The Bruised Thistle (The Order of the Scottish Thistle)

by Ashley York

  Seumas felt like he was dying inside. He needed a drink, a strong drink, to numb the pain. To stop feeling. He picked up the dress and reverently rolled it into a ball to put in his saddlebag. Squatting beside the river, Seumas debated whether he should take the time to bury Malcolm’s body. He rubbed his lip with his thumb, looked up at the heavens and thought about the right thing to do.

  “Let him rot.”

  When he mounted his horse, he gazed at the place he believed they had spent their last moments on this earth. There were marks gouged in the earth where they had been dragged through the bushes and dropped beside the river.

  Her uncle murdered them right here.

  Rage filled him and there was only one thought in his mind.

  She did not live in fear and die in fear with no one to avenge her.

  He put his heels to his horse’s side, and they reared off toward Iseabail’s home.

  *****

  The open fields surrounding Iseabail’s family home brought a lump to her throat. It seemed like forever since she had said goodbye to Iain in this very spot. A lifetime ago. To see him again would be a relief. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears at the thought, and memories of better times flooded her mind. When her whole family had been alive. When she had had two parents who had loved and protected her. Two wonderful brothers. Her breath caught in her throat. The tears blurred her vision, threatening to undo her control. She struggled to hold them back. No one then could have imagined an uncle who would come and take advantage of her family’s kindness.

  Iseabail glanced at her uncle’s back as he sat astride his powerful steed. He had ordered her not to cry. It showed weakness. He would need to spend more time with her, preparing her for the role of a wife, if she showed such a flaw. Her jaw clenched tight. Calum was right. She should kill him.

  The village they passed through seemed very somber. No one smiled. No children played in the street. The town looked more worn out than when she had left. An entire wall of the blacksmith’s hut had crumbled. Emaciated dogs skirted the horses, begging for scraps. Many times the peasants had needed help from her father. He enabled the upkeep of their homes and fields when times were lean. No improvements seemed to have been made in her absence. Could her uncle have been so ignorant about how to help other clansmen? Aye, but it was more likely he was merely cruel.

  The wooden gate closed behind her with a thud. Her uncle’s hands burned as he gripped her waist to help her off the horse she had been allowed to ride. He did not let her go even when she was on her feet and despite her attempts to step slightly away from him.

  “Look who we have found here,” he called to the crowd gathering around them. “Our wayward daughter has returned.” Her uncle placed a wet kiss on her cheek. Bile rose in her throat, but Iseabail swallowed it and smiled, turning toward him. The good little niece.

  “Are you glad to be home, little one?” He tipped his head toward her, a smile on his face.

  “Uncle, I am glad.” She obediently squeezed the words out but her mind was swamped with thoughts of little Calum in tears, asking to come home.

  Nay, Calum, you will never be able to come home.

  There had been no sign of or word of Iain. They had not spoken of Calum either, but since her uncle did not ask, she assumed he already knew what had happened. She searched the group around them. “But where is Iain?”

  “Oh, dear Iseabail.” Her uncle’s face turned instantly grieved. Scanning her face, he reached for her hand again. She pulled it out of his grasp. “I thought you knew.”

  Every movement around her ceased. She did not breathe. She imagined her sanity held by a thread. One thin thread, twisting back and forth, each individual strand slowing breaking as one fiber after another snapped. From far away, she seemed to look down at the precipice of her insanity. Taking a deep breath, she faced her uncle. The twinkle in his eye was something only she, so used by him, would recognize. They faced each other, waiting, waiting to see who would blink, waiting to see who would drop first, waiting to see who would not survive this struggle.

  Each word was a slap across the face. “The cottage he had been staying in with his whore burned to the ground. He was killed.”

  She had lost. The world turned black.

  Chapter 23

  Seumas kept a fast pace through the night, traveling as if the devil himself were after him. His thoughts were morose, tortured by the screams of people murdered in the dark of night, a young man threatened at sword point to reveal the location of his hidden gold, Giles bending over the young girl. Atrocities no one should ever have witnessed. Atrocities he could not overcome.

