by Ruth Langan
“Aye, my lady.” The lad began to lumber away.
As soon as he disappeared from sight, she grabbed her cloak, raced to the door and eagerly pushed on the handle. It didn’t budge. Leaning all her weight against it, she struggled to open it, but the door remained solidly sealed. She could see that the heavy door had not been opened in many years. Thick vines grew over it, nearly concealing the hinges.
Leonora knew that at any moment Rupert would return. Pulling the knife from the pocket of her cloak, she cut away the vines, then pushed again with all her might.
The door swung open just enough for her to squeeze through. There was no time to wrestle it closed, so she turned and began running through the tall grass. If she could reach the cover of the nearby forest, the Highlanders would never find her.
Flame stood in the doorway of the kitchens, staring hungrily at the clear, cloudless sky. The day was too perfect to be spent on loathsome household duties. She yearned to be free. Instead, she was trapped with the servants. All because of the hated Englishwoman.
Her eyes narrowed at the pair strolling in the garden. The damnable woman had bewitched every man who dared to look upon her. With those beguiling eyes and that innocent smile, she had cast them all under her spell. Father Anselm. Rupert. Even Dillon, though he would deny it. But Flame had seen the way he watched the woman when he thought no one was looking.
While she watched, Flame saw Rupert turn away and walk through the doorway that led to the inner passageway. But the Englishwoman remained in the garden.
Had he left her unattended?
While she watched, Flame saw a flutter of white gown moving swiftly across the garden toward the outer wall. As realization dawned, she raced from the kitchens, intent upon stopping the woman before she could escape. In her haste, she did not spare even a moment to sound an alarm. No matter, she reasoned as she ate up the distance between them. A fragile English kitten was no match for a wildcat born of the Highlands.
The forest was farther away than Leonora had first thought. The expanse of meadow was not so easily crossed. Briars caught at the hem of her gown, holding her back as she struggled to run. The branches of small brush snagged at her sleeves and tugged the ribbons from her hair. The heavy cloak she carried over her arm further slowed her progress, but she dared not drop it. She would need its warmth once the sun went down.
As she ran, she chanced a quick glance over her shoulder and was dismayed to see a figure behind her. The sun glinting off fiery hair left no question as to the identity of her stalker. Flame.
Gritting her teeth, Leonora pressed on. Her breathing was more labored as she crested a hill and caught sight of the tangle of dense woods that lay just beyond the edge of the meadow. With her breath burning in her lungs, she sprinted the remaining distance, determined to reach the safety of the forest. Once there, she had no doubt she could evade capture.
As the lush growth closed around her, she slipped into a world of cool dark shadows, icy streams, strange, primitive creatures. Drawing her cloak firmly about her, she stepped deeper into the forest and prayed she could become one with her surroundings.
Leonora was hopelessly lost.
For hours, she had stumbled through the forest, twisting and turning to evade the lass who stubbornly trailed her.
At first, Leonora had thought she had escaped Flame’s relentless pursuit. But with each new turn, she had seen further proof that the girl was still following.
Now, in a desperate attempt to be free, she slid down a steep ravine, landing headfirst in a thicket. Nearby she could hear the roar of a waterfall, obliterating all other sounds. Gradually, as her ears became accustomed to the sounds of the forest, she heard something else. Something that had the hair at the nape of her neck prickling.
A horse whinnied nearby. As she sought shelter behind a tree, a hand clamped on her shoulder. A man’s voice whispered against her ear, “The gods are indeed smiling on me this day. I have just been granted my fondest wish. I am alone with the beautiful English wench.”
Leonora was spun around, and found herself looking into the cruel, laughing eyes of Graeme Lamont.
Chapter Sixteen
“How did you find me?” Leonora’s eyes were wide with fear.
Graeme’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Have you not guessed? These forests are my home. I walk them as comfortably as Dillon Campbell walks the halls of Kinloch House.”
As his fingers tightened on her shoulder, her cloak slipped from her fingers and dropped to the ground.
