No Other Highlander

by Adrienne Basso

  A muffled whimper fell from Joan’s lips. She leapt to her feet and tossed her sewing on the chair. Then turning her back on the snickering Agnes, Joan hurried away, picking up speed with each step. She burst through the doors and into the bailey with a loud bang.

  The wind was bitter and sharp, but Joan felt numb as naught but the vision of Callum in Archibald’s clutches registered in her mind. Though it felt like hours, she reached the stables in but a few minutes, running as fast as her legs would carry her.

  Breathlessly, she stood in the doorway, her eyes squinting in the dim light. “Callum! Callum!”

  Silence.

  Joan moved forward, her eyes darting frantically from one stall to the next. It took a moment for her vision to adjust to the dim light, but all she saw was horses crowded in their berths.

  Joan swallowed hard, then closed her eyes. Callum was safe. ’Twas just another loathsome way fer Agnes to show her disdain and I fell fer it. Evil, conniving witch!

  Joan’s relief at discovering Agnes’s lie soon gave way to anger. The animosity between them was fast plummeting onto dangerous territory. She had thought the inevitable confrontation could wait until this matter with the McKennas and MacPhearsons was settled, but realized that this had put her at a disadvantage.

  A dull flush rose on her throat as she conceded that Agnes was winning the battle between them. The other woman had clearly identified Joan’s weaknesses and was pressing them to her full advantage.

  Well, two could play at that game.

  Joan had witnessed Agnes preening for the attention of the younger soldiers. ’Twas in all likelihood an innocent flirtation, but Laird Armstrong was a very jealous man. He would not take kindly to a wife who openly admired the face and form of another, younger man. A pointed remark within her father’s hearing would plant the seeds of jealousy. Then all she need do was wait for Agnes to cast her gaze at a few of the other Armstrong warriors and her father would quickly lose interest in the spiteful woman.

  Joan was so lost in her thoughts of revenge that she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. Suddenly, the heavy stable door slammed behind her, trapping Joan inside. Startled, she turned and came face-to-face with the last man she wanted to set eyes upon.

  “Joan.” He inclined his head regally.

  Warily, she did the same. “Archibald.”

  He stood unmoving, yet she was hardly fooled by his deceptive stillness. He could strike without warning, fast and hard. Joan’s mouth grew dry as she glanced at the door he blocked. ’Twas the only means of escape. As he was well aware.

  “I noticed ye running in here. Are ye waiting fer someone? Yer lover, perhaps?” he asked casually.

  Dear Lord. His possessive nature was as strong as ever, the jealousy he seemed unable to control ruling his actions. Joan’s wits scrambled. She couldn’t tell him the truth, fearing if she mentioned her son, Archibald would demand to see him.

  “I need to speak with Cook,” she said. “I was told that he was in here, but apparently I was misinformed.”

  Archibald raised a skeptical brow. “Cook? Why would a cook come to the stables?”

  Distressed at being caught in the lie, Joan lifted her chin, determined to brazen it out. “’Tis no concern of yers, Archibald.”

  “Consorting with lower servants these days, Joan?” He chuckled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked by such appalling behavior, yet I confess that I am.”

  Archibald’s tone was smooth, pleasant, the expression in his eyes curious. Joan marveled at how easily he fooled those who didn’t know his true nature. On the surface he was a handsome, gallant knight; inside he was a monster.

  Unexpectedly, she recalled the first time she had met him. The marriage contracts were drawn but unsigned. Fearing her parents might try to marry her off to an old man, she had refused to take her vows without first speaking with her intended.

  Her father had shouted, her mother had pleaded, but as always, in the end Joan was granted her wish. Archibald had waited for her in her mother’s solar and her first impression was of a tall, solid male, his body toned with muscles from years of wielding a heavy claymore.

  His flinty blue eyes had lit with appreciation when they fell upon her, his stern mouth softened into a smile. He had bowed elegantly and presented her with a nosegay of fresh wildflowers, tied with a fine white satin ribbon.

