“Don’t you dare defile her!” Clara screamed, starting for Eve and the stranger, but she was abruptly stopped with a hand to her shoulder by one of the other men.
The stranger in front of Eve did not spare a glance for Clara. Fear and anger knotted inside her as he yanked up the sleeve of Eve’s gown and set his forefinger to the small, half-moon birthmark on her wrist. He thought of his own mark on his wrist, which he’d long ago seared into his skin himself. The branding had been meant to match the one that his brother and his closest friends, the Circle of Renegades, which included King Robert, all bore. His lips tugged into a smile as his gaze met hers. “I had a moment of doubt that ye were really Lady Decres, though it is unlikely that there is another lass with eyes the color of summer heather and hair the color of flames in the place the bard sang of. I’m a thorough man, however…” He shrugged as he traced her birthmark once more. “Eyes like heather, hair like flames, and marked on her wrist, my father told me.”
She jerked her hand out of his grasp and glared at him. “What do you want with me?” It was hopeless to deny her identity now.
He raised his fingers to her face and when she pulled away, his hand snaked around her neck and stilled her. Her blood rushed in her ears as his fingers tightened around her neck. “What do I want with ye?” he murmured, looking thoughtful as if he were truly contemplating her question. “I want yer castle. And so, lass, I will take ye and wed ye.”
She sucked in a sharp breath as panic rioted within her.
“Dunnae be scairt, Lady Decres,” he said, his tone low and lethal. “If ye always do as I bid, ye will please me and yer life will be well.”
“And if I don’t?” she asked, though she knew the answer. Men just like this one were the reason Clara had hidden Eve away in the first place.
“Dunnae make me clip yer wings, little bird. It will surely hurt.” With that, he released her to his men. “Bring her.”
“What do ye mean Thomas and Allisdair are nae here?” Grant demanded of his cousin as he and Ross stormed into the great hall passing the clanspeople lined up to the right to make requests and complaints of the laird as was customary every Sunday.
Bryden, who’d been sitting in the laird’s chair at the dais fulfilling the duties of the Fraser laird in Simon’s absence, looked warily between Grant and Ross. They probably looked as exhausted as they felt. They had ridden hard and fast for a sennight from London to Dithorn, stopping only to steal a few hours of rest. Simon’s death had plagued him in the short times he should have been resting, so that his respite was fitful. Combining that with taking on the added burden of carrying his captive, Laird MacDougall, before him on his horse, Grant felt he would soon drop like a stone released from a great height, fast and hard.
The numbing weariness was well worth it to obtain vengeance for Simon, of course, but Grant was so tired now his lids felt heavy, his eyes burned, and his vision had taken on a blurriness that he could not blink away. Still, rest would have to wait. At least he did not have to think about MacDougall at the moment. He had handed off the laird to one of the guards the minute they had ridden into the courtyard at Dithorn. The devil should now be sitting in the Thief’s Hole.
Besides a guard unlocking the door to the cave, the only way out of the stone hole that was used to house those who’d killed a member of the clan was to jump from the open side of the cave, and that jump only led to death. It was more than a 200-foot drop to the rocks and rough sea below, and no man had ever made the jump and lived to tell of it. If MacDougall chose to end his life in that manner, then so be it. It would bring further shame to the man’s legacy than what he had already heaped upon himself by being careless and getting himself captured and six of his guards killed. Ross and Grant had followed the men after they’d left the pub and had taken them by surprise the next night when MacDougall had made camp. It had been easy, for the man and his warriors were too certain of themselves.
Grant blew out a long breath, shoving his thoughts of MacDougall aside. He motioned to the clanspeople who were still lined up in the great hall to make complaints or ask a request, as was the weekly custom. “Leave us,” he said.
“Where is Laird Fraser?” one of the clansmen shouted.
The typically unremarkable question was like a dagger in Grant’s heart. His throat immediately tightened. He had to tell the clan, but not before he told his brother, sister, and cousin. He motioned to one of the men standing nearest the exit. “Gather the clan in the courtyard. I will be there before the nooning meal to speak with everyone.”
The man frowned. “What of our requests and complaints?”
