by Laura Landon
He glared at the English woman as if by looks alone he could strike her down. Her reaction was to steel her shoulders and ask her question another time. This time in Gaelic.
Duncan cocked one eyebrow. “I am.” He answered in English.
“You are familiar with Ian MacIntyre, laird of Kilgern Castle?”
“I am.”
“Can you tell me where he is?” Her question was almost a demand.
Duncan took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow. He could only guess the identity of this beautiful woman. Ian had talked of nothing else but his smiling English wife with flaxen hair and eyes as blue and fathomless as the North Sea. His description had not begun to do her justice.
“Nay. I came in search of the Ferguson medallion which is rightfully mine. I had hoped Ian would be back from the fighting, but the minute I crossed the border onto MacIntyre land, Bolton’s men took me captive. I have graced your dungeon too long, milady, and when next I see your husband, I will be sure to tell him I was not pleased with the hospitality in his absence.”
She twisted her hands again in the folds of her gown and Duncan was impressed with the wifely concern he sensed in her.
“When did you last see Ian?”
“I have na seen him since the fighting at Dryburgh.”
“Is he still alive?”
He wished to God he knew. “I canna swear to it.” Duncan noticed a reaction. He detected a catch in her breathing before she twisted her hands in the folds of her gown. “How long has the bastard Englishman been here?” he asked.
“His men stormed the keep five days past. There were too many to defend against. The earl is searching for the crown.”
“Aye.”
Long, dark lashes closed over her blue eyes for a moment before she spoke. “Are you a friend of Ian’s?”
“Aye. As close as brothers and more. I owe him my life.”
She gave a short nod before she spoke. “On behalf of the laird of clan MacIntyre, I beg to ask a favor on that debt. I have need of your—”
The cell door flung open and William Bolton burst into the room. He hesitated only long enough to glance at Crites’ crumpled body on the floor, then lift his deadly gaze to the woman. Two men, mammoth in size and armed with ready swords followed close on his heels.
“Alas, my lady,” Bolton said, clenching his hands into white-knuckled fists. “Again you cause me concern. I do not look kindly upon anyone murdering my servants.”
Bolton studied the lady with a menacing glare. A glare that made Duncan’s stomach turn in revolt. “Step away from the Scot.” She stepped back and he made a wide circle around the pole to which Duncan was bound. “I could scarce believe the news that you had left your comfortable chamber to come visit the cold dungeon.”
Duncan took note of Bolton’s hands. The left still clenched into a fist at his side while the right caressed the hilt of his whip. Duncan’s heart beat at the base of his throat in warning. The Englishman was on the verge of madness and Duncan feared what he would do.
The lady must have sensed it too, for she tucked her hands deeper into the folds of her skirt and took a step nearer his side as if it were possible for him to protect her. Duncan twisted his bound hands, praying for a miracle. But there was none.
“Three nights past I thought my steward was mistaken when he said you were seen sneaking back to your room. Then, we captured the Ferguson. I didn’t think there was any significance to his appearance and your disappearance. Until now.” Bolton gripped the handle of his whip and released it from the notch on his belt. “Could it be that you sneaked out of the keep to meet in private with our brave laird?”
Bolton held out the handle of his whip and lifted Lady MacIntyre’s chin. “Could it be that while your husband is fighting to protect his home from the dreaded English, you, my dear lady, are so lonesome that you warm the neighboring laird’s bed?”
Duncan pulled at his hands behind his back, struggling to release the leather straps. A low growl came from the back of his throat as anger raged within him.
In contrast, Lady MacIntyre slowly raised her hand and pushed the hilt of the whip away from her face. “You are disgusting, my lord. I am ashamed to call you English.”
A blue vein popped out on Bolton’s neck and the muscles in his jaw worked frantically. “Why are you here to see the prisoner, my lady?”
“I am merely curious, my lord. I heard talk from the servants and came to see if what they said was true.”
“And what talk did you hear?”
“Nothing you would wish to hear, my lord.”
“What talk!”
