by Lily Baldwin
Once upon a time, her own grandmother had to flee Làidir for her very life. Would Jamie raise his fists against her? She shivered, looking at his large, calloused hands. No doubt, if he wanted to, he could take her life with one blow. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to imagine the worst. Taking a deep breath, she tried to keep her attention on the road ahead.
They trekked on for less than an hour when the MacLeod pulled on the reins, steering their mount into the woods.
“This will not be an easy ride,” he said behind her.
She stiffened, scanning the forest. “Trust me,” she said. “Easy is not what I imagine for the next years of my life.”
The hand around her waist tightened. “Cooperate with me and ye’ll be spared many hardships.”
“What choice do I have?” she muttered, fully grasping the meaning of his words. If she did not disappoint, contradict, or delay him or any other number of inconveniences for which she might be guilty—then she would not force his hand. Choking back bitter tears, she said, “Lead on, my laird. Yer every wish is my command.”
Chapter Eleven
Jamie caressed his hand down the curve of Fiona’s waist. His body betrayed him. The scent of her hair lingered in his nose. Despite it all—the feud, his distrust, her own repugnant response to his person—he could not deny his own treacherous desire. Her beauty was unmatched. Silken black waves draped across his thigh. Her fair skin shone porcelain in the sun, and her blue eyes sparkled. It didn’t matter that it was her fury that made them so vibrant.
His fingers splayed wide across her stomach. She was petite. He towered over her, but her body did not have a frailty to match her height. Instead, she was trim but curvy and strong as if she did not while hours away in the family solar doing needlework, but spent time out of doors, on horseback or walking.
They had been riding for more than four hours over rugged land with no roads or settlements for miles. His chosen way was untamed—steep hills cut by jutting rocks and thick forests with clawing bramble. Still, she had not complained nor had her back lost its rigidity. He knew that, in part, her pride fueled her strength, not to mention her own desire to distance herself from him. She, no doubt, was not enjoying such a pleasing ride—he had yet to wash away his labors. His chest, which she refused to rest against, still bore the streaks of ash and dirt from his efforts days earlier, rescuing his kin and salvaging as much of their belongings as he could. Over the last few days, the shadow of a beard had thickened. His plaid needed a good wash, but he cared not. Let her think him the ignorant brute she clearly had deemed him to be.
Suddenly, he stiffened. His gaze settled on a cluster of five jagged rocks ahead of them, each taller than a man. He tensed and drew his mount to a halt, signaling for Grant and Niall to do the same. His gaze scanned the woods while he listened, straining to hear even the smallest sound, but he heard nothing.
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet.
“We passed a dense patch of thicket on the right, about twenty paces behind us,” he whispered in her ear. “Do ye remember?”
“I do,” she whispered back.
“When I tell ye to, I want ye to slide to the ground and race back to that thicket as fast as ye can. Then get low to the ground and don’t move. Do ye ken?”
She tensed in her seat. “Aye.”
A horse nickered from deeper in the woods. “Go,” he hissed.
Fiona slid from his grasp. Her feet landed with a soft thud, and she sprinted back the way they’d come, the instant before the Mackenzie war cry rent the air.
Half a dozen men on foot raced from behind the rocks, swords and axes gripped in their fists and raised at the ready. Twice as many riders poured out of the woods from the left. About their hips and slashing across their bare chests was the MacKenzie plaid.
“Strike to kill,” Jamie shouted to his men. Withdrawing his sword from the scabboard strapped to his back, he braced himself to face the descending enemy.
He brought his mount around and charged forward. His horse and sword collided with a MacKenzie rider. He slammed to the ground, then jumped to his feet an instant later, deflecting a blow, then another. Growling, he swung his blade back around faster than the enemy could recover, cleaving the man’s head from his neck.
He pushed forward on foot, parrying and striking his way through the throng. Screams of the dying combined with the din of clashing blades. Then an arrow whizzed past his head, grazing his cheek. A garbled cry resounded behind him. He turned and saw Grant fall, the arrow lodged in his throat.
