“Aye.” James, seeing the lustful gleam in the duke’s eyes, said sadly, “I had hoped for a match between the lady and my son Alger. With her wealth and beauty and his ambition, they could have left a legacy for my progeny.”
“Alas,” Essex said with a laugh, “poor Alger will have to look elsewhere for a bride.”
“The king’s cousin has an impressive dowry,” Leonora said, pausing to fill James’s tankard.
“She is but ten and three,” he said with a trace of scorn.
“The perfect age for your son.” Calling on all her skills, she slanted a look at Essex, the man who wielded all the power in this small company of soldiers. “Clumsy lads do not interest me, your grace. I prefer men who have spent enough years learning how to pleasure a woman.”
Essex blinked. “You, my lady? I had heard that you have managed to resist all the men at court.”
“Aye.” Leonora sauntered closer to pour more ale into the duke’s tankard. She saw his eyes follow each movement of her hips. “I was waiting for one special man to pay heed.”
Across the room, Alger sat brooding as he watched Leonora flirt with Essex. He drained his tankard in one long swallow and she quickly moved to refill it. After only a few drops, she gave him a look of exaggerated disappointment. “Forgive me. The cask is empty.”
“No matter,” James said, “There is another with the horses. We did not travel all this way without fortification.”
“I will fetch it.” But as she started across the room, the duke’s hand clamped around her wrist.
“Nay, beautiful lady. Let the peasant retrieve it.” He motioned with his empty tankard to one of the soldiers. “Gather together the peasant’s children and keep them here until she returns. That way, we can be assured that she will not attempt to run.”
When one of the soldiers caught up the children, the infant began wailing and the little boys joined in, howling for their mother, who was shoved out into the night.
James roared with laughter. “You are sly, Essex.”
“Aye.” He joined in the laughter and ran his hand possessively along Leonora’s arm. “The woman was not born who could outwit me.”
Leonora swallowed back the terror that clawed at her throat. Forcing a smile to her lips, she perched on the arm of the duke’s chair, exposing a length of ankle. She knew she played a dangerous game that might easily turn violent.
While Essex stared at her ankle with lecherous fascination, she mentally ticked off the passing moments until, at last, Anthea returned, carrying the cask. At once, the soldier released the children into the arms of their mother.
“I will pour,” Leonora said, springing to her feet.
When she filled the duke’s tankard, he watched her with a frown of concentration. “This ale is going to my head,” he muttered. “It is time for some food.”
“Aye, your grace.” Leonora glanced at Anthea, who had wrapped a strip of linen around her hand and was lifting the heavy kettle from the fire, while at the same time emptying something from her apron into the kettle. Then the young woman bent over, stirring furiously.
When Leonora had filled each tankard, she crossed the room and began to assist Anthea in ladling stew into wooden bowls, which were passed out to the hungry soldiers. Along with the stew she offered hot steaming biscuits.
The men, made careless by the ale they had consumed, and ravenous from their long journey, ate quickly, barely tasting their food. As soon as their bowls were empty, Leonora and Anthea filled them a second time and watched with satisfaction as the men emptied them yet again.
“There is more stew, your grace,” Leonora said, reaching for his bowl.
“Nay.” Shaking his head, the Duke of Essex set aside his bowl and reached for Leonora’s hand. “It is not food I crave now.”
“But it is too soon,” Anthea cried.
“Too soon?” he asked suspiciously.
Leonora licked her dry lips and glanced quickly at Anthea, whose wide eyes registered absolute terror. “She means, your grace, there is still so much food to savor.”
He relented. “One more serving, then.”
As she moved about the room offering more stew, Alger caught her by the wrist and said, “Do not think I have not noticed the invitation in your eyes for Essex.”
“What makes you think it is only for Essex?” she asked, knowing this game became more dangerous with each passing moment.
He got to his feet. “Come, my lady.” A look of hatred darkened the duke’s features as Alger said loudly, “It is time you tasted the kisses of a real man.”
The others, emboldened by drink, laughed and looked from Essex to Alger. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they would get to witness a fight between these two.
