by Ruth Langan
Half a dozen hounds surrounded their horse, leaping and baying as their master called each name.
The door was thrown open. The first one through the doorway was a thin youth with fiery hair spilling about a wide forehead. A sprinkle of freckles danced across an impish, upturned nose. His arms and legs were as thin as a girl’s, though the beginnings of muscles could be seen beneath the clinging sleeves of his saffron shirt. His sparkling blue eyes filled with joy at the sight of Brice.
Servants hurried out to catch the reins of the lord’s horse as he dismounted.
The lad threw himself into Brice’s arms. “You’ve been away so long I was beginning to fret.”
“Over me, Jamie lad?” Brice tousled his hair and wrapped him in a great bear hug. “You know better. I’ll always return to Kinloch House.”
“Aye,” the lad said with feeling. “And I’ll always be here waiting.”
“Until you’re old enough to ride with me,” Brice muttered with a grin. “Which will be soon from the looks of you.” He held the lad a little away from him and studied him with a critical eye. “You’ve grown at least an inch since I left.”
The lad laughed, then glanced shyly toward the vision in white who sat astride Brice’s horse.
Seeing the direction of his glance, Brice reached up. Meredith was hauled roughly from the saddle and handed over to a bewildered serving wench who stared mutely at her master’s captive.
“Take the woman to my chambers. I will deal with her later.”
Meredith shivered at his tone. Her mind whirled as she was whisked inside and herded up great stone steps. She had a brisk impression of tapestries and banners lining the walls of the staircase before she was ushered into a chamber on the second floor.
“There’s fresh water, my lady,” the timid servant said. “And I’ll fetch warm clothes if my lord approves.” She backed from the room and closed the door.
This was obviously a man’s private domain. The furniture was massive, like the man who lived here. A log burned in the fireplace and Meredith hurried to stand in front of it. She had been chilled clear through to the bone. The gauzy gown intended for her wedding had offered little protection from the cold. And though the warmth of her captor’s body had offered some protection, she had been buffeted by the raw elements. Perhaps, she thought, she would prefer death by freezing to whatever torment Brice Campbell had in mind.
What did he have in mind for her?
Meredith turned, keeping her back to the fire while studying the sitting chamber. The walls were hung with tapestries and furs. The cold stone floors had been softened with fur throws, as were the chairs and settles.
She needed a weapon with which to defend herself. Sooner or later Brice Campbell would discover that he had killed the wrong man. She would be useless to him. And he would be forced to dispose of her. When that time came she would have to be prepared to fight to the death.
She moved about the room, searching for anything that might be used as a weapon. When she found nothing she entered the bedchamber. The flames of the fireplace cast the room in a soft glow.
A rough-hewn frame of logs supported a huge bed littered with pallets of down and fur. Meredith’s gaze fastened on a shelf above the bed where a dozen swords and daggers lay strewn about.
She studied the weapons and selected a small dagger that would fit beneath the waistband of a gown. Clutching it to her, she ran a finger gingerly along the blade and was pleased to find it honed to perfection.
She glanced down at her waist. The filmy confection she was wearing could hardly conceal a weapon. She would have to hide the dagger until more suitable clothes were given her.
Kneeling beside the bed Meredith began searching among the linens for a place to hide her treasure. Her fingers encountered the softness of fur. She closed her eyes a moment, resting her cheek against the velvety smoothness. How drained she was. There had been so little time to rest in the past few days. First there had been her father’s death and burial, and then the marriage plans. Marriage. She felt tears sting her lids. There had been no time to grieve for her father or for her husband of less than a minute. She pressed her cheek to the soft bed coverings and choked back a sob.
Though she was an excellent horsewoman, she had spent too many hours of the day and night in the saddle. Her muscles protested. How she yearned to rest her aching body. Oh for a few moments of respite from the fear that lay like a hard knot in the pit of her stomach. She sighed. A minute longer, and then she would get to her feet. She must be prepared when the barbarian came for her. She would rest only a short time. She could not afford to let down her guard. Against her will her lids flickered, then closed. With one hand holding the dagger, the other curled into a fist at her side, she slept.
