by Emma Prince
Her living nightmare was interrupted when hands closed around her, freeing her wrists and dragging her from the saddle. She staggered when her feet hit the ground, held up only by the grip on her elbow.
She opened her eyes to find the giant who had bound her hands back at the cottage looming over her.
“Let her relieve herself, Bevin,” de Soules said as he dismounted nearby. “But dinnae let her out of yer sight.”
Bevin nodded, then pulled her off into the surrounding woods. It was humiliating to have to squat and empty her bladder mere feet from him, but her body needed relief. At least her skirts kept those beady eyes of his from seeing aught.
But when she rose on wobbling legs, instead of taking her back to the others, Bevin stood rooted, his heavy brows lowered and his lips parting. “Ye are a bonny one, arenae ye?”
He took a step closer. Though the gag was still in her mouth, the desperate urge to scream rose in her throat.
He reached out and pinched a lock of her unbound hair, letting it slide between his dirt- and blood-covered thumb and forefinger. Vivienne swatted his hand aside, and in return, the brute backhanded her across the face.
She was thrown to her knees with a muffled cry. Stars danced before her eyes, and her face throbbed painfully.
“Bevin!” Suddenly de Soules was charging toward them, the dagger that he’d used to kill Kieran in his hand.
So this was to be it. She would die here in these darkened, unnamed woods. At least the blade that had pierced Kieran’s heart would be used to take her life as well.
To her shock, instead of setting upon her, de Soules unceremoniously slashed Bevin across the face with the dagger. “Ye fool,” he hissed.
Bevin grunted and clutched his cheek, which streamed with blood. “Sire, I didnae mean any har—”
De Soules raised the blade again, and Bevin flinched back, falling silent. Though Bevin could have easily overpowered de Soules, who stood a head and shoulders shorter than the giant and had a much smaller build, de Soules seemed to have some power over the brute that made him obedient.
“Oh, I ken what ye were about, ye animal.” De Soules pointed at Vivienne, who remained huddled on the ground. “Trying to do what ye did to that bonny wee cousin of yers again, werenae ye. But this one is mine.”
De Soules crouched before her, gently grazing the tip of the dagger against her aching cheek. “I will be the one to mar this bonny skin, to make her beg for my mercy.”
Vivienne’s stomach lurched and she feared she would vomit against the gag, but she managed to swallow down her sickness.
“Do ye hear that?” de Soules shouted to the other men, who were milling about their horses. “She is mine. None of ye are to touch her.”
At their grunts and mumbles of assent, de Soules gripped Vivienne’s elbow and dragged her to her feet, pulling her back toward her horse. He shoved her up into the saddle and re-bound her hands. As he and the others mounted, Bevin emerged from the woods with his head lowered like a dog that had been kicked.
De Soules took her reins and the whole party set out again. Though the shroud of devastation threatened to smother her once more, she fought not to surrender to it completely.
Kieran’s words rang through her mind over and over. I love ye. Never forget that, lass.
No matter how little time she had left on this earth, she never would.
And dinnae give up. Ye are stronger than anyone I’ve ever kenned.
Vivienne feared she wasn’t nearly strong enough, but Kieran had believed in her. She would not disrespect his memory by crumbling now. Oui, she was still alive. De Soules seemed bent on taking her somewhere before the torture truly began, and he wouldn’t let his men hurt her before then.
Which meant she still had time to fight for herself—as Kieran would have wanted.
* * * *
Kieran didn’t know how long he’d lain on the wet grass, his breaths coming short and blood oozing from his chest. Everything had gone quiet except for the roar of the blazing cottage.
For a time, the fire had burned bright and hot, sending orange flames and black smoke into the night sky. But now the blaze had died down.
The shutters on the window had burned, as had the door, leaving only the hut’s stone skeleton. The roof had collapsed inward a while back. From his position on the ground, he could see through the empty doorway to the charred remains of what had once been his home.
