Highland Hero

by Hannah Howell

  “As I wrote you, she is in Sir Ranald’s hands,” David answered. “I am preparing to go and take her back.” His eyes widened slightly as a slender, dark-haired girl stepped up next to the man.

  “One of my other daughters, Elspeth.” Sir Malcolm scowled down at the girl. “She made me bring her.”

  David almost smiled. Perhaps, in his gruff way, Sir Malcolm was not as heartless as they had all thought. If such a tiny lass could not only defy the man but make him accede to her wishes, there might well be some softness beneath the scowl. He glanced at his cousin, thinking to silently share his humor, only to find himself fighting the urge to gape. Leith was staring at the slender girl as if some angel had just alighted and offered him the keys to God’s kingdom. When he turned back to look at the girl, she was staring back at Leith and blushing.

  “Pleased to meet ye, Lady Elspeth,” he said as he took her hand in his and lightly kissed it, breaking her and Leith of the spell they seemed to be caught in. “Your concern for your sister can only be praised.” He looked back at Sir Malcolm, who curtly introduced his son Douglas. “Let us go to the hall and have some ale and food whilst we discuss this matter. Not a long discussion, mind, for I am preparing to ride out after Tatha.”

  “Oh? And ye think ye have that right, do ye?” demanded Sir Malcolm as he, Douglas, and Elspeth followed David and Leith into the keep.

  “I promised her my protection. Aye, and many here feel they owe her.”

  Sitting down and helping himself to a large tankard of wine, Malcolm grunted. “So she has been going about healing hurts, has she?”

  As he too sat down and filled his tankard, David nodded. “She is truly skilled in the healing arts.”

  “Aye, her aunt taught her weel.” Sir Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “Though some called the old crone a witch, and ’twas something whispered about Tatha from time to time.”

  “We are nay so foolish here.”

  “Nay? Wasnae that what got your mother killed?”

  “Papa,” Elspeth snapped. “I thought we came here to help Tatha. I dinnae think that will be easy if ye make the mon want to cut your throat.”

  “Ye are verra saucy for such a wee lass,” he grumbled. “I but speak the truth.”

  “Aye, ye do, and ’tis best ye recall who decried my mother as a witch and whose men killed her,” David said coldly. “That same mon now holds your daughter.”

  “A lass who is betrothed to him.” Sir Malcolm held up his hand when both Elspeth and David started to speak. “A mistake. I see that now. The mon was old and ugly, but he was wealthy, powerful, and would have given the lass a household to lead, mayhap e’en a bairn or two. Or so I thought. Your last message has me thinking the old bastard was hiding the truth about himself. I talked with the maids and they confirmed your suspicions. Told the fool lasses they should have come to me. E’en a whore doesnae deserve to be beaten near senseless just because some old goat cannae get his rod to stand up.” He grinned when Elspeth groaned, blushed, and hid her face behind her hands. “Ye wanted to come along.” He blithely ignored the glare she gave him and looked hard at David. “Of course ye ne’er touched my lass yourself.”

  “I mean to get her back and marry her,” David said, his look almost daring Sir Malcolm to argue with him.

  “Weel, there could be a cost,” Sir Malcolm began.

  “Nay, Father,” Douglas said. “No more. Ye have set that poor lass in the midst of deadly trouble with your fine plan. ’Tis clear it isnae the way to do things.”

  “Ye were ne’er fond of it from the start. Isabel and Bega didnae mind.”

  “Isabel and Bega would have wed with the Devil himself and any one of his minions if it meant they wouldnae be spinsters any longer,” snapped Elspeth.

  “Aye, and the ones who bought them were nay old, useless men who may have blood on their hands,” said Douglas. “I wonder now if all of his wives died of illness as he claimed or were set in their graves because he blamed them for his lack.”

  “Insolent lot,” Sir Malcolm grumbled, but he nodded as he looked back at David. “All right. If ye want the fool lass ye may have her. Now, how do we get her back from that old bastard?”

