by Laura Glenn
Disgust slithered across her skin and she sucked a long, calming breath through her nose. Her thoughts spun and scattered, drawing close to images of the terror that could befall her and what she might suffer at the hands of this delusional man next to her. Of what she might have to do to survive just to see Rathe’s face one more time.
Then the words came back to her again like a whisper. Fight like hell.
Chapter Twenty
Rathe shut the door, blocking out the saddened but curious eyes of his clan, and stared into the great hall. A swirl of a skirt out of the corner of his eye caused his numbed heart to jump and then sink like a stone.
It wasn’t her. But, God in heaven, how he wished it were. He had missed her by hours. Mere hours. How could he have not seen this coming? Had he missed the clues signaling the Dunlop’s betrayal, which had drawn away the warriors he had left behind to protect his family and clan?
Ros had held him back as Paul intercepted them and relayed what had happened. Of how his skittish, wee wife had given herself over to the MacTavish to keep his clan safe only to be struck and bound with a rope before being dragged away. Deep, stabbing pain ripped through him, tearing to shreds any strategic thought and leaving naught but a desperate need to tear the flesh from the MacTavish, to drive his sword through the man’s beating heart and watch the life drain from his eyes.
Leah would be avenged. By everything good and holy, he would see it done.
And if goodness refused him assistance, he had no qualms making good on the rumor of his association with the forces of darkness. He would send men south to find the Graham witch by whose powers Leah had come to his world. He would force the woman into bringing Leah back to him, no matter the cost and no matter what she’d endured at the hands of the MacTavish. She was his. His woman. His heart.
“Laird Sinclair.”
Torn away from his thoughts, his vision refocused and landed on Mòrag standing off to the side. He fought back the urge to snap at the interruption.
She cleared her throat, dropping her gaze to his feet for the first time in his memory. “I heard you were approaching and left some supper in your chamber.”
He gave her a clipped nod and stepped away, heading for the staircase.
“You would have been proud of her.”
He froze but did not turn back to the housekeeper.
“She refused to turn anyone away when the panic spread through the clan. She had extra food brought in and helped comfort the wounded. She was a true laird’s wife.”
He swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides. God, how he wanted to go after her. But Ros was right. His men and horses were exhausted. It would do little good for them to launch an offensive on an enemy fresh from a night’s rest and with plenty of food in their bellies. It was a long enough ride and there were still wounded who needed tending.
“Daddy!” Màiri ran down the stairs, clutching the tattered rag doll Mòrag had made for her when she was but a wee bairn.
He did smile then and stooped to sweep her into his arms. A bit of warmth crept back into his heart. His little girl was safe. Leah did that. She’d protected her, protected them all. His oft frightened little doe had sacrificed herself for all of them.
Màiri twisted her head around, peering behind him. “Where’s Mommy?”
His chest tightened and he forced himself to continue breathing.
“Now, now, sweet lassie,” Mòrag crooned, suddenly appearing at Rathe’s side and rubbing the child’s back. “You remember what I said?”
Màiri nodded, bumping her head against his cheek. “But I want Mommy.”
His jaw clenched and he closed his eyes to keep his rage under control. “I promise I will find her, lass.”
She nodded again and pulled back, her eyes widening. “Mommy told me I am supposed to tell you something.”
He forced a gentle smile onto his face. “What is that?”
“She loves you.” She giggled, covering her mouth with one chubby hand, her green eyes sparkling with mirth.
The strength left his arms all at once. Mòrag stepped forward and eased the child to the ground before he dropped her.
She loved him.
Liked him and enjoyed his company, sure. And he was damn lucky for it. After all, neither of his previous wives cared much for being married off to the bastard son of some far-flung Highland laird. Neither cared for his humor, his forthrightness, or his lusty nature. Not to mention the remoteness of his holding or more rustic way of life.
But Leah was different. She blossomed in the quiet, reveled in the natural beauty surrounding them and eagerly welcomed him into her arms, oftentimes nightly. She laughed at his jokes, soothed the darkness that haunted him, and cared for his child. He would have been content with that alone.
But now she’d given him her heart. God’s blood, what he wouldn’t do if he could but hold her one more time. Ensure she was safe. He would give his life if necessary.
“Come along now, lass,” Mòrag stated, turning his daughter around by the shoulders. “It is past your bedtime and your father needs his rest.”
Màiri took the housekeeper’s hand. As they reached the staircase, she turned around again. “You know what else Mommy said?”
“What, my sweet?”
Her little face broke into a wide, toothy grin. “I get to help with the baby!”
Mòrag’s eyes widened and she hurried to hush Màiri.
Rathe stepped toward them, his gaze catching the housekeeper’s. Chills ran through his skin. He was right. “Baby? She told you she was—”
Mòrag shook her head. “Pray, do not say another word, Laird Sinclair. I promised my lady if she did not…”
His eyes narrowed, his stomach clenching at the implication of her words. “If she did not what?”
Mòrag pressed her lips together and shook her head again, remorse playing across her features. “I swore to my lady.”
He gripped the banister to steady himself. She was carrying his bairn. His fingers twitched. He needed to get to her.
