by Amanda Scott
Wat turned. “Nae reason the noo tae do wi’oot light,” he observed cordially.
Mary Kate whimpered, trying to move away from him, but the heavy bench gave her no room to maneuver.
Paying no heed to her struggles, he searched the floor for a moment before he found his candle and the flint, but once he had them, the candle quickly flared to life. He used it to rekindle the others, then stuck it up beside them on another outcropping in the wall. Too soon the soft glow of candlelight lit the hut.
Wee Ranald stirred, so Mary Kate knew he was not dead, but he showed no sign of returning to consciousness soon enough to help her. Sick with terror, she watched as Wat kicked the door shut again and turned back toward her.
“We can bide our time the noo, lassie.”
He moved slowly, steadily toward her, savoring her fear. Then he was beside her, kneeling, pulling her toward him, shoving his hand back inside her bodice, all the while watching the changing expressions on her face.
She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the image of his fiendish countenance as he leered down at her.
He snickered, then pinched her breast.
She cried out, her eyes flying open again.
“That’s a guid lassie. Ye wouldna wish tae miss any o’ the frolicking, would ye?” He bent nearer, pushing his face right against hers, growling, “Ye wouldna give us a kiss afore, but I’ll wager ye’ll be fidging fain tae do it the noo.”
She pulled back, trying to press herself down into the floor, but he held her, forcing his rough lips against hers. Scrunching her eyes shut again, she gagged, overwhelmed by the smell of his filthy body combined with the taste of raw whiskey on his stale breath. Struggling again, trying desperately to twist her mouth away from his, she soon discovered that her efforts only amused him. He was hurting her now, bruising her lips, trying to force his tongue between her teeth, and she could hear him chuckling, enjoying what he was doing, reveling in her terror. The pain in her arms reached screaming pitch, but she dared not open her mouth to let the scream escape.
The only warning she had of what came next was the whisper of a footfall and a low snarl of rage before Wat’s body suddenly went rigid and what had begun as another chuckle ended in a liquid gurgle as he was wrenched away from her. She found herself looking up in stupefied disbelief at her husband.
Douglas wore breeks and boots and his heavy leather jacket, and he was fully armed. Reading his expression was difficult in the dim candlelight, but though his attitude was one of tightly reined emotion, she could not think he looked overjoyed to see her. He wiped his dirk on the dead man’s shirt and shoved it back into his boot top. It looked to her as though a few drops of sweat must have run into his eyes, for he dragged his sleeve impatiently across them before he knelt beside her. Without a word, he began to untie the thong at her ankles.
There was another sound, and a shadow loomed behind him.
“Adam, look out!”
Douglas moved like a cat, turning, coming to his feet, and unsheathing the slim Italian sword at his side in one smooth, nearly effortless motion.
Wee Ranald lumbered groggily toward him from the corner, a long dagger gripped tightly in his upraised hand.
Douglas waited for him, sizing him up, and Mary Kate held her breath. The two men were nearly the same height, but Wee Ranald easily outweighed Douglas, and the way he shook his sore head slowly from side to side made him look like a bear at a baiting, just waiting for his prey to be released. Douglas moved lightly on his feet, circling to get as much of the light as he could behind him, watching the other man with narrowed, hawklike eyes. Suddenly Wee Ranald lunged, but Douglas was ready. He parried the dagger thrust deftly, slid his own blade under, and then it was over. A look of pained astonishment crossed Wee Ranald’s face as he crumpled, lifeless, to the floor.
Ned Lumsden, sword drawn, stood in the doorway. “The others are searching the woods,” he said now. “I thought you might need some help.”
Douglas nodded, sheathing his sword as Ned bent to examine Wee Ranald’s body.
Mary Kate watched Ned. “Is he dead?” When the youth nodded, she turned toward her husband. “Oh, Adam, he tried to protect me from that awful man.”
“Then better he should die quickly now than have to wait for the hangman,” he muttered, kneeling again to deal with her bonds.