  She remembered preening under his obvious approval, coyly gazing up at him beneath her lashes as she accepted his gift. He had gently kissed her hand and she had blushed. His masterful presence intrigued her; his gallant manner delighted her. She had returned to her parents well pleased with the match, eager to become handsome Archibald’s bride.

  How very foolish and naive she had been.

  Archibald moved closer. He reached out and caught a section of hair that had come loose from her braid. Joan’s scalp stung painfully and her eyes welled with tears as he tried to use it to pull her toward him.

  Yet she refused to budge. Refused, also, to allow any emotions to cloud her expression, since experience had taught her never to show fear in front of him.

  “Let me pass. I am needed in the castle,” Joan announced, yanking her head. Stars burst behind her eyes at the extreme pain, but she was free of his grasp, even though she knew it was only an illusion. She could see the golden strands dangling from his large hand, a tinge of red blood at the roots. “Someone will come looking fer me if I dinnae return right away.”

  “Let them look.” Archibald shook his hand, tossing her hair onto the dirt floor. “We have much to discuss.”

  “It will have to wait fer another time.”

  “Nay.” Archibald scowled. “Though I am glad to be rid of ye, Joan, I find that I dinnae like the idea of another man rutting between yer legs, claiming what once belonged to me. If ye were willing to lift yer skirts fer a servant, then ye can do the same fer the man ye once called husband.”

  My God!

  Her stomach rolled and pitched and for a moment Joan thought she was going to be sick. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the wall, slashing over his face, revealing the demonic gleam in Archibald’s eyes. Yet she refused to stand there like a frightened, hunted rabbit, waiting to be attacked.

  She darted to her left. Archibald reached for her, but she was too fast. Joan leapt for the door. She was nearly there when he grabbed her shoulder with a strong, rough hand and spun her toward him.

  Frantic, Joan shoved against his chest. It made no difference. He tightened his grip, then bent his head and covered his mouth with hers. Joan heaved at the contact. He smelled of ale and sweat and danger.

  She tore her lips away and turned her head, prepared to sink her teeth into his shoulder, but she knew it would only perversely arouse him. Instead, she raked her nails down the side of his face until she saw streaks of blood.

  With a roar of pain, he thrust her away. She fell on her back, the breath knocked from her lungs. “Christ, ye’ve made me hard as a stone,” he said, fumbling with the ties on his braies. “I’ll take ye first, then beat ye after.”

  Joan shifted and crawled frantically across the dirt floor, scraping her hands and knees. Archibald reached for her, but she rolled away before he could pin her down. A scream built in her throat, but she held it back, knowing she would need every ounce of her strength.

  The door opened. Ripples of relief crawled up Joan’s spine at the distraction. Mayhap now she could escape.

  “Get the hell out!” Archibald yelled at the intruder.

  Not waiting to hear the stranger’s reply, Joan pulled herself to the open doorway. Her body tensed and instinctively recoiled when she felt a pair of strong hands close around her waist. Her panic grew when she gazed upward, seeing only a shadowed figure and the broad shoulders of a tall man.

  Was it friend or foe? Someone who would aid her or just as easily hand her over to Archibald?

  A few desperate seconds passed. Joan braced her hands on the ground, her body trembling. Then with a most u
nladylike grunt, she pushed herself to her feet. The hands around her waist tightened, steadying her when she rose. The moment she was on her feet, she pulled away.

  “What’s going on?” the stranger asked, reaching for his sword.

  “McKenna,” Archibald growled. “This has naught to do with ye. I was having a word with my wife.”

  “It looks like ye were doing far more than talking.” Malcolm looked toward Archibald, then back at her. “Are ye hurt?”

  “She’s fine,” Archibald insisted. “She tripped on the uneven ground. Poor Joan, she always was a clumsy lass.”

  Joan stared at him in disbelief. Did he honestly think she was going to deny his brutality?

  Archibald’s eyes narrowed, as if daring her to dispute his account. She opened her mouth to protest, but a shiver ripped through her. ’Twas shameful to be treated with such savagery. It made her feel small and insignificant and inexplicably as though she was somehow to blame. The need to conceal crept over Joan, clouding her judgment.