“The truth is, I was not searching for you. When I caught sight of the flutter of a white gown in the forest, I thought I would amuse myself with a local wench.” His smile grew, though it never reached his eyes. The effect was chilling.
“My pleasure will be even greater now. I have long wanted to sample an Englishwoman’s charms. And it shall be twice the pleasure, since you cannot threaten to run home to weep in your father’s arms as some of the local wenches have done after I have taken my pleasure with them.”
She felt an icy finger of fear along her spine. She thought of the frightening stories the servants had told, of women and even children mysteriously murdered in these forests. Now, seeing the chilling look in Graeme’s eyes, it all made sense.
She looked around, desperately seeking a way to escape.
Seeing what she was contemplating he drew her closer. “Do you think you can outrun me in this forest?”
“If you unhand me, you will have your answer.”
His smile fled and he brought his hand across her face with a blow that snapped her head to one side. “Aye. I shall unhand you, my fine fancy lady. But only long enough to tear away the peasant dress you wear. It offends my eyes. It does not suit you.”
With a hand at each side of her neckline, he ripped the gown from her. The torn and tattered remnants fluttered to the damp moss at her feet.
“Nay,” he breathed, “it does not suit you at all.” He caught a handful of her hair and yanked her head back sharply, bringing a cry to her lips. He studied the swell of her breasts, visible beneath the delicate chemise, and the outline of her hips through the gauzy fabric of her petticoats. “I knew you would be easy to look at.”
Shame flooded Leonora’s cheeks as she was forced to endure his leering gaze. She crossed her arms in front of her bosom in a futile attempt at modesty, but he caught her hands roughly and pinned them to her sides.
“Now,” he muttered, twisting her arms roughly behind her back, “I am going to pleasure myself with a taste of paradise.”
Dillon dismounted in the courtyard and absently tossed the reins to old Stanton. Had he not been so deep in thought, he might have noticed that the old stable master seemed highly agitated. But he could not rid himself of this foul black mood. Even though another ten and two men had pledged themselves to him this day, it was not enough to lift his spirits. All he could think of was the woman. The damnable woman and her damnable tears.
How could he go on, day after day, night after interminable night, desiring her, and doing nothing about it? God knew he was not a saint. He was a mere man. And the thoughts that had been plaguing him were driving him to distraction.
He passed along a corridor and noted fresh candles, casting their soft glow on highly polished stone walls and wood floors. Everywhere he looked, Kinloch House sparkled with the woman’s touch.
He strode to the kitchens and hurled the door wide as he entered. At once, the voices stilled. Mistress MacCallum, wiping her hands on the apron tied at her middle, waddled over, sweating profusely.
“Where is Rupert?” Dillon asked.
The housekeeper stared at a spot on the floor. “He has ridden to the forest, my laird.”
“The forest?”
She looked up and nodded. Seeing his dark eyes boring into her, she lowered her gaze and began twisting the apron between her plump fingers.
“He…” Her lips quivered. For all her nagging at the lad, Rupert had always been one of her
favorites. Now, fearing the wrath of the laird, she hated being the one to tell him how the lad had been duped. “…left the Englishwoman alone for a moment in the garden—”
“Alone!”
“Aye. And she—”
“She what?” he thundered.
Mistress MacCallum swallowed, afraid to go on. But when she saw the fierce look in the laird’s eyes, she had no choice. “The English lady…fled to the woods.”
“Fled! God in heaven. How long has she been gone?”
“A long time. Several hours, m’laird.”
He swore loudly, viciously, and the old woman cringed before adding, “There is more, m’laird. And ’tis worse, I fear.”
“Worse?” he bellowed. “My prisoner has escaped, and her guard has not yet brought her back. What can be worse than this?”
“Flame is missing, as well, m’laird. We did not see her go. But…” She looked as though she might break down at any moment and begin to weep. “We fear she saw the Englishwoman escaping and went after her.”
