My Lady Highlande

by Nancy Lee Badger

  “Gather the tray and leave us, Anice. Hide yerself, or my men might come a calling.” The Sinclair bent beneath the lintel, and entered the cell. “Ye will follow me, Isobel.”

  Izzy did not want to be alone with the laird, but she wanted out of the cell more. Before Anice could hobble toward the cot, Izzy picked up the tray and empty tankard. “Allow me to help. Ye look a bit tired, Anice.”

  The laird stood aside.

  She followed the small woman through the door, and they climbed the curving stairway. Anise took slow, care-filled steps, seeming to struggle to bend her knees. She leaned one small, wrinkled hand against the damp wall, and lifted the ragged hem of her skirt with the other. No words passed between them.

  Heavy footsteps slapped the steps behind them. The laird followed on their heels, and his intimate proximity rattled Izzy’s nerves. Her muscles tensed, waiting for him to touch her. The urge to run grew stronger, and her head started pounding.

  Show him no weakness.

  Repeating the words, and releasing slow breaths, helped calm her jitters. At the top of the stairs, a heavy wooden door creaked open. They passed by a frowning guard, the same guard, with the raspy throat, who had leered at her. He glared, and she sensed his eyes following her.

  Ignoring him, she trailed Anice. The older woman turned left, and walked down the dank hallway. Only a few torches burned, but the walls and ceiling were black with soot. As they moved farther away from the dungeon’s entrance, the smells of a working kitchen filled Izzy’s nose with the scent of chopped onions, and fresh-baked bannock.

  Her stomach rumbled.

  The Sinclair laughed. “Anice, take the tray, then leave us. Doona’ make me tell ye again.”

  The old woman grabbed the tray from her hands, and frowned. Concern etched her brow, and a sick feeling wafted over Izzy. She wanted to stay with the other woman in a warm, food laden kitchen.

  “Come with me, lass. I have something to show ye. Follow obediently, and I might feed ye again.”

  When his puffy hand tugged her away from the kitchen, and they traversed the same hallway, again, she prepared to escape. Passing the dungeon’s bolted door, and heading toward another staircase, she said, “Are ye taking me outside to yer men?”

  “Ye have no’ seen my castle, and I want to show ye the view from on high.” They climbed and climbed, then stopped at a landing.

  Since he was not taking her outside to his warriors, she allowed him to lead her through a cut in the wall, near the top of the stair. They walked out onto the parapet. The view was not of a bailey and outer curtain wall. No gate was in sight, so she assumed she was at the side, or back of the castle.

  Through the darkening sky, and with the last vestige of sunlight departing swiftly, she gazed at a wide valley, spread out before her. Ringed by a dark forest, her attention fell on a small stream. Bright blue water cut a curved path through the green meadow. Peaks rose in the distance, and a hawk glided on a breeze. The sky was turning a misty gray, as twilight gripped the valley.

  When he pointed, she lowered her gaze. Close to the base of the castle’s wall, a horde of men laughed and grunted, while women ran from their grasps.

  “Stars above! What is happening?”

  “The sun has nearly set, the food and drink have been joyfully consumed, the feats of strength completed. Time to find pleasure in the arms of a woman.”

  “They doona’ appear in want of the company of men.” Izzy tried to free her wrist, eager to be rid of the laird’s touch.

  A high-pitched scream rent the air. A warrior hoisted a young woman over his shoulder, and strode away. Another pair of women ran toward the castle, but Izzy feared that the castle guards had barred the door to safety.

  She turned away.

  “Ye canna’ help the women, lass.”

  She ignored his words, and prayed the laird did not plan to release her in the meadow. However, if he did, she might have a chance to get away. She had competed in the kilted mile back at the New England Highland Games. Each person who raced wore a pleated plaid, and were timed according to their age and sex. She had beat the posted times of many men her age, so a race might be one way to escape.

  When The Sinclair tugged her back inside, they walked down a different hall. At the end were two massive carved doors. The wood gleamed, but he barreled though them, as if they were barn doors. He tossed her past him. Izzy tumbled to the floor, landing on a thick sheepskin rug. He turned and bolted her means of escape.

