My Wild Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

"Search her for weapons!" the stranger ordered.

  "Fingall, how could you do this? You traitor!"

  Lying on her stomach on the floor where he'd lowered her, she struggled against him, but he pinned her legs between his and held her hands behind her back. Next, he removed the daggers from her cloak pockets.

  "Bastard! Stop!"

  The stranger threw a blanket over her head, making everything dark. No! She must free herself. When Fingall levered himself off her, she twisted, turned and kicked. But the men were quicker and stronger. They rolled her up in the blanket in only moments, black, tight and suffocating. She screamed, attempting to thrust her arms and legs out, but the wool blanket held tight.

  She gasped for breath in the tight space. Calm. Breathe.Think!

  One at her head and one at her feet, the two men picked her up and carried her, she knew not where. The only sounds were their footfalls and a closing door or screech of metal now and then. They transported her, head first, down steep steps, bumping her against stone walls. The blanket loosened a bit and she slipped her hand into the secret pocket in her skirts where she had hidden the dagger Rebbie had gifted her with. Grâce à Dieu. The jeweled hilt slid into her hand. Her one comfort.

  Why did no one stop these bastards from carrying her out of the castle? Surely the guards at the gates would come to her rescue.

  "Help me! It is me, Angelique!"

  Her hip slammed into a wall and pain shot through her. The giant bastard had done that purposefully. A loud clang sounded. The gates?

  "Guards! Help me!"

  The two knaves dropped her on the ground, jarring all the bones in her body. Ignoring the pain, she rolled, trying to escape the blanket. Her head came out. The hulking stranger approached two horses, while Fingall relieved himself near the low bushes. Where am I? She glanced back to see a small iron gate…the exit of the secret passages. She jumped to her feet and ran.

  "Grab her! She's getting away!"

  A moment later, Fingall snagged her skirts and yanked her back. She fell, her hands sliding over rocks. One smooth river stone fit her hand perfectly. When she was close enough, she smashed it against Fingall's head. He yelped.

  "Imbecile!" Kormad's man shoved Fingall away and yanked Angelique's arms up behind her back. He breathed against her ear and ground himself against her derriere. "If that damned Frenchman didn't want you so bad, I'd take you right here. So don't tempt me. I like a wench with some fight in her."

  Frenchman? Mon Dieu, he meant Girard. The bastard would show her no mercy. If it came to that, she prayed her death would be swift and painless.

  "Keep your mouth shut or I'll cram something in it you won't like so much." Her captor kicked a pile of horse dung to get his meaning across. She tried again to wrest herself away from him, but he was too strong. He bound her hands behind her back, tied her feet and threw her over the horse.

  She forced herself to breathe normally, and think of a plan.

  "Fingall, are you coming?" he yelled.

  "Aye."

  She still had her dagger. If they released her hands, she could use it. And if Rebbie and Dirk had failed in their mission to rescue Lachlan, she would rescue him herself.

  ***

  "Good work, Fingall," said a man behind Angelique.

  She turned. Kormad's full black beard and evil dark eyes froze her bones.

  The men had removed her from the horse and untied her. She now stood before the unholy entrance to Burnglen. All was gray, the heavily overcast sky, the stones making up the castle and its courtyard.

  "Where is my husband?" she asked, placing a strong bite in her tone.

  Kormad laughed and swept his hand toward the door. "You shall see soon enough. Welcome to Burnglen."

  Dare she walk into such an evil abode, one she might never escape? Inside the hidden pocket in the folds of her skirts, she fingered the jewels on the hilt of her dagger, instead of her rosary beads, and whispered a prayer for strength and protection. With the right grip and stab, she could kill a man, if she didn't hit a bone. Her distant male cousin in France had taught her well.

  Her first instinct was to attack Kormad, but he wore leather armor studded all over with metal. She had not the strength to stab her blade through that. Besides, the bailey teamed with armed guards.

  "Take her inside," Kormad ordered the tall man who'd brought her.

  "No!" she yelled.

  He picked her up, flung her over his shoulder and carried her up the steps. Her stomach ached from his hard shoulder slamming against it, and nausea. What tragedy awaited her within these walls?

