One of the men didn’t parry quickly enough, and his opponent’s wooden sword hit him across the forehead—hard. The blow spun the man’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground.
A shout erupted from the circle, and the winner raised his arms in triumph. The loser stood up on shaky legs, a gash across his forehead bleeding.
Serena was horrified. This was nothing like the other games, which tested strength, speed, and balance. This game was all about might, violence, and brutality.
She turned to leave, but the heel of her slipper got caught in the mud. Losing her balance, she fell to her knees.
She swore under her breath. Awkwardly, she clambered back to her feet. Her shoes were now fully covered in mud, which also streaked the front of her beautiful yellow dress. She tried to wipe the smudges away, but the muck on her palms only spread the stains even more.
“Damn and blast!” she cried out.
A voice came from behind her. “That’s no way for a lady to talk.”
Anger coiled within her. She spun around to give the disrespectful man a piece of her mind, but was met with a frightening sight. Twelve kilted men, bloodied and bruised, stood in front of her.
Her eyes drifted from man to man. Never before had she faced a gang of such dangerous-looking men. She felt like a gazelle cornered by a pride of lions.
“I beg your pardon?”
“And well ye should,” said Brandubh McCullough, “and that of every other Scottish child who goes hungry so ye could dress like a bloody queen.”
“Who are you?”
“My name will mean nothing on yer ears. But yer name, Miss Marsh, is like venom in ours.”
Fear gave her voice a distorted edge. “How do you know my name?”
“I know who ye are. And I know who yer father is. The Crown’s marionette. A nanny for hire sent to mollify the unruly Scots with a sweet from the king’s table.”
Serena had no idea who the man was, but his rage against her father seemed to transcend all reason. The skirl of bagpipes, loud and shrill, would surely drown out her screams. She turned to walk away.
“Where d’ye think ye’re going?” he growled as he grabbed her by the wrist. “I’m not through talking with ye.”
“Let me go!” she cried, twisting her wrist in his unyielding grasp. Dozens of horrible visions of rape flashed across her mind.
“Come here. I’ve a message ye can take home to yer father!”
She screamed, her heart willing for Malcolm. If only she hadn’t walked away from him. If only he were there right behind her.
A rock whizzed over Serena and clocked the man on the side of his head. He turned around, cradling his wound, but he never released his hold on Serena.
The next few seconds were a blur of motion. Malcolm ran out of the trees, barreling into one surprised man. As he fell backward, Malcolm rolled over him, and kicked another man’s feet from under him. He jumped up and swung a clenched fist at a third. The burly man ducked, and swung at Malcolm. The blow caught Malcolm on the cheek, but he returned a punch to the man’s face. Just then, one of them jumped on Malcolm from the back, immobilizing his arms. The burly man landed two punches on Malcolm’s face and one in his gut, making him gasp for breath. When he came in for a fourth, Malcolm kicked the man in the stomach, sending him reeling. Deftly, he stomped on the foot of the one who held him captive, but he refused to let go. So Malcolm tossed his head back into the man’s face, breaking his nose. He grabbed the man who’d fallen to the ground, lifting him by his hair, and then twisted his arm high behind his back. From the waistband of his kilt, he slid out a dagger and held it to the man’s testicles.
“Sweet Jesus,” gasped the man. “Don’t do it.”
“Ye’re wasting yer breath on me,” rasped Malcolm into his ear. “Plead with yer friend over there to let the girl go.”
“Brandubh, do as the man says,” he said, panic warbling his voice.
Malcolm’s eyes homed in on Brandubh’s. There was a fierceness to them that shocked Serena, and she desperately hoped it had the same effect on her captor.
Brandubh made no movement, save to squeeze his hold on Serena.
“What’s it to be, friend?” said Malcolm. “I’ll trade ye this man’s ballocks for the girl. And by the look of things, ye’d better hurry. They’re shrinking so fast there’ll be nothing left to cut off.”