Brice finished the last of the mutton and washed it down with a tankard of ale. His hunger abated, he leaned back and stretched out toward the warmth of the fire. The dogs at his feet stirred, snatching up the scraps he tossed them, then settled back down to drowse.
He was in a foul mood. Now that he had eaten his fill, he would have to give some thought to the woman.
If he was cold, the woman had to be much colder. The thin gown had afforded her no protection from the chill of the night. But she had brazenly rejected his offer of a warm cloak. What arrogance. He felt the beginning of a grudging admission of respect before brushing it aside. What foolishness.
She was a most unusual woman. Not once had she cried or complained. And not once, when they had made brief stops, had she climbed from his horse and demanded a moment of privacy.
A bride and a widow within minutes. And yet she had not shed a tear. Remarkable.
What was he to do with her? His hand atop the table clenched and unclenched. It had not been part of his plan to steal the woman. In fact, it bothered him more than he cared to admit. But the fool who had defied him and fired the arrow would have to bear the guilt. The terms had been clearly stated. One among the MacKenzie clan had no conscience.
Across the table Jamie MacDonald watched in silence. He had learned to hold his tongue when Brice was in one of his black moods. Jamie did not see Brice’s bouts of temper as a flaw. Any man who carried the weight of responsibilities that Brice Campbell carried had every right to moments of doubt. If someone had suggested that Jamie was turning a blind eye to Brice’s faults, he would have fought them to the death. He adored Brice Campbell. His devotion to the man was absolute.
Brice looked up as the door was thrown open. The dogs rushed to the door and sniffed, eager to greet the visitors who carried a familiar scent. Angus Gordon, Brice’s most trusted friend, burst into the room. Behind him strode Holden Mackay, whose clan had recently joined forces with the Campbells in the feud with the MacKenzies.
One look at Angus’s stormy features told Brice that something was very wrong.
“You’ve killed the wrong man, Brice.”
“What are you saying? You saw him fall at the altar, Angus. It was Gareth MacKenzie.”
“Nay, Brice. ’Twas his younger brother, Desmond. Holden and I stayed behind to learn the name of the one who had fired the arrow at you.”
“And did you?”
At Brice’s arched brow Angus nodded. “Gareth MacKenzie. He would be the only one fool enough to continue the feud after you had announced it over.” His tone lowered. “Holden tried but could not get to him. There were too many MacKenzie men. And the kirk was crowded with women and children.”
For a moment Brice could only stare from one man to the other. Suddenly scraping back his chair, he raced up the stairs toward his chambers with Jamie, Angus, Holden and the hounds on his heels.
“Woman.” The door was slammed against the wall, the sound reverberating along the hallways of the castle. He gazed about the empty room. “Do not try to hide from me.”
In quick strides he crossed to the bedchamber and kicked in the door. Jamie, Angus and Holden remained in the doorway, watching, listening.
The dogs circled
the figure by the bed.
In that one instant before her head came up, Brice saw her kneeling beside the bed, her hair spilled forward like a veil. He could read her confusion when her lids flickered and lifted. Eyes as green as the shimmering Highland lochs watched him as he strode toward her. By the time he reached her she was on her feet, prepared to meet her fate.
The dogs growled low in their throats. But not one of them made a move toward the woman. They would wait, forever if necessary, until their master gave them the signal to attack.
In her hand was a dagger. A very small, very sharp dagger. Though Meredith’s heart pounded painfully in her chest, her hand remained steady.
It was a giant who faced her. A giant whose rough clothes and speech sent terror racing through her. He stood, feet apart, hands on hips. On his face was a scowl that gave him such a fierce look she wanted to flee. But though her heart was nearly bursting, she reminded herself that she was now the MacAlpin. The MacAlpin was no coward. Meredith lifted her chin a fraction and met his look with one of defiance.