“Two headstrong women,” he muttered aloud, “and only Rupert to seek them out.”
A feeling of dread pierced his heart like an arrow. Now he had two fears to deal with. Not only had Leonora escaped, but both she and Flame were treading dangerous ground. A killer of women lurked nearby.
He spun on his heel, shouting over his shoulder, “Summon what men we have within the walls of the keep. Tell them to comb the forest. I do not return to Kinloch House until both women return with me.”
Flame’s hatred of the Englishwoman grew with every bramble that snagged her gown or tree limb that caught her hair. She had expected the coddled noblewoman to cower at the dangers lurking in the forest. Instead, the woman had surprised Flame by displaying a rare determination.
She experienced a deep welling of despair. Why had she not sounded the alarm before rushing off? Because, she reminded herself, she had not considered the Englishwoman a challenge. Who would have dreamed that she could evade capture for so long?
Despite the teachings of the good sisters, the young Scotswoman could swear as viciously as her brothers, and did so now as yet another bramble tore her flesh. Suddenly, she lifted her head. Was that a voice? She inched forward, straining to see through the dense foliage. Aye. A female voice raised in a cry of alarm. She gave a smug smile. Perhaps the Englishwoman had fallen and muddied herself. ’Twould serve her right.
“Take off the rest of your clothes.” Graeme no longer bothered to hide behind a facade of good manners. Here in the forest, with no one to witness his deeds, he shed the last vestiges of civility. Something wild and feral glittered in his eyes.
“Nay.” Leonora lifted her head defiantly, praying her lips would not tremble and reveal the terror that held her in its grip. “You will have to cut them away, as well.”
“With pleasure. Perhaps I will cut your throat while I am at it.”
In his hand, the blade of a knife caught a flash of late-afternoon sunshine that filtered through the tangle of leaves and vines. As he lifted it menacingly, a small figure stepped into the clearing.
Flame’s voice was triumphant. “I see you have managed to catch the Englishwoman.”
Graeme seemed momentarily confused. “Flame. How did you…? Where did you…?”
“I have been following her,” the girl explained, “since she first slipped away from Rupert. But until now, she managed to elude me. Praise heaven you were here.” She glanced around in puzzlement, her gaze lingering on the remains of a campfire and a bed made up of animal fur, all evidence of a lengthy encampment. Suddenly, her good fortune at having found the woman was momentarily forgotten. “Why are you here, Graeme? Why are you not out searching for an army of soldiers as you promised Dillon?”
“I have been resting.”
“Resting?” Flame took a step closer and the scene before her took on a sharper focus. The Englishwoman’s cloak and remnants of torn gown had been tossed aside. The knife in Graeme’s hand could mean only one thing. “What is the meaning of this? Why have you misled my brother? And why are you threatening such harm to the woman when you know how important she is to Dillon’s plan?”
Leonora saw the hard look that came into Graeme’s eyes when he realized that his lie had been uncovered. “Alas.” He shrugged. “I had not wanted you to share the fate of the Englishwoman. But now I have no choice.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It is not merely my honor he intends to steal,” Leonora said softly. “He intends to kill me. And you, as well.”
“How do you know what Graeme is planning?” Flame asked.
Graeme fisted a hand in Leonora’s hair and yanked her head back sharply. Though she did not cry out, he was rewarded by a flash of pain that glazed her eyes for a moment before she composed herself. “Aye. How do you know what I plan? Do you claim to read minds now, Englishwoman?”
“It is easy enough to see that once you have…despoiled me, you cannot return me to Kinloch House. In fact, you will be forced to kill me in order to silence me.”
“And why do I need your silence?”
“You dare not permit me to live. For if I am allowed to reveal your wickedness to Dillon Campbell, you will have to answer to his wrath.”
“You flatter yourself if you think Dillon Campbell cares what happens to an Englishwoman,” Flame said with contempt.
“Think, Flame,” Leonora urged. “If Graeme kills me, Dillon Campbell will have lost his only chance to barter for the safe return of his brothers. Your beloved brothers. And for that, he will never forgive Graeme, despite their years of friendship.”