Grant’s head throbbed with the effort not to get choked up. “I’ll hear them after the nooning meal. All of you—” he swept a hand to the people in line “—may return then. I have pressing business right now.”
The clansmen nodded and began to file out, accustomed to Grant giving orders to them from the time Simon had been absent when he’d been a spy at the English court. They likely assumed Simon was on another mission. Grief rose in him as it did every day, coming in waves like the ocean. Sometimes they were high, sometimes low, yet there always.
“Cousin,” Bryden protested, “I can finish listening to our people after the nooning meal.”
“Nay, ’tis my duty,” Grant said, as it was when Simon was absent and now forever. Desolation was the beat of his heart.
Bryden scowled. “Aye, but ye clearly need rest. Ye look—”
“Hold yer tongue,” Grant snapped, irritated that Bryden would announce to the clan how tired he appeared. Lairds could never show weakness, for the minute they did, an enemy would take advantage. And like it or not, he was now laird. Grant had been taught to always show a strong face by his father, and it had been reinforced by Simon.
“I am nae ever too tired to do my duties,” he assured his clanspeople as they moved slowly toward the door to exit the great hall. Once Grant, Bryden, and Ross were alone in the great hall, Grant turned to Bryden to express his irritation.
“I’m sorry,” Bryden said before Grant could get a word out. “I spoke out of concern for ye. It’s clear by yer and Ross’s faces that ye are both exhausted, but I should have held my tongue.”
“Aye,” Grant said, “ye should have. But realizing yer mistake and admitting it is sufficient.”
Bryden’s shoulders sagged. Grant’s cousin was a good man, just a young and impetuous one. Grant remembered being impetuous himself not long ago, before his strain with Simon when he’d thought Simon a traitor. Grant’s life had become fully about duty to his clan after that. It was a heavy weight to carry but not one he had begrudged. The weight felt heavier now, as well it should. It was his own damn failure to rescue Simon that was the reason he now stood here as laird. Simon should be here. Simon should be laird. In this moment, Grant hated himself, yet he could not even allow self-disgust or pity to linger. Too many people counted on him to keep them safe. He could never again afford to be impetuous or even think of himself. His life was about duty and responsibility to the clan.
And now it was about vengeance, as well.
Ross met his gaze. “Grant—”
“Aye, I ken yer concern for yer brother,” he interrupted. He was just as concerned about Thomas’s whereabouts. The two lads were impetuous alone, but together, they were trouble. Still, he’d not thought his brother would defy King Robert’s command to return to safety. God only knew what scheme the two may have hatched and where it may have led them. Or at least he hoped it was just the two of them getting delayed. The Frasers had many enemies, and what if…?
“The lads did nae arrive here?” he asked again, arching his eyebrows at his cousin. He wanted to make sure he had the details correct before he sent out a search party.
“Nay, Cousin. We’ve nae seen Thomas since he rode out after ye and Simon. Speaking of Simon… Where is he?”
Grant’s throat constricted as he tried to speak. He had to swallow, and when his tongue still would not form the dreade
d words, he stalked to the dais, poured a mug of mead, and swiftly gulped it down. He set the mug down with a thud and turned back to Bryden. “He’s dead,” he finally managed to force out, rage burning in him as Simon’s face appeared in his mind.
“Dead?” a choked cry came from the door.
Grant stifled a curse as he turned to see his sister, Esme, standing in the entrance to the great hall. Tears welled in her blue eyes, but she swiped them away, defiance of her own weakness apparent on her face. Hurt for his sister, and all the loss they’d endured, streaked through him. “Esme—”
“Nay!” she said, holding up a hand as he started toward her. “I dunnae need sympathy any more than Bryden does.”
That was not true, but Grant would not embarrass her by arguing the point. His fair and fragile sister liked to consider herself a warrior, but he’d learned long ago the importance of protecting those he loved, even if from themselves.
“What happened?” Bryden asked, sounding oddly detached, which Grant knew had to be from shock.
Grant glanced toward Esme, not wanting her to hear the gruesome details. “Esme—”
“I wish to ken it, too,” she cut in, her tone defensive but her words laced with emotion.
