by Ruth Langan
“So be it.”
Holden thought about killing the man who all but ignored him while he studied the woman. Brice’s head would be quite a prize to take to his people. The name Brice Campbell still brought fear to the hearts of men in the Highlands. But Holden was aware of the barely controlled fury in the man, and knew that with Brice in such a rage he had no chance to win. Without another word he turned and fled.
Brice fell to his knees and touched a finger to the bruises about Meredith’s throat. “The lout choked you.”
At the intimacy of his touch she flinched and tried to back away from him. “Do not touch me.”
“I must examine your wounds.” When he tried to subdue her she mistook his intentions and began wrestling for control of the knife still held firmly in his other hand.
He saw the raw emotions in her eyes and cursed himself for his clumsiness. Tossing aside the dirk he lifted both palms to her to prove that he meant her no harm.
“I am unarmed, my lady. I wish only to make amends for what has been done.”
At his submissive gesture Meredith felt the prickle of tears against her lids and blinked furiously. She must not let him see her weakness.
“Do not touch me. I can—take care of myself.”
The more she tried to be brave, the more helpless Brice felt.
With a savage oath he yanked the rope free and tossed it aside. Then he lifted her in his arms and strode across the room. Kicking open the door to the bedchamber, he crossed the fur-strewn floor and laid her gently upon his bed.
The room was dim except for the flickering flames of the fire. His voice was as still and hushed as the night that seemed to have wrapped them in its soft, dark cloak.
“Forgive me, Meredith. It never occurred to me that one of my own men would be the cause of such pain.”
When she did not respond he whispered, “I regret that I must cause you further discomfort.” As he spoke he reached his hands to the waistband of her breeches. “There is blood upon your clothing. I must find the source.”
“Nay. Nay.” Though she tried to fight him, he managed to remove the torn clothing.
Beneath the breeches and shirt her ivory chemise bore more traces of blood. But when he untied the ribbons that laced the chemise across her breasts, she cried out so sadly he was forced to stop.
He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned close, placing his hands on either side of her head. “Holden has hurt you, Meredith. You are bleeding. Let me help you.”
At his gentle concern she felt some of the terror dissipate. Perhaps it was not his intention to harm her. Perhaps he was merely trying to help.
“I am not bleeding,” she whispered.
Her breath was warm against his cheek. So warm he had to resist the urge to turn his mouth to hers.
“There is blood on your garments.”
“Holden’s blood,” she whispered.
“Holden’s?” He drew closer, staring intently into her eyes. “But you were unarmed.”
“Aye. But I had my hands. And my teeth.”
“You bit him?” He felt some of his fury begin to melt. In its place a hint of laughter bubbled.
“Aye. I bit him.”
“Then I suppose I need not remove your chemise in search of more blood.”
“Nay.”
“A pity. I was prepared to do my duty no matter how unpleasant.”
How could it be that only moments ago she had suffered the terror of the damned, and now, with Brice as protector, she was able to smile and even respond to his silly joke?
“If you should think about removing my chemise, my lord, think about this. If you try, you will need the queen’s own physician to repair the damage these teeth will inflict upon your hands.”
“These are noble warrior’s hands, my lady. They must be ever prepared to protect the weak and suffering.”
“They will be exceedingly damaged warrior’s hands if they are found where they are not wanted.”
He gave her a long, lingering look. “What an amazing woman you are.” He saw the hint of color that touched her cheeks. “You are truly unharmed, Meredith?”
The tenderness in his tone was nearly her undoing. He felt her tremble.
“Aye, my lord.” Her voice trailed off as she fought a shudder that passed through her body. “I have survived. I am fine.”
His voice was suddenly gruff. He recognized the shock and fatigue that was beginning to overcome her. “You are indeed a fine woman. But you are far from recovered. You will sleep now.”
He pulled the bed linens over her and added a fur on top of them, smoothing it until she was warm and snug.
Meredith caught his hand. “You will stay with me? You will not send someone else to guard me?”
“If you wish.”
“Aye.” She clung to his hand. “I wish.”
He stared down at the small hand upon his. At this moment he would move heaven and earth if she but asked it.
“I will be right beside you.”
“All night?”
“And late into the morning if you desire.”
He pulled a chair beside the bed and dropped a fur across his knees. While the fire burned to embers he watched her as she slept.
Thin morning sunlight filtered through the windows, sweeping away the night shadows. Beneath the covers Meredith lay very still, replaying in her mind the events of the previous night.
She recalled clearly the attack by Holden and the tender way Brice had carried her to his bed. Less clear in her mind were the dreams that plagued her as she slept. Several times she had cried out. And each time Brice had been there beside her, soothing, holding. The last time she had sobbed as though her heart would break and it had been Brice who held her in his arms, rocking her as tenderly as if she were a wee bairn.
Brice. She opened her eyes and stared at the chaise drawn up beside the bed. It was empty. She felt a swift stab of disappointment. He had broken his word and left her.
A movement beside her in the bed startled her. Turning she found herself face-to-face with Brice.
