Her Highland Protector (Scottish Highlander Romance)

by Barbara Bard

  “Are you not?” she asked with a trace of her former fire. “We both are in remiss. I am not on my way to London, nor have you sent Edward your head as he demanded.”

  “How can I do that and still remain alive?” Primshire tittered, mocking her. “I will satisfy Edward with the execution of a peasant. You, however, are another matter.”

  Her dark eyes glittered. “You swore to protect me.”

  Primshire wiped his mouth, pondering heavily. “Actually, I said I would protect you. I do not recall swearing an oath to do so.”

  “And there is no difference in your mind?” she sneered. “Your word is not your bond?”

  “Why, Jessica, you shock me.” Primshire’s malice rose under a façade of wide-eyed innocence. “You seem to think I am some sort of gentleman who keeps his word. After all, you threatened to tell all of London about my doings. Tsk, my dear, you should have known better.”

  Jessica nodded slowly. “You are quite right, Marsden. I should have known better. I had thought we had some feelings for one another. Including respect.”

  “Now that is the most shocking thing you could have ever said, Jessica.” Primshire wagged a scolding finger at her. “You know I have no feelings for anyone or anything. I am quite incapable of them. Including respect.”

  “My mistake.” Jessica tried a smile, gazing down at the hall filled with Primshire men-at-arms and servants, all loyal to him. Not her. “I will trouble you no more, Marsden. I will leave in the morning. I thank you for your hospitality.”

  He feigned shock. “But where will you go, Jessica? I would not see you harmed, not a hair on your head.”

  “To Ireland.” She raised a half smile. “My sister is there. My husband thinks we are estranged, so he may not seek me on her estates. I can live out my days in peace.”

  “Ireland is still subject to the King.”

  “Will you tell him that is where I go?” she asked.

  He sighed. “No. I will tell the King, nor your husband, anything of where you go.”

  She rested his hand briefly on his arm. “Thank you, Marsden.”

  He watched her rise and walk from the hall. He watched as the eyes of his people followed her. If asked to do so, they would swear under any oath they saw her leave his side unmolested. They would also swear, under any oath, that their lord, the Earl of Primshire, remained at the tables for some time before leaving the hall. He drank his wine, mentally planning his story that the Duchess of Greenbriar left his estates in good health to stay with her sister in Ireland.

  The hall had emptied by the time he finally rose from his table and stepped down from the dais. What few servants who still remained within it bowed low as he passed them, but he barely noticed. The excitement of the hunt filled him, he was now the wolf, the predator. Though he did not now chase his prey across the moors, he stalked it within his own walls. And this time, he must take down two victims, not one.

  Climbing the stairs, he mentally planned his strategy. With the hour late, his prey no doubt slept. He would need to be quick, and silent, a true wolf. Torches flared along the walls, but he knew of seldom used passages that were not lit, and the darkness within them would conceal him. No servant or man-at-arms walked the hallways to witness him enter the chambers of the Duchess of Greenbriar.

  His eyes adjusted to the night, the moon’s helpful rays shining through the window revealed Jessica’s young maid sleeping on the narrow bed just outside the larger bedroom. The room’s furniture showed up clearly as shadows, easily avoided. The hilt of his dagger in his hand, his excitement of the hunt, the kill, coursing through him, he approached his quarry on silent feet.

  A quick blow to her head silenced the maid. He would return in a few moments to tie and gag her, just in case she woke before he wanted her to. Creeping to the bedroom doorway, he peered in to see Jessica’s rounded form in the great bed. She lay facing him, and she stirred. Her eyes opened.

  “I suppose you came for a final tryst?” she asked, rising up on her elbow, the sheet sliding down to reveal her nakedness.

  “Yes,” he replied, his voice quivering in his eagerness. “I did.”

  Stepping toward her, gazing down at her lovely breasts, her shadowed eyes, her rich hair spread across the pillow, Primshire smiled. “You are beautiful, Jessica,” he murmured. “I will miss you so.”

  Her lips curved in a sardonic smile. “How sentimental of you –”

  In the blink of an eye, his hilt crashed into the side of her head. Jessica collapsed onto her pillows, instantly unconscious. Grinning, triumphant, he sheathed his dagger, and stroked her silky hair. “Time to go to work, oh, yes, time for my fun. Jessica, my dear lady, I will miss you.”

  ***

  Primshire tied and gagged the little maid, then picked up Jessica’s limp body and tossed it over his shoulder. Opening the outer door, he carefully glanced around for any observers. Seeing none, he stepped through, and shut the door behind him. Carrying her down the passageway, he made a left turn that would lead him into the depths of the castle where few walked these days. The narrow corridor met a set of stairs leading down.

  Following them, he listened for any voices speaking, for the sounds of footsteps. Only his own, and his ragged breathing, echoed back at him. A generation had passed since the dungeons were last used. The heavy oaken door creaked on rusty hinges as he swung it open, and more steps led further down into absolute blackness.

