A Promise of Love

by Karen Ranney

  It was the strangest thing, Judith thought, that she should feel so calm right at this moment. She was not fear she felt, but certainty. A knowledge she held to the core of her like the conviction that the sun would rise in the morning. There was danger here, possibly death, certainly the promise of pain. Yet, the horror she’d lived with all those years was gone. No longer would she live her days waiting for Bennett to visit his atrocities upon her. No longer would she live in the sickly miasma of fear at the thought of him touching her. Whatever happened from this moment on in her life, whatever outcome this night brought, it would never be as bad as what she’d already experienced.

  Leaving Alisdair had left her empty, a husk of flesh from which the spirit had departed. She had given up everything that was dear to her because of Bennett’s abuse. Love, safety, sanctuary, a feeling of being able to come to grips with her past, a promise of being able to forge a better future - all these things she had sacrificed because of his perversion, his cruelty, and to keep safe the one person she loved. She would no longer cower. What was it Meggie had said? I've lost too much to lose myself, I'm all I've got left. Judith had lost Alisdair, a promise of tomorrow, a hint of joy, days of wonder. She had lost the possibility of forgiveness, the promise of love.

  The fear Bennett induced no longer had its ominous power - she had nothing left to lose.

  "Dear Judith," he said, his voice tinged with mockery, "we meet again."

  She did not speak, simply looked into his shadow cloaked face with all of the contempt and disgust she had always kept carefully masked. She despised him with a loathing that she had otherwise reserved for Anthony, for unlike the other drunken molesters, Bennett had enjoyed her struggles and her screams. He feasted on them the way a bird of prey would, the meal so much more delicious if the victim still lived.

  With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, Bennett beckoned the rest of his entourage closer. As they reined in, Judith could see from their glassy eyes and slightly askew uniforms that this was no ordinary patrol. Not with the smell of spirits wafting from them and a leering look from even the youngest of the five, a boy barely past his first shave.

  Malcolm slitted his eyes and looked at the leader. No, this wasn't good. An English patrol was one thing, damn their Sassenach hides. A drunken English patrol, with their leader making insulting noises towards the laird's lady, now that was something else.

  Malcolm edged his horse closer to Judith, slid his dirk alongside the edge of her boot. Aye, it was all well and good for Sophie to wish peace in the Highlands, but there were just some things that a man had to keep for... well, sentimental reasons.

  Judith felt Malcolm's hand and did not veer her gaze from Bennett.

  "Is there a reason you've stopped us, Bennett, or have you lost your way?" Her scornful tone was due to two things - she desperately wanted to prevent Bennett from realizing exactly what Malcolm was doing, and secondly, she no longer cared if Bennett realized the depth of her antipathy. Alisdair was safe from him now.

  "I am an instrument of English justice, dear Judith."

  "English justice? The two words do not seem to belong together, Bennett. English and justice." Her smile was cold, a mere upward slash of lips. "You are more likely an instrument of English lust." Malcolm thought her words an act of courage. Bennett reasoned she was bluffing, her ridicule nothing more than bravado. Judith knew them to be only words, simple words, incapable of measuring the depth of her loathing.

  "Let's see what you say after a visit to the magistrate, my dear," he softly intoned, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Only at the beginning had she ever defied him; this rare show of courage added a growing thrill to this chase.

  "What will your English magistrate say about the crime of rape, Bennett? Do you go without punishment?"

  "If a few English soldiers were entertained by a lusty Scots wench, that is human nature, Judith. Surely not a punishable offense."

  His indifference infuriated her; he had never had any thoughts for anyone other than himself.

  “Is rape the only way a woman will willingly allow you to grow close?”

  "You've grown brave, Judith. I admire your spirit; it will make the game so much more refreshing."

  “And you’ve grown coward, Bennett, hiding behind your uniform.”

  With his entourage milling around him, perhaps she should have been more cautious about her words. Yes, they had strength in numbers. Yes, there was only her, and one aged Scot who would have roared in protest at that appellation. Yet, Judith knew something they did not. She had absolutely no intention of repeating the past.

  She would gladly die first.

