by Karen Ranney
Dear God, Judith thought, why him? Of all the people in the world who might ride into the courtyard of Tynan, why did it have to be him? It was a face which evoked anguished memory, nightmares too horrible to recall.
It did not enter Judith’s mind to seek safety inside Tynan. She could not bear the thought of being trapped inside four sturdy walls, while outside he would be waiting, cunning, savage, patient. Instead, she bolted for the open countryside, racing across the moor, feet flying across the grass, her heart straining in her chest, her breath exhaled in short, choppy gasps. She was silhouetted against the hillock for just a second, but it was all the man on horseback needed. Moments later, he effortlessly overcame her and would have run her down had she not turned at the last second.
Bennett was tempted to see how long she would last. The chase could be lengthened pleasurably, the sight of her attempting to out race his stallion almost comical in the extreme. His mount was bred for speed, his stallion’s achievements had lined Bennett’s pockets more than once in the Officer’s Mess. Still, there was his commanding officer to remember. Yet, he was beyond the rise of earth, too far away to hear a woman scream.
Bennett cornered her again, leaned down, gripped Judith’s flailing wrist, twisting it cruelly, but she whirled on him, sinking her teeth into the back of his hand. Her reward was a muffled oath and temporary freedom. She changed directions, racing down the track towards Tynan.
"Bitch." A mocking smile curved his lips as Bennett sucked on the blood she’d drawn. No wonder he’d missed her. What an enjoyment it would be to tame her again.
Bennett raced toward her again, overcoming her easily. Still, Judith fought him, her battle no less intense for its silence. The skittish horse reared, disliking Judith’s flailing limbs. The stallion was high strung, volatile, tamed only by the centaur grace of its rider. Judith took advantage of the moment by flinging herself near the rear legs of the black beast and kicking out with one foot.
It was a suicidal move. Bennett had more concern for his stallion than his victim; he was off the back of the horse before she could flee again, throwing her to the ground with such force that Judith hit the earth hard on her stomach, the breath escaping from her lungs, her mouth tasting dirt.
A guttural sound escaped her lips as Bennett turned her over, flattening her to the ground with his body. Even her rage and fear were no match for his tensile strength. He laughed, deeply aroused by her struggles and memories of other occasions when she had shown as much spirit.
"Anthony's bitch," he said softly, his bright smile at odds with the cruel look of his blazing blue eyes. The only sign of his exertion was his flushed face, otherwise, he could have been a country gentleman out on a stroll. Except of course, that the object of his affections was pinned effectively between his outstretched thighs, her thrashing legs attempting to dislodge him from her body.
"And here I thought you would be welcoming me, Judith, as you have so many times before." One hand effortlessly imprisoned her flailing hands, the other contemptuously flattened against one breast, pinching flesh through layers of cloth. "Have you missed me, bitch?"
Judith spat into his face. His response was a casual backhanded slap, hard enough to force her head around. She tasted blood where the edge of his ring cut her lip.
"Imagine, Judith, when I had despaired of this backwater, to find such entertainment in such an unlikely place. But then, you always were a surprise, weren't you? Tell me, have you grieved these last two years?"
"Let me go, Bennett." It was not a demand, but rather a plea, breathed in such a frail voice that she barely recognized it as hers.
"What? And be deprived of family, Judith? I think not. I think you owe me something, don't you? Something for not voicing my suspicions to the magistrates? Something to pay me back for all those days of mourning for my dear brother's untimely demise? English justice, Judith. Even here." He pulled a lace handkerchief from his tunic pocket, thrust the edge of it in her mouth, effectively gagging her. It was a pity to silence her, still there was the presence of the regiment to consider. He would slake himself in her once, and then arrange for a more leisurely reunion.
"Come, Judith, we've played this game before, haven't we?” He discounted her struggles as he casually unbuttoned the first button of her trousers.
Judith clenched her eyes tight, and prayed for deliverance. It came in the softly mocking tones of the MacLeod.