Another body blocked the door, and Mary Kate recognized Willie Jardine. His eyes grew large as he took in the scene, making her more conscious than ever of her loosened bodice.
“Be the mistress safe, master?”
“She’ll do,” Douglas replied curtly. “Fetch a couple of the others in here to deal with this vermin, lad, and see you keep your eyes skinned.”
“Aye.” Willie moved away, and Ned followed him.
Mary Kate could see that the darkness outside was melting away. Soon it would be daybreak. Circulation returned abruptly when the thong around her ankles was released, and she could not repress a gasp of agony.
Douglas glanced at her sharply, his expression momentarily reflecting her pain, but he made no comment, tossing the thong into a corner and moving next to free her wrists. The pain resulting from this simple act was tortuous, augmented as it was by severe cramps in her arms. Tears flooded her eyes when she tried to move. Pressing his lips together, Douglas rubbed her arms and hands briskly, determinedly ignoring the moans of protest she was unable to suppress. When his hooded gaze shifted briefly and pointedly, she thought, to her open bodice, she made a weak effort to cover herself, only to have him push her hands away and yank the laces together so tightly as to leave her gasping. He tied them with angry, snapping movements.
“Can you stand?” His voice was harsh.
She tried but swayed, feeling nothing in her feet but pins and needles.
Jaw clenched, he scooped her up into his arms just as Willie returned, followed by two other men.
“Anything, lads?” Douglas demanded.
“Naught,” replied Willie briefly.
“Nary hide nor horse,” said one of the others, clearly thinking a more detailed response was called for. “Looks like this pair was the only ones left, master.”
“Whistle up the others, then, Willie. We’ll be off.” Douglas stooped, carrying her easily, and stepped outside into the gray dawn twilight. One of the men gave a piercing, shrieking whistle, and horsemen emerged from the forest on all sides of the clearing. There seemed to Mary Kate to be a great number of them until they gathered together. Then she realized they were Douglas’s own men, no more than the twenty who had ridden with them and with their baggage.
She knew he was in a hurry, and there was corresponding urgency in her voice when she said, close to his ear, “Adam, I cannot ride back without first attending to a certain matter.”
“Aye?” His tone was even, wiped clean of emotion.
She looked at him pleadingly, embarrassment tinging her cheeks with color, before he attended to her closely enough to comprehend her meaning. The touch of amusement in his eyes then gave her a sudden, though brief, sense of relief. Still carrying her, he stepped quickly into the woods behind the hut before setting her on her feet.
“Can you manage alone?”
“Aye,” she replied firmly, determined to do so if it killed her. He turned his back, and although there was still a good deal of pain, she managed, feeling only relief when she limped back to his side. He made no attempt to pick her up again, nor did he hurry her. The moon still hung over the trees when they reentered the clearing, but its light had faded with approaching dawn. When a figure separated itself from the group of horsemen, she recognized Ned, leading his mount and Valiant toward them.
“Shall I help, sir?” He was looking at Mary Kate, worry written plainly on his usually cheerful face. “Perhaps you would allow me to hand her up to you once you’ve mounted.”
“She’ll do,” Douglas replied abruptly. Ordering Valiant to stand, he lifted her onto the saddlebow. The great stallion trembled when he
r skirts whisked across his shoulder and flank, but otherwise he stood motionless. Because of her pain, she still had too little control of her limbs to attempt sitting astride, so she had to trust her balance while Douglas swung up behind her. When he put his arm around her to grasp the reins, she settled back gratefully against his chest, held there securely by his other arm.
“Where is Sesi?” she asked hesitantly.
“You didn’t expect them to leave a valuable piece of horseflesh behind, did you?”
She fell silent with shock. The cursed reivers had stolen her beautiful little mare. The tears started again, spilled over, and rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, Adam, I’m so sorry.”
“Not half so sorry as you will be when I’ve done with you,” he said quietly. “’Tis my sworn duty to protect you, lass, but ’tis a thing I cannot do when you persist in disobeying me. This is not the place or time to discuss the matter, however. We will talk later.” He turned slightly, signaling his weary men, and they were off.
