The Laird Of Blackloch (Highland Rogue)

by Amy Rose Bennett

  ‘You said no one would get hurt,’ Isla cried into the thick grey miasma behind her.

  ‘I lied.’

  Oh, my God. Sarah froze as a bolt of awareness struck her. She knew that voice.

  At that same moment, Malcolm materialised out of the fog, drawing alongside Isla. Attired in black, sitting astride an equally dark horse, he looked like the Devil himself. Before Sarah could even think to kick her horse into action, he’d grabbed Isla. There was a flash and a long knife—a dirk—was pressed against the girl’s throat.

  Aileen screamed and scuttled to her feet. ‘Dinna hurt my wee bairn,’ she cried. ‘Please. I beg you.’

  ‘Now, now old woman. There’s no need for histrionics,’ drawled Malcolm. ‘If you do as I say—both of you, ’Malcolm’s attention briefly shifted to Sarah before returning to Aileen, ‘nothing will happen to Isla.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘What say you, my love?’ Malcolm’s gaze skewered Sarah and her heart stumbled in terror.

  ‘What do you want, Malcolm?’ she whispered, even though she knew the answer.

  ‘You.’

  Sarah swallowed. Her gaze darted to Isla. The girl’s green eyes were round with terror. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with each frantic breath she took. Malcolm had already shot, and possibly killed, poor MacLagan. Even though ice-cold terror gripped her, she wouldn’t let anyone else get hurt. Not even Isla. Not even after the girl had betrayed her yet again.

  ‘Very well.’ She flicked her horse’s reins, urging it forward, but Malcolm pressed the blade against Isla’s throat and blood welled.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he growled and Sarah stopped. ‘Old woman,’ he called to Aileen. ‘I want you to get the ropes hanging from my saddle and tie one of Miss Lambert’s ankles to her stirrup. Then tie another rope to the bridle.’

  ‘Aye, milord.’

  ‘That really isn’t necessary, Malcolm. I’ll go with you willingly,’ said Sarah as Aileen fetched the rope.

  ‘Shut it, Sarah. You’ll do as I say, or Isla and the woman die too.’

  Sarah bit her lip, willing herself not to cry as Aileen firmly lashed her ankle to the stirrup. ‘I’m sorry, lass,’ she whispered, ‘but Isla’s my daughter.’

  Sarah didn’t dare reply but in her heart she understood Aileen had no choice. After all, she’d witnessed Malcolm’s depredations ten years ago and knew better than anyone exactly what the man was capable of.

  ‘Now lead Miss Lambert’s horse over to me.’

  ‘Aye, milord.’

  After Aileen had tied Sarah’s mount to Malcolm’s, he at last relinquished his deadly hold on Isla.

  Isla immediately kicked her horse and sidled away from him. ‘You bastard! You killed MacLagan,’ she shrieked.

  Malcolm shrugged. His mouth curled in a sneer. ‘You’re lucky it wasn’t your precious Mr Price. Where is he, by the way?’ Malcolm turned his attention to Sarah.

  ‘Away. I know not where.’ Thank God. If Malcolm had come across Alex… Sarah couldn’t suppress an involuntary shiver. Whilst her heart ached for poor MacLagan, just the thought of Alex being hurt filled her with unspeakable dread and numbing despair.

  Malcolm gave her a narrow-eyed look but he must have believed her as he simply said, ‘Come, dearest. We have better places to be.’

  He quickly checked Aileen’s knots before kicking his horse and turning it away from the path, heading for the deeper woods. And there was nothing Sarah could do but follow.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as they eventually turned east, doubling back towards the trail through the Black Wood. They seemed to be heading towards Kinloch again. She recalled Isla’s words from a few days ago that Malcolm’s lands were to the south-east. Beyond the mountains.

  ‘Taymoor,’ he said over his shoulder, confirming her suspicion. His tone was gruff. ‘Where you belong.’

  Not anymore. Sarah kept the thought to herself. She would do whatever she could to get away from Malcolm, this terrible beast she’d once believed she’d loved. How blind and foolish she’d been. And how ironic that she’d been kidnapped by the very man she’d been stolen from.

  Their wedding in Taymoor Castle’s private chapel had been scheduled for the seventh of March so she still had nine days to work out how to get away. Again.