  Her throat clogged. Fighting for breath, she beheld the room’s understated magnificence. The décor was sparse, but elegant and smelled of fresh-cut heather and lilac soap. A lady’s chamber? An empty bed with carved posts and whisper-thin bed curtains filled a corner. Colorful tapestries warmed the walls, and wool blankets in the Sinclair plaid lay across several stuffed chairs. A massive stump carved into a table held a pitcher and two metal tankards. More than one soft sheepskin covered the wooden floor. One window, open to the falling darkness, swept cool air over her.

  Heavy footsteps drew her attention, from what she hoped, was a pitcher filled with water. Her parched throat and cracked lips proved her thirst had yet to be sated. But, as he strode toward her, Izzy sensed her situation grew dire. Her fate was unknown.

  ‘Tis up to me to live through the night.

  “What have ye there, wench? A pilfered treasure?”

  Pushing to her unsteady feet, she glared at her captor’s fleshy face. When he marched closer, and pushed her loose hair aside, then glared at her neck, she tried to read his intentions. He grabbed her necklace, surprising her.

  “Nay! ‘Tis mine.”

  He chuckled. Before she could shove his hands away, he pulled the chain up and over her head. Looping it over his head, it rested beneath his linen shirt. Izzy’s fingernails curled into her palms, as anger bubbled.

  “Ye take me unawares, throw me about like a piece of trash, then steal my jewelry? Yer a thieving wretch.” He was also what stood between her, and the heavy oak door. He smiled, as if he knew her thoughts. Vowing to escape, she would do whatever proved necessary. Her stomach turned, at the prospect of him defiling her.

  This may no’ end well.

  “You are a hard woman to kill, my dear.”

  “Kill? I doona’ understand.” Why would he want her dead? If the truth, did he plan to ravish her first?

  “My instructions were clear, but my minion was no’ up to the task.”

  Izzy shook her head, forcing her body to stand erect, and proud. She was of the Highlands, and had survived a fire, and a motor vehicle accident. But, attempted murder? Bowing in his presence, beneath his hate-filled glare, was not an option. He was arrogant, vain, and devious. His treatment of women was repulsive, and she would remain wary, until she met her fate.

  “Killing? Seizing women against their will? I believed yer son was innocent in anything but wanting my land. Did he plan to wed me, then kill me?”

  The Sinclair laughed, and strode further into the room. The space grew small, as his bulk loomed closer. The man was large, with a wrinkled face, but she recognized both Niall and Gavin, in his time-ravaged features. His plaid draped across one shoulder, and the thick leather belt hugged his massive girth.

  He eats well.

  Fleshy hands notwithstanding, he was a large, muscular warrior with a barrel chest and wide shoulders. His long, gray hair was pulled back with a twisted strip of black leather. His bushy eyebrows reminded her of old Balfour, their clan’s dead ale master.

  Shoving aside the remorse over her clansman’s death, she focused her attention on the Sinclair Laird. He had clipped the wool over his white shirt with a shining pennanular clasp. The trinket was showy, to say the least.

  “With the value of that ornament, ye could feed yer people through the long winter ahead.” Izzy pointed at the circle of gold. Her gaze drifted past his shirt, to the wide leather belt attempting to hold his plaid in place, around his rotund abdomen.

  Izzy could
not help it. She chuckled.

  “Why are ye laughing, lass? Ye need no’ worry about hunger. Ye shall no’ live to see the winter snows.”

  She growled, baring her teeth. When he stumbled back a few steps, Izzy smiled.

  “Do ye see me as a threat? I am but a woman of the Highlands.” If she appealed to his manly senses, if ever a man of his ilk could be called sensible, she might live.

  Until she escaped.

  “From what I have heard, from my son and my spies, yer more a Highlander than many of my own soldiers.”

  “What? Little me?” she answered. Her lack of height gave many men the idea that they could steal from her, but she had defended her farm from reivers. Her farm, near the Sinclair border, was a target time and again, but she had only lost a few steer. Her cousin pledged to care for her property in her absence, and she prayed he had succeeded. Thievery was a way of life for some in the Highlands.

  “I dinna’ understand what Gavin sees in ye, but I will no’ allow any son of mine to wed a peasant, even if land comes with the marriage contract.”