  By day, he rested. The memories made sleep impossible. He ate nothing and drove himself with only one thought in mind—revenge. Iseabail’s murder would be avenged.

  It was near midnight when he finally saw her home. She was a woman of great wealth, and Seumas understood now why her uncle would have been so relentless in trying to acquire his brother’s estate. The castle walls were well-maintained. He would never be able to gain access. Retreating into the darkness of the woods, he pulled his tartan around him and slid down against a tree, keeping watch. His memories pressed down on him, drowning him with heavy thoughts of his revenge. The man would die slowly, in as much agony as Seumas could inflict upon him. Time became just another element, like the wind and the rain. He had lost all sense of it. Daylight came and went. And he waited.

  The whinny of his horse woke him instantly. With eyes already adjusted to the dark, he scanned the road. A lone rider traveled toward him from the castle. A hiss escaped Seumas as he saw the way the man was dressed. His opulence was unmistakable.

  What type of fool travels the roads at night so ripe for robbery?

  Without a doubt, this pompous arse was Iseabail’s uncle.

  He stayed hidden beneath the trees as the rider approached. He had worried as he planned out his revenge that he would not recognize their uncle. He almost laughed at the audacity of this man. The whoreson believed he could kill his niece, steal his brother’s lands, and go about his life as if he were a king? Tonight he would find out he was wrong. Seumas stepped out onto the path and waited to be seen.

  “Hold.” Seumas held up his hand, demanding compliance.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the man blustered as his horse shifted and turned at Seumas’s sudden appearance. “How dare you travel my roads in the middle of the night?”

  Seumas bowed in mock respect. “M’lord, I beg yer pardon. Whose lands have I unknowingly trespassed on?”

  The man tilted his head and squinted. “These are my lands. I am the MacNaughton.”

  Seumas felt the air leave his lungs, to be replaced by rage. “John MacNaughton?”

  “No, I am his brother, Henry.” Seumas slowly stepped toward the man, taking the horse’s reins. Henry was clearly not expecting that. “What are you up to?”

  “I wish to speak to ye, sir, if ye would please dismount. I would have us speak as men.”

  “What business have I with you, sir?” Henry tried to pull the horse back, away from Seumas, who held tightly and moved closer. “Why would you travel these roads at this time of night?”

  “I would ask ye the same.” Seumas’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Will ye dismount?”

  “I will not. Unhand my horse this instant.”

  Seumas gave a sharp yank and the horse reared away, effectively unseating Henry, who fell to a heap on the ground.

  Seumas stepped in closer until he towered over him, using his size to intimidate. “Ye will.”

  He merely observed the man as he worked to right himself. The buffoon struggled with his cloak, mumbling and grunting as he tried to unwrap his large limbs. The horse skidded away from the bumbling oaf. The knife was a surprise. Henry pointed it at Seumas, the blade glistening even in the dark, all pretense of ineptness discarded.

  He sneered. “What do you want from me? Tell me quick, and I may allow you to live.”

 
“Are ye not the brave man?”

  His sneer slipped, revealing his confusion. “What are you talking about? Get off my land.”

  Seumas rounded on him, his brows arched high at the absurdity of the answer. “Yer land?”

  Henry tipped his head as if assessing the true meaning of his obtuse question. Seumas sensed his bravado crumbling.

  “I heard ye stole it from ye brother,” Seumas continued, standing with his arms akimbo. The man blanched. “Yes, I know quite a lot about ye.”

  “What do you want with me?” Henry’s voice broke with his fear, and his blade shivered in the moonlight. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Ah, Henry…” Seumas spoke as if to a child. “Ye were already in a bad way and now ye have made it even worse.”

  “How so?” he said, his voice now quivering.

  “Tell me.” Seumas moved in closer. The man’s dagger still trembled in his hand. “Is that the dagger ye used to run yer niece through?”