Without a word he touched a hand to her cheek. The sweetness of the gesture brought a lump to her throat.
She studied the stubble of beard that darkened his chin, and had to clench her hands into fists to keep from reaching out to him. The nearness of the man did strange things to her. Her throat was dry. Her heartbeat was wildly erratic. And she was suddenly far too warm.
As she sat up and swung her feet to the floor he closed a hand around her wrist.
“You should stay abed, my lady.”
“Nay. I have a need to be up and about.”
He watched as she crossed the room toward the basin and pitcher. Pouring a little water she began to wash her face and arms.
He sat up. From this vantage point he could admire her Creator’s handiwork. How truly lovely she was. The sheer chemise clearly emphasized every line and curve of her body. As she bent to splash water on her face, he studied the dark cleft between her breasts and felt a rush of heat. His gaze traced the waist so narrow he was certain his big hands could easily span it, then moved lower to her flare of hips. Her legs were long and shapely, her bare feet as dainty as a child’s.
She dried her face and began to run his brush through the tangles of her hair. Tossing her head, she brought the hair forward over one breast and continued brushing until it was sleek and shining. Then she tossed it back and allowed it to cascade down her back like a shimmering veil.
She crossed the room to a stool and picked up the crumpled white gown. He watched her with a smile of appreciation. It was then that he spied the bruises on her throat.
He was across the room in quick strides. Without a word he caught her chin in his hand and lifted her face.
Meredith was about to protest his rough actions until she saw the pained look in his eyes. “What is it, my lord?”
“I should never have allowed him to walk away.” Brice’s nostrils flared as he gently examined each
bruise. “I should have killed Holden Mackay for what he did to you.”
“I will heal.” Embarrassed at his scrutiny she brought a hand to her throat.
“If I but had it in my power,” he said, bending his lips to the bruises on her throat, “I would willingly take each of your hurts upon myself.”
She stood very still, absorbing the waves that shuddered through her at his touch. Never before had a man dared to press his lips to her throat. And yet the touch was so tender, so loving, she was helpless to step away.
He glanced down at the soiled gown in her hands. “Do not put that on,” he said in a low tone of command.
“But it is all I have.” As she made a move to pull away he yanked the gown from her hands and tossed it in a heap on the floor.
“I will send Cara up with something more appropriate.”
He turned away and pulled on a tunic before leaving the room. It would never occur to him to admit, even to himself, that the gown offended him because it reminded him of the marriage she had almost been allowed to consummate, and the husband who would have bedded her.
Cara helped Meredith into the gown provided by the young widow, Mistress Snow. Though not a perfect fit, it was far more comfortable than the white gown that she had discarded.
The fabric was the color of heather, with deeper purple ribbons banding the bodice and hem. The sleeves were full, then gathered at elbow and wrist with shirring. The color was a lovely counterpoint to Meredith’s green eyes and brought a bloom to her cheeks. Best of all, the high ruffled collar hid the bruises that marred her throat.
“Oh, you look lovely, my lady,” Cara said as she finished dressing Meredith’s hair with matching ribbons.
“Thank you. And thank Mistress Snow for me.”
“I will, my lady.” Cara crossed the room and held the door. “If you are ready, the others are waiting to break their fast.”
Meredith followed her from the room and made her way to the great room, where the rumble of masculine voices alerted her that the others were already assembled.
She took a seat between Brice and Jamie and accepted food from the servants in silence.
Beside her, Brice cleared his throat. Odd. When they were alone, he had no trouble conversing with her. Now that they were with the others he felt the old awkwardness returning.
“You look lovely,” he murmured in a voice meant for her alone.
“Thank you, my lord. I would like to go to the scullery later to thank Mistress Snow.”
“I will take you myself.”
They continued to eat while the conversation swirled around them. There was talk of the queen’s visit, which led to a discourse on the scandalous marriage feast the queen had given her brother, James and his wife. The guests had openly danced, knowing they violated the laws of the kirk. The discussion then turned to the latest invasion of the Borders by English troops.
Beside Meredith, Jamie fidgeted. He had heard the whispers and rumors this morrow. Brice had banished Holden Mackay from the castle. Some said the lady had seduced poor Holden, while others whispered that Holden had forced himself on her. No matter what the truth of the rumors, Jamie was unnerved by them. He had witnessed glimpses of Holden’s cruel vengeance. He would not wish to endure the man’s wrath.
He glanced uneasily at the beautiful creature beside him. Though he was only ten and two, he was already as tall as she. And stronger, he suspected, risking a quick glance at the delicate hand resting beside her plate.
She was very quiet this morrow. But since her arrival he had heard her say very little. Her voice was unusual: deeper in timbre than most females, and as whispery soft as a lullaby. It was the voice he imagined his mother would have had, if he could but recall his mother who had died when he was a bairn.
Meredith sensed the scrutiny of the lad beside her and turned to give him a shy smile. He returned the smile before coloring and turning away quickly.
It mattered not to Jamie what the others whispered about the lady. He knew in his heart that she would never attempt to seduce a man like Holden. To Jamie, Meredith MacAlpin embodied all that was good and fine and noble.