With a slight shrug of her shoulders, the lady lifted her chin and faced the earl. “It’s rumored that no matter how harshly the mighty Earl of Rivershorn tortures the Ferguson, the English lord is not man enough to bring the lowly Scot to his knees.”
Bright flashes of warning went off in Duncan’s head. By the saints! What was the woman doing? It was one thing to possess spunk, but such a reckless display of her bravery could get them both killed. Ian had described his wife as meek and demure. Duncan prayed to see a glimmer of either of those qualities.
With a lift of her chin, Lady MacIntyre turned her back to the earl and walked toward the door. Duncan held his breath, wishing her to safety. The two guards took a step together to block her exit.
“I wish to leave, my lord. You have no right to keep me.”
“I have every right, my lady. Forgive me if I am in error, but there is naught you can do about it. Now,” Bolton said, forcing Lady MacIntyre to step back. “Why did you come here?”
She took a step closer to Duncan. “I told you. I was curious.”
“And your curiosity is the reason Crites is lying lifeless on the ground? I think not, my lady.” Bolton fingered his whip, running the hard leather thong over his palm. “I think you and the Scot are lovers and you came to the dungeon to set him free.”
“And I think you are a fool, my lord.”
The whip in Bolton’s hand slashed through the air, making a mark across Duncan’s chest. It missed Lady MacIntyre by a breath.
“Do you know what else I think, my lady?” Bolton paced the small room, letting the strap run through his fingers. “I think perhaps you have the Bishop’s Crown.”
She lifted her shoulders in a taunting gesture. “You are right, my lord. As you can see, I am wearing it.”
Bolton grabbed the lady’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. “I am not the fool you think, my lady. Maybe you don’t have the crown, but perhaps you can be used to persuade your Scot lover to tell me where it is.”
She pushed his hand away, and Bolton raised his fist as if to strike her.
Duncan went wild. “Nay! I tell you. I do na know where it is!” He pulled against his bonds with as much strength as he could find.
As if Lady MacIntyre realized the danger, she stepped closer, pressing her back against his chest. He felt her stiff form against him, but she at least was wise enough to hold her tongue.
“I do na have the crown, Bolton.” Duncan’s voice roared in the confines of the small cell. “I do na know where it is.”
“Lies! After the crown was stolen by the Scots, it was given to the Ferguson priest. We found him on his way back from Kilgern Castle, but he would confess nothing before he died. Since the crown was not at Lochmore Castle, it has to be here. Either you or Lady MacIntyre have hidden it.”
Duncan looked down on the lady. The impassive expression on her face told him nothing. Only her slight trembling as she leaned against him gave evidence of her fear. “Milady?”
Her face lifted at his soft word. He tried to read the look in her eyes. Confusion? Indecision? Fear? Was she searching for an answer? Duncan had one ready. “Give him the crown, lass.”
“Would you give him the crown, my lord?” She spoke in Gaelic.
“I would rather die first, but I am Scot. You are English. Give him the crown.”
Dark
, thick lashes rested on her flushed cheeks, then she breathed a shaky sigh. She turned to face Bolton. “I would have a kiss first from my Scot.”
Duncan stiffened.
Bolton roared a vile oath, then cracked his whip in the air. “Bloody hell! The wench is in danger of losing her life and she begs for a kiss from her lover.”
Bolton’s hand twisted on the hilt of his whip as if he couldn’t wait to flay flesh and spill blood with its crack. “By all means, my lady. You may kiss your lusty Scot. And then I will have my crown.”
She slowly turned until their gazes locked. Duncan’s voice was little more than a whisper, heard by no one but her. “Nay, my lady.”
She whispered back. “Yes.” She stood on her toes to kiss him.
Dear God, he couldn’t return her kiss. She was another man’s wife. A man he loved like a brother; a man he owed his life.
He turned his face away from her.
Her fingers gently touched his cheek, forcing his gaze to return to her face. The pleading in her eyes more than he could bear. “A kiss, my Scot. I beg you.”
