by Amanda Scott
Still grasping Sesi’s rein, the leader swung down from his horse and held up his hands to lift Mary Kate down from her saddle. When his hands left her waist, one of them, as if by accident, caressed her breast. Angrily, she lifted her chin high and turned away from him, pretending to watch the others dismount. With a snort of amusement he shouted at Wee Ranald and another man to investigate the bourock to be sure it was “comfortable.” Then he turned back to her and said, “Not that it will meet wi’ yer ain high standard, lassie, but it will ha’ tae do till the Douglas cooms tae claim ye.” He squinted when she made no response.
She had not spoken since their initial exchange, but when several of the men behind them burst into laughter at some jest or other, startling her, a flicker of fear revealed itself in her hazel eyes.
“The lads willna harm ye, lass,” the leader assured her again, cheerfully. “Like I said afore, whatever their instinct be fer lust, they ha’ a mickle clear notion o’ the Douglas temper and me own as weel. Ye’ll serve me purpose best undamaged since Douglas is like tae demand yer safe return afore he’ll set our ain lads free. We’ll ha’ our gelt first, o’ course, but we can trust his word fer the rest.”
Mary Kate pushed away the lingering fear that Douglas might not come for her. He had to come. Once he knew the reivers had her, he would find her. Disquietingly, another thought pressed itself upon her mind, that it might be better for her in the long run if they did harm her. Just a very little, of course—enough to mitigate Douglas’s inevitable wrath. She did not think the fact that they had frightened her witless would weigh with him. In fact, he was more likely to regard that as the one positive note, in the whole affair.
Drawing another long breath, she looked her chief captor squarely in the eye. “Does he know where I am?” Her voice was clear and steady, that of a lady of breeding, that of a Douglas or a MacPherson. Under the circumstances she was pardonably pleased with herself.
The bandit leader nodded toward the stone hut. “Get ye inside, lass. He kens the noo that we ha’ ye, but he’ll no be told where ye be till we fetch our ransom from him on the morrow.”
She stared at him, aghast. “Not until morning?”
“We want him tae stew a wee while, so he’ll do as he’s bid.”
“What if he will not?” To ask the question took nearly all the courage she had left, but she forced herself to make clear to him that such a possibility existed. “He will be angry with me for leaving as I did, for it is neither my usual custom to ride unescorted nor his to permit it.”
The man looked her up and down in a way that made her feel exposed from head to toe, and his leering grin made her wish once more for the courage to slap him. “He will play, lass. Now, in ye go.” He stood aside with mock gallantry, and she passed by him to enter the hut.
Inside, it was dry, but that was all that could be said to its advantage, for the dirt floor had not been swept for a long time, and there was no sign of recent habitation. A rickety table stood under the only window, which was no more than a hole in the wall where a few stones had been left out. The only other piece of furniture was a narrow but solid bench near the blackened fireplace. There was no hearth or hood, just a black space—no chimney, either—and Mary Kate, conscious of a distinct chill in the air, was glad they had not provided a fire for her comfort. The smoke would no doubt have asphyxiated her.
The bandit chief glanced around and crooked an eyebrow at the place before bellowing at Wee Ranald to bring the lass some warm blankets. He then produced a pair of leather thongs from his jerkin.
“’Tis sorry I be fer this, lass,” he said. “’Tis a mortal shame tae hobble sae bonny a wench, but ’tis yer bonniness demands it. Twa o’ me lads’ll stay behind, and I canna trust ’em inside wi’ ye on sae cold a night. Nor can I trust ye tae stay put on yer ain account.”
She did not protest. The thought that he might otherwise leave the men alone with her in the hut without benefit of his protection, such as it was, was enough to stifle any notion of rebellion. That he intended to leave two of them behind was terrifying enough, even if they did remain outside.
Standing docilely beside the heavy bench while he bound her wrists behind her, she then sat down upon it while he tied her ankles and looped the end of the thong through a hole in the base of the bench, knotting it there so that she was anchored to the heavy piece. He had allowed only enough slack so that she could, when she grew cold or tired of sitting, lie down on the blankets that Wee Ranald dumped haphazardly on the floor by her feet.