Essex stood so quickly, his bowl of steaming stew upended and sprayed across several nearby soldiers. “I am leader here,” he roared, reaching for the sword at his waist. “Let no man usurp my authority.”
“You promised her to me,” Alger shouted. “All during this tedious journey, you assured me I would sample her charms before she met with her…untimely death.” He turned to his father for support, and seeing none, reached into the fireplace, grasped the end of a flaming tree branch, and held it aloft threateningly.
Essex blinked and backed away. “I see the woman has made your blood hot.”
“Aye. Be warned, your grace. Let no man try to stop me. I will have her.”
He shoved Leonora ahead of him toward the sleeping chamber, brandishing the flaming stick like a sword. When they reached the doorway, Alger pushed Leonora inside, then tossed the stick aside. He closed the door firmly and leaned against it. Taking a small, deadly knife from his waist, he lifted it aloft until the blade glinted in the reflection of the fire on the hearth.
“Essex will kill you,” Leonora said.
“Essex needs me and my father,” he boasted. “Remove your garments, my lady. I would see this precious jewel who was held in such esteem by her proud father.”
“Do not speak my father’s name at such a time,” she whispered.
“And why not?” His high, shrill laugh scraped across her already tautly stretched nerves. “My father and I have long hated your father. And the king he so loyally serves.”
“What you speak is treason, punishable by death.”
“Nay, my lady. What I speak is the truth. Our king is a coward and a weakling, who would prefer to talk peace instead of defeating his enemies on a field of battle. But, as Essex said, your death will change the course of history. When your father sees the proof of the Highlander’s deception, there will be no more talk of peace. Now we have wasted enough time. Remove your garments.”
She tossed her head. “You promised to be my friend. You said I would be safe with you.”
His lips peeled back in a feral smile. “I indulged in a falsehood. Remove your clothes.”
“You will have to tear them from me.”
“It will be my pleasure.” He advanced on her, wielding the knife. He pinned her hands behind her, grasping them painfully in one of his hands. With the other, he lifted the knife to her throat and in one smooth movement slit her garments from top to bottom. The torn remnants fell away, revealing pale, smooth flesh.
“Ah, my lady. You have been worth waiting for.” With a look as evil as the devil himself, Alger tossed her down on the sleeping pallet and levered himself above her.
Tears stung her eyes. All her prayers, all her schemes, had not been enough to save her. But at least, she thought, scraping her fingernails across his face, she would die fighting.
“Wench! You are no better than a tavern slut.” His brutal slap snapped her head to one side. “Now you shall pay.” He gave another shrill laugh, and reached for her. But just as his fingers closed around her shoulders, his grip slackened.
With a look of surprise and confusion, he released his hold on her and turned away. He rose, staggered a few paces away, then fell back to his knees.
Scrambling from the pa
llet, Leonora took up his knife, and without giving herself time to dwell on what she was about to do, she plunged it into his shoulder.
He looked up at her, his eyes wide with shock and pain. With a roar of fury, he pulled the knife free and lumbered to his feet. When he reached for her, she managed to step aside and began racing for the door. He lunged at her and brought her to her knees. But as he lifted the knife, prepared to plunge it into her heart, his eyes glazed over and he wavered, nearly toppling. In that moment, Leonora brought her knee against his hand, and plunged the knife into his chest. As he lay in a pool of his own blood, she pulled on her tattered remnants and tore open the door.
And stepped into a blazing inferno.
Dillon’s fury built with every meadow he crossed, every cottage he visited. He had witnessed the brutality of these men. The bodies of the murdered peasants had been a ghastly reminder of what Leonora faced at the hands of her captors. Though his heart wished otherwise, he was convinced that she had not managed to escape. At each farm, each crofter’s cottage, the stories were the same. Of a beautiful Englishwoman, hands bound, being led by a band of English soldiers.
As he headed toward the English border, he lifted his head. From across a high meadow came a pall of thick, black smoke. And lighting up the twilight sky, a bright orange ball of fire.
