill calm her spirits.”

  “Did I happen to mention Akira has a bit of a temper?”

  “A bit?” Calin eyed him warily, but he had no time for banter now. “We will retrieve Akira by any means necessary. When we leave, she will ride with me, and I will deal with her temper. ”

  The same gruff voice sounded out of the crowd. “Is she a virgin?”

  He hoped she possessed the wit to reply the same as all the others. His breath caught in his throat, waiting for her answer. Say nay. Say ye are not a virgin. He willed her to answer accordingly. The guards tightened their hold on her, giving her encouragement to answer the
question. Her eyes narrowed into dark slits. She tilted her dainty chin and stared at the barbarian who asked the question. “Aye, I am a virgin. And I intend to stay that way.”

  Calin’s gut plunged to his knees.

  Silence fell over the assembly. A silence so absolute the breaking waves could be heard over the cliff behind the pavilion. The hush lasted two heartbeats, then cheers resounded, and a bawl of bedlam rumbled. Every man’s eyes brimmed with lust. Damn foolish wench! Could she not have told a wee white lie? How dim of wit could the lass be not to answer the same as the rest? The siller he’d sent for her rearing had not been spent wisely. Rolling his neck until it popped several times, he tried to control his frustrations.

  The auctioneer stiffened his grip on his gavel. He flashed a wicked smile at a woman standing behind him. “Nattie, fetch the oils.”

  The crude spectators roared even louder and, though it seemed impossible, the narrow space of the tent tripled in attendance, as if the bastards outside could smell a virgin. The shrill sound of heckling amplified with every passing second. Two more guards wormed their way through the crowd collecting added compensation. A flush of uneasiness crept over Kendrick’s face. “What’s amiss?”

  “These men pay extra to witness the sale of a virgin. The coin goes to the chieftain who turns a blind eye to such an atrocity. I fear my bride is not only going to cost me far more than I intended to pay, but she’s to provide the entertainment as weel.” The dark tone of his voice matched the outrage of his thoughts. “I suspect your sister has nay idea what her pride is about to cost her.”

  Calin offered a silent prayer for Saint Boniface to aid him, then hollered, “Twenty groats.”

  “Twenty groats I am offered,” cried the auctioneer. “Who’ll offer more?”

  “Thirty-fi’,” proffered another, tripping over a foreign language.

  “Fifty.”

  “Seventy-five.”

  The bids escalated at a startling pace, quickly reaching three hundred. Calin intended to win, even if it cost him every coin he’d brought. The fires of Hades would be doused before he let another man touch his woman. He’d waited far too long to secure the alliance and avenge his father’s blood.

  “I bid five hundred groats,” Calin hollered.

  Curious whispers hissed through the crowd as hundreds of eyes studied him. The bid shocked the crowd and Kendrick as well. “Have ye that much siller with ye, mon?”

  “Aye,” Calin answered briefly then awaited any challenge, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d never been one to flaunt or squander the MacLeod coin, but the survival of Clan MacLeod depended on his retrieval of this woman. His woman.

  “Who’ll give me more than five hundred groats?” the auctioneer shouted, but no response came. The smack of his gavel ended the bidding. “Sold!”

  Calin’s men waited with the haversacks of siller. With the dip of his chin, he ordered his seneschal to complete the bill of sale with the bailiff. He parted the crowd to stand at the edge of the raised dais as all the other buyers before him had done, but instead of tossing Akira over his shoulder, the guards backed her to the furthest edge of the platform. A blue-flame of energy surged within him—a possessive desire to protect, to claim, to kill. Fingers balled into fists primed for battle.

  “Bring out the bed. Bring out the bed,” the crowd chanted.

  The auctioneer gave orders for preparations to begin. The guards pulled back moth-eaten drapes revealing a rusty frame holding a straw-filled mattress. The woman, whom the auctioneer referred to as Nattie, reappeared with a steaming pail of oil. Calin held the auctioneer’s stare as he spoke with contempt. “My seneschal has finalized the sale. I demand ye relinquish this woman unto me!”

  “She’ll be delivered accordingly, but as clearly defined in the precepts of your bill of sale, nay woman leaves Tigh Diabhail with her maidenhead intact.”

  Akira inhaled sharply, drawing Calin’s attention. The hot color of fury drained from her face and was replaced with palewhite terror. She wavered slightly before she closed her mouth and regained enough wit to glare at him. Although he didn’t feel he deserved such a fierce look, Calin held eye contact with her as they pulled him to the dais. Her guards doubled in number to hold her limbs immobile while Nattie reached beneath Akira’s flimsy shift with a small sponge to wipe oils between her legs. With her hands still bound behind her back, Akira was defenseless against the bawdy woman’s boldness.