Sighing, Grant jerked a hand through his hair in frustration. If he denied her request, he knew she’d be embarrassed and hurt. She had enough to endure today without one more lecture from him on why a lass should wear a gown and not hear the tale of how her brother lost his head. Grant’s chest squeezed, but he forced out the words, “So be it,” and then quickly relayed the MacDougall clan’s betrayal. “I brought the MacDougall here to lure his son to us. Then we can serve them the justice they deserve. Meanwhile, it will send a message to our enemies.”
“Let us kill him now!” Esme clumsily withdrew the sword that had once been their mother’s.
He shook his head at her, eyeing the sword with the same regret he always felt when he saw it. Their mother had died because Grant had secretly taught her how to wield that very sword, despite knowing his father would not like it. And she’d become overly confident when she should not have been. He’d thought to destroy the damnable sword after her death, but Esme had begged him to let her have it, and he’d finally agreed with the strict orders that no one ever teach her how to wield it. He’d thought having their mother’s great cumbersome sword would show Esme that she was not meant to be a warrior, but to his everlasting frustration, it had made her all the more determined.
“Nay,” Grant said. “Sheathe yer sword, Esme. Ye’ll nae have a part in this. I want ye overseeing the kitchens as Simon told ye before we left.” When she opened her mouth to no doubt protest, he glared her into silence and then spoke. “I want the MacDougall dead more than any man or woman,” he added for Esme’s sake. “But first we will use him to get his son, as well. When we are done with the MacDougall clan, there will nae be a clan left to oppose King Robert or betray Scotland—or us—again.”
“Let me be the one to guard the MacDougall,” Bryden offered.
Grant shook his head. “Nay. I want ye to take a party of men out to search for Thomas and Allisdair immediately after I tell the clan of Simon.”
“I’ll go on the search as well,” Ross said.
Grant nodded, not surprised that Ross had spoken up. Ross was as close to his brothers as Grant was to his. He stilled. He could not lose Thomas. His family, his blood was being taken from him all too soon. He had to protect Esme and Thomas, and his cousin. “Ye two take a small party and search the roads from the woods to Tyndrum. And be careful. If ye are spotted by the English…”
“Our heads will likely end up beside Simon’s,” Ross finished.
Grant nodded, already thinking where he would search. He’d scour the woods and the lands from his borders to those of all his enemies around him, but he’d have to do it by day. If Aros came to rescue his father, Grant had little doubt the man would try to storm the castle by night. It had always been that way, though it was a foolish decision. The cliffs to Dithorn were steep, and night provided little visibility, though it did offer cover.
“Leave at daylight,” he said, glancing first to Ross and then Bryden. “Cousin, have one of the upstairs servants show Ross to a bedchamber so he can get some rest before ye depart.” He started past them toward the door, but stopped at Esme, giving her a fierce hug. She tremored in his arms for a moment, then pushed away.
“I have work to do,” she said, her voice a shaky whisper.
He nodded, understanding as Esme rushed from the room. Later, he would go to her. Now, he realized, she needed to be alone. She was in shock, and she would not allow herself to break down in front of any of them. Once Esme had fled, Grant turned to leave as well.
“Grant!” Ross called. “Where are ye going?”
“To start the search for our brothers,” he replied not turning back. “I’ll be back in time to speak with the clan in the courtyard.”
“Ye need rest, as well,” Ross shouted to Grant’s back.
Grant raised a hand in farewell. “Lairds rest when they’re dead,” he said, smiling to himself as he recalled Simon and their father telling him the same thing many times. He was laird now, and he had much to live up to. He would not disappoint his father and brother.
Chapter Five
When the flap of Eve’s tent was thrown open and the man who’d told her his name was Aros loomed in the doorway, Eve cursed herself for the fear that shot through her and caused gooseflesh to cover her body. They had ridden for four days, stopping only to water the horses and allow them brief periods of rest, but Eve had not been untied at all during that time until moments ago.
She was so sore that she could barely stand, but she jumped to her feet now and scuttled backward to put distance between her and the Highlander, who had not spoken more than two words to her since he had taken her. Her fingers fluttered to her wrists where the tightly tied ropes had cut deep into her skin. Without a word, Aros stalked into the tent. His gaze swept over her and then lingered on her wrists for a moment before he strode to her and yanked her hands up to look at her wounds.