A few moments later she heard the sound of retreating hoofbeats before silence wrapped the hut. The interior was gloomy. With the door open it had not been so bad, but with it closed the light from the tiny window was barely enough by which to see. The fact that she had not been gagged told her that the bandits had no fear of her being overheard if she called for help. Not to mention, she thought unhappily, that the two men outside would come in if they heard her.
She was soon stiff from sitting on the narrow bench, but she forced herself to stay there as long as possible, believing that somehow it would be worse on the floor, more humiliating if not more uncomfortable. She could retain some of her dignity while she sat, none lying down. Finally, however, even wriggling and shrugging could no longer loosen tired, aching muscles. She could bear her discomfort no longer and slid to the floor, welcoming the softness of the blankets beneath her.
By experimenting, she discovered that she could sit up but could not lean against the bench except sideways, and that position felt far from secure. Heavy as the piece was, it was also narrow and felt when she leaned against it as though it would fall over. Because of the way her feet were tied, she couldn’t lean against the wall, either, unless she could drag the bench with her. She tried, but it was no use. The base merely dug into the dirt floor and stuck.
She could not sit for long, but she hunched up her knees by scooting on her backside and was able at least to lean over them. The stretch of her back muscles felt wonderful for the moment. But as time passed, slowly, the task of finding a comfortable position became more and more difficult.
She had no wish to dwell upon either her discomfort or her fears, but whenever she tried to think of anything else, she thought of Megan, safely back at Strachan Court, using her beautiful face, exquisite figure, and melodious—nay, purring—voice to beguile Douglas. Such thoughts as these only served to make her blood boil. And when she thought of Douglas, she saw him allowing, even encouraging Megan, basking in the warmth of her approval, savoring her wit, praising her intelligence, her generosity—panting, in fact, after the bitch. No, she decided, she could not think about that either. She wondered what time it was and decided it must be near suppertime, for she was starving. Supper? Remembering then that she had not even had her dinner, she wondered if they would feed her.
Their approach was heralded only by a ponderous footstep and the click of the latch, but the sounds were enough to alert Mary Kate sharply to their presence. The door swung open and a hulking figure filled the opening. Wee Ranald seemed to bend nearly double to enter the hut, followed by another man carrying a rough torch and a pair of candles.
“Uncle Rupe said ye wouldna be wantin’ any supper, me lady, but we ha’ brung ye some, any gate,” Wee Ranald said in his sluggish voice. He carried a tin bowl and a manchet loaf, which he set down on the bench before bending to untie her hands.
“Ye munna loose her, lad,” the other man said gruffly, regarding Mary Kate with hungry eyes, despite her rumpled appearance.
“Dinna be daft, Wat,” pronounced Wee Ranald carefully. “She canna eat wi’ her hands tied ahind ’er.”
Shrugging, Wat lit his candles, then dropped the spark-dripping torch to the floor and stamped it out. He stuck the candles into their own melted wax on jags in the stone wall and then turned to gaze more closely upon Mary Kate.
Wee Ranald released her hands, then watched anxiously until she had rubbed feeling back into them before he handed her the tin bowl and the
bread. The stuff in the bowl was a watery stew, but it tasted good enough when she scooped bits of meat from the broth with the bread. The man called Wat continued to stare yearningly at her while she ate, making her skin crawl, but she ignored him, and when she had finished, she glanced up speculatively at Wee Ranald.
“If you please,” she said coolly, “I should like to go outside for a few moments.”
“I canna allow ye tae go ootside, me lady.”
“But I must,” she insisted pointedly. He started to protest, but then Wat chuckled and Wee Ranald took her meaning at last. Mary Kate could not be sure in the dim light, but she thought the great hulking creature blushed. He said nothing more, however, merely untying her feet and accompanying her wordlessly outside. By the time they reached the woods nearest the bourock, most of the numbness was gone from her feet, and she turned to him, saying firmly, “I require privacy.”
He hesitated, but then, taking in her small figure next to his own huge one, he nodded.
She moved quickly away from him. Her business was rather urgent, but it didn’t take long, and she suddenly realized she was free. Moving carefully, trying not to reveal her position, she began to weave her way as quickly as she could away from him, away from the clearing.
