by Ruth Langan
“Look,” Leonora called suddenly.
Following her direction, Dillon watched the flight of a golden eagle soaring high above.
“Oh! What is that?” Again she pointed, this time to a sleek creature leaping from rock to rock high above them.
“Have you never seen a wildcat before?”
“Wildcat? Nay. But it is beautiful.”
“Aye, and dangerous.” He rubbed his shoulder, remembering. “I was attacked by one when I was a lad.”
She looked astonished. “And lived to speak of it?”
He nodded. “I had no choice. I knew that if it succeeded in killing me, it would also kill my brothers. That is probably what gave me the strength to win.”
She grew silent a moment. “It would seem that you have spent a lifetime protecting your brothers.”
“There was no one else.”
“No parents?”
“Not since I was a lad of eight years.”
Eight. She thought of her own carefree childhood, adored by her parents, pampered and spoiled by the nobles at court.
She shivered and he drew his cloak around her. The air was colder here, the wind sharper.
Dillon urged his mount up a steep incline and Leonora caught her breath at the spectacular beauty of the scene before her. Between two mountain peaks lay a green, fertile valley. Sprinkled here and there were sturdy houses. Flocks of sheep and goats fanned out over the hillsides, along with herds of red deer.
She thought again of the word he’d used to describe his Highlands. Bonny. Never had she heard such passion in a single word.
As they rode along the valley, men and women stepped from their cottages to wave and shout greetings, which Dillon cheerfully returned. Many of them held children aloft, and Dillon lifted his hand to each of them, calling them by name.
A lad leaped upon the back of a pony and raced alongside Dillon’s horse.
“Welcome home, my laird.”
Laird? Leonora thought. This ragged brute?
“Shall I carry word to Kinloch House?” the boy asked.
“Aye, Duncan. But first, tell me. Have there been any more mysterious deaths?”
“Aye, my laird. A crofter’s wife. And a lass no more than ten and three.”
Leonora gave an involuntary shiver. Did these savages never get enough killing? Must they resort to murdering helpless women and children?
The boy dug his heels into the pony’s sides and raced ahead. Dillon fell silent.
Soon they left the valley behind and began to climb once more. Here the land was even more primitive, and more spectacular. Rushing waters tumbled over rocks, then roared over steep ravines. Gnarled trees clung to the edges of rocky crags. Vast stretches of forest blotted out any view of sun or sky. As they climbed yet another slope, they suddenly broke free of the tangle of growth. There in front of them was a fortress built between two towering peaks. A gray and umber stone structure, its turrets and towers soared heavenward, gleaming in the soft rose hues of a spectacular sunset.
“At last. Home,” Dillon breathed.
His words, spoken with such passion, made Leonora feel like weeping. Would she ever see her home again? Or would she be forced to remain here, among these savages, until death mercifully claimed her?
She studied the place that would become her prison. Because of the location of this fortress, it had no need of a moat, as did the English castles. The only way to enter or leave was through the valley, affording the inhabitants plenty of time to prepare a defense against approaching armies.
As they drew near, huge double doors were thrown wide, and an array of people and dogs spilled into the courtyard.
The hounds raced forward, barking and baying. As Dillon slipped from the saddle, he called them by name and they leaped up at him, nearly knocking him off his feet in their impatience to feel the touch of his hand.
“Welcome home, my laird,” called a stooped old man who caught the reins of the horse.
“Thank you, Stanton.”
“Such a bonny wee lass,” the old man said, stealing a glance at Leonora.
A plump peasant woman stepped forward and squeezed his hands. “Welcome, my laird. Ye were sorely missed.”
“Thank you, Mistress MacCallum. You cannot know how good it is to be home.”
“Dillon! Dillon!” With high-pitched squeals of delight, a ragged youth whipped a horse into a run down a precipitous ravine.
Leonora turned to watch. “Sweet Virgin,” she muttered, lifting her hand to her mouth. Convinced the animal would stumble and both horse and rider would surely break their necks, Leonora was unable to tear her gaze from the sight of them careening headlong down the incline.
