It took a while, but Éamonn and Ciaran were well-versed in brawls, while the soldiers were probably more trained for combat with swords and muskets. He gut-punched the second soldier when he heard Deirdre scream.
The last soldier had grabbed her arm and jerked her off the horse. She beat him with a stick she had grabbed from the edge of the woods. He cursed but pulled at her clothing, trying to rip open her bodice. He left that and grabbed the arm with the stick. Then he kicked out and swept her legs out from under her. She dropped with a whoosh of breath and shock. He jumped on top of her, trying to push up her skirts.
Éamonn landed on his back and rolled with him, off Deirdre and into the bushes. He couldn’t stop punching the man in the face. When he finally rose, the man lay unconscious in the dust and Éamonn’s knuckles were sore and bloody.
Deirdre sobbed in his arms. He saw Ciaran had finished off his own final opponent. With a nod to his cousin, they helped Deirdre back on her horse and fled.
They couldn’t go into Tarbert. It was the first place the soldiers would search. Instead, they went back the way they had come until they found a path off the road. The soldiers wouldn’t imagine they’d backtrack. If they found a camping spot in the woods, they’d be much safer. In the morning they’d move quickly through town and continue their journey.
Deirdre was still crying softly when they dismounted. She ran to him again, and he took some time to hold her and stroke her hair.
“Now, Deirdre, it’s over now. He didn’t get to you after all. It’s all fine. Shhh, shhhh.” Ciaran tried to comfort her, but she refused to let go of Éamonn. He glanced at Ciaran for help but got a glowering look. Ciaran went to set up the tents. They daren’t risk a fire.
“Come on, now, I’ve got to tend the horses. Here, sit here and have a drink, aye?”
Deirdre’s breath came in short, pitiful gasps. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her hair tangled. He pulled a leaf from it and handed it to her, lifting her chin.
“You’ll be fine, now, won’t you. Go, make some of your tea.”
“I… I can’t without a… a fire.” Her voice sounded softer than he ever remembered.
“Just let the tea steep in the water. It won’t be tasty, but it will at least give us strength. There’s still cheese and bread left in my saddlebag. Fetch those for our supper.”
Giving her tasks to do might help. At least it got her out of his hair as he prepared the horses for the night. Removing the saddles and brushing them calmed him. When he returned to the campsite, she had laid a couple of logs as if they had a fire and set up her own tent. Ciaran set up their tent.
He drank the bitter, cold potion she handed him. He had no idea what to say to her. They were all subdued after the evening’s events.
When they went to their tents to sleep, he lay awake for a while, trying to figure out what he might have done differently. He couldn’t really find a way out of the situation, try as he might. The soldiers had been intent on mischief. Complying would have likely resulted in Deirdre being raped. Resisting and losing would have had the same result. The only option had been the one they had taken unless he could have boosted his power somehow. It had worked, but not enough.
He had just about drifted off into sleep when Éamonn heard the tent flap open. Ciaran went out. He must need to relieve himself.
No sooner had he explained one noise than he heard another. Deirdre came into the tent.
Her body was soft and pliant as she nestled next to him. She wriggled until she got under his blanket.
“Deirdre, you’ve got to get back to your own tent.” He tried to push the power into his voice, but it didn’t work. Perhaps his heart wasn’t in it.
“I’m frightened, Éamonn. I can’t sleep there. Every time I try, I wake up, afraid the awful soldier would… would—” she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and sobbed again.
By Christ and all his saints. How should he handle this?
“Shhh. Shhh. Deirdre, you can’t stay here. Ciaran will be back soon.”
“No, he won’t,” she mumbled, “he’s gone off to scout around, he said.”
Bloody hell.
She entangled her legs in his. Her bare flesh pressed against his, and it made his own skin burn. Where were her skirts? Had she come in here naked? He couldn’t control his physical reactions and his body responded. Her skin against his burned hot.
“Please protect me, Éamonn.” Her soft whisper tickled his ear. He squirmed.