He saw the look. Even in his anger he admired her for it. There were not many in this land who could face Brice Campbell without flinching, be they man or woman.
The dagger? Though he had no doubt that he could best this small female in a battle, it irritated him that she would dare to draw a weapon against him.
“Put it down.”
Her eyes widened at the icy command.
“If I am forced to disarm you, my lady, I assure you I will not be gentle.”
She stared at the muscles of his arms, then lifted her gaze to the challenge in his dark eyes. For a moment longer she held the knife. Then slowly, with no change in her expression, she let it drop from her fingers. It fell to the floor and lay there among the furs, glinting in the light of the fire.
“Your bridegroom,” he said, watching her through narrowed eyes. “Was he not Gareth MacKenzie?”
She wanted to hurt him as he had hurt her. She wanted to twist the knife, while he writhed in pain. If not the dagger, then the words that could cut as surely as any blade.
A half smile touched her lips. “Nay, my lord. It was not.”
His eyes narrowed fractionally. Damn the woman. She was enjoying his confusion. “The man I killed. Who was he?”
“Gareth’s brother, Desmond.”
She saw the way his lips pressed together. A little muscle began working at the side of his jaw.
“You lie, woman. Why would the younger brother be allowed to wed before the eldest?”
Especially to one as lovely as the woman standing before him. For the first time Brice allowed himself to see, really see, the woman he had captured. With that wild mane of hair falling in tangles to below her waist and that gown of gossamer snow revealing a lush young body ripe for the picking, she was stunning.
“Because Gareth knew that I would never consent to be his wife. He offered Desmond instead.”
“Consent?” Brice Campbell threw back his head and laughed. “And why would he need the consent of a mere girl? Why did he not go to your father and offer for you like a man?”
“I need the consent of no man,” she said in a haughty manner that had him lifting an eyebrow in surprise. “Now that you have killed my father, I am the MacAlpin, heir to my father’s land and protector of his people.”
“I killed your father?” Brice took a menacing step closer and saw the way she watched him with the wariness of a doe in the forest. “Who accuses me of such treachery?”
“Gareth MacKenzie.”
He clamped his mouth shut on the curse that rose to his lips. “At least the lie was spoken by one who does not matter to me.”
“He matters so little,” she said with a look of fury, “that you invaded the sanctity of the kirk to try and kill him.”
At her sarcasm Brice felt his temper rising. But just as quickly, her next words had him feeling contrite.
“And succeeded in killing an innocent lad in the bargain.”
“I regret having killed Desmond MacKenzie,” Brice said with sudden honesty.
For a moment Meredith found herself astounded by his admission. Could it be that the barbarian was almost human?
“But the next time I will succeed,” he added in a tone of pure venom. “From this moment Gareth MacKenzie is a dead man.”
“And what of me?”
He took a step closer until they were almost touching. The hounds, taking a cue from their master, inched closer, sniffing the hem of her gown.
To her credit, Meredith did not back away, but stood facing him. He reached out a hand, intending to catch her roughly by the shoulder. The instant his fingers encountered her skin he felt the heat. Heat that raced and pulsed until he felt as if he were on fire.
“I haven’t yet decided just what I’ll do with you.” He stared down into her eyes and was astounded by the sexual pull.
“What is your name?” His voice was a mere whisper.
“Meredith.” She was surprised at how difficult it was to speak. At his touch her throat had gone dry. All the blood seemed to have rushed to her brain, leaving her feeling weak and light-headed.
“Meredith MacAlpin.”
“Meredith.” An unusual name for an unusual woman. He had to remove his hand or he would be burned. He clenched his fists by his side and took a step back. “Daughter of Alastair MacAlpin?”
At her nod he said simply, “He was a good man. And a fair one.”
His mind began working feverishly while he studied her. “Perhaps I’ll use you as the bait in a trap.”