"Is this the way your officers greet a new arrival to the Highlands, Colonel? If so, then I must insist upon correcting your manners,"
One moment he was astride her; the next, Bennett was rolling across the ground. The MacLeod's fury was evident in the gleam of his eyes and the sardonic grin which wreathed his mouth. As Bennett stood, the MacLeod turned, as if asking the Colonel's permission, then lashed out with one powerful fist. It was a deceptive blow, seemingly casual, but with enough strength to knock the Englishman to the ground again. Alisdair did not bother to hit him again, but hauled him up and shoved him toward the Colonel, whose only response was to direct a look of utter disgust at his officer.
Alisdair held one hand out for Judith, neither bending down to assist her or looking in her direction. She spit out the handkerchief, scrambled up from the ground, and stood behind him, still not quite believing that she had been rescued. Without being aware of it, she moved closer to Alisdair. She placed her hand on his arm, the first time she’d ever voluntarily touched him. At another time, she might have noticed that he jumped at her touch, or that there were soft hairs upon his golden skin which tickled her palm. Perhaps she would have noted, in some other circumstance, the smooth strength of his barely flexed muscles or the fact that they were clenched tightly, as if in reaction to her touch.
Instead, she only wondered how much he'd hate her when he knew.
"Captain Henderson," Colonel Harrison demanded, "what is the meaning of this?"
All eyes turned to in the direction of the officer who stood stonily beside his mount, staring at Judith with such a malevolent expression that she flinched. How well she remembered the promise of that look.
"A misunderstanding, sir," he said, speaking slowly, still not turning his gaze from Judith. "This woman, sir, is my beloved sister-in-law. Imagine my delight in finding her here. Yet, instead of us sharing our mutual grief for my brother, sir, she flew at me. I can only surmise that grief has loosened her wits."
"Your brother, Captain?" The Colonel's look was filled with confusion overlaid with anger. He was here to restore peace in the Highlands, not assault helpless women. He didn’t like Bennett Henderson, there was something about the man that made his skin crawl, but he was still an officer of the Crown. "Wasn't your brother in the service of the Duke?"
Judith did not imagine the murmurs that rose from the hastily assembled clan. It seemed that each member had followed the MacLeod and had witnessed Bennett's assault.
Alisdair felt Judith's tension, looked down into her white, set face and then up again into Colonel Harrison’s glower.
The Colonel drew himself up to his full height and glared at her from his perch in the saddle. He had not missed the fact that she had sought protection from the MacLeod.
"Why, Madam, would the widow of a decorated Cumberland veteran be in such a godforsaken place as this?"
Judith felt the shock whip through the MacLeod. She also sensed the horror of the group behind her as if they'd taken a collective gasp. She was not surprised by such a reaction; she would have felt it herself had she been a Scot. Anthony had taunted her with descriptions of the battle of Culloden, regaling her with details of blood and gore too horrible to visualize. Anthony had bragged that he’d killed many a wounded Scot, but his brutality hadn’t ended there. He’d slain women and children, too, his contempt for his victims as chillingly obvious as the delight in which he’d relayed his tale. For that, England had awarded him a medal.
Judith didn’t move, nor did she speak.
"She is my wife, Colonel," Alisdair said shortly. His tone in
dicated that he would prefer she be anything else.
"I don't believe it," the Colonel said skeptically. It would be just like the Scot to protect himself by marrying an English widow. One of the Duke’s men at that.
"How is it that you come to marry a Scot, woman, when your husband fought at Culloden? Are you in truth wed to this man?"
Judith removed her hand from the MacLeod's arm and took a tiny step away from him. With one word, she could disavow their union, but at what price? The hope of freedom was gone now. The moment she had seen Bennett, she'd realized that. She would live in terror again, a terror which had slowly abated over the past two years.
Yet, she had more than Bennett to worry about now. The fury the MacLeod barely held in check would soon find an outlet. Judith knew she would bear the brunt of it. Yet, she would gladly exchange the MacLeod’s rage for Bennett’s sadism.