Naught was left. The wooden horse he’d carved for his unborn bairn. Vivienne’s book and her bottle of violet oil. The table. The bedstead. All the memories he’d made with Linette, and then Vivienne. It had all burned away.
It was fitting. Linette was gone, as was his son. And Vivienne. Nay, he told himself resolutely, she was still alive. He had to believe she would escape somehow. It was he who would be gone shortly, not Vivienne. Just like the cottage and all that had been inside.
He coughed wetly, feeling blood on his lips. His chest ached as if someone had dropped a boulder on it, and he couldn’t seem to draw enough air.
Yet through the haze in his mind, he knew that if de Soules had struck his heart, he would be dead by now. His pulse, which he could feel in his tongue and throat and even faintly in his fingertips, was weak but still steady.
Mayhap de Soules’s dagger had only hit one of his lungs, then. Based on his years serving the Bruce on the battlefield, Kieran knew it would be a far slower death.
Woozy with blood loss, his mind drifted back to those battles. He’d once seen a man take a lance to the chest, draining the air from his lungs. But then a healer had sealed the hole and the man had left the battlefield on his own two feet.
A seed of an idea, too small to be called hope yet, planted itself in the back of Kieran’s blurry mind. With a grunt of pain, he lifted his arm from beside him and placed his hand over the wound in his chest. To his shock, when he pushed down, instead of making his lungs feel even smaller and more compressed, he was able to pull in a slightly bigger gasp of air.
Hope now surged within him. He reached down to the hem of his kilt and tore away a piece of wool. He balled it up and pressed it into the wound, then ripped off another strip of plaid. With a good deal of effort and pain, he managed to fit the strip around his chest. He tied the ends together, pulling them as tight as he possibly could to hold the ball of wool in place.
When he was finished, he had to lie still for a long time, coughing blood and wheezing for air. His vision swam and spots floated before his eyes as he fought to catch his breath. After the worst of it passed, he discovered his efforts had paid off. Just as when he’d pushed on the wound with his hand, the ball of cloth and bandage around his chest allowed him to suck in just a wee bit more air than before.
Though he wanted to shout with the victory, he’d likely only bought himself a few hours before death came calling once more. He could wait and hope that someone would find him before that happened, but he knew this corner of the Highlands all too well. He was far too isolated out here to place his faith in a serendipitous passer-by.
And he sure as hell wasn’t going to just lie there and wait to die. Nay, as long as he had but one breath left, he would use it to fight for Vivienne.
There was only one option, then—he had to act.
With a groan, he rolled over onto his stomach, catching himself on his elbows to avoid putting weight on his chest. He began dragging himself across the grass toward the barn.
If de Soules and his lackeys had been smart, they would have snuck to the barn before attacking the cottage and turned Kieran’s horse loose. But he had a suspicion that de Soules had been so focused on getting Vivienne into his clutches that he hadn’t been so careful.
He had to rest and catch his breath a dozen times, but at last he reached the barn. When he drew back the door, he was met with the sight of the trusty silver stallion, ears alert and eyes on Kieran. Breathing a prayer of thanks, Kieran pulled himself inside and toward the stallion.
Using the side
s of the stall, he dragged himself upright, but he knew by the wild spinning of his head and the nausea that rose in the back of his throat that he wouldn’t have the strength to saddle the horse. Instead, he let the worst of the dizziness subside and then swung himself straight onto the stallion’s back.
The animal shifted beneath him as he settled into place, but he didn’t fight Kieran, proving his steadfastness once again.
Tapping his heels into the horse’s flanks, Kieran guided them out of the barn. He spared one last look at the burned cottage, but he couldn’t linger over old memories any longer. He’d lost too much already by binding himself with the shackles of the past. He only had the future now—and Vivienne was his future.
He angled the horse southward, the same direction de Soules and his men had taken, but Kieran was in no state to track them, nor would he be good for much besides keeling over into unconsciousness even if he did catch up to them.