  Two hours later, as the combined forces of the Prestons and the Ruthvens rode out of Cnocanduin, David felt his hopes rise. He nudged Leith, pulling his cousin’s gaze from the slender girl waving them farewell from the walls of the keep. David had caught Douglas grinning at both Leith and Elspeth, revealing that he too had noticed the bewitchment that had apparently seized the two. He was not sure it was something that ought to be revealed to Sir Malcolm just yet, however.

  “What ails ye, cousin?” he demanded, biting back a grin when Leith blushed bright red.

  “Tatha’s sister is a bonnie lass,” Leith muttered.

  “Aye, she is, and she smiles quite freely at you.”

  “I have no coin.”

  “Dinnae fret on that. It appears the father isnae as fierce in his ways as we thought, and the brother has clearly ne’er approved of the business. When we get Tatha back we will turn our attentions to getting ye the wee, bonnie Elspeth.”

  “We will get the lass back,” Leith said firmly.

  David just smiled and prayed that his cousin was right to feel so confident. Tatha had been in Sir Ranald’s grasp for four long days. She was a clever lass, resourceful and brave, but how long could she keep herself safe from the man? He had been tormented day and night with thoughts of all that could be happening to her, and he had to stop, for it was threatening to make him useless. David forced himself to fix his thoughts on the battle ahead and nothing else, a battle he must win.

  Chapter 10

  Tatha winced as the light the guard carried stung her eyes. When Baird had delivered her to Sir Ranald, that man had glared at her for several minutes, then had her tossed in the dungeon. There she had been left, alone and in the dark. If she was right and the meager offering of sour ale and stale bread that arrived was really only sent once a day, she had been kept in the dungeons for four days. That also meant that Sir Ranald’s silent, glaring visits also came but once a day, for she had endured those long moments of glaring four times. She was being punished.

  She sighed as the silent guard changed her privy pot, left her a bowl of scummy water to wash in, and set down her meager meal. It was maddening to sit there alone, shrouded in silence and darkness, but she tried to be hopeful. At least Sir Ranald was not trying to assert his husbandry rights before the wedding. And if he was waiting to marry her it had to be because her father was coming. Her father had to frown on this treatment. The man had never even struck them when they were naughty, for all he roared and grumbled. Sir Malcolm could never be called a loving father, but he had never been cruel, and she prayed this would shock him into listening to her pleas.

  She had barely choked down her unappetizing meal when another guard arrived with a large bucket of hot water, some of her clothes, and what looked to be soap and a drying cloth. He set them inside her cell, then turned his back. For a moment Tatha stared at the things he brought, then at his stiff back. Surely he did not expect her to bathe and change while he stood there? It quickly became clear that he expected exactly that. Praying that he had been ordered not to glance her way, she turned her back on him and began to wash. She even rinsed out her hair, then rubbed it dry with the cloth and combed her fingers through it. It was a tangled mess, but at least it was a little cleaner.

  “Are ye done?” demanded the guard.

  “Aye,” she muttered as she tied off the last of her laces. “Now what?” she demanded when he grabbed her by the arm and started to drag her back up the stairs.

  “Sir Ranald wishes to speak with you,” the guard answered.

  “I am overcome with joy.”

  “I dinnae ken why the old fool wants such a sharp-tongued lass.”

  “I am young?”

  “Aye, that could be the way of it. Ye must have made your father verra angry if he was willing to s
ell ye to this old goat.”

  Tatha did not reply, for she had often thought the same thing. Unfortunately, she had been unable to think of one thing she had done that would make her father condemn her to marriage with Sir Ranald. She could only pray that her father simply did not know what the man was like and that he would listen when she tried to tell him, that she would at least be given the chance to speak to him.

  When the guard did not lead her to the great hall as she had suspected he would, she tensed. If Sir Ranald’s keep was much akin to the others she had been to then she was being dragged to the sleeping rooms. Feeling the first hint of panic she tried to pull free of the guard’s hold, but he doggedly dragged her onward. When he reached a heavy, iron-studded door, he knocked once, opened it, and practically threw her inside. Before she could catch her balance he had shut it behind her.

  “So, my wee bride, how do ye like your new bedchamber?” asked Sir Ranald as he stepped up behind her and shoved her toward the bed.