Duncan hesitated, then lowered his head and covered her mouth. She reached for him. It was as if once their lips touched he was helpless to deny her. Later he would get on his knees and beg God’s forgiveness for his sin, but all he wanted at this moment was to touch her and feel her mouth under his.
His mouth opened and she parted her lips beneath his. She wound one arm around his neck and the other trailed a path to his bound wrists. Her touch burned his flesh; set him ablaze.
He ground his lips against her, wanting more of her, but the feel of warm metal being pressed into the palm of his hand cooled his senses. He stilled, his lips still caressing hers; his mouth drinking from her sweetness.
Duncan clasped the metal in his fist and rubbed his thumb over the embellishment. He could feel the raised span of an eagle’s wings and the three small stones blazing the crown atop the eagle’s head.
The Ferguson medallion.
Somehow she had taken it from Bolton. The crest his ancestors had fought and given their lives to protect. If he died today, it would be with the Ferguson medallion touching his flesh.
Duncan lifted his face to gaze into her eyes. “Thank you, milady.” She raised her hand and cupped his cheek in her palm. His face was rough with three days’ growth, but she caressed his flesh as if she’d touched him often. As if to touch him was of importance to her.
“God protect,” she whispered in Gaelic. “I have failed.”
“’Twas naught you could do.”
She took a deep breath then turned to face Bolton.
“I would have my crown now, Lady MacIntyre.” Bolton stepped forward and held out his hands as if the lady could miraculously make the object appear and place it in his grasp. Her words stopped him short.
“You will not get your crown from me, my lord.”
“No!” Bolton erupted in a rage beyond any Duncan had yet witnessed. His face turned a mottled red while a dozen or more bluish veins popped out over his neck and forehead. With a viselike grip he clamped his hand around her arm and threw her to the ground at Duncan’s feet. The knife she had concealed in her hand fell to the floor, and Bolton kicked it out of her reach.
Duncan realized a fear greater than any he’d experienced on the battlefield. At least in battle he’d had the free use of his hands and could move toward or away from the enemy. Here he was helpless, unable to protect the mistress from Bolton’s insane rage.
“Milady.” Duncan spoke in a loud clear voice and focused his gaze on the woman kneeling at his feet. “You have not failed. Only your death would mean failure. You will not be blamed for giving up the crown.”
She looked up at him, her deep blue eyes filled with pain and torment. Duncan silently pleaded with her to abandon her attempt to save the Bishop’s Crown.
“I cannot.”
“I will have the crown! It’s here and I will have it, or you, my lady, will wish to hell you had never deceived me so.” Bolton raised his hand and the leather strap cut through the air with a snap.
Her shoulders jerked and Duncan heard her gasp. He watched in horror as a long red stripe stained a frayed tear across her back. “Give him the crown, milady.” Duncan struggled at the straps that bound him to the pole until he felt warm blood trickle down his fingers from the cuts around his wrists. What in God’s name was she doing? “There is no need to do this, lass. Give him the crown.”
She hung her head and moved it from side to side.
Bolton muttered a vile curse, then issued an order to his guards. “Tie her. Against the wall.”
Duncan fought against the straps that bound him. “Nay!” Dear God, he prayed, don’t let him do this.
One of Bolton’s men picked her up and pushed her against the wall while the other secured her wrists. When finished, they both stood back.
“I want the crown, my lady.”
Duncan raised his eyes to heaven, imploring God to help him. “Give him the crown, milady. I beg of you. Give him the crown.”
Her voice was small yet firm; her words in Gaelic so Bolton would not understand; her meaning a cut through his heart. “I am no more able to give him the crown than you are.”
His heart flew to his throat as he focused his gaze on the small figure. She’d closed her eyes and stood with her cheek pressed against the cold, damp stone wall. When the first snap of the whip cut through the air, her body jerked and a tiny gasp echoed in the cell.
Duncan fought to get loose with all his might. Violent waves of anger crashed against his ears. His head spun in black confusion. Again and again he bellowed for Bolton to stop, but his demands went unanswered. With unerring accuracy, the whip snapped, flaying her flesh until her gown was soaked with blood.