Nay, he knew what he had to do. Scone was only a two days’ ride from here if he pushed himself and the horse to hell and back. He knew the stallion was strong enough to endure it. He could only pray that he would be, too.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kieran slumped over the stallion’s neck, swaying with its gait. Each hoof-fall sent agony surging through him, but somehow he managed to keep his seat atop the animal’s back.
He lifted his head, squinting against the light even though the sun was tucked behind thick gray clouds. Through the haze enveloping him, he recognized his surroundings. Thank God in heaven, he was close.
He guided the stallion out of the denser woods and down a narrow trail that led to Scone. As he rode, his mind churned with thoughts of Vivienne. It didn’t matter if he lived or died, as long as he reached Scone in time to tell the others what had happened. He prayed she was still alive and unharmed, trusting in the belief deep in his heart that she was.
When the trees thinned and the wooden palisades appeared before him, he nudged the stallion faster for the last few strides, clinging on to consciousness with all his strength.
As he drew up to the palisades, one of the guards must have recognized him.
“MacAdams, ye’ve returned,” the man began. Then his eyes widened as he took in the full sight of him. He muttered an oath, then shouted, “Toby, fetch the King and the others in the Corps. Open the gate!”
Without stopping to dismount or even acknowledge the guards, Kieran rode through the still-opening wooden gate and into the courtyard before the palace. He slowed his horse and attempted to slide from his back, but it turned into an uncontrolled fall.
Luckily, two of the guards had followed beside him and caught him before he hit the ground. Still, he nearly knocked them both down with his large frame. As they struggled to get him on his feet, the King and several of the Corps members burst from the great hall.
“Good God,” the Bruce breathed, rushing toward Kieran. “What happened, man?”
“William de Soules took Vivienne,” Kieran ground out. Distantly, he registered the King and the others’ stunned faces before him. “I am going to get her back,” he went on, blackness creeping in at the edges of his vision. “And I need yer help.”
With that, the last of his strength failed and dark unconsciousness swallowed him whole.
* * * *
Kieran slowly emerged from a deep, dreamless slumber. He was lying on his back on a soft bed. His limbs were heavy and warm, and his head felt stuffed with wool, as if he’d drank too much good whisky.
Reluctantly, he cracked his eyes open. A woman stood over him, her golden hair held back from her face. He squinted against the bright light in the chamber.
“V…Vivienne?”
The woman started in surprise at the low rumble of his voice, but then placed a hand on his arm and squeezed lightly. “Nay,” she said kindly in an English accent. She turned to someone else in the chamber. “Fetch the others and tell them he’s awake.”
As the fog in his brain continued to clear, one recollection after another began to hit him. Vivienne had been taken. De Soules had her. And Kieran was supposed to be dead. The dull pain in his chest was a reminder that he wasn’t, though. He’d made it to Scone.
“Ye are—”
“Jossalyn Sinclair,” the woman replied. “One of the King’s healers.”
“And the wife of Garrick Sinclair.” Though Kieran hadn’t met him yet, he knew Garrick was a fellow member of the Corps and one of the Bruce’s most trusted warriors.
“Aye,” she replied with a soft smile.
“What…happened?” He remembered riding into the palace courtyard, throwing the last of his foolish pride to the wind, and asking the King and Corps for help, but after that, it was all darkness.
“You are lucky I was nearby,” Jossalyn replied. “I do not always stay at the King’s side, but I was only an hour’s ride away in Perth. If I hadn’t reached you as quickly as I did, you might not be alive.”
“And what did ye do to me?”
A faint smile curved Jossalyn’s lips, as if she were pleased at the chance to explain her methods. “Your bandage likely saved your life long enough for you to get here. In fact, the initial puncture wound had already begun closing enough for you to draw air into that lung. But it was filled with blood. I made a cut on your side and placed a reed into the lung, then sucked out the blood and sealed you up again.”
Hell and damnation. He was lucky indeed.
“Your shoulder looked to be nearly healed as well,” she went on. “So I removed the stitches—and finely done they were, too.”