  Although Alex might very well try to rescue her. Aileen would be sure to tell him what had happened on his return to Blackloch and she couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t attempt to save her. After all, his initial plot for revenge was dependent upon Malcolm not marrying her.

  But now Alex loved her and wanted to make her his wife. And when he came for her, he would be in danger too.

  Fear twisted Sarah’s insides into knots as Malcolm led her through the dark woods at a canter. Within no time they’d reached the fork in the rough road that would take them back to Kinloch. However, Malcolm veered to the right, away from the loch and the River Tummel, heading towards Schiehallion and Taymoor Castle—a place she never, ever wished to call home.

  ***

  They’d been travelling for over an hour when Malcolm decided to stop in a small copse of wind-blasted Scots pines by the banks of a small lochan. The fog had cleared once they’d reached higher ground and a brisk wind tore at Sarah’s riding habit and hair.

  ‘We need to water the horses,’ he said tersely, before dismounting and leading his gelding and her mare to the water’s edge. Then he drew a pistol from the folds of his greatcoat and aimed it at her. ‘Just in case you decide to make a run for it,’ he said.

  ‘You need me alive to marry me, Malcolm.’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t need to kill you, just disable you,’ he said with such cold casualness, Sarah shivered.

  Every now and again she risked a glance his way as they waited for the horses to drink their fill. His face was thinner and haggard, as though he hadn’t eaten or slept enough lately, and he badly needed a shave. His boots were in a terrible state and his clothes were not only travel-stained but in need of repair—Sarah spied a torn and grimy cuff poking out from the braided edge of his coat sleeve, and there were at least two buttons missing from the front of his greatcoat. If she didn’t know he was the Earl of Tay, he could easily be mistaken for a ruffian.

  Malcolm caught her studying him and he clearly didn’t warm to her expression as his top lip curled. ‘What’s the matter, dear Sarah? I thought you’d be happy to see me. Your chivalrous knight. Your one true love.’

  She kept her lips pressed together, and looked away, crushing down the urge to react to his goading. She wouldn’t show how much he disgusted her, or how terrified she really was. Or how much he’d hurt her.

  However, ignoring him had the opposite effect as he took a few steps closer and placed one of his large gloved hands along her thigh. ‘Isla Dobson tells me you are betrothed to Price,’ he said in a low voice, full of menace. ‘He only wants you so I can’t have you. Fucked you already, has he?’

  The dam holding back her emotions broke. ‘What choice did I have but to agree to his proposal?’ she countered angrily. She instinctively knew she should not admit that she’d fallen in love with Alex and that he loved her too. That such a confession would probably enrage Malcolm further. ‘He kidnapped me,’ she continued. ‘I was ruined anyway. And you are one to talk. You betrayed me, Malcolm. Why would I want to marry you after witnessing what you did with that woman at the ball?’

  ‘A woman Alexander Price hired for me to fuck, Sarah. A prostitute.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aha! You didn’t know that did you?’

  ‘No…’ Tears pricked Sarah’s eyes, misting her vision, but she blinked them away. She supposed Alex had done such a thing to keep Malcolm ‘occupied’ whilst he kidnapped her. And to make sure she didn’t want to marry him. She understood why but the knowledge still stung.

  She didn’t have time to dwell on her bruised feelings as Malcolm began to needle her again with sharp, hateful words. ‘And I wonder why you were out
on the terrace, Sarah. Clearly Price was with you—’

  ‘How dare you!’ she cried. ‘I was looking for you. I did nothing wrong whereas you… You had a choice, Malcolm. You could have ignored that woman’s invitation. But you didn’t. You went with her and you—’ She bit her lip unable to finish.

  Malcolm snorted, his nostrils flaring. ‘If you hadn’t been so bloody frigid, Sarah, I wouldn’t have had to look elsewhere. Except maybe you’re not so cold after all.’ He stroked her thigh again. ‘According to Miss Dobson, you willingly spread your legs for Alexander Price.’

  ‘You’re vile,’ Sarah spat at him. ‘Considering what you did to Alex’s family. His mother—’ Oh, no. Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth but it was too late. Oh, no, no, no.

  ‘Whose family?’ demanded Malcolm. ‘Alexander Price’s? But I never…’ His brow plunged into a deep frown and then his brown eyes blazed with bright sparks of anger. ‘Fuck. I knew it.’ His grip tightened on her leg, bruising her. ‘Bloody Alexander MacIvor’s behind your kidnapping, isn’t he? I knew I should have gone back inside Blackloch after it had finished burning to make sure the bastard was dead… Shit.’ He slammed his pistol against his thigh. ‘Fuck.’

