by Ruth Langan
In desperation she gripped the hilt of the sword at her waist. With the pressure at her throat it took all of her strength to pull the sword from the scabbard. But when the blade flashed dully her attacker took a step back, releasing her.
She sucked in several long scalding breaths before turning to face him. “Had I a sword at Kinloch House, Mackay, I would have killed you then.”
Though he was startled, he threw back his head and laughed. “Do you think yourself a match for me, my lady?” He laughed again. “Remember, woman, I am a Highland warrior. I was born by the sword.”
“Then prepare to die by it as well,” Meredith called, lifting the point of her sword to his heart.
He leaped aside, surprised by her boldness. He had expected her to weep and to plead for her life. He had not expected her to fight him.
He reached for his own sword and drew it out. As the blade danced through the air, she lunged, pressed and dodged, with all the skill of a trained swordsman.
Holden Mackay wiped a hand across his forehead to erase the sheen of sweat. His own skill was not with the thin sword designed for thrusting, but with the heavier broadsword. It was unheard of that a woman could best a man at any warlike skill. It was just that she had managed to catch him by surprise, he told himself.
With his sword pointed at her heart he lunged. She stepped aside and brought her sword up, catching him in the shoulder. A scarlet stain bubbled to the surface and spilled across his cloak.
He swore viciously and lunged again. This time he almost caught her, but at the last moment she ducked, bringing the point of her sword singing past his temple.
His eyes narrowed. She was good. Very good. And he was being made to look a fool.
Again he lifted his sword and again she dodged the tip of his blade and watched as the blow meant for her fell harmlessly against the branches of a low bush.
“The forest should fear you, Mackay,” she taunted him with a laugh. “With your wild parrying you may cut down a valuable tree.”
“It is you I will cut down to size. When I finish with you, wench, you will wish you had never been born.”
Meredith didn’t bother to respond. With agile steps she backed him against the trunk of a gnarled old tree and brought the tip of her sword to his throat.
“Those are the last words you will ever speak.”
“I think not.” A smile slowly spread across his features, giving him the sinister look of a deadly snake. He pressed a hand tightly to his wounded shoulder but blood quickly oozed through his fingers, dripping onto the damp earth and staining the rocks at his feet. “You will hand over your sword to my men who stand behind you or they will cut you up in little pieces and feed you to the wild animals that roam these mountains.”
“Do you think me foolish enough to turn away from you for even one moment? I know your little trick. You think to render me defenseless while I am distracted.”
His smile grew. “Take the lady’s sword.”
Meredith felt a hand at her shoulder and turned, prepared to do battle with another. Half a dozen men faced her, swords drawn. From the looks on their faces she knew that they would have no qualms about killing her where she stood.
From behind came Holden Mackay’s evil laughter. “Drop your sword or my men will run you through.”
He watched as her sword slipped from her fingers and dropped on the moist ground.
“Now, my lady, I believe we have a score to settle.” To his men he shouted, “Bind her and toss her over my saddle. The lady is mine.” He leaned close. His breath was hot on her cheek as he gave a hollow laugh and added for her ears alone, “To do with as I please.”
Brice and his men rode in single file along the path worn into the earth by Meredith’s mount. When it was raining it had been an easy job to trail her. Now that the rain had stopped, he prayed they would find her before the earth dried up and the trail was lost.
None of the men spoke, and though they were weary, not one of them complained of the long hours in the saddle. They knew how much their leader loved the woman they searched for. They would travel to hell and back for Brice Campbell.
As they topped a ridge Brice suddenly reined in his mount and slid to the ground.
“There were men and horses here.” Brice pointed to the churned up earth. “And there was a scuffle.”
He walked several paces before stooping. He touched a finger to the small footprint imbedded in the soil. “No man’s foot could leave so small a mark.”
Angus swallowed, reluctant to agree.
“Do you recognize the horses’ marks?” Though Brice studied the other prints, his gaze kept returning to the small print that he knew had been made by Meredith’s booted foot.
Angus called to Alston, and together the two men went over every mark on the ground. While they did, Brice walked about, careful not to obliterate any of the prints.
“They were Highlanders,” Alston called out. “Six or seven of them.”
“They rode from a northerly direction,” Angus called. “And when they left, they headed north again.”
“Mackays,” Alston said softly.
Brice felt as if a dagger had been plunged into his heart. Holden Mackay. In his mind he could still see the scene in his chambers, when Mackay had nearly succeeded in taking Meredith by force. He thought of the bruises he had seen on her throat, and the fear he had read in her eyes.
Angus swallowed, aware of the pain Brice would be enduring at this moment. All the fear, all the rage, at last had a focus. “It had to be the Mackays,” he said in a near whisper.
They stood and began to walk to where the others waited with their horses.
“God in heaven.”
At Brice’s exclamation, Angus and Alston hurried to his side. Brice was kneeling near the trunk of a gnarled old tree. At the base lay a discarded sword. His sword, which had been missing along with his clothes and stallion.
He brushed his hand over the damp earth, over the small boulders at the base of the tree.
“Blood.”