  Grinning, Kormad followed them up the steps. Bastards! Trying to stab the giant who carried her would be useless, covered in thick leather as he was. She would save her attack until the right moment, when it would count. Maybe Girard would be the first one she killed.

  Once inside the Burnglen great hall, the guard tossed her roughly onto her feet. Dizzy, she stumbled, but grabbed onto the long table. The stench of this place was horrid, rotten food and hound excrement.

  "At last, we meet again, my sweet." The French words were delivered in a smooth, lethal voice.

  She turned and met the devil-dark gaze of Girard.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Girard. Here to kill her…rape her. "Mère de Dieu." The sensation of ice claws latched onto Angelique's chest, cutting off her breath.

  "I have missed you, ma petite choute." He bared his teeth in the mockery of a grin; his pupils dilated. The missing arm amplified his malevolence…because of what it meant. She had done that to him. He would show her no mercy. She would rather die now.

  Sucking in a breath, she tried to think normally. Dear God, to face a demon…I will not faint. I will not faint.

  "Did you search her for weapons?" Girard snarled. His voice, an echo from her nightmarish memories, sent shards of dread through her.

  "No need," Kormad said.

  "You do not know our little angel, do you?" He sounded almost amused.

  "You want her searched, do it yourself!"

  Girard's gaze stabbed through her. "Where is that Camille bitch?"

  "Not here," she managed in a strong voice. No, he would not see what he did to her. He would not see he had torn her apart, physically, emotionally, and that now she was but a patchwork, held together by thin threads.

  "So, you will pay for her crimes as well as your own."

  Angelique focused on survival, clasping the dagger hilt firmly within her pocket. She hoped he would attempt searching her. He wore no leather armor as the other men did. But if she killed him, likely Kormad would kill her.

  What must I do? Lachlan. He would know what to do. A strong, warm protector, he was.

  "I wish to see my husband," she said, barely pushing the words past her tight throat.

  "Oh, you will." Kormad laughed. "'Haps you'd both like to be buried in the same grave? Together forever."

  No. Lachlan could not be dead. She focused on the memory of his smile. Tears pricked her eyes.

  "Oh, you love this husband of yours," Girard said.

  She had not wanted him to see anything inside her. Already, he was breaching her defenses. "Non. He is a bastard like you."

  One corner of Girard's lips quirked a fraction. "You will have a chance to say goodbye to him before I take you back to France."

  "What? Back to France? Non."

  "She's not going anywhere!" Kormad growled. "Except a few feet beneath the sod of Scotland."

  Girard speared Kormad with that devil glower. "We have a deal."

  "That's not part of it."

  "You promised her to me first." A bald man stepped forward. Who…? Dear God, he was the monster who'd tried to kill her on the ship weeks ago.

  "Promised to you?" Girard said. "She is mine to do with as I please. I own her! Do you understand?"

  They argued, growling and snapping like dogs, ripping apart her life as if it were a deer hide. Which one would sink in his teeth first? Angelique's legs trembled
, and she dropped to her knees. She could not breathe. Dear heaven…rape, torture, death, her body used and abused by them. The blackness of oblivion would be better.

  Get up; you are strong, some part of her urged…or was it a guardian angel whispering in her ear?

  I cannot. I have nothing left.

  Girard grasped her upper arms and jerked her to her feet.

  Now, that defensive side of her shouted. The dagger hilt was firm in her hand. She shoved the blade up toward Girard's stomach. It bit through clothing and flesh. He shrieked and shoved her to the floor. Pain shot through her hip and elbow.

  "You see!" Girard yelled. "You see why you should search her?" He tore at his clothing to examine the bloody wound. Not deep enough.

  Kormad chuckled and snatched the dagger from her hand. "Take her to the dungeon and toss her in with MacGrath," he commanded the guards. Two yanked her up, one by each arm, painfully wrenching her shoulders. But she was glad to hear the name MacGrath. Was Lachlan alive? I pray you, Mère de Dieu.

  "Wait, search her first," Kormad said.