"Well?" the Colonel demanded, irritated by her hesitation, angered by his officer's actions, acutely aware of the mumbling of the assorted people who had joined this comedic farce.
Judith looked up at the MacLeod who stood so stoic and silent beside her. He would not meet her eyes, choosing instead to focus his attention on the far horizon. She took a deep breath and answered him.
"Yes, Colonel, I am married to Alisdair MacLeod," she said firmly.
"Very well," Colonel Harrison said abruptly, motioning to Bennett Henderson to mount. "MacLeod, I will leave you to the care of your English wife. It seems an apt irony. And," he said, leaning down from the saddle and peering into Judith's face, so closely that she could see the flecks of black in his gray eyes, "as an English citizen, you will let me know if aught goes amiss here, won't you, Mistress Henderson?" She did not falter beneath his stare.
"MacLeod," Alisdair corrected harshly. “Her name is MacLeod.”
"Indeed, I will, Colonel," Judith said, deliberately distancing herself still further from the immobile, taut figure of her husband.
"I'll hold you to that. MacLeod," he added, before he turned his mount, "let no danger face your new wife. If I hear of any harm to her, it will not go well for you or your clan. She is an English subject and the might of the Crown protects her. Remember that."
Bennett Henderson mimicked his commanding officer's movement, bending low near Judith. Because she was standing a few feet away from Alisdair, he did not hear the words the English officer whispered to her, but he saw the sudden blanching of her face. Her wide, frightened eyes watched the man canter from the moor and join the rest of his regiment.
No one moved. The clan remained still and frozen as if waiting for a signal to disperse. All eyes were on Judith. Malcolm did not speak, and would not look in her direction, as he assisted a trembling Sophie down a path that suddenly seemed too difficult to traverse unaided.
The MacLeod's grip on her arm ended the suspense.
Now, the punishment would come. Judith turned and looked at him, the only emotion she felt was an odd resignation. She seemed to sag, Alisdair thought, as if the bravado was now spent, leaving only exhaustion in its place.
He did not speak as he grabbed her arm. Alisdair thought it not unlike hauling a sack of meal as he pulled her down the path and through the courtyard of Tynan. Only when they had mounted the steep steps and entered the laird's room did he fling her from him. It was the massive bed which halted her momentum. She didn’t struggle, nor did she speak, and it was her strange lack of protest which goaded his rage.
"Why did you not tell me?" he shouted, and the words could be heard in the kitchen where Malcolm and Sophie were helping themselves to an abundant quantity of purloined brandy.
"I could not help his occupation, MacLeod," Judith said wearily. She did not have the strength to fight him. The scene on the moor, her struggle with Bennett had taken what reserves were left.
"And your brother-in-law, Judith? Did you not think that little scrap of knowledge was important? Such a tender family reunion. You seemed somewhat reluctant to greet your long lost relative."
She did not wish to discuss Bennett. Not now. Dear God, not ever. Yet, the MacLeod deserved some scrap of truth. “I did not know he was in Scotland.”
Silence. He wanted to shout at her, to warn her that her speechlessness was dangerous, that remaining mute was not the best course. He wanted answers, and her reticence was only a stimulus to the fury he restrained by a thread.
"Good God, woman, do you realize what you've done? Do you have any idea?" He advanced on her as she leaned against the bed, but she did not recoil. She only stood, resolutely staring at him with wide blue eyes that seemed to grow darker and more lustrous with every passing minute.
He wanted her to defy him, so that his own rage would find a worthy escape. Instead, she only bowed her head and curved her shoulders inward as if to protect herself from a blow.
"Granmere's plan is so much smoke in the wind, woman," he said. "I have not begged and groveled to acquire a conditional pardon to be hanged because of a woman. You are now and truly wed, my lovely soldier's widow. To me, the enemy!"
"You are not my enemy, MacLeod," she said, her own voice so low that he had to strain to hear it.
"By the end of this day, you will think it," he snarled.