  As if moving in a thick fog, Seumas had time to see his jaw slacken and hear his gasp before taking the step forward and thrusting. His own dagger found its mark. Warm blood trickled down his hand as he considered how similar man was to beast. He shoved the knife deeper into Henry’s chest.

  Seumas wiped his hand on the man’s cloak and sheathed his dagger. He sighed. His mission completed, he was struck by how tired he was. All at once the exhaustion of the journey and the loss of something very precious crashed into his heart.

  “Iseabail.” He looked to the heavens. “My Iseabail,” he corrected himself.

  Ye are avenged.

  He rode the dead man’s horse, leading his own behind, and slowly continued on the road back toward Fairhaven. He found an inn to rest in by midday.

  “Good day to you, sir.” The manager of the establishment greeted Seumas with a toothless smile. The room was just starting to fill with travelers like himself, along with the locals from the town.

  “I need a room.” Seumas did not smile. “Now.”

  His tone brooked no argument and when the man seemed ready to protest, he looked up at Seumas and quickly changed his mind. He directed him to the stairs.

  “The only room available is up those stairs.”

  Seumas headed up the stairs without even giving the innkeeper his name. The room was directly over the tavern, but he did not care. He was exhausted. Fully clothed, he lay across the small bed and hoped for sleep, but his mind would not stop. He heard the goings-on beneath him and finally gave in to his urge for a strong drink. Whatever they had would do.

  The stench of sweating, unwashed bodies engulfed him as he shoved his way through the tightly-packed quarters. A stray squeeze here and a grind there pressed against his numb body as he made his way across the room. There was no place to sit so he waited by the open door, appreciating the fresh air. A couple in the darkened corner, away from the crowd, caught his attention. Her skirts were hiked up and the man was having a go at her. Just as Seumas contemplated going outside, a dark-haired women approached him, grabbing at his arm.

  “M’lord.” Her gaze traveled up and down his body followed by a smile of appreciation. “Is there anything you will be wanting?” The seductive look on her face left no room for misinterpretation.

  Seumas opened his mouth to give his usual answer but closed it. She looked at him with such expectation. He would like to be able to “want” something from her. Her breasts were large and enticing, clearly visible as they were, and she moved in closer to give him a better look.

  “Anything at all,” she purred, running her hand down his torso. “I am very good.”

  “How good?” He reached for her breast, but she pulled away.

  “No complaints,” she jested.

  “That does not mean ye are good,” he said bluntly.

  Her eyes widened with surprise, and she frowned, but moved in closer and caressed his chest. “They have never failed to show their...gratitude.” She moved her hand lower over his kilt and gave a slight frown.

  “Some men are easily satiated,” Seumas said.

  He looked into her eyes and wanted to go there, wanted to feel the languorous release, to be a whole man again. Her smile brightened as his body responded to her hand.

  “I will not stop until there is total satisfaction.” She caressed his growing hardness. “Try me,” she whispered, her mouth a hair’s breadth from his face as he bent toward her.

  He jerked her around, pushing her back against the wall. His body crushed her, his rod prodding her, eager to again feel that sweet release.

  “Ye promise satisfaction?”

  She nodded, her eyes hooded with desire. He ground himself against her.

  “I,” he spoke through clenched teeth, “will not disappoint.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her back up the stairs to his room.

  Pure lust coursed through his veins, straight into his hardened shaft. His breath quickened in anticipation. He pulled her shirt open, cupping those heavy breasts. She moaned and moved in closer for a kiss, thrusting her tongue against his. He needed this. She gripped him, keeping his arousal stiff, and ran a trail of kisses down his chest. He closed his eyes and the sensations intensified. She knew what she doing, and it was all out of his control.

  “Ye had better not be lying.” He said it jokingly, but he was afraid of what might actually happen. It had been such a long, long time. He did not know for sure if he could finish.

  She pushed him onto the bed, pulled up his kilt and prepared to mount him. “I may be a whore, but I am not a liar.”