Rage consumed him. He whirled around to see where the arrow came from and spotted a MacKenzie warrior perched on one of the boulders, reloading his weapon. Jamie bent and snaked his dagger from his boot and hurled it toward the enemy, hitting his mark. A breath later, the crossbow slipped from the warrior’s fingers. His body tipped forward, crashing down below. Jamie’s horse raced by. He gripped its mane and swung up in the saddle, turning his mount around in time to see Niall being pulled from his horse.
“Nay,” he shouted, swinging his sword, cutting down MacKenzie warriors with every blow, but he could not reach Niall in time.
His men were dead, along with more than half the MacKenzie warriors. The others thundered after him. He whirled his horse around and raced back toward the thicket.
“Fiona,” he shouted. “On yer feet!”
She appeared just as he sped past. He grabbed her waist, flinging her over his horse and charged through the narrow pass. He leapt over fallen logs and bent forward with Fiona, ducking beneath low branches. Pounding hooves coming up behind blasted in his ears.
They were outnumbered, but he knew this land like no other. He charged down a slope and jumped over a steep but narrow ravine, his horse not hesitating for an instant. He doubted the untried Mackenzie beasts would make the same jump, but he wasn’t going to wait to find out. Weaving around trees, he tore across the land to the Firth of Luath. Water splashed their legs as they raced across. On the other side, he swung down with Fiona in his arms. Setting her on her feet, he gave his mount a firm spank on its rear. It jumped forward, then galloped down the pass while he cut through a cluster of trees, heading up into the Famhair Hills.
~ * ~
Fiona lifted her skirts, struggling to keep up with the MacLeod’s fierce pace. They climbed the steep pass, scrambling over rocks and down again through narrow stone crevices. She had never traversed the Famhair Hills that divided their lands, but she had heard men speak of the treacherous terrain.
For the third time, her foot caught on her tunic. She stumbled, landing hard on her knees. An involuntary cry fled her lips. Her eyes widened when the MacLeod whirled around and grasped the hilt of his sword behind his head. In a flash, he unsheathed his blade, his eyes narrowing on her. She flinched, shielding her face behind her arms, but then she felt a tug on her skirts. He sliced through the front of the fabric, bringing the length to just below her knees.
She blushed when she saw her bare ankles and calves, but she had no time to protest or express her embarrassment. He grabbed her arm and pulled her ever upward. She panted. Her heart raced. She kept her eyes trained on the ground to secure her footing, but she chanced upward glances. This time she spied the entrance to a cave. He jerked her forward. In moments, they were enclosed in darkness.
“Stay here,” his voice was deep and heavy in the musty gloom. “Do not move from this very spot. I am going to search the area and wipe clean our tracks.”
She sat on the stone, her heart pounding in her ears, her breaths coming quick and loud, echoing around her. His steps retreated. He crossed into the dim light. The outline of his massive frame filled the entrance, and then he was gone.
She sat there in the blackness feeling as if she were waiting at the gates of hades—for that is what her life had become—Hell. Not a month ago, she had been betrothed to an angel, securing for her kin an alliance with the wealthiest and largest clan in the northwest Highlands. But those bl
issful days had shattered around her with the speed of lightning slashing across the sky. Her sweet, soft-spoken Adam was dead. And in Ranulf MacKenzie, a new, cruel and powerful enemy had arisen. Tears stung her eyes, thinking of the poor cottars whose last moments must have been so hellish that they welcomed the mercy death had brought to them. She prayed their souls now rested peacefully among the angels.
But there were no angels for her, only a dark cave where she sat awaiting her betrothed, whose harsh tongue and fierce hands terrified her. Her heart pounded harder. She pushed against the cold, jagged walls.
Were they closing in on her?
Her chest tightened, making her breaths even shorter. Panic sought to claim her mind, and she was losing the battle.
Chapter Twelve
Jamie’s heart ached with grief. Grant and Niall had been two of his finest captains, not to mention his kinsmen. Ranulf MacKenzie had already stolen so much from his clan, and now Jamie had to return home and tell poor Katie, Niall’s young wife, that he would not be home to welcome their first child into the world. Grant had yet to marry, but his mum and da would be devastated to learn of their son’s death.
