by Aileen Adams
“Forgive me!” A woman’s voice.
“Shana?” Anne scrambled to her feet. The sliver of a moon revealed her, along with the look of trouble on her face. “What is it?”
She was out of breath. “I was coming to fetch you! Drew came running, furious, saying they had to ride to Avoch and fetch the magistrate straight away. Rufus and Clyde were saddling up when I decided to run for you.”
“The fool!” Anne spat. “What is he thinking?”
“He’s thinking he shall free your brother and set things to right.”
Her thoughts ran at breakneck speed. “Can ye mind the bairns for me?”
“Of course. What are you thinking of doing now?”
Anne gave Shana a brief hug before sprinting off toward the stables, where if Drew was a man of his word, she would find her mare waiting.
She and Maebe had a great deal of riding to do on this cold, clear night.
God willing, they would reach Malcolm before the men did.
25
Maebe had rested quite a bit in the days since she’d found a home in the MacIntosh stables. Anne could not run her full-out until she stretched her muscles.
Yet once the mare had warmed up, Anne let her go. They galloped most of the way, down the narrow lanes and overgrown roads she had taken to reach the MacIntosh farm.
A lifetime had passed since that evening, it seemed, and the stakes were much greater now. She simply could not risk Drew finding Malcolm and his men in the mood for a fight, no matter how many men he managed to gather in the village.
It was late in the evening by then, and most of the men would likely be settling in with their families. Few would wish to stir from their homes and hearths on a night as cold as this.
Cold enough that Anne regretted not having worn her cloak, but there had been no time.
“Come on,” she urged the mare, digging her heels in, eyes straining in the dark. Would that there were more of a moon that night, but luck had never been on her side. Why should this night be any different?
They passed through the woods behind the MacIntosh land, which she had navigated slowly before but had no such luxury of picking her way through again. Maebe was wise enough to slow her pace if there was difficulty, but the horse seemed to find none.
Now the road was wider, better established, with far thinner tree lines to either side. She could see more easily and could ride with greater confidence. They continued on, Anne’s heart in her throat all the while. What would she find when she arrived?
So long as she did so before Drew’s arrival, and with enough time to ensure her scattered, half-formed plan came to life. It was a gamble, she could admit, but she had little hope of helping him otherwise.
And she simply had to. Only she knew Malcolm and his ways. Drew was headstrong, the rogue, believing he could defeat any man. Perhaps he could. If that man played fair, but Malcolm never had. He would only use his fists against a man once that man had been beaten half to death by a dozen others.
She could not allow that to come to pass. Not for Drew.
It was well before midnight when she arrived, judging by the movement of the moon overhead, and the candlelight from inside the long house with its many windows provided guidance. She slowed the mare to a trot, eyeing up the place.
Had this ever been her home? Run-down, ramshackle, the yard before it filled with weeds and dead grass while Rufus’s was lush, pleasant, his home clean and the roof freshly patched. She’d forgotten that people could live good, honest lives and profit from them.
Cattle lowed in the barn; some of which belonged to Rufus if it hadn’t been sold by then, and horses neighed in their stalls as she passed the stables.
The sounds of many male voices lifted in laughter met her ears by the time she dismounted and tied the mare’s reins off at the post which ran the length of one stone wall. She watered Maebe, then gathered her courage.
This was why she’d run like the devil himself was after her. To make it here before trouble began, and she had, if the revelry inside the house meant anything. Perhaps they were celebrating a great success.
Their celebration would be their undoing.
Like reflexes, her skills returned to her. She tiptoed as silently as she could, imagining herself in the midst of a midnight theft. How would she manage this? Perhaps she ought to announce herself, pretend as though she’d escaped after being held captive.
As though she hated Drew and all of his kin.
Was she clever enough to convince him, shrewd man that he was?
Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, nerves threatening to betray her. She suddenly had to make water. Or vomit. Or both.
She would do neither, and her nerves would not get the better of her. She would prevail for his sake, if for nothing else. And for the twins, who needed their reckless uncle.
She threw back her head. Puffed out her chest. Marched into the house as if she were a conquering hero.
The sight which greeted her ought not to have come as a surprise, yet she could not contain the churning of her stomach at the filth, and the stench. None of them had lifted a finger to clean up the place since she’d left.
Food stained the floors. And dried vomit. And blood. Whose blood? It mattered not. She stepped around it, coughing as she did. Smoke hung heavy in the air as the men enjoyed their pipes, which combined with the smoke from the hearth all but choked her and made it difficult to see who was who.
Yet there was no mistaking Malcolm, sitting in his chair at the end of a long table, leaning in to converse with a pair of his most trusted men. None of them noticed her for a long time, though she stood nearly close enough to touch.
While the house was in shambles, Malcolm looked well. He enjoyed looking well whenever he could, dressed in furs and velvets while his men wore threadbare cast-offs. He somehow convinced them they were kings, living above common men foolish enough to toil for their daily bread.
It was all a lie. They were fools, his fools, and he used them to keep himself in comfort.
He might have hired a girl to come in and clean.
She cleared her throat as loudly as she could, tiring of waiting about.