Mary Kate wanted to tell him that this time she hadn’t disobeyed him, that she hadn’t been running away, that she had intended to make her apology as he had ordered her to do. But she was certain he would not believe her, and she didn’t know what else to say to him, so the long, slow ride back to Strachan Court was a silent one. One moment she wished he would speak, the next she was glad he did not.
She was certain that his anger back in the bourock had not all been directed at her, for she had seen pain in his eyes, and she knew he had been concerned about her safety. But that concern seemed only to have augmented the anger caused by his belief that she had run away again. Even if she could convince him that she had not done so, it would do no good, for she had gone alone when clearly she needed an escort. And of course, there was still the small matter of her apology to Megan.
Arriving at Strachan Court a short time after the dinner hour, they rode straight into the forecourt, and Mary Kate sighed as Douglas swung down and held out his hands to lift her to the ground. At least, she thought, all this painful business would soon be done, and maybe then they could move on to happier times, for she would certainly exert every effort not to tangle with Lady Somerville again.
She wondered if Douglas would lecture her first. She hoped he would not. His lectures tended to stir her volatile temper, and the last thing she wanted to do now was to fight with him. As he set her on her feet, she looked up at him, trying to gauge the extent of his displeasure with her. But he waited only to be sure that she could stand alone before releasing her and waving his men on to the stables. Ned went with the others, leading Valiant.
“Come along, lass.” When she hesitated, suddenly incapable of walking meekly to her doom, he put a strong arm around her shoulders, implacably urging her past the topiary chessmen, up the broad steps to the entrance. He reached to open the door, but the handle eluded his grasp when Lord Strachan himself pulled the door wide.
“Welcome home, daughter!” he boomed. “Are ye safe, then?”
“Aye, sir. They did me no harm.” She smiled uncertainly at him when he stepped aside to let them pass into the hall.
“I want a word with you, Adam,” he said more quietly.
Douglas nodded, shepherding Mary Kate inexorably across the hall to the great stair. “As soon as I attend to one small, unpleasant duty, sir, I am yours to command.”
Strachan said evenly, “I would speak with you now, my son.”
Continuing up the stairs, his hand now grasping her upper arm, Douglas spoke curtly over his shoulder. “I have business with my wife that will not wait, Father. When I have dealt with her as she deserves, I shall—”
“Adam.” The single sharp word froze Douglas in midstride, and the coldly ominous tone in which it was uttered banished forever any thought Mary Kate had retained of Lord Strachan as no more than a kindly, bluff, occasionally blustery but harmless old gentleman. Douglas’s grip tightened upon her arm, bruising her, but she was certain that he was unaware of what he was doing, certain, too, that the hand holding her trembled. Although his lordship had uttered but the one word and had not raised his voice, he had reminded them both in no uncertain terms that he was the master at Strachan Court.
Mary Kate glanced up at her husband.
Douglas’s face was pale. He turned slowly on the stair to look down at his father.
“You forget yourself, sir,” Strachan said in that same frigid tone. “Or have you grown so great with power that you now dare to defy your father in his own house?”
“No, my lord,” Douglas said, subdued. “I crave your pardon. I will come at once.” He looked down at his awestruck wife, gaining control over himself with visible difficulty. “Wait for me in your bedchamber, Mary Kate.”
Strachan cut in smoothly before she could respond, “Her ladyship has been anxious about your safety, daughter. Go to her at once, if you please, and put her mind at ease. Adam will find you in her sitting room as quick as in your bedchamber.”
Mary Kate glanced doubtfully at her husband.
His jaw was rigid with anger at having his direct order to her countermanded, but childhood training stood the test, and he held his tongue. He was her husband, and thus her lord and master, but in this house, he was first his father’s son and, as such, owed him strict obedience. Slightly mollified by the fact that she was looking to him for confirmation of his father’s command, Douglas nodded briefly.