  Her words brought him out of his maelstrom. His eyes flew open. The realization hit him hard that it was not this black-haired woman he wanted. He wanted an auburn-haired beauty whose body he knew so intimately and yet not at all. He bucked her off before he entered her, and she fell in a heap on the floor.

  “Wat tah hell?” Her large breasts heaved.

  Seumas stood up and looked down on her, disgusted with himself. He was disgusted that he had been brought so low as to think some whore could ease his pain. Disgusted at his body, which had finally decided to respond when there was no one for him to be with. Disgusted that he could feel anything at all.

  Throwing a coin at her, he said, “Do not worry. I will not ruin yer reputation.”

  This time when he entered the tavern, he went right to a small table hidden in shadows and loomed over its occupant. The man seated there had a fresh bowl of hot soup.

  Seumas’s voice was low and menacing when he said, “Are ye done?”

  The man started to protest until he saw Seumas’s face. “Aye, all done.” He quickly vacated the table.

  “Food and drink here,” Seumas bellowed as he sat down.

  There was no lack of response. The barkeep himself came with a freshly-cleaned cup.

  After he poured the golden amber, Seumas grabbed the bottle from his hand before he could withdraw it. “Ye might want to bring another. And take away this slop.” Seumas shoved the soup at the man.

  He nodded, snapped at the young girl waiting at the far side of the room, and disappeared into the kitchen. Seumas was up three drams by the time the food—meat and bread—arrived. He bit into the meat hungrily and realized he could not remember the last time he had eaten. After a moment of thought, he put the bread down. It had been with Iseabail.

  He grimaced then downed more of the amber liquid.

  “I said another bottle!” Seumas bellowed and those around him turned, glancing uncomfortably at him.

  “Cowards!” Seumas mumbled under his breath at the people who looked toward him but did not quite look him in the face. He was itching for a fight. At least that would provide some release.

  “What are ye looking at?” he said to the biggest man in the room, who had not actually been looking at him at all.

  The man turned toward Seumas, clearly startled by being called out.

  Seumas stood. “Ye got something to say, do ye? Weel, come on then.” Seumas egged
him on, hands outstretched, beckoning him to come closer. “Ye man enough for me, then?”

  The man stood and looked at Seumas, a wry smile on his face. Anticipation grew in the pit of Seumas’s stomach. Disappointment quickly followed when the man shook his head and lowered his eyes then moved to make his way through the opening created by the crowd, who had all stopped talking to see what Seumas would do next.

  He sat down. The talking resumed after a few seconds. He ate the food, but it was tasteless and his drink bitter, burning as it went down.

  A young boy brought a second bottle and removed his plate. “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

  His heart stuttered in his chest. “Calum?”

  “No, sire. James.” The boy took a step back to avoid Seumas’s outstretched hand.

  Seumas dropped his hand heavily to the table. How could he have thought the boy looked like Calum? “Nae, James. Thank ye.”

  He was well into his second bottle, but he could still feel. He was trying his damndest to make it go away—the pain, the loss, the frustration—it was just not working. Voices swirled around him, but he let them pass by him like a bee going from flower to flower, buzzing close enough to hear but not to bother with.

  “Aye, MacNaughton.”

  The bee landed on Seumas’s arm, and he tried to clear his head.

  “That old bastard. I heard he liked boys more than girls,” a man said.

  Seumas turned but could not tell who had said what. The room blurred in front of him, and he closed his eyes.

  “Well, maybe so, but she is a catch, that one. It is the MacNaughton’s only daughter, after all.”

  Seumas was out of his seat and tottering without remembering the thought passing through his mind. A few people turned to look at him, but no one said anything.

  “Her uncle made a fine bargain for that one.” A man laughed, but he would be damned if he could pinpoint the location.

  James pushed through the crowd, close to Seumas.

  “James.” His own voice sounded so foreign. “I am a bit soused and cannot find—”