When Malcolm turned to see who’d interrupted him, scowling and prepared to shout, his eyes bulged at the sight of her.
“What in God’s name brings ye here, lassie?” he asked before bursting out in deep, rumbling laughter.
“We thought ye lost to us,” one of the men explained.
“Aye, well, I managed to take my leave.” She shrugged. “I only needed to bide my time.”
“The lad told us what befell ye,” Malcolm explained. “A pity, that.”
“Not pity enough for ye to come for me.”
“Why would I do that?” He studied her, his head thrown back, one hand stroking his thick, red beard. “Do ye take me for a fool?”
“I always have, which ye well know.”
Those near enough to overhear this fell silent. A few of the men backed away as if wishing to avoid being somehow caught when Malcolm attacked her. She was aware of this, yet she stood her ground. Let him strike her. He would soon see the error of his ways.
Yet he did not strike.
Instead, he laughed, the sound seeming to come from his toes. It echoed throughout the room, soon joined by the laughter of others who likely did so out of relief. They may have been little better than dung, all of them, but this did not mean they enjoyed watching a woman being beaten.
“’Tis good to have ye back, truly,” he announced. “Tart tongue and all. Someone, fetch my niece a cup of wine. This is a celebration!”
A cheer rose up among the men, and the smile she wore was genuine. For a celebration was exactly what she’d counted on.
She would have them ready for Drew when he arrived.
Hours passed, or what felt like hours. She drank slowly, taking dainty sips when she did and waiting a great deal of time in between. She was not accustomed to wine or any drink but had seen
enough loose-lipped men to know she had better not risk saying more than she ought to.
After a while, Malcolm turned his gaze on her. She sensed him watching, thinking, questioning what had brought her back and how she had escaped. Was she aware of Liam’s capture?
It struck her then that she had not asked after him. Damn her for a fool. “Where is my brother?” she asked as if suddenly remembering him. “Why has he not come out to greet me?”
Malcolm’s thin lips came together in a tight line, his hard, glittering eyes regarding her with deep interest. “Ye have not heard?”
She prayed for strength, for cleverness. She’d already lost one opportunity. “Heard what?” Had he drank enough yet to soften his senses? It did not appear so, to her dismay.
“That he was captured.” He reported this with relish, savoring the final word. Captured. As if it left a sweet taste in his mouth.
He was toying with her as he had always done. Watching to see if she would crumble at the announcement.
Should she?
“What do ye mean, captured?” she asked, keeping her voice low so as to be heard over the commotion surrounding them. “By whom? When? Where is he?”
“Avoch, or so I’ve heard. Captured as he failed a task I set out for him.” His disgust was evident, as always.
She had known for some time that he disliked or even hated Liam, but now she was certain.
Now, she could tell him exactly what she thought.
She leaned in, staring into his eyes, daring him to look away from her. “Ye are an evil, pitiful excuse for a man, and I hate ye with every bone in my body.”
To her utter surprise, his face went slack with what she could only imagine was shock. “What did ye say?”
“I believe ye heard me. I can tell ye did. ‘Tis evident in the way ye stare at me now, mouth hanging open like a great fish. I hate ye. I despise ye. And my brother is ten times the man ye could ever hope to be, ye pitiful coward!”
Malcolm shot up from his chair, fists pounding on the table. The rest of the men were far too intoxicated by then to care very much, though they were at least roused from their stupors for a moment. They turned their attention to their leader, whose face was as red as his hair.
“Hellcat!” he spat. “Demon! Why come here to say these words to me? Ye need never have returned. Ye are not needed here, nor are ye wanted!”
“Am I not?” She looked around the room, sneering. “I should think my presence would be sorely missed, as none of ye have the sense to clean up his own messes!”
His arm shot out, his fist curling around her hair. She heard and felt some of it ripping from her scalp as he pulled her to him, hovering over her. Tears sprang into her eyes as her scalp throbbed agonizingly.
“I shall make ye cry far worse than that, lassie,” he snarled, his reeking breath enough to turn her stomach. Yet she forced herself to hold his gaze, no matter how he tried to frighten her.
She would not allow him the satisfaction of seeing her break down.
Even as he raised his other fist, even as a gleam entered his eye, she would not flinch.
The room went deathly silent as the men held their breath.
Which made it all the easier for her to hear the pounding of hooves along the road outside.
26
Drew led the charge, two dozen men at his back. His cousin rode just to his right, Clyde to his left.
This would be satisfying. He could all but taste Malcolm Stuart’s blood.
A pity Anne would not be witness to what was to come, but it was for the best. He would take great pleasure in telling her and Liam about it in the days to come.
The magistrate rode behind along with the men they’d rounded up in the village. As soon as they’d made the announcement of a name and a location, men from all around were running to saddle their horses and gather their weapons. The Stuarts, it seemed, had been a plague on the Highlands for far too long.
The house was still lit inside, candles and fires burning away. Did they ever sleep? Perhaps they were celebrating. All the better. He did detest the notion of disturbing a man’s slumber. It would hardly seem a fair fight if that were the case.
“Steady, now,” Rufus advised as they slowed the horses to a trot. “Dinna lose your head.”