He gripped his head in his hands. How had it happened?
He had been so careful.
It was not happenstance that put the MacKenzie warriors in their path. It had been an ambush. This he did not doubt. Somehow, the enemy had known their course.
Could the MacDonnell have betrayed him? But Jamie shook his head. He did not doubt Gordon MacDonnell’s affection for his daughter. Mayhap, Fiona had earned the malice of some of her kin. A selfish lady was bound to have enemies. Still, he remembered the devoted farewells called out by her people as she left Castle Creagan.
In that moment, his mind turned to Seumas and the bulk of the MacDonnell party. He prayed, then, that they would not fall victim to a MacKenzie attack, and, if they did, that they had enough warriors in their number to be victorious.
Having surveyed their surroundings, he wiped away any tracks left behind from their hasty climb up the peak. He returned to the cave, and as he entered, he took a deep breath. Inside was his bride, a woman who despised him. He could not see into the depths where he’d left her, but a muffled noise reached his ears. He paused and heard her quiet sobs. In that moment, his heart softened. Fiona MacDonnell had withstood numerous hardships that day. Not just the grueling trek, but she would have been huddled in the thicket, no doubt watching the bloodshed and fearing for her life.
He quietly moved into the darkness, resolved to give her what comfort he may. He knelt beside her, feeling for her back to soothe.
“Don’t touch me,” she cried out. He could not see her but heard the malice in her tone. “Don’t ever touch me!”
Her harsh words once again hardened his heart. For a moment, she had been a lass, scared and alone. But he had forgotten she was a viper with a sharp tongue and poisonous fangs. And to think, he was going to try to comfort her. If the prospect of his touch was so repugnant, then she could console herself.
“I suggest ye get some sleep,” he said coldly. “We have a hard road tomorrow.”
Then he lay down and unfolded the top of his plaid, wrapping his shoulders against the chill of the cave. After a while, her soft sobs renewed, and he could hear her teeth chattering.
“Damnation,” he cursed. “MacDonnell, come here…now!”
~ * ~
Fiona froze, choking back her tears. He demanded she go to him, but why? Was he going to ravish her or beat her for crying?
“I will stop,” she said, her voice trembling. She ground her teeth to keep them steady.
“I told ye to come here,” he barked. “You will obey me.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. Dare she make a run for it?
“Do not make me come over there,” he snarled.
She gasped and scrambled toward him.
“Lay down beside me,” he ordered.
Her heart quaked. “But we are not yet wed.”
“Ye’re my betrothed, which in the eyes of God and everyone else means we are as good as married. But I’ve no intention of bedding ye this night, nor am I overly eager to touch ye at all. I will do my duty, and when ye give me a son, I’ll not touch ye again. But for now, I am ordering ye to lay down. The chattering of yer teeth is keeping me awake, and I’ve no wish to be accused of murder if ye were to freeze to death. Now, lay down!”
Trembling, she did as he bade, lying down on her side near him but not touching. Then she felt his large hand spread across her stomach. He dragged her against him. His whole body curled around hers, and he wrapped the top of his plaid about her shoulders. Within his strong embrace her body grew warm, but her heart ached. His strength surrounded her like a steel cage, hard and unfeeling. The devil was now her master, and she was powerless to refuse him.
Chapter Thirteen
Hazy with sleep, Jamie caressed the soft contours pressed against his body. He nestled his face into lavender scented hair. Then his eyes flew open, his senses fully awakened. The events of the day before came crashing down on him. The attack. Niall and Grant’s deaths. His bride’s rejection of his comfort. His anger. He shimmied away, steeling his heart once more against Fiona’s feminine softness. Her breathing remained even. He would let her sleep while he foraged for food.
When he returned to the cave, she sat just inside the entrance, her knees pressed to her chest. He set a handful of mushrooms and blaeberries on the ground beside her. She made no move to take a morsel but kept her gaze downcast, hugging her knees close.