  Setting Jessica on the floor while he lit the torch he had placed there hours earlier, he didn’t bother to pick her up again. Seizing her wrist, he dragged her down the moldy stairs, her nude flesh scraping over the stone and bouncing on the risers. The scent of mildew and dank water filled his nostrils, the torch he held cast both light and shadows as he slipped and slithered further down into the depths. The deeper he went, the stench of death and grief encased him, almost choking his throat closed.

  Heavy iron manacles hung in tiny stone cells, stout bars created gates to each small chamber. Setting his torch into a nearby sconce, Primshire lifted Jessica against the damp wall, and set both her wrists into the cuffs. Still unconscious, she hung limp and seemingly lifeless from the chains above. Yet, his fingers at her throat confirmed she still lived.

  Taking his torch, he left her there to awaken while he left the dungeon to fetch the little maid lying bound and gagged in the castle’s guest quarters. She had awakened by the time he returned, her brown eyes bugging out of her face in terror.

  “You served the wrong mistress,” he said to her. “But that is hardly your fault.”

  Too terrorized to struggle much as he flung her head down over his shoulder, she lay still as he carried her down the silent passageways and the slippery stone steps. The dungeon was so deep in the castle’s roots that he didn’t hear Jessica’s cries and pleas for help until he reached the bottom. His torch lighting his way, he passed the cells containing the mold-covered bones of long dead prisoners until he stopped at the one beside Jessica.

  “Hello, my dear,” he said cheerfully. “I brought your maid, thought you might wish for company.”

  “Please, Marsden,” Jessica pleaded, tears of panic and terror streaming down her face. “Let me go. You said you would not harm me.”

  Pausing thoughtfully, Primshire nodded. “Yes, I did say that. Of course, I didn’t truly mean it.”

  “I swear, I’ll never tell anyone about what you do,” she cried, trying to jerk her wrists from the manacles. “I’ll go to Ireland and never say a word. Just let me go. Kill her if you have to, sate your needs, but please release me.”

  “Oh, I plan to sate my needs,” he replied with a grin, untying the maid’s hands and clapping each one in the steel. He ripped the gag from her mouth and listened with satisfaction as she let loose a long and piercing scream. “Now that is a splendid start.”

  He stripped his clothes from himself, contentedly listening to the cries and begging from both women now, and lay them well out of reach of the blood. Once he finished
with them, he would need to empty the guest quarters of their possessions and dispose of them. It must appear to the servants that the Duchess of Greenbriar left the Primshire estates sometime in the night.

  Naked, the thrill of his bloodlust coursing through his veins, he stepped close to Jessica, gazing into her panicked eyes.

  “I want you to enjoy my work,” he purred. “You wished to watch me kill the wench. Now you can see for yourself what the wolf does to his prey.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Please don’t. Don’t do this.”

  He kissed her lightly on the mouth. “I don’t want you to miss a thing.”

  Crossing into the other cell, Primshire began his work on the maid first, relishing the screams of not just one victim but two, and the feel of hot blood on his skin.

  ***

  Cheerful, happy, Primshire strode into the dining hall to break his fast the next morning. As usual, his men-at-arms and the castle’s staff were already seated at the tables, the closest he passed offering him bows and salutes. Privately thinking he would issue a command stating that all would rise and bow when he entered as though he were a King striding to his throne, he nodded cordially to Lord Buckston, who bowed as he mounted the dais.

  “Where is Her Grace, the Duchess?” Primshire asked, gazing around as though expecting her to materialize when in fact her corpse lay deep in the castle’s foundations.

  “I have not seen her yet this morning, My Lord,” Buckston replied. “Shall I inquire of her?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Buckston snapped orders to a passing servant, who rushed from the hall to obey. Primshire sat at his usual place and his food placed in front of him immediately. He gestured to a chair. “Please sit, eat with me. Her Grace will be here shortly, but I wish to hear about your recruiting efforts.”

  Buckston accepted the chair indicated, and joined Primshire in filling his plate. “I have seven new men-at-arms ready to swear their oaths of loyalty, My Lord. They await your pleasure.”

  Primshire frowned, his mouth full. “Just seven?”

  “I am afraid so, My Lord. There are few trained men who have no allegiance in the vicinity. However, I am in negotiations with the leader of a band of mercenaries, though they are also outlaws.”

  “That matters not. They are needed for just this one purpose, then they can go where they will.”

  “Very good, My Lord. The leader agreed to meet with you this afternoon.”

  “Excellent. Right after the meal, I want you to go to the village and bring me a peasant. A male. Preferably large and strong looking.”

  Buckston’s hand, rising to his mouth with a piece of bread in his fingers, hovered there. “You have need of a single serf?”

  “Indeed.” Primshire chewed on a slice of rare roast beef. “He will be hanged as the murderer of the Scots women, and our own people. Then I will send his head to Edward.”

  Primshire observed Buckston go very still. “Whether he is the true murderer or not, My Lord? Without a trial?”

  “Of course.” Primshire wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “If you do not have the belly for it, Buckston, I can always hang you in his place. It matters not to me.”