Angus and Alston looked at each other before Angus said softly, “Aye. ’Tis blood. But we cannot be certain it was the lass’s.”
“And we cannot be certain it is not.” Brice pulled himself into the saddle. His face was a grim mask. “By all that is holy I swear that if Holden Mackay harms her in any way he is a dead man.”
He turned to his men. “We ride north. To confront the devil himself.”
Chapter Seventeen
Meredith fought back a wave of panic as she was forced to ride, hands tied, astride Mackay’s horse.
It had been humiliating enough to be bound and lifted like a sack of grain. But to be held firmly in his arms, his hands brushing the undersides of her breasts while his horse broke into a trot, was almost more than she could bear. She had to swallow back a rush of nausea.
She must not give in to the panic that threatened to reduce her to weeping and hysteria. It was exactly what this monster would want. Instead, she must appear calm, no matter what he said or did.
His men fell into line behind him, their spirits high. Their little foray into the forests this day had brought them an unexpected bonus. For weeks, since their leader had returned from Brice Campbell’s castle, he had been brooding and sullen. Now, with the discovery of this lass, he had come alive again. It was obvious that there was a simmering feud between these two. And though the men had no idea what had occurred earlier, Holden Mackay now had someone on whom he could focus his anger.
When the skies once again opened up, Meredith hunched deep into her cloak. But the cold seemed to seep through to her very bones. It was not only because of the weather, she realized. It was because she was already replaying in her mind the scene in Brice’s chambers, when Holden Mackay had come dangerously close to taking her by force. She knew what awaited her at the end of this journey, and though she tried, she could not blot it from her mind.
They rode for nearly three hours, often leaving well-w
orn paths to plunge into the dense forest. There was little said between the men now, but Meredith sensed that they passed signals among themselves. Could there be someone on their trail? Or did they take these evasive routes routinely to avoid running into anyone along the path?
She thought about shouting for help. But who could hear her in the forest? And to invite Mackay’s wrath was to invite pain. It would probably please him to have an excuse to silence her with as much force as possible.
With the surefooted ease of horses heading home, the animals picked their way across a swirling river. Meredith studied the depth of the water, nearly to the horses’ bellies. If she managed to break free of Holden’s grip, how far and fast could she swim before being caught? Worse, could she swim with her hands bound? Or would she risk being sucked beneath the swirling waters? At the moment, drowning seemed a better fate than the one contemplated by her captor.
As if reading her mind Holden Mackay tightened his grip at her waist and gave a low grunt of laughter.
“Thinking of slipping through my clutches, my lady?” He bent toward her, his voice sending chills along her spine. “My men would spear you like a fish by the time you hit the water.”
“At least my death would be quick.”
“Aye. But far less satisfying for me.”
A tremor passed through her. She bit back the words that threatened to spill from her lips. Now was not the time to goad him. She would wait. And watch. And listen.
Up ahead through the mist loomed the Mackay fortress. Though not as graceful or elegant as Brice’s, it was every bit as well fortified. Built into the side of a rocky crag, there was only one way in or out. Its massive twin doors were surrounded by a courtyard. On either side of the doors stood armed guards, their swords at the ready. They saluted their leader as the door was thrown open and servants hurried out to assist the tired men.
The servants did not seem surprised by the presence of an unknown woman, and Meredith found herself wondering whether Holden Mackay often brought other unfortunate females to his fortress.
A sullen-looking woman stepped forward. Her dull gaze, Meredith noted, remained downcast, as though afraid to look directly at her master. How many beatings had she endured at the hands of this man?
“Shall I take the woman to your chambers, my lord?”
“Nay. No one touches the female. She will go with me.”
He lifted Meredith effortlessly from the horse and set her on her feet. And though she swayed a moment he made no effort to steady her. Catching her bound hands he led her roughly across the courtyard and up great stone steps to the upper floor. He paused outside a door and threw back a heavy timber that barred it. Opening the door he revealed a small windowless room.
Thrusting her inside he set a taper in a sconce along the wall and growled, “You will stay here until I am ready for you.”
She saw the smile that gave him a cruel, feral look. He withdrew a dirk from his waistband and advanced toward her, watching her eyes.
Meredith noted the blood that still oozed from his shoulder. Did he intend to retaliate for the wound she had inflicted? She thought of the dirk at her own waistband. In close hand-to-hand combat, Mackay would have the advantage. He was twice her size and weight. And she had already tasted his strength.
He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes as he moved closer. But though she was bound to be afraid of him, she lifted her chin in a defiant gesture and faced him boldly.
Damn the woman! Why did she not beg, or at least flinch?
He stood before her, the blade of the dirk glinting in the candlelight. Without a word he caught her hands and brought the knife cleanly through the rope that bound them.
Though she felt a rush of relief at his gesture, she prayed that no emotion showed on her face.
“If you are wise you will sleep. For you shall have little of that tonight.”
He turned away and strode across the room.
She watched as the door closed. She heard the timber being thrown into place. And with her ear to the door she listened as Mackay’s footsteps receded.