She moaned and reached one arm over his chest, playing with his nipple. She took the closer one in her mouth. Her hand moved from his nipple, along the trail of hair in the center of his chest. It went farther and farther, teasing as it went as if she danced circles on his belly with her fingers. When her delicate fingers touched intimate flesh, he could no longer control his own need. He moaned in response, hating himself.
Vague impressions of sweat-soaked skin and beautifully painful scratches overwhelmed him until an image of Katie flitted through his mind. He sat up abruptly, and Deirdre cried a protest.
He grabbed his coat and went outside to sit on the ground, leaving Deirdre to the tent.
The next morning, Éamonn still smelled her scent on him. He covered his face with his hands. What in the name of all the saints in heaven had he almost done last night? It was unworthy of him, unfair to Deirdre, and a betrayal of Katie.
Chapter Eleven
The day began sodden, and the wagons were stuck in muddy ruts. The rain hadn’t been heavy but unrelenting. It was tempting to stop, but Donald refused.
Lochlann worried about Katie. She had lost all her spark. She sat in forlorn despair like a rag doll on the bench. He at least managed to convince Donald not to bind her again, and she had rewarded that trust with good behavior. She acted civil to him now, rather than insulting, another small victory. His new wife could be quite sweet when she put her mind to it.
He had seethed in frustrated, simmering anger when his brother hit his wife. Lochlann wished he could stop it, but Donald had always outmatched him. His older brother always triumphed over him in sport or sword practice. Indeed, Donald always beat older cousins as they were growing up. No quarter given for the weak.
Their father encouraged this by rewarding Donald for his prowess. Though Calum MacCrimmon worked as a piper to the MacLeod, he was no wandering minstrel. The Great Highland bagpipe, or an phìob mhòr, was a war instrument, and the piper an honored member of the army. The piper led the troops to battle, sustained them through the fight with his martial music, and then marched them home from a victory. It took courage to stand on a chaotic battlefield with no sword or musket, though no Scot would dare to strike a piper in battle.
Lochlann could coax a tune from the massive, unwieldy instrument, but Donald had a true talent for the thing. He even composed his own music, a skill which fascinated and baffled his younger brother. Donald had been the golden child, and Lochlann would ever live in his shadow.
What would his father make of his new bride? He might like her fire and temper, as he certainly appreciated it in the mares. Or would this be a quality he didn’t appreciate in women?
His own mother had died of a fever when he had turned twelve. He remembered her in vague flashes, hair like spun gold in the sunlight, and a sweet, sad smile. Since his mother’s death, his father had grown farther from him in both deed and sympathy. Their arguments had increased in strength and frequency until the last one, about Lochlann settling down with a wife and a family and abandoning his mother’s Traveling ways.
Donald and Lochlann had left the previous August to travel with several mares, a gelding, and the magnificent stallion named Smúid. Named for the silver mist which hugged the mountains on Skye, the horse had been the prize of the year. He would fetch a fantastic price among the Irish, so they had taken a boat to the island, and wintered with several groups of Travelers.
The spring horse fair was always the best place to find a buyer for such a unique creature. An
d find a buyer they had—but they had come away with a bride rather than coin.
Interrupted from his reverie by his brother coughing, Lochlann decided Donald hadn’t been doing well most of the day. Lochlann had heard Donald retching that morning, but he had offered no sympathy to his brother. It wouldn’t be taken kindly but as a comment on weakness. Lochlann would never wish ill on his brother, but sometimes he delighted in heavenly justice.
Wiping a bit of spittle from his mouth, Donald turned to Lochlann. “We’ll stop at Kintraw tonight, then. It’s about an hour away.”
Lochlann nodded and turned to Katie, but she slept. She had wilted in the rain, slumped back against the wagon, her cape hood over her head. Was she snoring? He couldn’t tell with the jingle of the horse harness.
He shrugged. It might mean a dry bed for her, at least. Even Donald must concede a night at an inn would be better than this muck if he came down with an illness.