  Their meaty hands ran over her—her breasts, legs and hips. She almost gagged. "Cease!"

  "No more weapons," one of the guards said.

  "Take her below. We have more important matters to attend to. Have George saddle the horses."

  The massive guard dragged her, stumbling, outside to another area, his cohort in front. Steps led down to a narrow stone passage, dark and underground. She tripped and would've fallen if this beast hadn't been holding her up. She could scarce breathe in this dank, foul place.

  The cell door screeched as the guard in front opened it a narrow space. Her captor shoved her inside the blackness and the door clanged shut.

  Gaelic curses resounded. "Angelique! How the hell did they get you?"

  "Lachlan?" She turned, unable to see. "Where are you?"

  "Here."

  Relief surged through her, weakening her limbs. "Grâce à Dieu, you are alive. Are you hurt?" In the dark, she found him, her palms stroking over his doublet, up his arms to his shoulders. "Are you bleeding?"

  "Nay." He framed her waist in his hands, then hugged her close, the most wonderful feeling in the world. "I have a devil of a headache, but I'll live." His voice was deep and husky against her ear. "Did Kormad hurt you?"

  "No. Girard is here also. They were arguing about what to do with me—kill me or allow Girard to take me back to France. I will not go—"

  "What the hell were Rebbie and Dirk thinking, letting you slip into the bastard's hands?" he rasped along with blunt foreign words.

  "It was Fingall. He and Kormad's man killed my bodyguards, then stole me away through the secret passages."

  "Damn Fingall. I had someone watching him and I had two guards posted in the secret passages at all times."

  "Likely they are dead. I pray Rebbie and Dirk still live."

  "As do I."

  The warm possession of his embrace lured her, but his betrayal repelled her. She backed away. "I thought if they could not rescue you, I would myself, you miserable miscreant."

  "I ken I'm a damned fool. If you die, 'tis my fault." His tone was tortured. "I couldn't even protect you."

  "I did not need your protection."

  "Well then, what did you need from me?"

  Things too precious to verbalize. Finally, her eyes adjusted to the dark. The sliver of light from the small window in the door outlined Lachlan's tawny hair, the bone structure of his face, his broad shoulders. "What I needed, you cannot give, so it matters not," she said.

  "Tell me."

  "Fidelity."

  "I gave you that, at least. 'Twas the only thing I gave you."

  "Do you imagine I believe your lies?" How could he think she'd never find out?

  "What lies?" he demanded.

  "I know what you did yesterday."

  "You're angry that I bought you two white horses?"

  Her throat ached. "No! Neilina. The south tower. I am not an imbecile."

  "God's teeth! That was Dirk with Neilina. We hatched a scheme so she would think 'twas me, but in truth 'twas Dirk pretending to be me."

  Lachlan would never change. He likely believed his own lies. "You think I am exceedingly naïve, oui?"

  "Nay. 'Twas a good hoax."

  She turned her back to him. "How are we to escape this place?"

  "Angelique. You cannot believe that was me. I was meeting with members of the Robertson clan to purchase two mares for you as a surprise, a late wedding gift. You can ask Dirk and Rebbie."

  "If they live, I trust their word no more than yours. They are your loyal friends, so naturally they will lie for you.

  "Ask anyone in the Robertson clan when I left their castle." He named the Drummagans who accompanied him. "Ask any of them."

  "I won't have a chance. Kormad is going to kill us, you know. Bury us in the same grave…so we are together forever." A sob burst from her constricted throat.

  "Come here." Lachlan pulled her into his arms, her back against his hard chest. His thick, strong arms held her tight.

  She squirmed from his grasp. "No, you are a lecher. I believed in you. I believed you had changed and every word you said." The tears would not stop no matter how much she wished they would.

  "I swear to you, upon my honor, I didn't touch Neilina. And somehow I shall prove it to you."

  "But I heard you. You told her to meet you in the south tower at sunset."

  "I did say that, but I didn't meet her. I never intended to. I had Dirk take my place so he could find out if she's Kormad's spy. I think she is."

