Hector was off in a flash, grabbing his kilt, a shirt and sword just as Victoria scrambled for her dress. Her mind was running in circles. What was happening?
“Bide ye!” Hector called frantically as he rushed through the door and slammed it behind him. With her hair a mess around her shoulders, dragging her dress on, Victoria ran to the window. What she saw there made ice run though her veins.
The carriageway to the castle was lit with torches as men on horseback lined the passage. Her eyes traced them to the foyer where a battering ram lay discarded and pieces of the castle’s door lay in splinters around it. The shouts and bellows of men - Scots and English alike - reached up to her as the English forces surged over the natives like a swarm of angry wasps.
Her legs went out from under her but she grabbed the balustrade in time. Her heart was pounding for another reason now - fear instead of pleasure. Her father had arrived! Cold sweat beaded on her forehead as Victoria knew her father was out for blood. Perhaps his men had killed many already, but there was one thing she could do to stem the bloodshed.
Hector had told her to stay. That was not going to work if he wanted his people alive. Yanking her boots on, Victoria left the room and though her heart was pounding, calmly took the stairs. In the middle of the staircase she froze. Hector was blade-locked with a soldier in the middle of the foyer while the metallic clangs of blades, the shouts of anger, and screams of pain echoed from the lofty ceiling.
When she got to the foyer she saw a scene that would never leave her mind. The kitchen staff, servant girls, squires, and page boys were pressed against the walls trembling in fear, with sword tips inches away from their faces, held by soldiers dressed in her father’s dark blue and grey uniforms.
A man lunged at Hector’s unguarded back with a knife and she screamed out his name in fear. The attacker was distracted for just enough time for Hector to disable the man he was fighting, and with a spinning kick, he floored the other man that was coming behind him.
Unfortunately, her cry garnered the attention of two more men who ran up and grabbed her. Struggling in their unmerciful grasp, Victoria was dragged down to the foyer where a knife was placed at her throat.
“Cease fighting, MacTavish, or she dies!” one man yelled.
Victoria felt shock surge through her. Had her father ordered these men to kill her? His only child? That couldn’t be, that could never be - she knew they had to be lying.
She swallowed heavily as Hector stopped mid-lunge and with a grimace, dropped his sword. A man behind him grabbed the Laird and forced him to his knees before cuffing him over the head.
“That will do,” a cold voice said from the foyer. “The rest of the savages are captured in their barracks and now that we have the castle, the Clan is subdued.”
Victoria swallowed hard but forced herself to look at the man, “Hello, Father.”
The Duke looked over and by the shifting in his face, Victoria knew exactly what her father was seeing. Her disheveled clothes, wild hair, and deep red kiss marks on her neck led to only one conclusion that the Duke - and any man with sense - could come to.
The Duke’s eyes bulged but instead of replying, he grabbed Hector by his hair and bent his neck at an unnatural angle. “You dared touch my child!” he roared. “I’ll take much more pleasure in killing you now!”
“Father, no!” Victoria cried out in horror.
“Mister Turner, bind Lady Moore’s wrists and find her a chair. She should know what her disobedience has caused,” the Duke ordered over his shoulder to one of his men.
“Yes, Sir!”
“Nae!” Hector shouted in alarm. “Leave her be!”
His efforts earned him a backhanded slap, “Ye hae no’ say here!”
“Father!” Victoria shrieked as the man grabbed her. After catching a length of rope from a subordinate, he swiftly bound her wrists behind her back. A chair was slammed beside her and she was forced to sit. She stared at a macabre picture.
Glaring angrily at her father, Victoria couldn’t believe the man she was seeing now was her calm and collected father - he seemed crazed.
“General Crane,” the Duke ordered to a man with wild dark hair and a sadistic sneer, “Have the knout ready.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the man smirked, and ducked out of the room momentarily.
“You do not need to do this, Father,” Victoria said as calmly as she could. “Let these people go, and take me if you desire. They have done nothing to earn your anger.”