With a curse, he released her hands, stomped out of the tent, and shouted, “Bring Tyrion to me.”
The flap of the tent was flung back once more, and Aros stalked back in and pointed to the ground where a pallet had been placed for her. “Sit. I’m certain ye must be exhausted, and we have two more nights before we reach the Highlands. My father will wish us wed that night.”
Eve did not move. Instead, she inhaled a long breath and folded her hands in front of her. “I will not wed you.”
“Ye will,” he replied. He sounded so sure about it that fear trickled through her.
“I won’t,” she repeated. “I will never wed you and grant you control of my castle.”
Eyes as dark as obsidian narrowed on her. He opened his mouth, but a voice came from outside of the tent before he could speak.
“Aros, ye called for me?”
“Enter,” Aros commanded, his tone cold.
The warrior who had tied her wrists entered the chamber and stopped in front of Aros. “Ye’ve need of me?” the man, Tyrion, asked, a hint of wariness in his voice.
“Aye,” Aros replied, motioning at Eve. “If ye ever tie her wrists so tightly that the ropes injure her again, I’ll cut off yer hands. Do ye ken me?” The man flinched but nodded, and Aros waved a dismissive hand. “Leave us.” As Tyrion departed, Aros moved close to Eve and took hold of her chin in a viselike grip. “As my wife, ye will be protected.”
She shuddered that his first response would be to maim the man. Never would she bind herself to such a person. Eve swallowed. “As your wife, I would be caged and ruled by you.”
“Everyone is controlled by someone, Lady Decres.”
Her parents had been partners in governing her father’s castle. Eve knew it was unusual, but that was what she had hoped to have one day. “Well, you will not control me, because I will never wed you. Not this
night, nor any other.”
“Then we will wed in the day,” Aros said with a mocking smile, “or we will both face my father’s wrath.”
Eve tensed, but she was saved responding by a man calling from outside the tent. “Aros! Ye’re needed at once.”
Aros frowned and started for the exit. When he reached the flap, he turned toward her. “Sleep, little bird. We ride early tomorrow for our destinies. And ye can rest easy kenning a guard is outside of yer tent.”
The flap fluttered closed behind him, and Eve moved toward it to listen. Several voices talked urgently and all at once, but they were too far away for her to make out the words. Sighing, she scanned the tent, contemplating if she could somehow escape from another side of it, but when she moved to the back and lifted an edge, dismay coiled in her stomach. Men guarded her tent from all sides.
Hopelessness threatened to overwhelm her, possibly as much as her weariness did. She lowered herself to the ground and hugged her knees to her chest. She needed sleep. Her mind would be clearer with it. Clara had always said a proper rest cured much.
Oh, Clara.
Eve’s throat constricted with remorse that the last words she’d said to Clara were harsh ones. Yes, she had lied to Eve, but she could now see why, even if the woman was wrong about Uncle Frederick. Clara had simply feared for her.
Lying on her back, Eve squeezed her eyes shut, as warm tears seeped out and rolled across the sides of her temples. In the morning, she would have a clearer head, and she would escape.
“Get up!”
The shouted command jerked Eve from sleep. Hands clutched her arms, and she was dragged to her feet before her vision had even focused. Early-morning light and cool air hit her at once, making her squint and shiver as she was pushed through the tent flap and into the day.
“Please!” came a boy’s cry.
Eve blinked and focused on the scene coming rapidly close to her as she was propelled forward by the guard who’d awoken her. Aros stood in the center of the MacDougall camp brandishing a whip. Two ragged boys, not yet men but no longer children, kneeled before him. They did not wail, but one hissed in pain and the other moaned when he moved. Eve’s heart squeezed in her chest and outrage filled her breast. She instinctively reached for her sword, only to remember it had been taken from her. Aros’s whip whistled through the air to crack against the back of one of the boys. He yelped so loud that a moan escaped Eve. When she was pushed closer to Aros and the boys, and she saw their bloody backs, nausea roiled her stomach.
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