He nodded at Mòrag and bent to kiss Màiri on the top of the head. He stood motionless as they ascended the stairs and disappeared into the dark corridor above.
He dragged his feet up the steps, weariness suddenly settling upon him. When he reached his chamber, the door was ajar and light spilled into the hall from the fire in the hearth. He slipped in and closed the door. He scanned the room, skipping over the bed to the food and drink waiting for him on a small table near the window. He blinked several times, turning back to the bed. A form—someone sleeping?
No. It was empty.
A rush of rage washed over him, igniting a fire deep in his belly, crawling through his limbs. There was nothing he could do. Not a damn thing. His vision blurred, his blood thundering in his ears. A rumble deep in his chest clawed through his throat until it escaped in a painful roar from his lips.
A desperate grab for the table and it was hurled across the room where it crashed and splintered. Dishes crumbled like dust. Food scattered. Ale sloshed down the wall, pooling on the floor.
His knees hit the floor, shooting darts of pain up through his bones.
God, please, save her. Protect her. Bring me vengeance.
“Laird Sinclair?”
One of the servants. Though in his rage, he couldn’t tell whom. “Leave me be!” he growled.
Footfalls and then silence.
She should be here now. With him. God, he hated being away from her. He could think of little other than holding her, touching her as soon as he arrived home. That is until…
He had failed her. Again. How could he have not seen the ploy? Sensed the game meant to split up his forces and draw them away?
He closed his eyes. “Fight like hell, lass. I am coming for you,” he uttered in a harsh whisper into the darkness.
* * * * *
Rathe jumped up from the bed when the pink light of daybreak crept around the window coverings. Attempting sleep had been nothing short of
a waste of time. He had lain atop the bedcovers, fully clothed, his heart aching at the scent of her still lingering on the pillow. His mind raced, planning, strategizing, trying to use facts to decode his enemy’s plans.
Killing Leah would gain the MacTavish nothing. He’d already had the chance—the chance to destroy everything. Rathe’s family, his keep, his clan. The MacTavish wanted the keep intact. More manpower to add to his wealth and defenses. Another castle to bolster his holdings and power.
His goal was to take Rathe down for claiming his inheritance as the Sinclair’s son. Leah was simply a pawn in his cousin’s game.
His cousin. How he could share any blood with a man such as the MacTavish? A man so dishonorable as to use innocent women and children for his own gain? One who would pull manipulative political strings instead of challenging Rathe as a man? But there remained one thing the MacTavish might do to Leah—might have already done. But Rathe couldn’t allow the dark thought to settle. Not now. It would gut him, send him into a blind rage that would threaten her rescue, his victory. He needed focus. And action. Before it could gnaw through his gut and overwhelm him.
He threw open the door, almost kicking across the hall a tray of food that had been set outside. He stooped down, threw back the cup of tepid ale in one swig and grabbed the oatcakes before booting the tray aside with his foot and heading down to the great hall. It was time to get his Leah back. Heads would roll if his men were not saddled and ready to go when he reached the courtyard.
He stopped short as soon as he stepped outside. Men on horses, prepared for battle, filled his courtyard and spilled outside the curtain wall through the gate. At the head were the MacAirth and the MacBain.
“You look like hell,” Galen stated, his hands gripping the reins of his horse and resting upon his lap.
Rathe shook his head and descended the stairs. “This is my fight. You have rebuilding to do.”
Galen snorted. “No thanks to the MacTavish. Even if I did not have a stake in this, though, I still owe you.”
Rathe stopped on the last step, his gaze meeting his friend’s. How could he have forgotten? It was only a few short years ago he had ridden beside Galen into battle with the Gowrie. Annie too had been kidnapped. If only he had known then the terror and rage Galen had experienced…
No, he would not have believed it. He would not have believed that in just a few years, he too would know the torture and helplessness of having his heart ripped from his chest. Or that he would fall in love with his wife.
“After this, you are both going to owe me,” Calum MacBain grumbled, picking up his reins from where they lay across his horse’s neck. “Let us get this done. I have not slept in days, thanks to that MacTavish ass.”
A young warrior led Rathe’s horse to him and he quickly mounted, tucking the oatcakes into the saddlebag.
“Which way?” Calum asked, turning his horse.
“Due east,” Rathe grumbled. “We take out the Dunlop first.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Squeaking. Something crawling across her foot.
Tearing herself back into consciousness, Leah gasped and scrambled, curling along the damp, musty wall. The squeaks cut through the darkness and then silenced. A drop of water plopped onto the dirt floor.
Andrew hadn’t said much on their journey, instead concentrating on driving them hard toward his keep. Almost as though the devil were on his tail. His shoulders didn’t relax until they entered the safety of the castle walls. By that point, darkness had long since fallen. Andrew never acknowledged her presence and merely disappeared into the keep.
She was taken in after him but led down a series of darkened halls and flights of stairs until they hit a dirt floor and a short corridor with a series of small rooms with iron bars for doors. The rusty bars groaned, screeching in her ears. A man behind her had shoved her forward into a cell. She’d stumbled and whirled around. The moonlight from the tiny window illuminated the glare the blue-eyed man from earlier had thrown his companion as he closed and locked the door.