  “I was just leaving,” she muttered. Clutching the torn sleeve of her gown tightly around her, she glanced at Malcolm. “Please let me pass.”

  “Are ye certain that ye are unharmed?” Malcolm asked.

  “Aye.”

  Joan pulled in a deep breath, then another as she waited for his response. A part of her wanted him to ignore her denial and instead draw his sword and cut Archibald down, once and for all ending the possibility of torment from her former husband. Yet the shame of this mistreatment kept her silent.

  Malcolm’s hand remained on the hilt of his sword as his brow puckered in consternation. Archibald straightened his clothes, his stance deceptively casual. Joan knew he was skilled with both sword and dirk and not opposed to fighting dirty.

  There was no guarantee that a battle between the two warriors would result in the desired outcome of Archibald’s death. In truth, it could make things considerably worse.

  “Ye must allow me to accompany ye, Lady Joan,” Malcolm finally said, holding out his arm.

  For a moment she simply stared at it, unwilling to have physical contact with any male. But her choices were few. The easiest way to depart without a fuss was to accept Malcolm’s help. Again.

  She stiffened her back and allowed her hand to hover over Malcolm’s outstretched arm. Archibald growled low in his throat, but made no other protest.

  “We shall finish our discussion later, Joan,” Archibald called out as they left the stable.

  Over my dead body, Joan thought grimly. Or better still, over yers, Archibald Fraser.

  Chapter Seven

  Malcolm increased the length of his stride to keep pace with Joan as she hurried across the bailey. Once she finally gripped it, her hand never left his arm—in truth she clutched it so tightly her fingernails dug into his flesh. She kept her back straight and her head high. Many eyes followed them, but she avoided looking directly at anyone they passed.

  “I owe ye my thanks once again, Malcolm,” she said as they drew near the entrance to the great hall. “Ye seem to be making a habit out of rescuing me.”

  Malcolm cleared his throat. Her hair was in disarray, her lips bruised, the sleeve of her gown torn. He believed he had reached her before the worst had occurred, but there was no way to know for certain without asking.

  “Did Archibald . . . ?”

  “Attack me,” she answered. “Aye. But thanks to yer timely arrival he was unable to do any real harm.” Her jaw clenched. “Though it would have been far more helpful if ye could have come a bit sooner.”

  She lifted her chin in a stubborn, haughty manner. Malcolm was momentarily speechless. Christ, was the woman ever gracious about anything?

  He was just about to call her to task when he noticed she was biting her bottom lip so hard it drew blood.

  “Joan?”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted.

  “Ye’re crying,” he said softly.

  “I’m not!” She swiped at her tears angrily with her sleeve.

  Malcolm’s gaze locked with hers.

  “Why are ye always so kind to me?” she accused, fresh tears gathering in her eyes.

  “I dinnae know. ’Tis one of my greater faults, I believe.” He smiled gently.

  “Aye.” Her lovely eyes were now swimming in tears. “Ye must be sure to confess this grave sin the next time ye speak with a priest. I imagine ye’ll have to do a substantial penance to save yer immortal soul.”

  She tried to smile, but a sob broke free. Joan’s eyes widened in horror and she immediately put her fist in her mouth to stop it. Malcolm’s heart softened as he watched her valiantly try to conquer her emotions.

  She wore her fierceness and haughty manner like a suit of armor, showing the world a most formidable will. Yet beneath it he could see a frightened, vulnerable woman. Aye, there were times when she was arrogant and selfish, mayhap even manipulative, yet he realized there was far more to her character than his original opinion.

  Her temper was driven by her passionate, uncompromising spirit. He had believed that her beauty hid a cold, dark heart, but after seeing her with her son, Malcolm knew there was love and kindness within her soul. And she was clever enough to realize that it made her vulnerable.

  Her beauty blinded most men, her caustic tongue kept them at bay, and she used both to advantage, in order to survive. By what right could he find fault with that behavior? Nay, in truth, he was drawn to it, admired it.

  As he looked closely, Malcolm could see that she was still shaking. No doubt from shock.

  “Forgive me fer not arriving sooner,” he said sincerely. “Though of the two of ye, I’d say that Archibald looked the worse fer wear.”