The memory of Vivienne, frightened but bravely facing the task, made his heart twist painfully. He had to reach her somehow, had to find her and keep her from harm.
He tried to sit up, but Jossalyn placed a hand on his arm, managing to hold him down with the extremely slight strength she must possess in her petite body.
“Nay, Kieran, do not rise,” she chided. “You still need a great deal of time to heal. It has only been two days since you arrived, and—”
“What?” he barked. “I have been out for two days?”
Just as he attempted to throw himself from the bed again, the chamber door opened and the King strode in, with Mairin, Niall, Will, and Jerome behind him.
Will and Jerome moved swiftly to the bed, forcing Kieran back down.
“Easy,” Jerome said. “Ye should be thanking Jossalyn, no’ biting her head off.”
“I had to give you a sleeping draught so that you would not stir or wake as I worked on you,” Jossalyn said, her brows drawing together over her green eyes. “And I thought it best to keep you under so that you could heal undisturbed.”
Though it was futile, Kieran struggled against Will and Jerome’s hold. “Then Vivienne has been in de Soules’s clutches for four days.” Pain tugged at the wound on his chest, but it was naught compared to the agony in his heart.
“Calm yerself, man,” the King said evenly, but his face was a knot of worry behind his beard. “Ye cannae help the lass by riling yerself up and undoing Jossalyn’s work. Tell us what happened.”
Kieran squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. When he opened them, Will and Jerome warily released him and stepped back.
“We were attacked a half-day’s ride from Scone,” he began. “No’ by de Soules himself, but by his lackeys. They were aiming for Vivienne, but they only hit me.”
He nodded toward the freshly-healed pink scar on his shoulder, then continued. “We abandoned her horse and managed to lose them—or so I thought. I took her to an old plot of land in the Highlands once owned by my family, and long forgotten by even my clan. All was well until four days past, when de Soules and a small army arrived.”
“How many men did de Soules have?” the Bruce asked.
“A dozen before they attacked me. And afterwards, five unharmed and three injured, no’ counting de Soules.”
The Bruce’s eyes flashed with respect, and he nodded to Kieran before sobering once more. “An
d they made off with Lady Vivienne?”
“Aye,” Kieran rasped, his rage rising once more. “De Soules put a dagger through my chest before riding south with her. I didnae have a way of kenning where he was taking her, so I threw myself on a horse and rode here.” He turned a hard gaze on the Bruce. “How the bloody hell did de Soules get free in the first place?”
The King rubbed a hand over his eyes and let a long breath go. “A few days after ye departed for the Highlands, de Soules was set to be relocated to Dumbarton. As I told ye before ye left, I’d hoped to tuck him away someplace more remote to draw attention away from him and his cause. He was transported in chains with a guard of six men—more than enough to subdue him if necessary. But en route, the convoy was ambushed.”
The Bruce muttered a curse, shaking his head. “Ten men sprang upon them, catching them off-guard. They slaughtered my men and freed de Soules, then rode north. Luckily one soldier survived and managed to get back to Scone to report what had happened.”
“Hell and damnation,” Kieran hissed, the pieces shifting into place in his mind. “The men who attacked us outside Scone must have still been on our trail. De Soules and the others must have met up with them in the Highlands and hunted us down.”
“Aye, that would explain how they found ye,” the Bruce replied. “Once I learned of de Soules’s escape, I sent Colin, Garrick, and two score more soldiers to try to track him and his cronies down. But it seems they will be riding all the way to the Highlands for naught.”
The King swore again. “Sabine is working with her network of spies and messengers—with Elaine’s help—to learn aught else she can,” he continued, “but so far all we ken is that de Soules rode south from the Highlands. Which means he could be nigh anywhere else in Scotland.”
“Before ye stripped him of his title and lands, de Soules had an estate at Liddesdale in Dumfriesshire,” Will offered, his features drawn into a frown. “And his family owns Hermitage Castle in the Lowlands.”