“Eat,” he urged her impatiently. “We’ve a lot of ground to cover.”
Without looking up, she snaked out her hand and grabbed the wild forage. When she had finished, he bade her stand. Taking her hand firmly in his, he started back down the slope.
Hours passed in silence. Finally, they neared the outskirts of MacLeod territory, coming upon the first watch tower. From the highest lookout the MacLeod banner flapped in the breeze. As he expected, when they were close enough for the guard on duty to recognize his laird, the tower gate swung open and a warrior rushed out. Untying one of the horses from its grazing lead, he mounted the animal and galloped toward them.
Jamie recognized Mitchel straightaway with his broad shoulders and tangled red hair. Mitchel brought the animal to a halt in front of Jamie and slid to the ground. “My laird, what has happened?”
Jamie took the reins from his man and mounted, then reached down to the woman at his side, lifting her into the saddle. “We were ambushed on the Hidden Pass. Grant and Niall are dead. Keep watch for a large party with Seumas in the lead. I only pray they’ve fared better than we did.”
Mitchell looked at him with stricken green eyes. Then he dropped his head, crestfallen by the news of their departed kinsmen. Fury and heartache coursed through Jamie. He still could not believe Grant and Niall were gone. He rested a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “We will stop the bloodshed. These dark days will end. Stay vigilant, Mitchell.” Words of consolation fled Jamie’s lips, but they did nothing to sooth his own pain or the rage burgeoning within his soul.
“Ye’re hurting me,” Fiona blurted, bringing his mind to the present. He realized his body had tensed with anger, and he held her arm in a fierce grip. Taking a deep breath to regain his control, he loosened his grip and nudged his mount in the flanks. They raced over open moorland. When they reached the village of Làidir, he pushed on, weaving through narrow pathways, skirting peat huts and stone cottages, children at play, and chickens roaming for insects and food scraps. He did not stop, even when his kin called out to him. Grief marked his homecoming. As laird it was up to him to impart the woeful tidings to Grant and Niall’s kin.
As they approached the outer wall of Castle Làidir a horn sounded signaling his arrival. He charged over the drawbridge, passing under the inner wall into the courtyard. Young Edward raced out from the stables to meet him.
“I’ll take yer horse, my laird,” he said breathlessly.
Jamie dismounted and clasped Fiona’s waist, setting her on her feet.
Edward looked about the baily. “Where are the others?”
“Seumas rides with Lady MacDonnell’s entourage.”
“But what of Grant and Niall?”
Jamie closed his eyes against the pain that shot through his heart. He pressed his lips in a grim line. He shook his head, signaling to Edward that their kinsmen would not be returning.
The lad’s eyes welled with tears.
“Get ye to the stables and wipe down the mare,” Jamie said, keeping his tone gentle. “Then clean out the stalls, all of them. Do ye hear.” Jamie did not want word to spread of his kinsmen’s passing until he had personally told Niall’s wife and Grant’s parents.
The lad’s eyes widened. He nodded and hurried off to do his laird’s bidding.
The weight of Jamie’s duty forced his pace to quicken.
“Faster,” he barked at Fiona, pulling her behind him. He thundered up the steps of the keep and swung open the door to the great hall. Instantly, he was struck by the sound of a woman screaming. In that moment, he knew that Katie, Niall’s wife, was soon to be a new mother.
When they had left three days before, she had complained of occasional pains and had been brought into the keep while Niall was away. As another scream echoed through the hall, coming from the direction of the east wing, it was clear the occasional pains had turned to full blown labor. He took another deep breath. Poor Katie struggled to bring her babe into the world, a babe that would never know its father.
Heartsore, he started to walk forward, but for the first time, Fiona resisted. He turned and looked at her. Her face was pale and drawn. Her eyes darted around the hall.
“Aren’t ye going to help her?” Fiona cried.
Jamie lifted his shoulders. “What am I to do? Tis the will of God that women suffer.”
Her eyes nigh bulged out of her head. “Are her cries not excessive? Surely, she has done nothing to warrant such agony.”