He spurred his horse into a run, praying that he was not too late to save the woman he loved.
“Anthea, where are you?”
With her eyes burning, Leonora dropped to her knees and began crawling across the floor of the cottage. Everywhere she looked, men were either crawling groggily or sprawled unconscious.
Flames licked across the wall, then ignited the thatched roof, which blazed into a blinding fireball.
“I am over here.” The young woman lay in a corner of the cottage, her terrified children clinging to her.
“Hurry! You must run.”
“I cannot. I am trapped.”
Crawling closer, Leonora realized the young woman’s legs were pinned beneath a wooden beam that had collapsed inward. Though she struggled with all her might, she was unable to budge the heavy timber.
“Never mind about me,” Anthea shouted above the roar of the fire. “Save my children.”
“I will be back,” Leonora promised as she caught up the infant and ordered the terrified little boys to hold tightly to her skirt.
With their eyes and lungs burning, Leonora and her little party stumbled through the thick black smoke, tripping over bodies, dodging falling sparks, until at last they made it to safety.
She set the squalling infant in the grass and commanded the little boys to remain at the babe’s side. Then she took a deep breath and dashed back into the inferno.
The smoke was thicker now, and the entire roof was ablaze. Sparks had fallen into the infant’s cradle, igniting the blanket. As she inched her way across the floor, Leonora could see that the roof over Anthea’s head would soon collapse right onto the young woman.
Frantically she struggled to lift the heavy timber. At last, using a piece of burning wood as a lever, she ignored the pain to her searing hands and managed to pry the timber high enough to allow the young woman to slide free.
“Oh, my lady, it is too late,” Anthea cried just as the roof began to cave in.
“Nay! Run, Anthea.” Leonora dragged her toward a wall of flame. When the young woman refused to go through, Leonora pushed her to safety. But when she started to follow, a hand closed over her wrist and she was held fast.
With a cry she turned. And found herself facing the Duke of Essex. In his hand was a small, deadly knife.
Chapter Twenty-four
“W e must flee,” she cried.
“Nay, my lady. I must die. And so must you.”
“You are mad.”
“Nay, merely dedicated to saving England from a king who would destroy her. For so long, I have plotted and schemed. When the Highlander stole you away, I had the perfect plan. It could not fail to bring down our king. And now,” he cried, eyes narrowed in fury, “I will not have it snatched from my grasp. If I must die, my lady, so must you, so that my plan will not be thwarted. You will never see your father again.”
More of the roof collapsed around them, sending up a spray of sparks into the darkening sky. Essex seemed not to notice.
Leonora’s mind raced. “They are all dead. There are none left to follow you into battle.”
“But there will be others who will rise up and demand retribution for what happened here. We are on Scottish soil. Your savage will still be blamed for this bloody massacre.” He faltered for a moment, but shook his head to clear it. He seemed to remain standing through sheer force of will. “I know now what you and the peasant woman did. It was very clever. You poisoned our food.”
“Aye. But she is a healer, as well, your grace. Come with me, and Anthea will save you.”
“Enough of your tricks. You speak falsehoods.”
“Please, Essex. The fire—”
“Aye.” He laughed. “The woman, following Alger’s lead, tossed a flaming stick at me when I tried to pleasure myself with her. And then…” He shook his head again. “Then the fog came over me. It is so hard to…” He staggered again and his expression grew darker. “It is…too late.” His eyes were glazed, and she saw his hand tighten on the hilt of the knife. “For both of us, my lady.”
As he lifted the knife, Leonora saw the flash of brightly colored jewels reflected in the firelight and wondered idly why her mind was playing such tricks on her. Then she saw the hand holding the jeweled sword, and Dillon’s tall figure loomed before her, passing right through a wall of flame.
“Release the woman,” thundered Dillon’s voice.
“Nay. You have lost, Highlander.” The duke tightened his grip on Leonora and prepared to plunge the knife.
The jeweled sword found its mark. With a gasp, Essex stiffened, then dropped to his knees. With one quick motion, Dillon pulled the sword free, but from behind him came a ghost from his past.