“When have ye ever known me to lose my head?” Drew grinned.
Clyde snorted.
“’Tis afraid I am that we dinna have the time to go into it,” Rufus retorted. “Dinna rush in before ye know the full measure of what we have found here. There could be many dozens of men all over the land, camping out, standing guard.”
In his heart of hearts, Drew wished that were the case. He longed to smash bones, to bury his fist in the face of one man after another. With every blow, he would think of Anne. Of Liam. Of their suffering.
The door opened, and out poured a dozen men. The brandished dirks, swords, even a pistol or two. Drew’s heart clenched, yet he withdrew a pistol nonetheless.
He preferred fist-to-fist combat, but was not such a fool as to leave himself unarmed if the need arose.
It did not appear as though the need would arise after all, for not a single one of the men who’d left the house could walk a straight line. They stumbled about, knocking into each other. Drew winced as one of them barely managed to avoid sinking his dirk into another man’s stomach.
“What goes on here?” he cried out as men surrounded him, men prepared to fight these scoundrels and drag them to Avoch where they would be tried for their crimes. Yet none of them were in fighting shape.
One of them ran toward Drew, shouting obscenities and prepared for battle, yet he only managed to make ten paces before he doubled over and released the contents of his stomach onto the ground in a mighty splash.
“They’re intoxicated down to the last one,” the magistrate laughed. “It isn’t often our task is so simple.” He shouted orders to several of the nearby men, who set about subduing those about to have their wrists bound and their weapons removed.
This was not satisfying. Not at all. He needed Malcolm. He needed to take a pound of the man’s flesh. “Inside,” he snarled, marching toward the open door.
Rufus and Clyde were quick to join him.
The main room of the house was covered in refuse, empty cups, empty casks. Stains and spills, rotting food. “How do they live?” he grunted, resisting the impulse to cover his nose and mouth.
“Drew.” Rufus clasped his arm, pointing to the blazing hearth.
A tall, red-haired man with a thick beard held the arm of a squirming, twisting lass.
“Anne!” Drew cried out, stunned to the point of freezing in place.
“Forgive me,” she grunted before squealing as the man’s hand tightened around her thin arm.
It could only be Malcolm, naturally. Only he would be so cruel.
“Welcome to my home,” he announced, confirming himself to be the owner. The one Drew had come for. “What brings ye here on such a cold evening, and at such a late hour, at that?”
He was not in the same condition as the men who’d come on their terrible excuse for an attack. He had his wits about him and even seemed to be enjoying this, though he was hopelessly outnumbered.
Drew need only see the pain in Anne’s eyes to seethe in renewed fury. How and why she was there, he could not say. It mattered not. What mattered was freeing her and paying Malcolm Stuart back for every evil he’d ever done.
“We’ve come here to see ye receive justice for your many misdeeds,” Drew smiled. A stranger might mistake his smile as one of good humor. He’d lulled many a man into thinking he was no threat with that very smile.
Only those who knew him and had seen what he was capable of knew his smile was the kiss of death.
“And who are ye to serve justice?” Malcolm asked, looking from one of them to the other. “Who are ye to charge me with misdeeds? I dinna know ye, any of ye, and ye trespass on my land.”
“We know what you’ve done. And
we are here to stop ye from doing it ever again. First, I intend to pay ye back for the cruelty ye showed yer niece.” Drew handed his pistol and dirk to Clyde. “If ye are man enough to fight with your fists—unless ye need other men to do the fightin’ for ye.”
“I ought to have known.” Malcolm spat at Anne, who recoiled before kicking him in the knee. He howled before throwing her to the floor, where she landed in a heap.
Drew had seen enough. He launched himself at the much larger man, using surprise to throw him off-balance. They collided, with Malcolm turning just in time to avoid landing in the blazing fire.
He threw Drew against a long table laden with cups, mugs, flagons of ale. Much of it tumbled to the floor, while Drew pulled his legs in and shot them out when Malcolm bore down on him, catching him in the abdomen and knocking the wind from his lungs.
He jumped to the floor, taking advantage of Malcolm doubling over to gasp for breath. Hands on his shoulders, pushing him further down, he jerked one of his knees upward and let out a satisfied grunt when the crunch of bone sounded.
Blood spurted from the man’s broken nose. He staggered backward, but was not finished yet.
He swung one large fist, his long arms covering a considerable distance, and Drew was not able to duck the swing quickly enough. Malcolm’s fist connected with the side of his head, making his ears ring and his vision double. He blinked hard, shaking off the daze, and did manage to duck a second blow.
From his crouched position, he delivered several sharp upward blows into Malcolm’s ribs. The man whirled about, arms swinging wildly now, and Drew leaped onto his back.
“Drew!” Anne cried out, but there was no paying heed as he hooked an arm about the man’s neck and with his other fist delivered one blow after another to the side of his head, his face, anything he could reach. Malcolm attempted to claw at his eyes, but he caught one of the man’s fingers between his teeth, making him howl.
An instant later, Malcolm flung himself back against the wall, driving Drew into the unforgiving stones. He gasped as the breath left his body and several ribs cracked, yet managed to hang on rather than slide down the wall onto the floor.