  Bennett waved his companions away, and only his coarse words to the group convinced them that he was adequate to handle one old man and one slightly used whore.

  He had plans for Judith. Plans that did not require witnesses. And, if the old man had to die first - so be it. What was one more Scot? Bennett Henderson had no intention of letting his former sister-in-law leave Scotland alive.

  He had relished his plans for so long now that he almost gloatingly took in every detail of her appearance, almost ghostly in the pale moonlight. She was prettier now than she had been in London, more fully fleshed. Would she feel the same? Would her satin skin still feel as good? Would her screams still excite him as they had before? He intended to find out and then once he had pleasured himself in her body one more time, he would kill her slowly. As slowly as his brother must have died, in as much agony.

  Malcolm sidled up to Judith, his horse shouldering her mare aside. He had enough of this foolishness. If they were to be arrested, let Henderson try. If it was other sport he was after - again, let him try.

  He peered at Judith through the shadows, at her pale face, the only part of her visible above her black dress. She turned, watched him wiggle his eyebrows at her and then motion down to her boot with a point of his angular nose.

  She understood. A weapon would at least even the odds.

  Bennett's saber sliced through the air, as if cutting away a portion of the night, surprising Judith almost as much as the sudden, fierce pain shocked Malcolm. He pressed his hand over the wound in his shoulder, staring at the Sassenach who had drawn first blood without warning. He spurred his horse around the mare, leaving Judith free to escape. But, she had no intention of leaving Malcolm.

  An ungodly howl punctuated the silence as Malcolm launched himself at Bennett, screaming and shouting as his dirk slashed through the air with maniacal fervor. The battle cry of the MacLeod's had last been heard at Culloden, multiplied five hundred times, but the sound uttered by one old and angry man was enough to raise the hair on the back of Judith's neck.

  Judith eased her hand down to the side of her boot, gripped the dagger with a suddenly sweaty hand. Its sharp edge cut into her skin, the dots of blood shining wet and black. She rubbed the side of her hand against her skirt.

  Malcolm was no match for Bennett's youth, or the reach of the saber. Bennett slashed again and a long line of red appeared on the side of Malcolm's face. He roared, and leaned to the side, plunging his dirk wildly into the darkness. He was reaching to stab again when Bennett's saber flashed one more time, almost contemptuously cutting off the old man's ear, severing it from his head.

  Judith did the only thing she could think of, reasoning in that split second of time left her that the stallion's pain was a small price to pay for Malcolm's survival and her freedom.

  She grasped the dirk Malcolm had slipped her, closed her eyes tight, and with both hands, plunged it hilt deep into the rump of Bennett's horse. The stallion screamed in agony, pawed the air, and not even Bennett's centaur-like grace could control him. Bennett slid from the saddle with an unearthly elegance, rolling when he hit the ground and easily eluding Malcolm's thrown dagger.

  He was not fast enough, however, to escape the killing hoofs of the pain maddened stallion. The horse reared, an unearthly silhouette against a moonlit night, a demon of fury and agony. Judith w
ould be able to remember the sounds of that night for years to come - Bennett's screams and an animal's shrieking terror. Was it hours or only minutes until the frenzied horse finally raced, riderless, over the moor, spooked and wild-eyed by the scent of the blood spattered from his hooves to braided mane.

  Malcolm dismounted heavily, looked down at the injured Englishman and then back up at Judith, still seated on her mare.

  "Come here, Judith," he said, in a soft tone, unlike any she'd heard Malcolm use. He had to coax her twice more before she tremblingly obeyed, sliding from the sway backed mare and resting against her side for a moment until her legs stopped shaking and she could support her own weight.

  He pulled her down by one arm until she nearly toppled on the Bennett’s inert body. His chest was crushed, the stallions' well shod hooves had done their work well. Malcolm raised Bennett's head. A bloody froth oozed from the corners of his mouth, his eyes were glazed.

  "This mon had done ye grief, lass," Malcolm said gently, beckoning her closer with one bloody hand. "Ye need to help him die."

  He held out his dagger, the handle coated with blood - his or Bennett’s? In the moonlight, the blood appeared shiny and black.