“Dillon!” Leonora shouted.
He turned and found himself facing James Blakely’s sword.
“It was he who murdered your clan,” Leonora cried above the sound of the fire.
Dillon’s eyes blazed in fury. “Though I resisted the knowledge, my heart knew.”
“I thought I had killed every last one of you,” James said, lunging toward Dillon.
Sidestepping, Dillon avoided his thrust and began to circle, all the while feeling the heat of the flames. One part of his mind noted that Leonora’s only means of escape was being blocked by this English soldier. But another part of his mind could focus only on the fact that this was the man he had waited a lifetime to meet.
“At last,” Dillon said in that deadly quiet way all men had learned to fear, “I will avenge the death of my parents. Know this, James Blakely. You and your son will die this day, and there will be none left to carry on your name. But though you murdered nearly an entire clan of Campbells, our name will be carried on proudly for generations to come.”
With one smooth motion, he thrust his sword through Blakely’s heart. For a moment, the soldier seemed surprised. Then, clutching his chest, he fell into the flames.
Dillon lifted Leonora in his arms and carried her through a wall of fire to safety.
“Oh, Dillon,” she murmured against his cheek as he cradled her against his chest. “You are truly free. Free of the past. Free of the ghosts of your father’s murderers.”
“Aye.”
“I prayed you would come for me, Dillon.”
“Ah, love, how could I not?” He was still trembling at the thought of how close he had come to losing her. “I told Camus I would ride to hell and back for you.”
“This truly felt like the fires of hell.” She gave a weak sigh and watched as the last of the cottage went up in flames, collapsing in on itself with a blaze that leaped taller than the line of trees in the nearby forest.
They looked up as
a long line of soldiers crossed the border and raced across the meadow. When they drew near, Leonora recognized the rider in the lead.
“Father!” she cried.
He slid from the saddle and crossed the distance separating them in quick, impatient strides.
“Leonora. Oh, my beloved daughter. I had feared, when I saw the flames…”
Dillon released her and she fell into her father’s arms, laughing and crying. It was several minutes before either of them was able to speak.
While they kissed and embraced, Dillon let out a cry of joy when he spotted two figures riding on either side of Camus.
“Sutton! Shaw!”
The two brothers leaped from the saddles and launched themselves into Dillon’s arms. With a roar of delight, he embraced them, then held them a little away, as if to be certain that they were really here with him.
“How have you fared?” he demanded.
“We are fine, Dillon,” Sutton said.
“Truly?”
“Aye,” Shaw assured him. “Lord Waltham is an honorable man. Though we were held within a chamber in his keep, we were neither shackled nor imprisoned. We were fed and clothed.”
“And the food was served by very…accommodating wenches,” Sutton added.
Dillon shook his head, unable to hold back the smile that touched his lips. “I see that some things never change, my brother.”
“Rupert arrived just as Lord Waltham was about to leave for the Highlands with the king’s own army,” Shaw added. “The English had been preparing for a bloodbath.”
Lord Waltham approached them, with his arm still firmly around his daughter. In his eyes were tears, which he did not even bother to hide.
Extending his hand, he said, “Dillon Campbell, I give you my heartfelt thanks. My daughter assures me that she was well treated while in your Highlands. I know now that it was you who saved her life.”
“And I am equally grateful, Lord Waltham, for my brothers assure me that you treated them in like manner.”
Lord Waltham’s voice deepened with emotion. “Though I was loath to believe him at first, Camus persuaded me of the villainy of Essex and James and Alger Blakely. I should have questioned why they were so eager to go to the Highlands without the king’s army, but my mind was clouded by concern over my daughter. Now that I see clearly, I realize so much more. It was Essex and Blakely who struck the first blow against the Campbells, thus assuring that the Highlanders would be forced to fight back. With men like that slaughtering innocents, peace could never be achieved. When the king learns of their misdeeds, he will see that their heirs are stripped of all lands and titles. And because you risked your life to save my daughter, I will ask my king to reward you handsomely.”
The Highlander Page 25