“Hold on, man,” Brandubh said. “Ye don’t have the way of it. I mean her no harm. Do ye know who this girl is? It’s her da who’s bringing with him England’s decrees that Scotland will be yoked forever with the new taxes. We’ve got a message for him as well.”
“She’s got nothing to do with yer quarrel. Let her go.” The corners of Brandubh’s mouth turned down as he squeezed Serena’s arms. “Ye’re making a lot of demands for one in so compromised a position.”
“I’ll no’ ask again. Ye can walk away from the girl, or you can limp away from the girl.”
Brandubh’s eyes narrowed on Malcolm’s kilt. “What clan are ye? Ah, ye’re slaighteur, aren’t ye?”
A thundercloud passed across Malcolm’s face.
“Aye, ye are. I always wondered if I’d ever run into yer kind. No wonder ye won’t take a stand with yer own countrymen. A coward bastard from a coward clan.”
Serena’s breath came in rough gasps. Malcolm tightened his grip on the dagger. The man he held captive cringed.
“Come along, man,” said Brandubh. “There are hundreds of our countrymen about. Our patriotic countrymen. A single call, and ye’re done for.”
“That may be, friend. But this man will pay for my defeat with his balls.”
The man was sweating profusely. “For the love of God, Brandubh. Let her go.”
Slowly, Brandubh trained his gaze on Serena. “Tell yer father that Scotland is tired of hearing English commands. Tell him that her children are weary of being given promises instead of food. Tell him that the next time we have to state our grievances, ’twill be with claymores and muskets in our hands.” Brandubh let her go.
Malcolm waited until Serena was behind him. Then he released the man’s arm and shoved him forward.
“If ye lay hold of this woman just once more,” he said, pointing his dagger at Brandubh, “the last pleasant thing ye’ll feel is the gentle whisper on yer hair from my blade before it slices yer ear clean off.”
Malcolm didn’t sheath his weapon until they were out of the clearing and back into the competition field. “Are ye all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said.
“Are ye sure?” Worry was etched all over his face.
“Quite sure,” she replied, her fear finally ebbing now that she was with him.
He looked her all over, as if to reassure himself. “Yer dress. It’s stained. Did they make ye kneel before them? Oh, my God. They didn’t—”
She put his hand on his arm. “I fell over. They didn’t hurt me.”
“Ye’re certain?”
She smiled. “I’m fine.” Truth be told, she was more than fine. The look of genuine concern on his face, and the heroic way in which he’d come to her rescue, made her feel exuberant.
Relief washed over his face. She could almost kiss him for that. Seemed her little lesson brought out the side of him she wanted to see.
“Come along,” he said, tugging her by the arm. “We’re leaving.”
“Where’s Zoe?”
“Waiting in the carriage. As I told her to.”
It was hard to keep up with his long stride. She had to practically trot to keep pace. He didn’t seem to be escorting her as much as hauling her.
And he didn’t slow down until they had reached the carriage. As he said, Zoe was already inside the coach, and her young face peeked out from the open carriage window.
“Where did you go, Serena?” asked Zoe.
“To the fortune-teller’s.”
“Without me?” she cried petulantly.
“Without the both of us, apparently.” Malcolm pu
lled Serena away from the carriage door. “Ye … up onto the roof. I want a word in private.”
Serena seldom rode on the seats atop the town coach, even though they were designed for riding in fine weather. But Malcolm gave her no other option. He climbed up after her and barked a command at the driver. In a trice the carriage pitched forward, and they were off at full gallop.
He took the seat next to Serena. Even through his sun-kissed complexion, Malcolm’s bruised cheek began to color ferociously. He hugged his side, where the burly man had swung a meaty fist into his gut.
“Thank you, Mr. Slayter. I don’t know what would have happened—”
His anger cut her sentence off. “Why did ye walk away from me?”
She had no intention of confessing her jealousy over him. “That doesn’t matter.”
“It bloody well does matter! ‘One rule,’ I said. ‘Never leave my sight,’ I said. And what did ye do?”