No one mentioned the absence of Holden Mackay, and Meredith fretted that word of her attack had already been whispered about the castle. She frowned and quickly dismissed such thoughts. She would not dwell on somber things.
After their meal, she followed Brice from the great hall and through the maze of dimly lit passageways to the scullery.
The air was thick with the aroma of fresh bread baking in the ovens. A small deer was slowly roasting on a spit, in preparation for the evening meal. Servants were busy fetching buckets of water, while more servants scurried about, scrubbing, cleaning, cutting and preparing.
“Mistress Snow,” Brice called.
A small, thin woman looked up from a floured table where she was kneading dough. Seeing the lord of the manor she quickly wiped her hands on a linen square and hurried forward.
Her dress of pale pink was covered by a soiled apron. She touched the end of the apron to her brow as she walked. Dark hair was pulled back from a pretty oval face. Little tendrils of hair clung damply to her forehead and cheeks. Blue eyes danced with laughter as she studied the way her best gown looked on the beautiful woman beside Brice Campbell.
“Lady Meredith MacAlpin came to thank you for the use of your gown.”
“It looks far more beautiful on you, my lady, than it ever did on me,” she said with a slight bow.
Brice took a moment to study Meredith while she faced the young servant. Indeed she did look beautiful in the heather gown. But it was the exchange between Meredith and his servant that he found most fascinating.
Meredith caught Mistress Snow’s hands in hers, ignoring the dusting of flour that clung to her skin. “It was very kind of you to entrust me with the use of your gown. I shall find a way to repay your kindness.”
“I desire nothing of you, my lady. It is enough to know that you are pleased with my simple gown.”
“I am more than pleased. I am most grateful. Thank you, Mistress Snow.”
As they turned away, Brice was aware that the entire staff of servants had watched and listened to this exchange. It was a rare thing to see a highborn woman who would take the time to thank a servant for a kindness.
When they left the scullery they were aware of someone who appeared to be waiting for them. Brice’s hand went to the dirk at his waist. Meredith’s hand leaped to her throat in a gesture of distress.
Angus Gordon stepped from the shadows and put a hand to Meredith’s arm to stop her.
“My lady,” Angus said, his face turning a bright scarlet.
“Forgive my boldness for approaching you in this manner. But I must beg your forgiveness for leaving my post last night. I am shamed by my lapse of duties.”
Now it was Meredith’s turn to blush. The young man seemed truly contrite.
“It was not your fault, Angus,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
“Aye, but it was.” Angus took a step closer, forcing her to look up at him. “Brice had ordered me to guard you. I ignored his orders, and allowed harm to come to you. If Brice had not returned, I shudder to think what would have happened to you at the hands of that coward, Holden Mackay.”
“It is forgotten,” she said in a tone that left no question of her feeling. “I would ask only that you never mention the name Holden Mackay again.”
Angus bowed slightly over her hand. “As you say, my lady. The man no longer exists.”
She shivered as Angus accompanied them along the hall. If only Angus’s words were true. But the fact was that somewhere in the forest surrounding Kinloch House, Holden Mackay dwelled. And in his heart he could very well be nursing anger and a desire for revenge.
If she ever managed to escape this fortress, there would be another danger added to the elements. A man who would show her no mercy.
Chapter Eight
In the courtyard a dozen horses were being readied for a
journey. But though the men awaiting Brice were familiar to Meredith, they were no longer dressed like Highlanders. Instead of being bare legged, they wore trews, the long hose of the Lowland clans. Many wore breeches, as did Brice, and shirts of gray and dun instead of saffron. The colorful belted plaids they usually wore had been exchanged for simple wool cloaks. All the men wore daggers fastened to their belts. Most carried swords and had longbows slung over their shoulders. But though they were dressed in the garb of the Lowlanders, nothing could hide the fierce pride or the rawboned strength of these Highland warriors.
“You are leaving with your men?”
“Aye.”
Brice saw the fear that leaped into Meredith’s eyes. “Would Holden Mackay dare to return while you are away?”
His eyes narrowed. “This fortress is nearly impenetrable. But to assure the safety of those inside, I leave a dozen men capable of withstanding any attack.”
At his words of reassurance she took in a long, steadying breath. “Where do you go?”
“We ride to the Borders.”
“Then you must take me home.”
He saw the eagerness in her eyes and wished he did not have to be the one to dash her hopes. “Nay, my lady. We ride on a mission of revenge.”
Her heart sank once more. “Gareth MacKenzie.”
“Aye.” He draped the cloak across his shoulders at a rakish angle and pulled himself into the saddle. “When the MacKenzie is dead I will return you to your people.”
“And if you die instead?”
“Would that please you, my lady?”
When she remained silent he gave her a rare, heart-stopping smile. “If I oblige you by being killed, I would suppose the MacKenzie would come for you. That is,” he said with a sweep of his plumed hat, “if he still desires to align your two clans.”
“He will come for me,” she called.
But Brice did not hear her words above the clatter of hooves. Or if he did, he chose not to answer.