Graeme’s eyes darkened with fury. “Do you think I fear Dillon Campbell?”
“If you do not,” Flame said, tossing her head, “you are a fool.”
“Dillon need never know.”
“Aye.” Leonora’s voice grew even softer as she fought the horror and revulsion that filled her at the thought of what she and Flame must face together. “So long as there are no witnesses left. Is that not how you have managed to elude capture for so long, Graeme? It is you who murdered all those women and children, is it not?”
“Nay,” Flame protested quickly. “It cannot be. For Dillon said that such a man was a monster.”
Graeme smiled, a cruel, twisted smile that left no doubt as to his intentions. “A monster, am I?”
“Holy Mother, ’tis true, then,” Flame whispered.
“Sad.” His smile grew. “But true, lass.”
“But why?”
“Why?” Graeme’s face twisted into a mask of hatred. “I have a right to a little pleasure. It is little enough comfort when a lad has no father and a mother who wastes her charms on everyone save the one who most needs her.”
“All in the villages have heard about your mother, Graeme, who sold her charms to anyone with coin. But none of us ever guessed that her deeds festered so in your soul.”
“Festered?” His eyes narrowed. “I revel in it. I take delight in enjoying the same pleasures she enjoyed.”
Flame felt a tremble of fear at the torrent of hatred in his words. “But why do you hate Dillon?” she asked.
“Dillon,” he spat. “Ever since we were lads, your precious brother has always appointed himself leader. From our earliest years at the monastery, the monks always treated Dillon Campbell like one anointed by God. And now, even the greatest warrior in all of Scotland, Robert the Bruce, seems blinded by Dillon’s virtues, calling him noble and honest.” Graeme’s voice deepened with fury. “I should have been the one sent to England. Women are taken with me. Men trust me. Why should a crude warrior with a face marred by an English sword be sent on a mission of such importance?”
Flame’s voice was little more than a strangled whisper. “You called yourself Dillon’s friend. You accepted shelter in his home, ate his food, shared in his joys and sorrows. And all this time, you have hated him?”
“Aye, hated him for all that he is, and all that I can never be
. And because of your diligence in searching, dear little Flame, you must now share the Englishwoman’s fate.”
“Bastard!” Flame’s hand went to the knife at her waist and she attacked with all the vengeance of a warrior. But though she fought bravely, she was no match for Graeme’s strength. With quick, powerful strokes, he deftly brandished the knife in his hand until Flame found herself backed against a tree. He lunged, but she managed to move aside at the last moment, avoiding a knife thrust to the heart.
Flame was beginning to tire. As she lifted her hand to defend herself from yet another attack, Graeme gave one powerful sweep of the knife that sliced her arm from wrist to shoulder. With a cry, the knife slipped from her nerveless fingers and she dropped to her knees in the grass, cradling her bloody arm. Soon the ground around her was soaked with her blood. Graeme, with all the sleek assurance of a mountain cat, moved in for the kill.
He had momentarily forgotten about Leonora. Using the distraction to her advantage, she picked up a fallen tree limb and sent it crashing against his head with as much force as she could muster.
Graeme was momentarily stunned. The knife thrust missed Flame’s heart, landing instead deep in her shoulder. But before Leonora could hit him again, he got to his feet and yanked the club from her hands.
His voice rang with pain and rage. “Now you will pay, woman.”
He advanced on her, the knife glinting in his upraised hand. He caught her roughly by the hair and yanked her head back sharply. Tears filled her eyes but she clenched her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.
“First, I will have my pleasure.” He cut away her chemise and petticoats, and laughed when Leonora struggled to hide her nakedness.
Though she kicked and bit and fought with all the desperation of a wild creature, she was no match for his strength. He pressed the sharp edge of the knife against her throat until she felt the warmth of blood trickling across her breasts. She stopped fighting. Her eyes were glazed with pain and loathing.