  Two more henchmen carried the bed to the platform’s center. Despite Akira’s resistance, the guards placed her on the mattress. She tried to bolt, but they flung her back atop the soiled tick and tightened a leather strap over her ribs. Calin’s muscles clenched. He wanted to kill every one of these bastards. He could reveal who he was, but his status as laird held no esteem amongst these swine. He would only be inviting trouble. Knowing he had little choice other than to proceed with the deed, Calin held his arms outstretched and allowed the guards to divest him of his plaid and léine shirt. Much to the old crone’s apparent disappointment, he declined Nattie’s administration of oils and accepted a white cloth as he approached the bed. He crawled atop Akira on all fours, covering her from head to toe. Mocking their privacy, the guards lowered a gauze canopy—caging them like breeding animals on public display. She violently thrashed her head side to side, whipping a black web of hair to veil her features.

  “Imigh sa diabhal, bastún,” Akira cursed at him in Gaelic. And then in French. “Focal leat! Retournez à la pute qui t’a accouchée!”

  “I am nay a bastard, and my mother wasnae a whore.” Calin calmly corrected her expletives. Her obscene vocabulary both shocked and impressed him.

  “To the devil with your black blood. May ye rot alongside the bitseach that birthed ye.”

  “Nor was my mother a bitch.” Although Calin knew little about the woman who died giving birth to him, he felt a sense of honor to protect his mother from such heinous names. He exhaled dramatically, shook his head, and tsked. “How can such a vulgar tongue be placed betwixt the lips of such a bonnie fine mouth?”

  In response, Akira spat on him. She then thrust forward, ramming her forehead into the bridge of his nose. The impact against his skull reverberated clear to his back teeth.

  Hell and damnation, his bride was a hoyden! Shaking his head, his eyes refocused to find her completely unaffected by the blow. “Ye are an ox, and if ye’ve any intention of touching me, ye will live to regret it. Does it give ye a sense of power to have your way with me, knowing ye are twice my size and probably weigh over twenty stones? I know men like ye. Satan’s men. My benefactor will see ye punished and send ye back to your father in Hell!” Akira continued her threats in Gaelic, her profanity becoming more colorful with every blast of condemnation.

  She was hysterical. He needed to do something to gain the slightest trust from her, but she screamed as if possessed.

  “Akira!” he shouted her given name.

  She froze. Her eyes twitched and scanned his face as if searching for some sign of familiarity. “How do ye know my name?”Gently, Calin brushed the wild black wisps of hair from her petrified expression. The howling pandemonium of the spectators grew distant as he took in the remarkable beauty of his bride. Her eyes were a piercing blue that shone like polished sapphires beneath a thick fan of sooty lashes. Her rose-colored lips were full and pouty, and her chin held strong with an unbreakable pride. She was a mirror image of Lena. Calin admitted a certain amount of relief. Nonetheless, he would have married Akira with hairy moles and a third eye. The safety of his clan depended on their union. Her skirmish seemed to cease, because he pinned her legs beneath him, but her entire body trembled. He leaned into the side of her face and inhaled a salty-sweat scent dusted with a feminine lure. “Your name is Akira Neish of Clan Kinnon. Your kin are Neala, Maggie, Isobel, Riona and Fiona. Ye are daughter to Murrdock and Vanora Neish. I am here with your brother, Kendrick, to take ye home. I’ll not harm ye, nor will I steal your virginity. There is nay reas
on for ye to trust me, but I’ve nay time to beg ye to do as I say. Do ye understand what they expect me to do to ye?”

  Akira nodded, terror licked her wide eyes. “Do I know ye?”

  “Nay. But ye will.” Calin cocked a half grin and wished he had the time to kiss her quivering lips and reassure her all would be well. His knees straddled her legs now, and his gaze lowered to the generous curve of her breasts threatening to unravel the bowed ribbons of her shift from her struggle.

  The guards stood no further than three arm lengths away. Calin knew he needed to solicit more cooperation from her to make their audience believers of their union. “I need for ye to part your legs.”

  She blanched. “I will not. I dinnae care how much ye know about me, I’ll not do as ye ask.”

  The look of rebellion on her face told Calin she had no intention of obeying him. “By the saints, woman. Ye will part your legs or they will do it for ye.” He glanced at the guards who seemed anxious to come to his aid.

  Akira wished she were prone to swooning like her sisters. But try as she did, her mind refused to aid her. She squeezed her eyes tight, bit her lower lip, and then did as the heathen asked. He repositioned himself then slid his hand between their bodies. She instantly regretted trusting him. Certain he’d touch her in an inappropriate manner, she bucked beneath him.

  “If ye dinnae cease your movements, my body will ignore my chivalrous intention to protect your virtue.”

  The back of his hand brushed against her feminine curls, and piercing fear sliced through Akira’s abdomen. Was this how she would lose her virginity? To a beast who bid the highest coin? Would her benefactor still have her if she came to him spoiled?

  The crowd’s obscene chants drummed in her ears at the same deafening beat of her pounding heart. She prayed silently for God to save her, but was convinced, now more than ever, the devil had branded her. She was cursed.