Kintraw wasn’t a large place, merely a stopping point for travelers, a coaching inn, a trading post and a cluster of farms. It stood at the head of Loch Craignish, a convenient enough spot for fishing trade and on one of the few main roads north.
“Katie? Katie are you awake? We’re stopping.” He gently shook her shoulder. She moaned, but finally peered up. Her eyes were red and swollen. She must have been crying again. His heart ached to comfort her, but earlier attempts had been violently rebuffed. He couldn’t blame her, not really. She wanted no part of this whole arrangement. If he wanted her to be his true partner, he’d have to tread slowly and gain her trust, like approaching a wild animal. He had no interest in a slave-wife. He dreamt of a willing mate, someone who would work beside him to make a life together. Someone to bear his children gladly, and be a home for him.
Lochlann sighed with his idealistic dreams. How many marriages were truly like that? His parents’ hadn’t been. A few of his neighbors were happy, but it must be rare. Still, he craved such luxury, and would work hard to get it. If Lochlann had skill at nothing else, he had patience.
He helped his bride into the warm inn. It appeared rickety, but a peat fire glowed in the hearth, and the savory smell of hearty lamb stew wafted by. Odors of stale beer and unwashed men weren’t as pleasant. He sought out a landlady.
“Have you two rooms for the night?”
A short, round woman with surprisingly dark skin and hair turned from the kitchen door. She nodded.
“Two shillings. Three.” She amended her total as Donald came in with his bags.
“I’m only asking for the two rooms, though.” Lochlann protested at the rate increase.
“You’ll be wanting three suppers, no?”
“No,” Donald answered. “I’m not hungry.” The woman stared at him a moment and shrugged.
“Fine, then. Two shillings. Top t’stairs, to the right and left.” She held out a soot-stained hand for her coins.
Once their bags were stowed, Lochlann brought Katie down for stew and ale. Donald remained in his room. He must really not be feeling well. Donald rarely missed a chance to eat. He’d best give his brother some time to heal.
“Katie? Katie, I think I must sleep with you tonight.”
Her head snapped up, and her eyes shifted back and forth like a caged creature.
“Not…not that way. Just in your room. I’ll make a pallet on the floor. I just… I think Donald’s ill and needs space. I don’t relish him throwing up on me in the middle of the night, at least.”
The panic faded from her eyes, and he even managed to coax a sound of…. laughter? Derision? Understanding? Whatever it was, it melted some of the ice in her manner.
“I suppose it should be fine. It’s not as if I have a worry about my reputation, after all. You are my… my husband.” The word choked out.
“Thank you, Katie. I won’t… I swear I will never force myself on you.”
She arched one eyebrow. “Never? Be careful what you promise, Lochlann.”
“Never. Until you invite me to your bed, I’ll not make you share… that.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And if I never invite you?”
“Well, then, I’ll be unrequited forever. But I like to think… maybe… I’ll not be such a horrible husband for all that.” He took her icy hand in his.
She stared at their hands on the table. She blinked a couple times. “And I promised that I’d try, Lochlann. I can promise nothing more than that. But I will try. You have been kind to me, and I treasure that.”
“It’s good enough for me, my… wife.” He whispered the last word.
The landlady came with two bowls of stew and a half loaf of crusty bread. Not fresh, but not moldy, either. He broke it in half and handed it to Katie. She tore off bits and dropped them into the stew to thicken it. Making no move to eat, she stared at her supper for several long moments. The peat shifted in the hearth, and a carriage passed on the street outside.
“If Éamonn comes for me—”
Throwing his hands up, Lochlann cried. “Éamonn again. Éamonn, Éamonn, Éamonn. What the hell am I supposed to do about the man, Katie? You’re my wife, not his. I don’t know what you two shared before, but your father assured me you were still a maid. You are, aren’t you? You didn’t give yourself to Éamonn?” He waited for her nervous nod. “Then what’s the problem? You’ll forget him soon enough. Love and pain fade with time, Katie. Learn it now, it will help you in the future.” He thought of the pain of his own mother’s death. “If he comes for you, you must send him away. There’s nothing for him here. If he tries anything… well, you’ve seen Donald fight. Do you want Éamonn to be killed?”