  She bit her lower lip. No sense arguing the point. She had hidden away some gold beneath her mother’s rose bushes, at the farm. She worked hard to keep such news secreted away, until she met a man worthy of her estate. Gavin had come close, but she no longer planned to marry.

  “If ye talk to Gavin, he will tell ye I refused him, many times. I even fled from my home. He dinna’ find me, ‘til recently. I will never wed him.”

  “ ‘Tis what I learned too late, and I apologize.”

  “Ye apologize for trying to kill me? For seizing me against my will?”

  The Sinclair’s eyes never left her face, as his fleshy fingers unpinned the gold circlet at his shoulder. He unbuckled his belt. It, and the sheathed dirk, slid to the floor. His unwrapped plaid followed.

  Izzy backed away.

  Maybe he planned to take a nap, or change for dinner, but in her heart, she sensed his direction.

  “What are ye doing, Sinclair? Ye would no’ allow yer son to continue our betrothal, so why do ye act as if I will be sharing yer bed?”

  “My dear wife suffered a fatal accident, only this morning.”

  Izzy sucked in a strangled breath.

  “Ye murdered Gavin’s mother?”

  “Aye, but she died a decade earlier. My latest wife displeased me.”

  “Why are ye telling me? What if I tell Gavin? Surely he, or Niall, would seek revenge.”

  He sighed. Clad only in his linen shirt, which covered him from his neck to mid-thigh, he marched up to her, grabbing her upper arm. With murderous intent sparking from his eyes, he tightened his grip.

  She would wear the bruise for days, if she lived that long. The stale beer on his breath, the odor of sweat, and the musky scent of recent sexual activity, made her grit her teeth to keep from vomiting.

  “They shall never know, lass.”

  “I shall tell--” He lowered his head and kissed her, choking off her response. While his large hands mauled her breasts and belly, then gripped both of her wrists, she wriggled and twisted to get free.

  He growled his displeasure, as she continued to fight. Tossing her upward like a doll, he backed her against the wall.

  With her arms immobilized by his grip, her teeth and legs were her only weapons. A kick to his shin drew a grunt. Without waiting to enjoy her success, she latched onto his lower lip with her teeth, and shook. Blood flooded her mouth.

  He stepped away, and she wrenched free.

  “Bitch!” The Sinclair slapped her, sending her to her knees. His hand barely missed the bruises around her nose, but stars swam before her eyes, anyway. When the images cleared, his tented shirt filled her vision. His blatant arousal made her want to gag.

  “Stay on yer knees. ‘Tis a natural place for a whore like yerself. Doona’ use yer teeth again, or I will slit yer throat.”

  “I would rather die.”

  He laughed, and cupped her chin with his meaty hand. “That, lass, can be arranged.”

  The strain in her neck was excruciating. It probably did not matter, as he would kill her, once he got what he wanted. Her death would be easy to explain away, like the deaths of his wives. Although laird of the Sinclair clan, he would never admit to murdering two wives unless he was certain she would never share the information.

  Ice trickled through Izzy’s veins. She was going to die, but fear did not cause her distress. Regret did. She would miss one thing and one thing, only.

  Bryce Buchanan. Bull. A Highlander, too afraid to admit the obvious.

  Izzy laughed.

  When someone recently called Bull Highlander, he argued with them, but she had seen him at his finest, when he stood up to Gavin. His scars proved adversity had not kept him down. He had shown her romance, and had given her pleasure. She vowed to thank him in person.

  “I doona’ see the humor in my bedding ye, wench.” He raised his hand to strike once more.

  “No man shall touch me except Bryce Buchanan. Bull is a good man, much better than the likes of ye.” Izzy spat at the laird’s feet, then filled her lungs, and screamed.

  CHAPTER 14

  “I believe the lass is mine, my laird. Consider our contract nullified. I dinna’ bring such beauty to ye, for ye to ruin her with yer wanton ways. Are ye no’ in mourning for yer missus?” Jaden-Tog bounced across the room, from the chair near the fireplace, to the four-poster bed. He giggled and bowed to Isobel MacHamish, the young woman who was unfortunately still alive, then bounced back, returning to the open window.