  Judith took it, wiped the handle clean, held it tightly gripped in a trembling hand. How many times had she wanted to kill Bennett? How many times had she felt powerless, helpless, the victim? How many nights had she prayed for just such an opportunity, for just such a moment?

  Malcolm shook the dying man until his eyes opened in protest or sudden awareness. Judith forced herself to look into Bennett's eyes.

  There was death here; she could hasten its coming. With one short stroke she could kill, send this demon back to his hell. For all the nights of agony, she could repay him, for every bruise on her soul she could be avenged, for every moment she’d been degraded, she could force him to atone.

  At what price to her already damaged soul?

  Her hand would not move forward, her arm was frozen into place, her eyes remained as fixed and staring on Bennett as if she, herself, were close to a corpse. Malcolm said nothing, watching her with hooded eyes. Still, she didn’t move, not even when Malcolm shook the dying man again. A glimmer of recognition was all she saw before it faded and Bennett slumped against Malcolm's hold.

  For a long moment, she did nothing. Then, slowly, she stood, holding out the dagger to Malcolm, who replaced his dirk in his boot. Judith stripped a length of material from her one remaining dress, helped bind Malcolm’s wound, tenderly wiping the blood from his face. All of this was accomplished in the most perfect of silences, as if the sound of the blood leaving Bennett’s body was not an accompaniment to the moonlit night.

  When she finished binding Malcolm’s wound, Judith began to cry. Tears flowed down her face unchecked, and it was only then that the old Scot opened his arms to her. She grasped his coat, buried her face against his bloody shirt, and wept.

  Malcolm wavered between unconsciousness and a pain filled observation that his judgment wasn't wrong after all.

  He had thought she had promise.

  CHAPTER 34

  It was a sad and dispirited pair they looked, Alisdair thought.

  Malcolm rode into Tynan’s courtyard, Molly plodding docilely beside him. Judith sat atop her sway backed mare, exhausted and more than a little concerned about the crusty Scot at her side. The journey to Inverness would have been too much to expect of him, wounded as he was. Twice, he’d swayed on the saddle and would have fallen if she hadn’t held onto his waist. They'd been on the watch for the rest of Bennett's patrol, but Malcolm reasoned they were no doubt passed out on the side of the road by now. The retracing of their journey seemed to take forever, too slow for the state of Malcolm’s wounds.

  Even so, the old Scot made use of the time.

  "Lass, doubt me all you wish, but don't doubt the MacLeod. Who are you afraid of, lass? Him, or yersel'?" When she’d looked at him in puzzlement. "It's no' an easy thing ta love a Scot," he said, by way of explanation.

  “You’ve wished me gone for weeks, Malcolm. Why do you argue with me to stay, now?”

  "I'm thinkin' he could do worse," he muttered, which was the greatest compliment he'd ever given any woman, had the daft lass the sense to know it. She'd refused to back down, although he'd given her nothing but sour looks for weeks. She'd refused to become conciliatory, had matched him look for look, the way a good Scot would do. He had heard her story at Meggie's bedside, seen her real grief at Sophie's passing. And when she had unerringly and without hesitation thrust the dagger into the horse's rump, he had almost kissed her feet. She was more Scot than English, and of course she was a worthy mate for his laird.

  Now, if he could only convince the two of them.

  "You do not know, Malcolm," she said somberly. "I am not what you think I am."

  "Because ye were marrit ta a cruel mon, Judith? Who used ye in foul ways?

  I'm no' so hurt I canna remember." She bowed her head and stared at the neck of her long-suffering mare.

  "Give the lad a chance, Judith." It was a statement he had made more than once on the dark road.

  Outside Tynan’s gates, he’d tried once more. "Ye don't need to go, lass," he said finally, "now that the bastard's dead." He gripped his lips tight against the pain of his wound. He did not want her to turn her back on Tynan. "You canna do this to him, lass. He needs a wife."

  “Inverness is that way,” Alisdair greeted them, pointing to the west.

  “Aye, lad, and don’t we know it.”