  Buckston visibly swallowed. “I will pick out the peasant myself.”

  “I thought you might.”

  The servant returned to bow low. “My Lords,” he said, shivering, “Her Grace the Duchess is not in her rooms. It appears she has packed and left the castle.”

  Primshire waved him away with an impatient gesture, scowling. “That was incredibly rude of her,” he snapped. “To leave my hospitality without even a polite goodbye. I expect I am well rid of her.”

  “Of course, My Lord.”

  “Bloody females.”

  Outwardly irritated but inwardly laughing, Primshire congratulated himself on a successful hunt as well as the complete cowing of his new seneschal. Buckston ate very little while he himself gorged on the rich food and the ale. No one would ever know the Duchess of Greenbriar never left his castle, and all eyes would be on Ireland when he informed King Edward that she fled his custody. In his message he would send along with the peasant’s head, he would inform His Majesty that Jessica had expressed a desire to be with her sister on her estates.

  And when she never shows up there, they will believe she had been kidnapped and killed by bandits. After all, the world is a dangerous place for a woman alone.

  He chuckled to himself as he drank his ale, earning for himself a sharp glance from Buckston. “You have two hours to bring me the peasant,” he said, rising from the table.

  Thus, he stood in the bailey surrounded by its occupants later that morning, and watched as Buckston rode toward him with ten men-at-arms at his back. His hands bound behind him, a heavy rope around his neck, a hulking peasant man stumbled as he tried to keep up with the horses. Primshire nodded to himself in satisfaction. The man was big with broad shoulders, his shaggy dark hair hung to his shoulders.

  “He has the look of a killer,” he muttered to himself.

  Buckston rode up to him, and bowed in the saddle. “I have the man who murdered the women and the shepherd boy in custody, My Lord,” he announced.

  “Excellent work,” Primshire replied.

  He ambled leisurely toward the hapless man, looking him up and down. “So this is the ruthless butcher who stalks and kills helpless women.”

  “No, Lord.” The man fell to his knees. “I be innocent, I swear it. I never killed anyone.”

  Primshire spread his arms theatrically, turning to face the assembled people under his domain. “I find this man guilty of the murder of Scots women as well as our own people. His penalty for his crimes is death by hanging. Take him up to the ramparts.”

  Buckston dismounted and gestured for the men-at-arms to accompany him. They dragged the now screaming and weeping peasant up the wooden stairs inside the bailey to the top of the walls. Without Primshire ordering them, the people filed outside to watch, and several women wept quietly. None met his gaze, and none spoke as they gathered to watch the spectacle. He liked his people like this – quiet, terrified, and willing to do anything al all to survive his rule.

  Stalking out after them, he stood aside, gazing up to see Buckston and the soldiers stand the wailing peasant near the edge, awaiting his signal. “Observe my justice,” he roared, pointing. “Just as I hang traitors and cowardly deserters, so I hang a villain who slaughtered the innocent. I am your lord and your protector. Hear me and know that I alone keep you safe.”

  He slashed his arm down. Above, Buckston pushed the crying peasant off the wall to snap at the end of the rope. Strangling, the man kicked and struggled, taking long minutes to die. At last his life left him, his corpse still twitching with last spasms. “Cut him down,” Primshire bellowed. “Then cut off his head. I want a messenger ready to ride to the King.”

  Chapter 32

  With the stolen stock now legally belonging to the MacEilish Clan, and no further attempts by Primshire were made to reclaim them, Greer brought the black stallion to the castle to begin breaking him to saddle. With Myra, Jared, Gavin and many other clansmen watching him teach the horse to accept the saddle. The stallion’s nature was as quiet as Greer hoped, and the animal learned quickly.

  “’Tis almost as if he be broke once already,” Jared called to him.

  Greer agreed. “Aye. Maybe as a youngster afore bein’ used fer stud.”

  “He’s beautiful,” Myra said. “Perhaps I can ride him some day.”

  “Dependin’ oan his gentleness and yer skills,” Greer told her. “Stallions be unpredictable.”

  He worked the horse three times a day for an hour each time, still amazed at the stud’s incredible conformation and athletic ability. Myra spent time caressing the soft black nose, asking questions as Greer taught her what made the horse’s qualities exceptional, and why they were important enough to pass to his offspring.

  “He makes my mare look like a beggar’s donkey, doesn’t he,�
�� she commented.

  “Ach, yer mare be good,” Greer replied. “But if bred tae him, she’d make a foal nearly as equal tae him.”

  “You think so?”

  He took Myra riding to the northwest pastures where the former Primshire horses grazed, letting her see the pregnant mares, their bellies rounded under glossy hides.

  “They’re huge,” she said with awe as they rode among them. “When will they give birth?”

  “Any day now, I wi’ expect,” Greer answered. He pointed to a tall chestnut with a huge stomach. “See there? She be getting’ milk in her bag. She wi’ hae her foal very soon.”

  Myra swung to him, her blue eyes shining. “This is so exciting. I can’t wait to see them.”