“Oh, but they have,” the Duke replied easily as the General came back with the whip. “These savages were born to anger civilized men.”
Incensed snarls came from the men and women against the walls but the prod of sword points in their faces quickly shut them up.
“Strip him,” the Duke ordered coldly while fingering the whip. It was a lethal weapon, with a long dark leather handle and a twisted cord with knots at every handbreadth. “This should let you know not to aggravate your betters.”
“Me horse’s shite is yer superior,” Hector spat, as men grabbed him and ripped his shirt in half. With his back bare and forcefully bent over, Victoria was about to cry out. The Duke flicked his wrist and with a wicked snap, laced Hector’s back with red. The Laird’s jaw was clenched shut while the people amassed gasped for Hector’s pain.
Another flick and another line of bleeding red crisscrossed Hector’s back, and once more no sound came from him even though his face was twisted in agony. Victoria felt anguish go through her at the sight of the bloody marks and kept pleading on deaf ears for her father to have mercy. Two more lashes and not a sound came from Hector.
“Resolute, are we?” the Duke taunted. Just as he was about to flick the whip once more, two men barged in, carrying a tightly bound Donald.
“This is MacTavish’s second, Your Grace,” one of the men said, as he flung Donald to the ground. “He escaped from the barracks, cut down five men, and was hamstringing your horse when we grabbed him.”
The Duke nodded, “I’ll deal with him when I’m done with MacTavish.”
Victoria saw Donald, now shoved to the wall, slowly inching his bent leg toward his side and she realized he was reaching for the knife he always had hidden in his boot. As all eyes were on Hector, Victoria thought quickly of what she could do to distract her father when Donald succeeded in getting the knife.
A flick and grunt told of Hector’s torture. The lines in his skin were starting to bead over and drips of blood trailed down his back. Victoria felt agony for all this suffering, as she was the cause of it, but knew she had to keep her wits about her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Donald’s leg move backwards to where his hands were bound. She saw the strain on his face as his limb was bent in an unnatural angle and knew it was her time to act.
“Father,” she called, dragging attention from Hector and Donald. “How did you get here so quickly?”
The Duke fingered the whip, “By sea, Victoria - an easy passage up the Irish Sea. The army taught me to use the art of deception on my enemies. I knew I was expected to come one way, so I took the other.”
Her eyes were fixed on her sire but she saw that Donald had gotten hold of the knife and was subtly cutting through his bonds.
“Please, Father,” Victoria pleaded. “Let these people go.”
“And why would I do that?” the Duke replied with a sigh. “I’ve never understood your compassion for this tribe, Victoria. And that was even after I knew about your foolhardy search for a boy that was dead.”
Somehow, it didn’t shock Victoria to learn that her father knew about her search for Andrew - he was the Duke, after all. Disregarding the statement about Andrew, Victoria focused on the Duke’s first statement.
“I care because they are men and women, mothers and fathers, human beings with minds and souls and the right to live, just as we do.” The young lady spoke fervently, “Their children need teaching and guidance, like anyone else blessed with lovin
g parents.”
“So this degenerate was taught to kidnap ladies, then?” the Duke said easily, contorting Victoria’s words. “Speaks much of the values taught here, doesn’t it?”
The Duke turned back to Hector just as Donald, with a roar, lurched forward and knocked one of his captors over. The sudden attack shifted the attention of the Duke and the men holding Hector, who then managed to break free of his hold and grab his sword.
He charged at the Duke with fire in his eyes, sliced a killing strike to the man’s neck. The Duke ducked and grabbing a sword from a nearby soldier, fought back. They began a swift joust, with Hector delivering nothing other than killing blows and the Duke deflecting them.
Victoria didn’t know who she was more afraid for, as both were aiming for a fatal strike. Hector was her lover, but Geoffrey was her father - she loved both of them. A near-miss sent a bloody line across the Duke’s cheek, and another miss almost disemboweled Hector, just before the hall descended into chaos.