She stiffened. “Then your sight wasn’t on me, was it?” The fierceness intensified in his eyes. “Ye put yer own life in danger. To say nothing of mine!”
Serena crossed her arms defensively. “No one asked you to intercede.”
“Ye’re willful, disobedient, foolhardy, inconsiderate—”
“Don’t vent your spleen on me.”
“—and it’s high time ye learned a lesson.” He seized her by the arm and yanked her across his lap.
She fell facedown, her hips folded over a muscled, kilted thigh. Stunned, she tried to lift herself up, but a hand on her back held her down fast.
Her modesty and pride were at once outraged, and she opened her mouth to speak the anger that surged within her. But before she could utter a sound, another noise reached her ears that chased away all words.
Whap! His open hand connected on her upturned posterior, ripping an outraged gasp from her mouth.
“Ow!” she cried out as another fierce smack landed on her behind. No one had ever physically chastised her before … not her father or her nanny or her governesses. It was mortifying, outrageous, scandalous. “How dare you lay a hand on me!”
But alarm replaced fury as she realized he was not going to stop. Again and again, his large hand swatted her backside, spreading hot pain across her rump.
Panic laced her voice. “Let me go!” But she may as well have been shouting at the green landscape that rushed past.
With one elbow on the leather carriage seat and one hand on his hair-dappled shin, Serena tried valiantly to push herself off his lap. But Malcolm had wrapped his muscled arm around her waist, rendering all her bucking and wriggling useless. She turned the air blue with swear words, threatening all sorts of retribution at him. But nothing succeeded in freeing her from his hold.
“Please, I’ll give you whatever you want,” she cried. Where commands and threats failed, bribery might work. “Just stop!”
He did not relent.
But soon she felt more than pain … she also felt remorse. She had treated him shabbily, and as a result he had been treated harshly by the men on that field. She had put both their lives in peril, and though they had both walked away from the skirmish, only she had come away unscathed. If he had left her to her own devices—if he had not cared enough to rescue her—she would not have been so lucky.
“I’m sorry,” she shouted out.
Finally, his hand stilled.
She scrambled off his lap and backed as far away from him as she could, panting. Now free, her first inclination was to rebuke him harshly. But the look on his face—as fearsome as any firearm—made her rethink that course of action.
Malcolm leaned an elbow on his knee, the one she’d been bent over just a moment before. “I am willing to endure a beating for ye. I am even prepared to accept the fact that protecting ye may cost me my life. But I will not allow ye to casually sell it away from me. Ye can play the high and mighty mistress to yer heart’s content … but not to me. While I’m yer protector, ye will do as I say do. Because if I say it, it’ll be because I’m after protecting both our lives. Now, should there be a next time to all of this, the drawers are coming down. Is that clear to ye?”
Serena’s chest caved. She nodded, pouting piteously.
“Good. Then lesson learned.”
EIGHTEEN
The carriage ride back to Fort Augustus seemed to last a lifetime. Her bottom felt as if it were being pricked by thousands of tiny pins, and she wondered if the stinging would ever stop. The mere possibility of another such chastisement turned her heart to water.
Earlier, here in this carriage, she had made a silent wish that Malcolm would touch her in a very intimate way. She had even fantasized about being on Malcolm’s lap. She just never thought it’d be facedown.
The carriage rolled up to Copperleaf Manor as her father’s carriage came to a halt in the driveway. Serena practically leapt off the perch and flew into his arms.
“Father! I’m so happy to see you!”
He put his arms around her. “Serena, I didn’t expect you back from the Games so soon. Why are your clothes in such a state?” He glanced at Malcolm, and the blood drained from his face. “What’s happened?
“There was an incident, sir,” Malcolm said.
“Are you all right?” he asked Serena.
“Yes … and no.”
“Come inside, all of you.”
He hugged Serena tightly. Tears of self-pity threatened to spill over the rims of her eyes, but she held them back.
As they arrived at the drawing room, Earlington called for some brandy. Overwrought, he displayed an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “Are you hurt, Serena ?”