  "You…the man with her wore a kilt. Dirk does not wear a kilt."

  "He wore mine. He pretended to be me!"

  Did he tell the truth? She wished to believe him. It would be her fondest dream if he was honest, but some part of her refused to be naïve and trusting anymore.

  "She moaned your name while…" At the image of Lachlan driving into another woman, nausea welled inside her.

  "'Twas not me. I told you, you're the only one I want." His tone was low and fierce. He turned her and clasped her close, her face against his chest. And she allowed it. She but needed one moment of hope. The unique, appealing scent of him filled her nostrils, bringing back memories of the profound and sweet intimacies they'd shared. How she wished….

  "I'm sorry you went through that, and believed it was me," he said. "Truly, love, I'm not lying. Dirk made her think he was me. It was necessary so she wouldn't know we suspected her of being a spy. How are you thinking I got captured out on the moor if I was in the south tower?"

  "I do not know when you were captured. I left."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I left you." She shoved back from him. "I was going to London for a divorce when Rebbie and Dirk stopped my coach."

  "Damnation." His voice held an icy edge as if she were the betrayer.

  "I had every right!"

  "You would do that without even confronting me. Just assume?"

  "I told you—"

  "You judge and sentence me all without my knowledge?" His voice echoed from the walls.

  So the small pleasant moment was passed. No more deceiving herself.

  "I knew this would happen when I married you. I knew you would have affairs and mistresses and whores. I knew you would draw me in with your charm, make me trust you, then that you would trample my heart like refuse. I should not have been surprised really, but I wanted to believe. My own folly. Why did you have to pretend…?" Why couldn't he have simply been honest about his intentions?

  "I didn't pretend about us! I told you at the first I would never lie to you and I haven't." Lachlan glared at Angelique's back through the dimness. How could she believe such a thing about him? Had she learned naught about him in the past few weeks?

  "I do not know what the truth is anymore," she whispered.

  Her words stabbed like daggers into his chest. He had never been called a liar so much in his life. Unfaithful? Hell, he hadn't
even been tempted to look at another woman since he'd married her. Strangely, she was all he desired. He didn't understand it, but she wasn't like other women. She was special in a way he'd never experienced before. He wished only to please her, protect her, and give her all she wanted.

  But the thing that quelled his anger was the raw pain in her voice. She cared; she wanted him all to herself. That much, he liked. What sliced him to the core was her distrust, her doubts. Like everyone else including his father, she expected the worst of him. He was a worthless, faithless, ne'er-do-well and could not rise above it. What a fool he was. Their capture was all his fault.

  He must prove the truth to her. How? The testimony of Dirk and Rebbie meant naught. No one else knew of their ruse with Neilina. But plenty of men had seen him at the Robertsons'. None of this would matter anyway, if they couldn't escape. He had failed utterly at protecting her. What kind of husband was he?

  "I have an idea," she whispered. "You will pretend to hit me. I will scream and cry, and the guard will come."

  "I wouldn't have anyone believe I'd hit my wife."

  "A ruse. He will open the door to separate us, and you hide behind the door and hit him."

  "He will not likely come alone. And he'll be heavily armed if he thinks I'm violent."

  "Do you have a better idea?" she asked in challenge but kept her voice low.

  "Aye, you pretend to hit me and knock me down. He'll think I hit my head on the wall. My head already has a lump on it, so 'tis believable. You scream hysterically. They won't see you as much a threat. They'll think I'm unconscious or dead and come in. Then we'll disarm them. If there are two of them, you'll need to be careful."

  "Very well."

  "Let's get into a mock fight," he whispered. "Come on, throw a few punches."

  Out of nowhere, her hand flew up. The slap cracked against his face.

  "Ouch." His cheek stung and a resounding pain shot through his head from the earlier injury. "Do you have to be so damned enthusiastic?"

  "You told me to."

  "Not hard," he whispered.

  "Weak lad!"

  "Och. Come on, show me what you've got, wee wench."

  She shoved lightly at his chest and he toppled backward in a controlled fall, though he tried to make it look real in the event someone spied through the opening in the door.