He called out to her to hurry, but she dared not respond. A moment later he called again, his tone more anxious. Then she heard him shout for Wat, and she threw caution to the wind, wanting only to put as much distance as possible between herself and the two ruffians.
Unfortunately, it was dark and she had no idea where she was or what direction would best serve her purpose. She did know, however, that she was making too much noise, and when she heard Wat’s gruff voice behind her, she decided to go to ground and hope for the best. Accordingly, she dived behind the nearest tree and crawled into the dense shrubbery there, trying to ignore the twigs and branches that clawed at her back and skirts. Hearing another shout, closer than the last, she went still.
Footsteps crunched through the undergrowth, approaching nearer and nearer to her hiding place. She heard Wat cursing Wee Ranald for his stupidity in letting her out of his sight and promising, if they failed to find her, to tell his uncle what had transpired. Then suddenly, she saw a glow of light through the trees and realized that Wat had lit another torch. She tried to burrow further into the shrubbery, but it was no use. A moment later he loomed over her, grinning in satisfaction.
“Here she be, lad!” he barked triumphantly, adding in a harsher tone, “Coom out o’ there, lass. I trow, we’ll ha’ tae see ye no do that again.”
Mary Kate grimaced, but she could see no point in defying him, so she emerged slowly from the shrubbery. As she stood up and attempted to brush some of the twigs and leaves from her skirts, Wat grabbed her arm and thrust her roughly ahead of him, back toward the bourock. They met Wee Ranald in the clearing, and he followed them to the hut.
Wat shoved her inside, then jerked her around to face him, keeping a firm grip on her arm. “Ye should ha’ known better than tae vex me, lass. Ye’ll ha’ tae mak’ me happy again the noo.”
Mary Kate stared at him in dismay, but Wee Ranald spoke up more quickly than usual. “Uncle Rupe said we was tae leave her be, Wat. Ye canna harm her, he said.”
“Och, we’ll no harm her, laddie, but she mun pay a sma’ penance—just a wee kiss the noo, tae repay us fer the fright she gave us. Would ye no like tae kiss the bonnie wee lassie?”
Biting her lip, Mary Kate shook her head vehemently.
Wee Ranald hesitated.
“We wouldna hurt the lassie,” Wat insisted, pressing this small advantage. “She owes us a mite fer our trouble.”
“No!” Mary Kate cried, trying to pull free of his grip on her upper arm. “Let me go!” With her free hand, she dug her sharp nails into his knuckles where he held her arm.
He yelped, freeing her, but a quick blow from his other fist caught her on the side of the head and sent her spinning into a heap on the floor. Wat plunged after her. “By God’s breath, ye’ll gi’e us sport then, Rupe or nae Rupe. He isna here the noo, is he?” He grabbed the front of her gown, tearing it when he jerked her toward himself, only to howl again in pain when Wee Ranald buried both huge hands in his thick hair and yanked.
Mary Kate scrambled away as soon as Wat snatched his hands from her bodice to defend his own head.
Wee Ranald hauled the man to his feet, still by the hair. “Ye willna harm the lassie,” he said stubbornly. “Uncle Rupe said the Douglas’ll no want damaged goods. Now, gae ootside wi’ ye.” He pushed Wat toward the door, and Wat went whether he wished to do so or not. Rubbing his sore head, he shot a malevolent look back over his shoulder at Mary Kate.
When Wat had gone, Wee Ranald moved toward her purposefully, but she made no attempt to evade him and sat stoically while he tied her hands and feet again. “Ye shouldna ha’ vexed him,” he said heavily. “Certes, but he was in the right aboot that.”
He snuffed the candles, and a moment later Mary Kate was alone again in the heavy, silent darkness. She let the tears come at last, but they did not flow for long. She scarcely had time enough to wonder what sort of spiders inhabited long-deserted bourocks before exhaustion caught up with her at last and she drifted into uneasy sleep.
When she awoke again it was still dark. Her eyes were sticky with sleep, and strands of hair stuck to her face. She tried unsuccessfully to blow one tickling wisp away from her nose. Her hands and feet were numb, but she decided the awful aching in her arms was what had wakened her. She was also cold, but the slightest movement hurt her, so she stayed where she was, on her side, trying to wiggle her fingers and toes. Eventually, they began to tingle, but that brought only more pain. She stopped, thinking she had heard a noise. There was nothing. Even the breeze was still.