  She let out a brittle laugh, reached up, and touched the back of her head. “’Tis good to know the bald spot on my scalp isn’t that noticeable.”

  Malcolm’s eyes followed her long, slender fingers. He saw streaks of bright red blood among the golden strands of her hair, and a darker red scab forming on her scalp. Obviously, the hair had been painfully pulled out by the roots.

  “Bloody hell! I should have drawn my sword and run it through his black heart.”

  “Nay. While nothing on earth would bring me a greater sense of peace than knowing Archibald had taken his last breath. And I’ve no doubt of yer fighting skills, but he’s too clever to let himself be drawn into an honorable fight. Against those odds, ye might not have been victorious.”

  “I’m touched that ye would show such tender feelings of concern fer me, Joan.” Malcolm grinned.

  She scowled. “Dinnae be daft! I am, as always, thinking of myself. If Archibald had defeated ye, I would be forced to carry the burden of yer death. ’Tis far too heavy a weight fer my conscience to bear.”

  Her barb fell short, for Malcolm saw right through her attempt to once again paint herself as cold and uncaring. Gently, he covered his hand over hers. “Ye must have a care never to be alone with him.”

  “I can assure ye that this meeting was not my choice,” Joan replied.

  “Ye went willingly?”

  “I was foolish, trapped by another’s lies.” She shook her head, making no effort to hide her disgust. “I’ll not be so easily duped again.”

  “Aye, this could have ended very badly,” Malcolm said, his mind swirling with various possibilities, all of them dire.

  The color drained from her cheeks. “I confess fer a moment I feared that he might kill me. But then I remembered that I am far too stubborn and proud to die at the hands of such a lowly worm.”

  She tossed her head as she said the last, her eyes suddenly blazing with defiance. “I must find my maid at once. Though it’s doubtful that Archibald has any interest in my son, Gertrude must go to Callum. I’ll not feel any ease until I am certain the lad is safe.”

  Her child. Of course. It was probably how Archibald lured her into meeting him.

  “I’ll see to the lad,” Malcolm volunteered.

  Joan’s face darkened. “What do ye
know of my son?”

  “I followed ye the other night. I know which house the child is being kept in. I assume ye are hiding him because of his father?”

  She nodded sharply. “Archibald has no conscience and no heart. He disowned Callum when our marriage ended and has no care fer him, but I dinnae want to tempt the fates and put the lad anywhere that Archibald would see him.”

  “A wise precaution. I can easily locate the house and ensure that all is as it should be.”

  Joan’s eyes filled with worry. “It will appear suspicious if ye are seen wandering the streets of the village. ’Tis best if Gertrude goes, but I thank ye sincerely fer the offer.” She sighed. “It seems that I am constantly finding myself in yer debt.”

  Malcolm could tell by her tone that she was not pleased by that fact, but she was clever enough to realize she could ill afford to turn down any help. “I’m not a man who would take advantage of a woman,” he said, trying to allay her fears.

  “I know.”

  Her reply surprised him, and his heart lightened to hear her opinion, though he was confused as to why her feelings about him mattered so much. Probably because of this mess with the MacPhearson lass, he told himself. There were just so many times a man could hear himself called a dishonorable rogue without it having an effect.

  “I would, however, be pleased to accept a small token of thanks from ye, Joan,” he said.

  “What sort of token?” she asked warily.

  He let his gaze drop to her lips. She stared back at him in confusion, then realizing what he meant, favored him with a stern glance of consternation. “I beg ye, Malcolm, dinnae go spoiling my rising regard fer ye by asking fer a kiss. ’Tis unseemly.”

  “Ye misunderstand me.” He laughed, a bit too loudly, cursing himself for making his desire so obvious. Cursing, too, that she seemed so opposed to the idea.

  She raised a skeptical brow. “Do I?”

  “Aye. I dinnae think of ye in that way.”

  “What way? Like a woman?”

  “Och, ye’re twisting my words, Joan.”

  “Ye dinnae find me desirable?”

  Malcolm swallowed a groan. “We both know there’s no possible way fer me to answer that question.”