  “We arenae married yet,” she said, straightening herself up and trying to meet his cold gaze with calm.

  “We will be.”

  “Is my father coming to the wedding?”

  She wondered why that simple question should make him scowl so darkly. Then she studied him more closely. He looked furious, but she sensed the anger was not all due to her blatant aversion to him. Something had gone wrong, and she began to suspect that that something was why he was about to try to claim his husbandry rights before they were actually married.

  “Oh, aye, your father is on his way, but he will be too late.”

  “What do ye mean?”

  “Your fine Sir David has been verra busy, verra busy indeed. He has been sending messengers all o’er the countryside, telling one and all that I killed his mother.”

  “And did you?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “It gives David a righteous grievance against you. ’Twill hobble what few allies ye have, for none will wish to put themselves in the midst of a weel-earned reckoning. And my father willnae make me marry a woman-killer.” She edged away from the bed when he took a threatening step toward her. “Has my father learned the ugly truth about you, Sir Ranald? Is that why ye have brought me here? Ye mean to try to steal what is nay longer yours by right, dinnae you?”

  He stalked her around the room. “Your father and I made a bargain. I gave him a hefty purse for your sweet hide. Ye are mine now.”

  “Nay, I am not and I ne’er will be.”

  When he lunged for her, she darted out of his reach. She raced for the door, but he grabbed her, dragged her to the bed, and tossed her on top of it. For a slim, aging man, he was surprisingly strong. Tatha also suspected that four days in the dungeons with little to eat or drink had severely depleted her strength. Despite the growing conviction that she could not win a fight against him, she struggled with all her might. It did not really surprise her when he got her firmly pinned down beneath him on the bed, but it was difficult not to weep over her defeat.

  The too-wet kisses he pressed against her neck made her stomach roll. His bony fingers clawed at the laces of her gown, and she felt herself shrink away from even the promise of his touch. Her growing panic eased abruptly when she realized there was no hardness in his groin. He ground himself against her, but she felt only his hip bones and a faint soft shape that was probably his manhood. The man might maul her, might even beat her, but she began to think that he would never be able to rape her.

  “Curse ye, ye are failing me too, just as they all do!” he screamed, and backhanded her across the mouth. “My wives, Lady Ruthven, all of them. Useless whores, the whole lot of you.”

  She cried out in pain when he shoved her off the bed and she hit the floor hard. “ ’Tis nay the women who fail ye, ye great fool.” She scrambled out of his way when he leaped off the bed and tried to kick her. “Ye have gone and damaged yourself somehow.”

  “Then cure it. Ye are a healer. Heal me.” He grabbed her by the hair, yanked her back toward him, and slapped her again. “Heal me, ye twice-cursed bitch!”

  “Is that what ye demanded of Lady Ruthven?”

  “Aye, and she failed me. Then she forced me to make sure she couldnae tell anyone my secret. Aye, just like my useless wives, she needed to be silenced.”

  “Ye killed them all just because ye are impotent?”

  “Nay!” He punched her in the face, releasing her hair when she fell backward from the force of the blow.” ’Tis their fault! They cursed me. Aye, that is what the bitches did, cursed me. And they didnae ken what I needed.”

  “Ye need a new pintle, ye old goat.”

  “Ye are no healer. Where are your potions and salves, eh? I cannae even get hard enough to seek the cure in your body. What good are ye, I ask ye? Eh? What cursed good are any of ye?”

  “I dinnae think anyone can cure ye,” she said, struggling to get to her feet so that she might evade his next attack. “ ’Twas a wound or a fever, wasnae it? There is no cure, and ye are slaughtering women for naught.”

  “Nay, they all deserve what I deal out to them. And my secret is safe. And so will it remain safe.”

  Tatha tried to elude him when he advanced on her, but she was weak and unsteady. The blows he had already dealt her, her hunger and thirst, had all stolen away her chance to escape him. She cursed in frustration when he grabbed her and watched him draw his fist back with a sense of cold acceptance. He was going to kill her as he had killed the others, and there was little she could do to stop him.