Serena glanced at Malcolm. “Not exactly.”
Earlington turned to Malcolm. “Slayter, tell me what’s happened.”
“Yer daughter was beset by a group of men. They knew who she was. They knew who ye were.”
“Dear God. What did they do to you, Serena?”
“Nothing, Father. Truly. They just frightened me, that’s all.”
“Who were these men?”
Gingerly, Malcolm rubbed his face. “I couldna get all their names. But one of them they called Brandubh.” He described all that had happened in the clearing.
Earlington’s nostrils fanned open, but he said nothing.
“He also said that the next time they had to state their grievances, ’twould be with weapons drawn.”
“What happened to your face, Slayter?”
Malcolm hesitated, so Serena spoke up. “He fought them off, Father.” Despite Malcolm’s insult to her person, she had to state the truth. “He … saved me from them.”
Malcolm shrugged. “I used my hard head to split their knuckles for them.”
Earlington’s expression unclenched. “I’m much obliged to you, Slayter,” he said, shaking Malcolm’s hand. “Much obliged. You’ve earned a place in my family.”
For the first time, Serena saw a crack in Malcolm’s stern countenance. His green eyes blinked in astonishment, and his mouth dropped open. It was the look of a starving man who’s just been offered a feast. “Thank ye, sir.”
“The thought of losing my daughter to those men … I can only thank God you were there.” He put a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “You’re a hired man no longer, Slayter. Join us at the dinner table. We want you to. Don’t we, Serena?”
Her wounded pride protested. “But Father, he—” Serena still felt keenly the soreness where Malcolm had thrashed her. “Mr. Slayter took me atop the carriage and—” She was embarrassed to tell her father that Malcolm had acted like a father to her. But more than that, she was needled by the sudden feeling that if she crushed her father’s esteem in Malcolm, she would be depriving both men of something wonderful. “Yes, Mr. Slayter must join us at the dinner table.”
Earlington kissed her on the forehead. “I want you both to know that I will take care of this. No further harm shall come to you. I promise. Go and get washed up. We’ll discuss this at dinner.”
Once the two
of them had retired, Earlington sank into a chair. The dizziness was getting worse. Every challenge—and every failure—brought another ache in his chest.
So many things to fear, so many things to regret. The negotiations had broken down, and talks had ceased. First the factions had resorted to intimidation, and now violence. A physical threat against his family was enough for any other ambassador to return to his own country and let the government finally declare war. Everything he had learned in politics told him to leave Scotland and turn the people over to their own foolish devices. But his instinct told him differently. Earlington knew that if the king sent in the troops, the ensuing conflict would profit them nothing. It would be a war with no winners. England and Scotland were like two halves of the same body trying to destroy each other. If one died, so would the other.
He was at an impasse, and he needed help from someone wiser than he. Only one person in the world came to mind.
He got up from his chair and went in search of Gabby Walker.
He questioned a passing maid, who told him that Mrs. Walker could be found in the vegetable garden. With long, purposeful strides, he charged to the kitchens.
Light burst in upon him when he threw open the kitchen door to the gardens. The smell of herbs warming in the sunlight greeted him. He made his way down the rows of leeks, potatoes, and carrots.
When he finally found her, she was kneeling on all fours at the end of a bed of turnips. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and brown mud caked her arms. The afternoon sun sliced across her face, giving her skin a rosy hue, and illuminated a flurry of tiny gnats that swirled in a cloud behind her. A plain brown bonnet covered her head, but he could still see wayward ginger curls bouncing against her cheek.
The sight of her made him forget why he was there. There was a loveliness about her simplicity that he found instantly appealing. She was wholly unlike the debonair woman who was his first wife. When he had married Lady June Harrison, it was a match made in heaven. The lady had breeding and wealth, and there never was a finer hostess in all the world. Gabby, on the other hand, was not beautiful, nor was she elegant … but her earthiness roused a desire in him that he found difficult to tame.
Secrets to Seducing a Scot Page 10