It hadn’t taken long for the chilled damp of her prison to soak up through her shoes and into her bones. She was shivering, her joints aching by the time the blue-eyed man came back. He had placed something on the ground and motioned her forward. He reached through the bars and pulled at the rope around her wrists until the knot came undone. He then handed her a cup and a piece of bread.
“Drink up, my lady,” he’d murmured in a low voice. “I will be back to collect the cup shortly. Do not breathe a word I have done this. The laird’s orders were no food or drink.”
“Why?”
The man hesitated for just a moment. “He is trying to break you.”
Leah shook her head, peering around the dim room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rat that had awakened her but it had disappeared. Her stomach rumbled. It had grown steadily lighter in the room as the day broke but then dimmed again as it drew to a close. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. The tears had stopped long ago. She had grown almost numb to the fear and anger. At one point during the long night and day, something flipped inside her. Worry was replaced by planning, despair by calculations.
Andrew wanted something. But what? Would he demand the Sinclair lands in exchange for her life? Whatever it was, he would come to see her at some point. She would be questioned.
The blue-eyed man. Something was different about him though. His loyalty to his laird seemed to have a crack in it. Persuasive was the last thing she’d ever call herself, but could he be convinced to help her?
Almost as if by magic, he appeared with two other men trailing behind. “Up you go, Lady Sinclair. The laird has requested your presence.”
A part of her held back. There was at least a modicum of safety here in her little cell. Rats were a foe with which she could deal with a bit of success. But outside those bars was an entire clan set against her because of who her husband was. And there was Andrew, a man set upon destroying Rathe.
The bars slid open with a groan and the blue-eyed man extended his hand toward her. “Come, my lady. You will be fed and have a bit of comfort tonight.”
She stood, holding on to the wall for support. She took a hesitant step forward. She must at least appear compliant and reserve her resistance for when it mattered.
He pressed his lips into a brief, sympathetic smile as she took his hand, allowing him to guide her over the threshold. He released her and walked ahead. She glanced at the other two men. Their stonelike expressions were unreadable but both had their hands resting upon the pommels of their swords. She tore her eyes away, casting them to the ground as she fell into line behind the blue-eyed man.
He guided her in silence, threading the way through a maze of corridors and up flights of stairs. She attempted to create a mental map but soon became lost through all the twists and turns.
He approached a room and opened the door. Her heart leapt into her throat until two women standing to either side of a wooden tub came into view. She stepped inside, almost sighing in relief. Andrew was not here.
The man left her alone with the women and the door clicked closed behind her. She jumped as they approached, her frazzled nerves on high alert for anything out of the ordinary.
“We are to bathe you, my lady. Prepare you to sup with the laird,” the young blonde woman explained, laying a gentle hand on Leah’s arm.
Leah nodded and allowed them to remove her clothing, which was now filthy from her time spent in the rat-infested cell. She dipped one toe in the warm water of the tub. Sharp pains shot up through her skin, bringing warmth back to her cold, numbed foot. She braced herself as she stepped in with the other foot. As soon as the pains subsided, her muscles melted and she sank down into the water.
Under normal circumstances, she would have been stiff from the awkwardness of two strangers bathing her. She’d even refused the help of the attendants Mòrag had assigned to her under the impression the lady of the keep should always be assisted with bathin
g and dressing. She’d been doing these things for herself ever since she could remember and she wasn’t about to let anyone else take over the chore. Until now. She closed her eyes, lulled toward sleepiness as the bath drew the last elements of chill from her bones. Gentle wiping of her skin. A relaxing massage of her scalp as the older, brunette woman washed her hair.
The tension faded to the background. But it would come back. And soon. The blue-eyed man had said she’d be eating with the laird. But for now she would relax, regain her energy. She would need all of her wits about her.
When the bath finished, they sat her by the fire, combing and drying her hair after slipping her into a fresh chemise she’d never seen before. Then a new blue overdress was presented to her. The blonde woman stared at her as though awaiting her approval. Leah gave her a hesitant nod and then the garment was slid over her head. The other woman tied the gold laces at the sides.
Leah smoothed her hand over the luxurious fabric. Soft and heavy. Perhaps velvet? Intricate gold embroidery graced the edges of the skirt and long, draping sleeves.
Then it hit her. Andrew had had this dress waiting. It seemed new and unused. Not a single crease or worn spot to indicate a previous owner. And the fit was almost perfect. Almost as if someone familiar with her physique had made it. The only time she’d had any garments made for her was when she’d resided with David and his family.
This had been made for her. But why? Why would Andrew go to the trouble and expense of having this created and waiting here for her?
A temporary elation sprang from her heart. He didn’t mean to kill her. It was little comfort in the grand scheme, considering how much she was his mercy. But at least it her death was not in the plan. At least, not yet.
“My lady?”
The blue-eyed man stood in the door. His features softened as he stared at her.
Leah blinked several times in rapid succession as he silently watched the servants pat her skirts and hair into perfect shape. Dread crept into her stomach.
He shook his head as if tearing himself away from a daydream and extended his hand toward her. “The laird awaits, Lady Sinclair.”