  A cry of alarm rang through the halls, and Tatha felt a surge of hope. It might not be anyone coming to her rescue, but any diversion at the moment could only be a blessing. If Sir Ranald was taken from her side for a while, she might be able to regain some of her strength.

  She bit back a whimper of pain as he twisted his hand in her hair and dragged her over to the window. She could not see out, but whatever he looked down at caused him to go red with fury. He glared at her, then slammed her head against the cold stone wall. Tatha blinked once, then sank into darkness.

  David was astonished at how easily they had gained the inner bailey of Sir Ranald’s keep. His guard had been lax and slow to respond when they had seen his army riding hard toward their walls. They had been able to ride right through the gates, easily cutting down the men frantically trying to close them.

  With Leith guarding his back, he fought his way into the keep itself. He ached to confront Sir Ranald, his fear for Tatha so strong it nearly had a life of its own. As he cut down the last man standing between him and entrance into the keep, he looked up to see Sir Ranald himself rushing down the stairs, sword in hand.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, a little surprised that the man actually meant to face him.

  “Ye mean the little whore of a healer?” Sir Ranald’s smile was pure viciousness. “She wasnae as sweet a ride as I thought she would be.”

  David struggled to keep his rage harnessed, knowing the man tried to goad him into acting foolishly. “Her father stands at my side. Your keep is falling into our hands. The whole of Scotland will soon ken that ye are naught but a cowardly slayer of women.”

  “Aye, and my tally of dead whores has just increased by one.”

  “ ’Ware, David,” whispered Leith from behind him. “He tries to madden ye so that he may actually have some chance of killing ye.”

  “I ken it.”

  That knowledge did little to dull the sharp fear he felt, however. There was a good chance the man was lying, but he could also be telling the chilling truth.

  He had held Tatha captive for long enough to do anything he pleased with her. David dared not think that he had come so close yet had failed to save her. That way lay madness.

  “Ye killed my mother, didnae ye?” David said as he and Sir Ranald circled each other.

  “Another whore.”

  “Is that how ye explain your own lack, Sir Ranald? Do ye blame your poor limp monhood on the lasses? Call
ing them whores makes ye feel like the mon ye can ne’er be, does it?”

  As David had hoped, Sir Ranald was unable to endure even the slightest taunt. The man roared his fury and attacked. The strength the man showed was a little surprising, for he looked like an ailing, too-thin old man, but his skill was rough, his sword swings ill-timed and badly executed. It would not be a long battle.

  “Where is she?” he demanded again. “Where have ye put Tatha Preston? Tell me, and if she is hale and unharmed, I may let ye live.”

  “Live? For what? To hang? To be laughed at? Nay, I think not. Your wee whore is dead, her soft, pale flesh cold. Ye rode her, didnae ye? Aye, ye did, and I made her pay for that.”

  It was clear that the man would never tell him what he wanted to know, would just continue to try to torment him with tales of the horrors he had made Tatha endure. Cursing the man, David strengthened his attack. Sir Ranald quickly weakened. Although it was tempting to make the man sweat and linger in the knowledge that he would soon be dead, David quickly delivered the death stroke.

  Even as he stared down at the man’s body, praying that all Sir Ranald had said concerning Tatha’s fate was no more than lies spat out by a vicious man, David heard Leith curse in surprise. A moment later one of Sir Ranald’s men landed in a heap at his feet. David held his sword at the terrified man’s throat and glanced over his shoulder. Sir Malcolm stood there glaring down at the man.

  “I think this worm kens where the lass is,” said Sir Malcolm.

  “It would be wise to tell me,” David said, his gaze fixed upon the trembling man-at-arms. “I have had a bellyful of lies and taunts and willnae tolerate another. If ye wish to keep your head on your shoulders ye had best speak the truth and do so quickly.”

  “Sir Ranald kept the lass in the dungeons for four days,” the man replied, speaking so fast in a shaking voice that it was hard to understand him. “But moments before ye rode through the gates he had her taken to his bedchamber.” He lifted one trembling hand and pointed up the stairs. “The door on the right at the head of the stairs.”