  Sarah’s stomach pitched. Nausea roiled. ‘Who is Alexander MacIvor?’ she whispered. It was useless to pretend what she’d said wasn’t true, but she felt compelled to at least try and cast doubt.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Sarah.’ Malcolm grabbed one of her wrists and squeezed hard enough that tears welled in her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare fucking lie.’

  ‘What will you do? Shoot me?’

  He squeezed her wrist harder and with such crushing force she cried out. ‘I could always break your wrist and then your fingers one by one,’ he growled. ‘And then take you so hard you wouldn’t be able to sit on that horse for a week.’ He eased up his grip a fraction, so she could breathe again. ‘So what’s it to be, Sarah? The truth? Or shall we explore the alternative option? Is Alexander Price really Alexander MacIvor?’

  Her heart had all but stopped beating. God forgive her for what she was about to say. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes he is.’

  ***

  The rest of the journey passed by in a blur for Sarah. Guilt tore at her heart and all she could hear in her head, in time to the beat of her horse’s hooves was: I betrayed Alex. I betrayed Alex. I betrayed Alex.

  It must have been late afternoon by the time Malcolm slowed their pace again. Sarah emerged from her daze as they entered a small village, not unlike Kinloch, on the edge of a picturesque loch.

  ‘Welcome to Balloch,’ Malcolm said, a note of pride evident in his voice. ‘Taymoor Castle is only two miles farther.’

  If the circumstances had been different, Sarah might have commented on how lovely the village was. And how beautiful the scenery. But the words wouldn’t come. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite swallow down the hard lump of despair lodged in her throat. Or draw enough breath.

  Only two miles to Taymoor. Oh, heaven help me.

  What would Malcolm do to her once they got there? Dark spots danced before her eyes and she closed them, willing herself not to faint. As dire as her situation was right now, she really didn’t want to break her neck.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, they stopped.

  Sarah dared to open her eyes again. A neat grey stone kirk that was flanked by a pair of ancient yew trees stood before them.

  Malcolm dismounted then tethered his horse and hers to a ring by the lychgate.

  ‘You have business with the kirkman?’ Sarah couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice. Or the note of incredulity.

  ‘We have business, my love.’ Malcolm jerked at the knot securing her ankle to the stirrup.

  ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘Good God, Sarah. You can really be quite stupid sometimes.’ He lifted her down and for a moment her stiff legs buckled beneath her. Malcolm caught her beneath the arms. ‘Christ, don’t tell me I have to carry you,’ he sniped.

  ‘No.’ Her gaze darted to the gravel path and the snow-shrouded gravestones either side of it. A few stray daffodils poked through the snow but they failed to brighten Sarah’s mood. The impending sense of doom settling over her was so heavy, it forced the air from her lungs, made her heart beat so loudly, she could hear it pounding in her ears like a drum. She felt as though she was caught in a quagmire and there was no possible way to escape. ‘No. I cannot do this. Not today, Malcolm.’ Not ever.

  Malcolm grabbed her by one arm and propelled her forward, underneath the gate, and down the path, towards the kirk’s front door. The blade of his dirk pressed against her ribs the entire way. ‘You are my betrothed, Sarah Lambert. And you will marry me. Right, fucking, now.’

  Chapter 17

  The interior of the kirk was chill and dark save for the glimmer of several altar candles at the end of the aisle and the muted light filtering in through several arched windows of stained glass. The dank, stale air was overlaid with the faintest hint of incense as Sarah drew a ragged breath, trying to ignore the fact her ‘groom’ was holding a lethal weapon in the vicinity of her heart.

  Malcolm called out, his voice echoing around the stone chamber, as he forced her to walk down the aisle, past the empty wooden pews and fluted stone columns.

  In reply, a wooden door—perhaps leading to the vestry—scraped across the flagstone floor and a rotund, balding man of middle age in a black frockcoat with a high white clerical stock around his fleshy throat, emerged. He tipped his spectacles down his nose and peered at them.

  ‘Oh, my word. ’Tis you, Lord Tay,’ he said with a deferential bow. His gaze shifted to Sarah. ‘And who might this young lady be, my lord?’