“My lord! My lord! Hurry. We must leave.”
Bolton’s steward burst into the cell and the earl flicked his wrist for the final time. “What now, Garret?”
“Ferguson’s men. They’ve crossed the stream and are almost to the top of the ridge.”
“Have my men get ready. We’ll fight them here.”
“It’s too late. The men are already leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Yes, my lord. The Fergusons have not come alone. There’s a huge army behind them. We must leave now or there will be no chance to escape.”
Bolton gave a vile curse, then fled the small cell, his steward and the two guards in his wake.
Duncan dropped his head back against the rough pole and let his chest heave as he struggled to fill his body with air. He worried not that his own body was bloody and bruised. He cared only for the brave lady who had kissed his lips and caressed his cheek.
He wrapped his fingers around the metal in his fist and held it tight. William Bolton would die. ‘Twas a vow he made to God on his honor as a Scot.
Chapter 2
“Holy Mother of God!”
Malcolm MacInnes of clan Ferguson burst through the cell opening with sword drawn and dagger ready. Gregor and Balfour flanked him, one on either side. The sight of them together with the Ferguson plaid over their left shoulders was a vision Duncan had waited to behold.
For more than an hour he had pushed away the darkness his mind wished to consume him and stared at the limp figure hanging from straps on the wall while he waited for his clansmen to reach them. He had welcomed the soft moans she’d made at first. At least he knew she still lived. But there had been no sound from her still body for a long time now.
Malcolm and Gregor rushed to cut their laird from the pole, then supported him when he leaned against them. Balfour went to Lady MacIntyre but stopped, not certain how best to free her.
“Do na touch her.” Duncan stood with the help of the two men, thankful they were both more than average in size. There were not many he’d trust to support his massive bulk. “I will take her.”
“You do na have the strength to hold yourself, Duncan Ferguson,” Malcolm scolded. “I’ve been
at your right hand for all this time. Let me do your bidding here, too.”
“Not in this. No one will hold her, save me.”
Malcolm nodded to his laird, then stood at Duncan’s side where he had been for ten years and more as Balfour cut the straps holding her.
Lady MacIntyre crumpled into Duncan’s arms and he held her slight form to his chest. He felt a soft whisper of air from her lips when he rested her head under his chin.
“Please, my lord. Do not leave me… in the dark. Not… in the dark.” The sigh she uttered against his neck was weak, but it was all Duncan needed to hear. She was still alive.
“Nay, milady. I will na leave you in the dark.”
Blood still ran down his arms and the open slashes on his chest and back burned like the fires of hell, but Malcolm’s steadying hand was there to support him.
“Is she still breathing?” Malcolm’s question was sincere. By looking at her it was impossible to tell for sure.
“Aye. She will na die. I will na let her.”
Duncan looked down on her and a gnarled hand twisted his heart in his chest. None of the lashes had touched her face. He didn’t think he could stand knowing her beauty had been marred because of him. “Gregor, find Angus. Have him bring his salves with him.”
The young clansman nodded, then ran to do his laird’s bidding.
Twice on their way from the dungeon, Duncan staggered, and twice more he halted to catch his breath. Sweat ran down his face, stinging the cuts above and below his eyes, but still he climbed one step after another until they were out of the darkness of the dungeon. Neither Malcolm nor Balfour offered to take the English woman from their laird’s arms. They knew it would be of no use.
When they reached the great hall of Kilgern Castle, a large number of MacIntyre serfs and clansmen rushed to see to their mistress. Loud, muffled cries of dismay echoed in the large hall as the women dabbed at their eyes and held their hands to their faces. The few men still at the castle, mostly the old and feeble, hung their heads, ashamed they’d been unable to protect their laird’s wife.
Only one woman, an English woman by her dress, probably the mistress’s handmaiden, braved to go near her lady. Without a word, she glanced at the woman in his arms, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, ran ahead of the Ferguson to lead the way to her lady’s chamber.