They did not come to a halt until they were inches from where Dillon stood. As the horse reared up, the youth catapulted from its back into the waiting arms of Dillon.
A second horse followed at a slower pace. The young giant astride this horse dismounted and stood silently by.
“Duncan said you were coming, but I did not believe him.”
Close up, Leonora was surprised to discover that the youth in Dillon’s arms was a female. She wore the coarse breeches and tunic of a peasant lad, and her feet were bare. A cap slipped from her head. Long red hair fell in a wild tangle of corkscrew curls to below her waist.
The smile on Dillon’s face was positively radiant. Leonora was amazed at the transformation in him. Without his usual scowl, he could almost be called handsome. The love he felt for this female softened all his features and put a light in his eyes that had, until now, been extinguished.
“And why did you not believe Duncan?”
The girl wound her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth before releasing him. Pushing free of his arms, she looked around and allowed her gaze to settle on the woman astride the horse. “Because he said Sutton and Shaw were not with you.”
His smile disappeared. “Aye.”
The word, spoken so softly, was a deep welling of pain.
The girl turned back to him and waited, but instead of explaining, he set her down and hauled Leonora roughly from the saddle.
“Flame, this is the Lady Leonora Waltham.”
The two women eyed each other warily.
“Why have you brought the Englishwoman here?” Hands on hips, the girl’s eyes mirrored her confusion.
“And where are Sutton and Shaw?”
Ignoring her questions, Dillon called, “Rupert.”
At once, the rawboned giant stepped forward. Though he looked to be as young as the girl called Flame, he stood head to head with Dillon. His arms were already as muscular as any man’s. His eyes held a vacant, faraway look, and Leonora feared that the lad was simpleminded.
“Take the lady to my chambers and see that she does not leave.”
“Your chambers?” Flame’s puzzlement grew. “Have you brought home an English bride?”
“Nay, lass.” Dillon dropped an arm around the girl’s shoulders and steered her toward the doorway, where a crowd of servants waited to greet their laird.
Behind them, Rupert closed his big hands around Leonora’s arm and forced her to walk beside him. She felt a moment of terror. His were the biggest hands she had ever seen. She had no doubt that this lad could snap her bones with little effort. Still, his grasp was surprisingly gentle, and she realized that the lad would not harm her as long as she did not resist.
“Then, if she is not your wife, why is she here?” Flame demanded.
“The lady is my prisoner.”
Dillon’s announcement caught the attention of all who had gathered around him. The elderly stableman, the plump housekeeper, even the rawboned youth who held her, seemed to stop in midstride. A tense, expectant silence settled over the crowd.
Dillon’s tone left no doubt that, here in the Highland, he was indeed laird and master, and would brook no dissent. “And she will remain so until Sutton and Shaw have returned safely from England.”
Chapter Seven
“English,” someone whispered.
“Aye. The laird’s captive.”
“Such a wee lass, for an Englishwoman,” stooped old Stanton repeated.
Leonora could feel the stares, most hostile, some merely curious, as the servants drew back to allow her to pass. She had never before been treated like the enemy. It pained her to see the way some of them watched her, as though expecting her to sprout a devil’s horns and tail.
Some of them spat as she passed. Others crossed themselves, and she was reminded of old Moira, who had been terrified of the strange Highlanders.
Keeping her spine straight and her head lifted at a proud, haughty angle, she glanced neither right nor left as she walked among them. And though she could not see Dillon, she could feel his dark gaze burning into her back.
Flame’s voice, demanding answers, followed her up the staircase.
“But why have you brought her here, Dillon? Why would you allow the daughter of an English dog under our roof?”
With that, Leonora paused and looked over her shoulder. Our roof, was it? There was no doubting the possessiveness of that phrase. In one all-encompassing glance, Leonora could see why the lass owned Dillon’s heart. She was beautiful, in a wild, primitive way. It was obvious that the two shared many similar qualities, including a fearlessness on horseback. And a hatred for all things English.