He could not help raising his voice in anger. He had, after all, great provocation. Not only had she lied to him, but there was that scene on the moor, the sight of his wife laying acquiescent beneath an English soldier. He wanted to punish her for that, and for her eternal, damnable silence.
Alisdair paid no attention to the voice of his conscience which urged him look coolly at the situation, to heed the signs that were there in Judith's eyes and in her stance. He was not calm enough for that. Reason should have stopped him from gripping her arms painfully and jerking her close. He felt her trembling and it angered him more. He was too enraged to be logical. Despite all of the causes, all of the provocations, he thought later, he should have been able to prevent his next actions.
"You might as well be made wife," he said, his face contorted by rage, by jealousy, by something he would only later identify as betrayal. With one tear, he ripped the dress from her body. Nor did he stop there, but tore each of the garments from her until she stood clutching the bedpost, facing the wall, naked and as afraid as she'd ever been in her life.
Alisdair looked at her with eyes that widened as he stared, his rage changing to confusion, his frown replaced by a look of horror.
And wanted to weep.
CHAPTER 15
There were evidently more secrets in Judith's life.
Crisscrossing her back and her buttocks were deep red scars. They ranged from inch wide scarlet welts which faded to a purplish hue to delicate fronds of pink which extended around her waist to her belly. Her flesh was indented in places, as if chunks of it had been gouged from her back, ropes of muscle torn and not healed properly. It looked as though she had been scourged, her back mutilated with a cat o' nine tails. Not once, but many times.
Alisdair had seen a man who had been whipped like that, just once. The man had barely survived.
How had she?
Judith calmly stepped back from the side of the bed, removed the remnants of her torn clothing as if he weren't standing there horror struck by the sight of her exposed back. She took the clothing he had just ripped and painstakingly folded it without a word, until the torn cloth was assembled into a neat little square. This she placed on the bed side table and then walked, impervious to her nakedness, around the bed, to the long line of windows overlooking the sea. She stood there looking at the sun beginning to set, an orange disk disappearing into the dark blue expanse of water.
She was not thinking. She did not think at times like these. She did not feel, either. She shut off her emotions and her thoughts and disappeared somewhere where there was no pain, no anguish, no humiliation. No shame.
She would not beg. She had learned, long ago, that begging only made it worse. It only lengthened her torture. It was simpler just to exist somewhe
re in a timeless state while she endured it.
Judith heard his soft steps behind her, and despite her resolve, a tiny shudder shook her body.
Alisdair said nothing, only smoothed his hand over her back, feeling the deep indentations on her mutilated flesh. His fingers trailed from the nape of her neck to where her buttocks curved back to her thighs, smooth, long strokes as if to ease the memory of her pain.
She must have been in agony.
"Who did this to you?" he said, unaware that his voice rasped with emotion. "Your father?"
She shook her head.
Then it must have been her husband.
"Why?" It seemed the only question.
What did she tell him? How many times had she thought of this moment, of this revelation? Too many times and each ended with this question. She never had the answer and now a lie was all she had to offer him.
"The width of a man's thumb, MacLeod," she replied in a low monotone. "It is the law in England.” There was absolutely no inflection in her voice.
"What does a wife do in England to deserve such punishment?" It was difficult to touch her as she stood so courageously waiting to be hurt again. He was filled with anger at the monster who had inflicted such pain on the body and on the soul. It sickened him to the core.
It explained, however, both her hatred and her fear.
"Be a woman , MacLeod, that is all. So simple, so ridiculously easy.”
Her loathing of marriage now made sense. Her resistance to their union, to him, was an act of desperation. What had she ever learned from marriage, but pain and anguish? She had experienced nothing of the joys, of the feelings of belonging, of contentment, or solace a union can bring. Perhaps he had not loved Anne as she deserved, but their marriage had brought him contentment, some measure of happiness.
In that crucible of time, when Alisdair stood mute and still with his hand pressed firmly against her back as if to wipe clean the scars he felt there, he began to be aware of what he, himself, had done to cause Judith pain.