“Éamonn can fight, too!” Her eyes were pleading now.
“Aye, and well I know it! Remember the fight at the fair? That because I came too near to you in the dancing, and stepped on your toes. Well, I didn’t like how close you were to Ciaran and Éamonn, so I came over. I wanted to interrupt your little tryst. We’d already started talking to your Da about you, you see.”
Her head snapped up, and the fire returned to her eyes.
“So the conspiracy is that old, is it? You’re nothing but conniving, sneaky, meddling brigand! You’re no husband. You’re a slave master! You bought me. Well, you may have bought my body, but you’ll never get my heart. I’ll keep that locked away well and good from you forever!” She ran up the stairs and slammed the door to their room.
Lochlann sighed. That went about as poorly as it might have gone. He had no luck in dealing with women. They had an incredible talent for taking an innocent comment and twisting it into an unforgivable insult.
He finished his stew and went out to check on the horses in the stable. The horses weren’t high bred, but they were sturdy. He was glad to give them shelter for the night. The wagons were locked and parked behind the stable. With nothing left to do, he wandered up to the room. Opening the door slowly to keep from waking her if she slept, he tiptoed in. It smelled of old tallow and musty bedding.
Katie had disappeared.
The bed hadn’t been slept in. She hadn’t even sat on the bed. The covers were pristinely folded on one end. Her bag was gone.
Bloody hell. That foolish woman. What had she done?
He ran out to the street and looked in both directions. Surely it was long past time to catch a glimpse of her, but he must try. She’d be headed back the way they had come. He ran to the stable and hastily harnessed and saddled one of the mares.
“Sorry, Ceanndána. You’ll get rest soon, I promise. But first, we must find my wife.”
He burst out of the stables and galloped down the road, south towards Tarbert.
About twenty minutes later, he glimpsed her in the darkness. Her pale skirts peeked out from under her darker woolen cloak. She must have heard the horse, as she tried to hide in the bushes, but he stopped and dismounted.
“Katie! Katie, come on. You know this won’t work. Come out, Katie. I’m sorry I upset you earlier, but you must come back.”
He heard rustling and muf
fled cursing. She pushed her way through the bracken and heather. Blast the girl.
He pushed in after her, cursing in turn at the sharp branches which caught at his face and cloak. When he finally caught up with her, she was tangled in a hawthorn bush, trying to pull her skirts free from the thorns.
“Feck off, Lochlann MacCrimmon! I’ll not stay and be your wife. I need to live my own life, without you and your monster of a brother!”
He silently worked on extracting her garments from the clutches of the thorn bush. Branch by branch, he freed her.
When he finished, they stood, glaring at each other.
He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.
“I can’t, Lochlann. I can’t go with you.”
“And where else should you go? Your man is still back in Ireland, likely as not. You’ve no friends or family here but me and mine. Come, lass. Am I such a monster you’d rather starve on the moors than be my wife?”
She dropped her gaze, shamed. He took the opportunity to gently—ever so gently—take her arm in his. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as English gentry did. He pulled her back to the road, holding back branches so they wouldn’t snap back. She didn’t raise her face until they were back on the road.
When she did, Lochlann saw the tears running down her cheeks. He pulled her into his arms, and she sobbed on his shoulder. He wasn’t certain he could handle so volatile a woman, but he treasured the ability to comfort her.
He helped her mount behind him and headed to the inn.
Lochlann hoped Donald still slept in his room. He couldn’t imagine what his brother might do if he found Katie had escaped again. He prayed for it, and let it become a chant in time with the hoof beats. Let Donald be sleeping. Let Donald be sleeping. The refrain kept his mind occupied the entire trip back.
He led his wife back up the stairs toward the room they were sharing, gazing into the gloom in case his prayers were answered.
Donald stood at the top of the stairs. His brow was furrowed with rage.
“Donald, I just took Katie out to—”
Legacy of Luck Page 17