She began an immediate search of the chamber. Apparently it had been a storage room of sorts. Though it contained several pallets and mounds of furs, there was little else. The room was cold. There was no fireplace. And except for the door, which was bolted by a heavy timber, there was no other way out.
Wrapping herself in several layers of fur, Meredith fell upon a pallet to fight off the chill that rattled her teeth. Despite her best intentions, she gave in to an overpowering weariness and slept.
Brice rode at the head of his line of men, setting a brisk pace. Though tree limbs snagged at his sleeves and raked his face, he could not slow down. One thought drummed through his mind. Meredith. His beautiful, beloved Meredith was now in the hands of a brute. A brute who would take delight in causing her pain and humiliation.
“We must not take a direct route to Mackay’s fortress,” Angus advised.
“And why not? We know who has Meredith.”
“Aye, old friend. But has it not occurred to you that Mackay might expect you to follow?”
“I will follow. To the ends of the earth and back to rescue my woman.”
“It is what Mackay hopes for. Then he will have it all. Meredith to abuse, and you to kill when you attack him in a blind rage.”
“What would you have me do?” Brice slowed his mount as they approached a boulder-strewn ridge. “Leave Meredith to that monster?”
“Nay.” Angus put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “All of us know what you are suffering. If it were Mistress Snow who found herself in the clutches of Mackay, I would move heaven and earth to save her.”
Brice shot a look at his friend. It was more of an admission than Angus had ever volunteered before.
“But I would hope that you and the others would keep me from doing something foolish.”
Brice took a long breath, then nudged his horse into a brisk walk. “How then do you propose to keep me from doing something foolish, old friend?”
“While we ride north we must come up with a plan. ’Twould do no good to ride blindly into a trap.”
Brice nodded. “I will think on it.”
Angus smiled. “Think with your head, Brice, not with your heart.”
Meredith heard the sound of the heavy timber being scraped back. She sat up, instantly alert. The door was pulled open. Holden Mackay strode into the room. He wore clean, dry clothes. At his shoulder was a fresh dressing covering the wound Meredith had inflicted with her sword.
Mackay was followed by a figure in a dark hooded cloak. Upon closer inspection Meredith realized the figure was a woman. A short, stooped woman.
Her cloak was damp, which indicated that she did not live within the walls of this fortress. She had been brought from somewhere outside Mackay’s home.
“Well? Is she not a prize?” Holden Mackay’s voice bounced about the small room. The stench of ale clung to him.
“I cannot tell, with all those clothes.”
“Soon enough you will see her without them.” Mackay grasped Meredith’s arm and hauled her toward the open doorway. “Come. We will retire to my chambers.”
Meredith was led down a long hallway and into a cavernous room. Several servants moved about, stoking the fire in the great stone fireplace, setting out an assortment of beautiful gowns on a fur-covered bed. At Mackay’s command the servants hurried from the room and closed the door behind them.
Meredith stared at the huge basin of water in front of the fireplace, then at the array of gowns spread out on the bed. At her arched look, Mackay gave her an evil leer.
“You are here to amuse me, Meredith MacAlpin. I want you to look like a lady when I take you. Not,” he added, pointing at her breeches and tunic, “like some muddy stable boy.”
“Rowena,” he said to the stooped woman. “You will bathe the lady and wash her hair in scented water.”
“Aye, my lord.” The woman tossed aside her cape
and walked toward Meredith.
“Do not touch me,” Meredith said sharply. “I am capable of undressing myself.”
Instantly the woman paused and glanced at Mackay, awaiting his orders.
“We are not barbarians here.” His voice was low with seething anger. “I can give you everything that Brice Campbell gave you. Especially servants to assist you. You would not know it to look at her, but Rowena was once an assistant to royalty.”
Meredith studied the woman. Despite her crooked spine there was a look of elegance about her. And the gown she wore beneath the damp cloak was expertly tailored.
What would it hurt to allow her to assist? Meredith wondered. It would certainly buy some time. She was away from that horrid storage room and into a room with doors and windows that afforded some means of escape. That was a first step. But she needed time to formulate a plan.
While Mackay crossed the room Meredith took a moment to peer about. There were two windows, which apparently led to balconies. A possible means of escape. Unless the guards were still posted below in the courtyard.
Mackay peered at the gowns spread out on his bed. He lifted a shimmering white satin gown, encrusted with pearls, and ran his hand suggestively across the bodice. “She will wear this one,” he said to Rowena.
Then to Meredith he added, “It will remind me of the bride Brice Campbell abducted from the altar. The woman who will now be my bride.” He threw back his head and roared with laughter at his own joke. “At least until I tire of her.”
“Surely you do not intend to watch while I undress her and bathe her?”
The laughter was gone. His voice was low and dangerous. “And why not? I am her captor. I will do whatever pleases me.”
He sat in a chair stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Remove her cloak.”
The woman seemed to hesitate, then stepped forward and slipped the heavy cloak from Meredith’s shoulders. It dropped to the floor.
Meredith forced herself to show no emotion as the woman reached for the tunic and removed it. Beneath the tunic Meredith was wearing one of Brice’s saffron shirts.