Leonora felt a tug on her wrist and was forced to turn and keep pace with the youth who never released his firm grasp on her until they entered what she assumed to be Dillon’s chambers.
When Rupert released her, Leonora rubbed her wrist gingerly. Though he had amazing strength, she had to admit that he had not treated her harshly.
“Leave us.” The lad’s voice, which should have been as deep as a man’s, was a curious blend of croak and hoarse whisper.
Several servants, who had been preparing for the master’s arrival, looked up and scurried away without a word. When the door closed behind them, Rupert took up a position in front of it, arms crossed, feet firmly planted.
In the sitting chamber, a fire had been laid in a massive stone fireplace. Leonora moved closer, grateful for its warmth. While she warmed herself, she stared at the sword above the mantel. This was not the weapon of a poor man. The hilt of pure gold was inlaid with priceless jewels. Yet, she recalled, the sword Dillon Campbell had presented to her father had been a simple weapon, of the sort used by peasants throughout the countryside.
Had Dillon suspected, even then, that his trust in the English would be betrayed? She nibbled her lip. It would mean he had been willing to lay down his life for peace, even though he feared such a sacrifice would bring about nothing but failure. If that were true he would be doubly noble. Her mind rejected such a notion.
She studied the sword. It was so massive, it could have only been made for a man of Dillon’s extraordinary size. Though the blade had no doubt been soaked with the blood of her countrymen, Leonora was forced to admire it for its sheer beauty. Her father’s mantel boasted such weapons, and she knew they had seen many a battle in his youth.
If the room reflected the man who lived here, Dillon Campbell was indeed a contradiction. Primitive and cultured. Lord and peasant.
Rough timbers formed the huge beams. Several large settles, made from the same rough timbers and draped with animal hides, had been drawn up before the fire. An ancient tapestry, depicting a lion and an eagle, hung on one wall. She paused to study the intricate design that traced the clan from ancient times and ancient kings.
On a large side table rested a decanter of spirits and several exquisite gold chalices. Though she would have welcomed some ale, Leonora resisted the urge to do anything that might incite the young giant to restrain her again. It was not so much his size that she found daunting, but the strange look in his eyes.
Her wandering gaze was arrested by a balcony. What lay beneath it? She had to find out. It might offer her an opportunity to escape.
Not wanting to call attention to herself, Leonora began to circle slowly, touching a fingertip to a table, running her hand along a sleek animal pelt on the back of a settle. When she reached the balcony, she chanced a quick look over the stone rim and was dismayed to see a man standing in the courtyard below, a sword at the ready. Her hopes deflated, she turned away, and caught the fleeting grin on Rupert’s lips. Her intentions had been so obvious, even this simple lad had discerned them. She would have to learn to become more secretive. Annoyed at herself, she turned away and began to explore once more.
Through an open doorway, she could glimpse the shadows cast upon the wall from another fire. The firelight illuminated a sleeping pallet, the linens carefully turned back in preparation for the night.
She wandered to the open door and surveyed the sleeping room more carefully. Candles flickered in sconces along the walls. A table held a pitcher of water and a basin for washing, along with several squares of linen. A settle, draped with animal hides, was positioned in front of the fire. The sleeping pallet was softened by the addition of several thicknesses of animal pelts.
Hearing a knock on the door, she hurried back to the sitting chamber. Rupert opened the door to admit a serving girl bearing a silver tray.
Placing the tray on a side table, the servant said, “My laird bids you to eat, my lady.”
Leonora’s temper, which had been simmering since her arrival at Dillon’s fortress, flared. “Tell your laird it is not food I desire. It is freedom.”
“Aye, my lady.”
With a shy sideways glance, the girl beat a hasty retreat. Almost at once, the lass called Flame entered. With hands on hips, she studied the Englishwoman.
“Dillon said your father is holding Sutton and Shaw in his dungeon.”