  ‘My bride.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Lambert.’ The clergyman gave another solemn bow. ‘’Tis an absolute pleasure to meet you. My name is Reverend Lennox.’

  Sarah bobbed her head in acknowledgement. Surely Malcolm wasn’t going to force her to wed him under duress. The folds of his greatcoat and the way they were standing—Malcolm had pulled her firmly against his side—obviously hid his dirk as the reverend continued to smile at them both as if nothing in the world was amiss. Dare she scream? Try to run? There had to be a way to get out of this nightmare.

  She had to, not only for herself, but for Alex.

  Perhaps guessing her train of thought, Malcolm’s grip on her arm grew tighter and the sharp press of the steel blade beneath her breast became more insistent. ‘Reverend, Miss Lambert and I wish to wed. At once.’

  ‘But my lord,’ protested the clergyman. His eyebrows shot up and his small hands flew to his chest. ‘All the banns have not been posted. You’re not due to wed until the seventh.’

  ‘I don’t care, Lennox.’

  ‘But—’

  Malcolm’s brows crashed together. ‘Who helped pay for the repairs on the steeple, Reverend Lennox?’ he shouted, his voice vibrating like thunder off the stone columns and in the vaulted ceiling above them. ‘Whose family owns this land and established this very church?’

  ‘Why you. And your family, my lord,’ whispered Lennox. His face had turned as white as his collar.

  ‘Good. Now that we have that established, why don’t you go and get your prayer book and change into your robes and we’ll begin.’

  ‘Aye, milord. I’ll also need to summon the sexton, as a witness. He’s outside tending one of the new graves.’

  Sarah found her voice. ‘Wait…’

  Lennox turned back, a frown of concern creasing his brow. He peered at her. ‘Yes, my child?’

  ‘I… I…’ Malcolm’s brown eyes bore into her and he jammed the knife against her side with even greater force. ‘I need to use the necessary,’ she whispered. She’d say or do anything if it meant she could get away from Malcolm.

  ‘Oh.’ A bright red blush spread across the reverend’s face. ‘I can show you to the vest—’

  ‘I’ll take her,’ growled Malcolm, tugging her towards the open door.

&nb
sp; ‘My lord, I must protest. You are not wed yet.’

  Malcolm paused on the threshold. He clenched his jaw so hard, Sarah swore she could hear his teeth crack. ‘Very well.’ He pressed his mouth against her ear as though bestowing a kiss and whispered, ‘Do not try to run, my love. I will be very, very angry if you do.’ He turned the dirk so the tip of the blade pierced the red wool of her riding habit. ‘You already have an ugly wound on your forehead and I’m not afraid to add to your collection of facial scars. I don’t mind marrying a bride who isn’t quite so pretty. Remember, the only thing I care about is the contents of your bank account.’

  His threat was abundantly clear. He would think nothing of disfiguring her if she failed to comply.

  Sarah nodded. ‘I won’t run,’ she whispered.

  He released her and pushed the door closed but not all the way.

  Damn. Sarah’s gaze darted frantically about the room, looking for a way out. Or a weapon. The vestry was relatively small and sparsely furnished: there was a desk, a pair of wooden chairs before it, a glass-fronted bookcase, a wooden screen with the reverend’s black cassock draped across it, a small window. And between two carved cabinets at the back of the room was what she’d been looking for—a door.

  Sarah dashed over and rattled the handle but it was locked. Tears scalded her eyes.

  ‘What are you doing in there?’

  Her voice tight with terror, Sarah called back, ‘I… I bumped a chair.’ Dear God, I hope he believes me.

  She hadn’t much time. Any minute now Malcolm would demand that she come out or he would come in to get her. Breaking the window clearly wasn’t an option. She needed a weapon.

  She rushed over to the desk. There was a letter opener but that would be a poor match against the wicked-looking dirk. And Malcolm would best her in a knife fight. No, she needed to use the element of surprise as a weapon as much as anything else.

  Then she spied them—a pair of heavy brass candlesticks stood on the mantelshelf. Praying God and Reverend Lennox would forgive her for what she was about to do, she removed one of the candles and slipped the candlestick through the slit of her skirt into the deep embroidered pocket concealed beneath. The very end of it poked out a little but hopefully Malcolm wouldn’t notice.