Dropping a hasty curtsy to his lordship, who still waited at the bottom of the steps for his orders to be obeyed, she turned and fled gratefully up the stairs. As she neared the top, she heard Douglas begin to speak, his voice carrying easily up the stairwell—as easily, she realized now, as hers had carried down to him the day before.
“Father…my lord, forgive me. I was in a temper. I—”
“Your emotions are of no interest whatever to me, sir,” Strachan interrupted, still speaking in that chilling tone. “I have much to say to you, but we will speak in my bookroom.”
With that unencouraging statement ringing in her ears, Mary Kate reached the window hall, but before she had taken two steps toward the sitting room, she realized that she could not meet Lady Strachan and no doubt Lady Somerville, too, with her skirts crushed beneath her safeguard, her hair in a tangle, and her face undoubtedly filthy. So, hurrying to her bedchamber instead, she sent for Annie Jardine.
Annie was delighted to see her safe, and full of curiosity, as well, but she had thought to bring a manchet loaf, a wedge of soft cheese, and a mug of ale, so Mary Kate willingly obliged her with a brief tale while devouring the welcome food. When she had washed her face and hands and changed her gown, Annie would have continued the conversation while brushing her hair, but Mary Kate cut her short.
“I am safe home now,” she said, “and I do not wish to speak further of the incident.”
Annie took the mild reproof without offense and fell silent. If she wondered where Douglas was now or how her mistress had come to be riding out alone of a Sunday and at the dinner hour, at that, she wisely kept such questions to herself.
For Mary Kate to see her domineering husband reduced to the status of a naughty schoolboy had been a unique experience, but she wondered now how the scene she had just witnessed, augmented by whatever was taking place this very moment in his lordship’s bookroom, would affect Douglas’s temper. She doubted it would be improved.
Lady Strachan was occupied with her endless needlework and Megan was reading to her from one of Lord Strachan’s books when Mary Kate entered the sitting room a quarter-hour later. She curtsied to the older woman, avoiding Megan’s curious gaze.
“Welcome home, my dear,” Lady Strachan said with her quiet dignity. “We are grateful to have you safely restored to us.”
“Thank you, my lady. I apologize if I gave you cause for distress.”
“It would be odd indeed if you had not, Mary Kate,” Megan interjected sweetly. “Whatever possessed you to run away like you did?”
“I did not run awa
y,” Mary Kate began hotly, promptly forgetting all the resolutions she had made regarding Douglas’s cousin. “I only went for a ride to blow away my headache. I could scarcely help being abducted.”
Megan looked only too ready to debate the matter, but Lady Strachan intervened smoothly. “I knew it must have been some such thing, my dear, though surely you know better than to ride out alone in these days of unrest, without a proper armed escort. However, I’ll warrant my son has said all there is to say on that subject, so I shall not belabor it.”
“Thank you,” Mary Kate replied sincerely. Douglas had not mentioned that particular point yet, but she had no doubt that he would say a great deal about it soon enough.
“Do you take up your embroidery, my dear,” suggested Lady Strachan. “’Tis there upon the chest behind you. Stitching will make things feel normal again if you sit here quietly with us for a time. Megan does not like doing needlework, you know, but she has a beautiful voice for reading aloud, and I know you will enjoy Mr. Chaucer’s tales, though there are many who disapprove of them. Continue, Megan dear.”
Megan picked up her book and Mary Kate her workbasket, and except for the melodic cadence of the older girl’s voice, there was no other sound until the door from the window hall opened and a gillie stepped into the room.
“If it please your ladyship,” he said respectfully, bowing to Lady Strachan, “his lordship would speak wi’ Lady Douglas in his bookroom.”
Mary Kate tensed involuntarily at his words but laid her needlework aside and excused herself. Lady Strachan nodded, smiling encouragement, but her kindness didn’t help, nor did Megan’s feline smirk, fleeting though it was. Having seen Douglas’s reaction to his father’s displeasure, she could not wonder at the fact that her heart was pounding in her chest by the time she reached the bookroom. The door stood ajar.