She could see stars through the tiny window. There was a silver glow, too, that told her the moon was up, but scarcely any light penetrated to the interior of the hut. She no longer tried to push away the vision of her husband. The fear of his temper had faded, replaced by a longing so strong it seemed tactile. She didn’t care any longer how angry he was with her; she just wanted him to find her.
She had been a stupid, jealous wife. Yes, jealous, she admitted now. How silly to keep pretending that her hostility toward Megan stemmed from anything more profound. Why had she not seen the truth before, she wondered, when she could recognize her true feelings so clearly now? She knew now that she had always cared much more about Douglas than she had wanted to admit, even to herself.
Not that it mattered any longer, she told herself bitterly, for even if he had loved her before—and there was no good reason to think that he had, despite the warmth of his smile and the gentle touch of his hands upon her body—he wouldn’t love her now. He would be furious with her, again. But she deserved it this time, for he had been right. She ought to have listened to him for once and been more generous, more tolerant, even though Megan had been everything she had thought her to be and more. She realized dismally that since he would think she had run away rather than make her apology to Megan, he would most likely make good his promise to punish her again. Oh, why, she asked herself, had she ever left her bedchamber?
A sudden noise outside the bourock put an end to her musing, and she went perfectly still, hoping fervently that she was mistaken. But then, distinctly, came the sound of a pebble, loosened, rattling against other pebbles—a footstep. Her stomach tightened with fear, and she strained her ears, listening for the slightest sound. Even so, she barely heard the latch before the door swung slowly open, spilling moonlight across the floor. She held her breath when the light was blocked by a man’s body. The door swung shut again. Then there came the stealthy scratch of flint against steel, and a candle flared into life, lighting Wat’s leering face. Mary Kate screamed.
15
WAT FLUNG HIMSELF UPON her, smacking his open palm against her mouth. “Hush yer gab!” he hissed.
Mary Kate cried out again, but the sound was mu
ffled beneath his hand.
“I told ye tae hush.” He slapped her hard, making her ears ring, then got a firmer grip over her mouth, nearly suffocating her. The candle had fallen over when he lunged, and it guttered now, plunging them back into blackness. Mary Kate struggled, but there was little she could do to protect herself against him. He put his mouth against her ear. “I’ll leave ye go, lass, but only gin ye cease yer screechin’. Mak’ a sound and I’ll throttle ye. D’ye tak’ m’ meaning’?”
She nodded, knowing he meant every word, and gulped in huge breaths of air when he released her. “Why are you here?” she whispered when she could speak. She knew the answer, but believing time to be her only ally, she hoped to get him talking.
“Ye ken weel why,” he said briefly, reaching for her bodice. She felt his fingers groping for the lacing. “Need light,” he muttered. “Like tae see what I’m aboot.”
“Please,” Mary Kate said, as cold air touched her bare skin. “Don’t do this.”
He forced his hand through the opening he had made and pawed roughly at her breast. When she gasped with shock, he grunted, “Sae nesh ye be, lassie, but methinks we best be getting on wi’ the business.” He reached for the hem of her skirt, and she began to struggle again, twisting and turning in an effort to roll away from him, ignoring the pain that knifed through her arms with each movement she made.
Just as Wat forced her back and wrenched her skirt up, the door flew open and a huge figure erupted into the room accompanied by a flood of moonlight that lit the scene with an eerie, haunting glow.
Fairly snarling in his rage, Wee Ranald hurled himself at Wat, jerking him up, away from Mary Kate, and flinging him aside. “Leave her be!” he bellowed, advancing upon him again.
This time Wat was better prepared. As the young giant reached to haul him to his feet, the shadow of Wat’s fist, delineated by a halo of gleaming moonlight, flashed up from the floor in a silver arc that ended with a resounding crack upon the point of Wee Ranald’s chin, sending him crashing back against the corner behind the door. Striking his head against the stone wall with a sickening thud, the lad slid to the floor in an unnatural heap. Wat followed and heaved a kick into his ribs as a final gesture, but Wee Ranald made no sound, neither did he move.