  The emotion Alisdair felt at Judith’s return was immediately supplanted by concern, as he saw the makeshift bandage wreathed around Malcolm’s head. He bounded down the steps and peered into his old friend's face. Blood matted the bandage and the front of his shirt.

  “Judith?” His eyes scanned her figure, but there was no sign of injury.

  “I’m fine, Alisdair. Malcolm is the one needing tending.” For a flash of moments, Judith allowed herself a fantasy. She was returning from a necessary journey and Alisdair awaited her. His frown was for the days apart, for their blessed end. His arms were reaching out to hug her, not to scoop Malcolm from the saddle. His radiant anger was for the presence of others. Blessed welcome, a promise of a warmer greeting, later.

  Alisdair had no time to frame the question before Malcolm turned on him.

  “It’s an English wound, MacLeod, I’m lucky the brainless bastard dinna cut off my nose. I’m sure he was aimin’ for my heart.”

  “How did it happen?” Alisdair unwound the bandage, inspected the wound. The old man’s slight moan was not the only sign of his pain. He began a series of voluble curses which grew in volume as they entered the bronze doors, Judith following behind.

  "You left here intact and returned without an ear. I'd congratulate you on your sleight of hand, but I’d rather know what happened.”

  "I’ll tell ye for a spot of brandy, lad," Malcolm said wearily, the pain filled journey having taken its toll.

  “The brandy would be better served to bathe your wound, Malcolm.”

  “Aye, but it’ll better serve my stomach.”

  He swore as Alisdair helped him onto the kitchen table, eyeing the beams above his head with distaste. He knew their shape well. Judith had shamed him into climbing a ladder and ridding them of their festoons of webs. Now, she simply stood beside the table, holding Malcolm’s bonnet and the bloody strip of dress she’d used to bind his wound.

  “‘Twas the English patrol, lad, come upon us near to Inverness.”

  Alisdair shot a look at Judith. She didn’t look at him, merely kept her gaze riveted on Malcolm. There were words that needed saying, but not now, not when Malcolm so urgently needed medical attention.

  "Ye’ll do fine with only one ear, you stubborn old fool," Alisdair said as he wiped away the crusted blood from the side of Malcolm’s head.

  "Aye, The better ta ignore ye,” Malcolm grumbled.

  It was a good thing his old friend wasn't a lady's ma
n, Alisdair thought, as he stitched what he could. The remainder of Squire Cuthbertson’s brandy was used, not to bathe the wound, but to soothe the victim. Still, it was not a pleasant procedure, and Malcolm made sure his displeasure was well known. Alisdair had not realized how voluble his old friend could be, and in how many languages.

  When he finished, Alisdair surveyed his handiwork. Like a war weary mongrel, Malcolm would win no prizes for beauty. The other wound took less time to suture, the saber having gone clean through Malcolm’s shoulder, missing any vital organs.

  Only then was Malcolm established in Ian's bed - it crossed Alisdair’s mind that it had almost as many visitors recently as when Ian was alive and had a penchant for sneaking his lady loves in and out beneath their parent's noses.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened, or will I have to drag it from you word by word?” The question was asked with a nonchalance Alisdair was far from feeling.

  “I’m thinkin’ that’s a question ye need to ask of yer wife, MacLeod.” Malcolm’s statement was softened by the liberal amount of brandy he’d imbibed. The alcohol, the feeling of warmth and the softness of the bed upon which he lay induced in him a feeling of mellow comfort.

  He did not see the stricken look Judith sent him, or the swift study his laird made of his wife.

  ****

  The bench on which she sat was crafted from pine, the wood new, the splinters not yet smoothed by the plane. Still, it was one of the few pieces of furniture in the Great Hall, the others were charred or nearly ash from the fire which had seared the heart of Tynan.

  She’d never spent time in this room, it did not urge the inhabitant to linger. The walls were thick, the ceiling high, shadows occupied the corners. Its dimensions were too large to feel cozy or secure. Upon the blackened walls were round iron handles, once used to hold the shields and claymores of the MacLeods. The weapons were contraband now, the room itself denuded of its ornamentation. Only the black smoke and the stench of burnt wood remained, traces of the inferno which had raced through Tynan at the Duke of Cumberland’s command.