He saw the way her lips pursed as she started to protest. The words died on her lips as he added, “If Gareth MacKenzie sees your land slipping away, I’ll wager that he’ll do anything necessary to get you back.”
“Are you suggesting that Desmond was ordered to marry me only to enlarge the MacKenzie holdings?”
He saw the sparks in those green eyes and nearly laughed aloud. So he had struck a nerve. Swallowing back the smile that threatened he murmured, “Was there any doubt?”
He watched the way her features darkened with fury. Aye, a nerve. God in heaven. What a temper. What a fascinating, fiery little creature.
“Oh, Gareth MacKenzie will come for me.” She faced him, hands on hips, eyes blazing. “But not to enrich his estate. He will come for me because he is a gentleman. A man of honor. And not a—barbarian.”
He did laugh then, a deep, joyous sound that sent little tremors along her spine.
“A barbarian, am I?” His smile faded. In its place was a look of pure venom. “Aye. That is what I must be if we are to believe that Gareth MacKenzie is a gentleman.”
He stooped and retrieved the dagger before crossing the room to remove all the weapons from the shelf above the bed.
“Angus,” he shouted. “Holden.”
Instantly his friends were at his side.
Brice handed them the weapons. “See that these are kept away from the lady.” He emphasized the word “lady.”
Angus nodded toward Meredith. “Angus Gordon, my lady.”
Meredith studied the man who stood beside his friend. Smaller by a head, sandy hair fell in a riot of curls over his freckled forehead. His blue eyes danced with the promise of laughter lurking just beneath their clear depths. In her state of anger Meredith refused to acknowledge him, except for a slight nod of her head.
“Holden Mackay,” Brice said by way of curt introduction. “Of the clan Mackay to the east.”
Meredith studied the burly man. At first glance he appeared to have no neck. His head seemed to rest upon his massive shoulders. His upper arms, like his chest and shoulders, were corded with muscles. As he lifted several weapons with the ease of a seasoned warrior, he turned and, for the first time, stared directly at her.
“My lady.” He inclined his head slightly. “Your stay at Kinloch House should prove to be most interesting.”
Meredith shivered at the suggestion in his words. But it was his eyes that
frightened her. They were cold, lifeless. Like his soul? she wondered.
“I will join you below stairs,” Brice called to his friends.
When the two men left, Jamie continued to stand in the doorway staring with fascination at the beautiful woman who was Brice’s captive.
“Jamie. Be gone, lad.”
The boy blushed clear to his toes before rushing from the room.
When they were alone Meredith lifted her head a fraction and faced her captor.
Again he felt the pull and had to force himself to step back, away from the heat of her.
He deliberately turned his back on her and walked to the adjoining sitting chamber.
“I will have food sent to you. My servants will see to your comfort.” At the door he turned toward her with a look that struck terror in her heart. His eyes were dark, dangerous. “If you try to leave this room you will find yourself most uncomfortable.”
“Do you think I fear death at your hand?”
He gave her a chilling smile. “Perhaps it is not death I have in mind, Meredith MacAlpin. Perhaps it is something far worse for a lady such as you. At the hands of a—barbarian like myself.”
His words sent a shiver along her spine. She had been prepared to die. But the thought of being used by him like some tavern slut sent her into a state of near hysteria.
He called to the hounds and they ran eagerly from the room.
When the door closed, Meredith began to pace the length of the room and back. She must find another weapon with which to defend herself.
With a feeling of desperation she searched every inch of the room. She was not a woman who accepted defeat gracefully. But defeated she would be without a weapon. As she turned dejectedly toward the bed, she spotted a rough cloak dropped carelessly in the corner of the room. Beneath it she found a dagger, small and sharp. With trembling fingers she concealed it beneath her gown.
This time her captor had not even bothered to disarm her—had merely ordered her to drop her weapon and she had. Now he would think her too puny, too insignificant, to dare to defy him. Hopefully he would not bother checking her for a weapon again.