“Aye.” Leonora faced her, lifting her chin as she did so. “And there they shall stay until I am returned unharmed.”
Flame circled Leonora, as a wild creature might circle its prey. Everything about the girl seemed primitive, untamed, from the tip of her red curls, which spilled in disarray around a disarmingly beautiful face, to her bare feet, which she seemed not the least embarrassed to display.
“Your king lied. He summoned us to speak of peace, while he plotted to betray us.”
“I am not privy to the king’s council,” Leonora retorted defensively. “But he would not have taken such steps lightly. Perhaps he knew of a similar plot by your people.”
Green eyes danced with unconcealed fury. “Plot? Dillon, Sutton and Shaw came to you without an army. Does that speak of plot?” Flame paused in her pacing to face her opponent. “They willingly handed over their swords. Does that speak of plot, Englishwoman?”
Leonora nodded toward the ornate sword hanging over the mantel. “I see that Dillon Campbell did not entrust that to my father’s keeping.”
“Aye. And for that, he should be thankful. For it is all that he has left of his father, and his father’s father.” Her voice lowered ominously. “Dillon, Sutton and Shaw trusted the word of the English, and this is their reward.”
She began circling again, too agitated to stand still. “Because of their goodness, my brothers languish in your father’s dungeon.”
“Brothers?” For long silent moments, Leonora studied the girl. Of course. She should have seen the resemblance, especially in the eyes, and around the mouth. Though she knew not why, it pleased her to know that this wild, beautiful creature was Dillon’s sister, and not his lover. Instantly she was annoyed at the strange path her thoughts were following. This girl and her brother were the enemy.
“I will not rest until my brothers are safely home,” Flame said, turning toward the door.
For a moment, she paused and glared at the young woman who continued to stand, head high, back straight. Despite Leonora’s torn and ragged gown, she was, in Flame’s mind, the image of every Englishwoman she had ever imagined. Haughty. Regal. Arrogant. Anger, always quick to surface in the young Highland lass, spilled over. Unrepentant, was she?
Wit
h a last parting shot, Flame added, “Nor should you rest easy, Englishwoman. For Dillon has pledged that their fate shall be yours. You had best pray my brothers are treated kindly by their English jailers, or you will taste the same treatment at the hands of my brother.”
Tossing her head, she strode through the doorway.
At once, the young giant took up his position in front of the closed door.
Leonora began to pace. If she were a man, she would snatch that sword from the wall and fight her way to freedom this very moment. Aye, if she were a man, she thought, fist clenching and unclenching. But her father had raised her to be a cultured lady. She had neither the strength nor the skill to wield a sword. And she knew naught about fighting.
What weapons did she possess? She pressed her hands to her temples, as if to force her numb mind to work.
She stopped her pacing and studied the sky slowly darkening outside the balcony window. She could direct a household staff, bake and cook and sew a fine seam. She had been told that she had a facile mind. She could converse with kings and soldiers alike. But what other skills did she possess? She’d always had the ability to watch and learn, and if necessary, endure. If these were her only weapons, she would have to find a way to use them.
First, she reasoned, she must conserve her strength, so that when the opportunity to escape presented itself, she would be strong enough. Though it galled her to accept the hospitality of her captor, she would do whatever necessary to survive and escape.
She lifted the lid of the serving tray and noted the rock-hard biscuits, the cold slab of mutton. Food unfit for the hounds she had seen below stairs, if truth be told. After swallowing a few bites, she lifted a goblet of hot mulled wine and forced herself to drink.
Seeing the smug look on the face of the young giant, she turned toward the fire, deep in thought. At this moment, it mattered not that the food was tasteless and cold. It was nourishment. She would need all her strength to flee the hated Dillon Campbell.
“Whatever were you thinking, man, to bring the English female into your home?” Camus Ferguson, short, squat and stout, with legs as thick as tree stumps, paced in front of the fire, sweating profusely. Damp red hair was plastered to his forehead.