  “Who is that?” the young lass asked the red-faced laird.

  “A conniving, useless brownie.”

  “Lass, ‘tis my fault yer in this predicament,” he said, then smiled up at the laird.

  “Jaden-Tog, ye little maggot, leave the room at once! I am engaged for the afternoon!” The Sinclair bellowed, pulling on a pair of ill-fitting breeches. When the older man was clothed, he turned toward him, and waved his fist in a belligerent manner.

  Jaden-Tog laughed, fingering the potion bottle in his pocket. “Doona’ threaten me, old man.”

  The young woman knelt unmoving, as if in shock, while The Sinclair marched toward him like a Highland bull, bent on gutting reivers. His mouth, twisted in a sneer, muttered Gaelic curses even Jaden-Tog was loath to repeat.

  “Stop yer havering and calm yerself, Angus. ‘Tis a moment of yer time I be needing.”

  The Sinclair looked less than pleased. “Ye have no right to call me by my first name.”

  He laughed at the old man. “I have interrupted yer play, I see, but what about our deal?”

  The young woman stared at Jaden-Tog, but when the Sinclair left her side and headed for the brownie, she got to her feet. She made use of the laird’s anger at being disturbed, to head toward the bedchamber’s door.

  Smart woman, with more lives than a cat.

  “Doona’ leave yet, my dear. The old laird promised me riches beyond the wealth of the Faerie Queen. ‘Tis true I failed. He said that merely wounding ye paid nothing.” He pointed at her bruised nose and eyes.

  “Then it ‘twas ye, in deer form. Ye forced our vehicle off the road,” the woman said.

  “Aye. Bruises become ye.” He noted the cheek turning crimson from Sinclair’s hand. “The Sinclair wanted ye dead.”

  She cupped her cheek. “So he said.”

  The old man had almost reached Jaden-Tog’s perch in the window. The brownie laughed. His plan was working. “ ‘Tis true, lass, but he dinna’ say how much he would offer to have his way with ye. Methinks I am due a boon.”

  “Jaden-Tog, ye forget with whom yer dealing. I’ll strike ye dead like the bug ye are, if ye doona’ leave us be.”

  “Methinks the little lady has other plans.” Jaden-Tog nodded in Isobel’s direction. The smart little hoyden grabbed a Claymore that hung on the wall. The huge sword tilted, then crashed to the floor. When she attempted to pick it up, blood gushed from her palm.

/>   Jaden-Tog saw her attempt as another reason the lass did not deserve the fate The Sinclair planned. Most young women would have run screaming from the room, or fainted dead away. This one attempted to fight her attacker.

  Her courage was honorable, and her predicament was all his fault. The least he could do for the lass was to create a diversion. Disappearing in a puff of smoke, he reappeared on the large bed.

  “Argh!” the Sinclair said, his attention shifting from the woman, to the brownie. She raised her bloody hand to her mouth. Stumbling to the door, her uninjured hand shoved the bolt free. She pulled the massive oak door open. Jaden-Tog chuckled, as she disappeared into the hall.

  “Damnation! Ye let her get away!” Sinclair ran toward the door, a dirk suddenly in his fist.

  The brownie tumbled over the old man’s head, rolled across the floor, and disappeared out the window. He would rather scale the side of the castle and follow the young lass, than stay here with the old fool who would never pay his price.

  No’ now.

  ***

  Bull stared at the vista unfolding in the nearby meadow, that lay in the shadow of the Sinclair’s castle. The feats of strength were winding down. Most of the Sinclair warriors were huddled around the beer barrels on the wagon, laughing and grunting. When the men laughed louder, the women ran from their grasp.

  “Bull, let us no’ worry about things that have no’ come to pass. We doona’ know where Isobel is, but she is no’ among these women,” Gavin whispered.

  “This is all wrong.”

  “Aye, they doona’ appear in want of the company of men.”

  A scream caught his attention, and his stomach clenched, as a warrior captured a young woman and threw her over his shoulder. Other women ran for their lives toward the castle and pounded on a door. Bull assumed the castle guards had barred the door to safety. A muted scream, as if it floated on a breeze for some distance, pierced the dusk. It came from the castle.