The windows above the hall were shattered by strong boots as men swung from ropes into the hall. The men the Duke had brightly said were trapped in their barracks had broken out, probably slaughtering the men the Duke had set to guard them. The soldiers who were holding the civilians under guard turned their swords on Hector’s army.
Victoria instinctively lurched sideways to get out of direct aim and squirmed out of the chair. With her hands still bound, Victoria twisted until she came up to a wall and with some measure of safety, stood. Her sight was consumed by men fighting for their lives and women aiding however they could.
She didn’t see Hector’s mother, or anyone that could be of the council, and assumed they had somehow made it to safety. A knife skittered to her and she barely glimpsed Donald’s boot as he turned back to fighting his opponent. She bent and scrabbled for the knife. Gritting her teeth, and twisting her hands, Victoria cut through the looped ropes with frenzy before sticking the knife in her belt.
More Englishmen were coming in and one of them, before she could shout, grabbed Donald by his shirt and stabbed him. An agonized wounded cry came as Donald sank to the ground - and by doing so, made the rest of his shirt come off. Then Victoria saw it - a large ashen birthmark shaped like an hourglass on the back of his shoulder - and gasped in horror.
“Miss Ruth,” thirteen-year-old Victoria had asked after her governess had finished telling her about her missing cousin. “If you did see Andrew today, how would you know it was him?”
The older woman smiled, “When I took the babe, there was a mark on his back, my child, it looked like a sand-glass of the Greeks, curved in the sides but broad the tops and bottom. It is a singular mark, Victoria - if I see that sign, I will know it is Andrew MacTavish.”
Victoria was trembling with the revelation as everything slotted into place. Donald was an orphan. He had been raised with Hector after his ‘mother’, an old woman, had died. Some of his earliest memories were of moving from one place to the other - just like Andrew had! Donald was ANDREW!
“No!” she screamed, with her heart pounding, “STOP THIS!
The scream was so shrill that soldier and civilians alike froze. Hector, who had the Duke on the ground at sword point, snapped his head toward Victoria as she rushed over to Andrew.
“Father!” Victoria poured out her heart into her words as Donald bled in her arms. Her dress was stained with his blood and her arms filled with his body. “Please, I’m begging you, stop this madness.”
“I will not!” The Duke snarled.
Seeing no way out except turning to desperation, Victoria grabbed Donald’s knife from her belt and placed it on her bare wrist, “Then I’ll die here.”
Hector’s cry was louder than the Duke’s but she paid no mind to her lover. “Father, this is where I choose to live and if you can’t accept that…” Victoria started to slide the knife over her wrist deep enough to make blood trickle out, only to hear her father Geoffrey cry out.
“No!” he shouted, with one arm stretched out from the floor, “For the love of God - no, Victoria!”
“Get this man a physician!” She yelled dragging the knife over her arm, making more blood break out, “Or I’ll die right here!”
“Victoria!” Geoffrey yelled in horror. “Soldier, let out any person who can help him! Now!”
The soldiers’ swords were slapped away as three men rushed over and an old woman knelt beside Donald.
“Why are you doing this Victoria?” The Duke asked, pain lacing every word.
“This man is Andrew,” Victoria replied, “He is the son of your sister, Father. Will you let your nephew bleed to death on the floor?”
The Duke’s face, once stony, was slipping. “The boy is dead, Victoria. Miss Willow told my father so.”
“She lied!” Victoria shot back. “Ruth had more compassion in her than Grandfather did and lied to save the child!”
The Duke’s throat worked, “How do you know that he is Andrew?”
“This mark on his back,” Victoria said, gesturing to the birthmark. “Miss Ruth told me how she would know him. This is Andrew, Father…your nephew. He is the rightful Laird of this Clan.”
“Let these people go, Father, or you will lose me, too.” Victoria said evenly, “Let them go.”
The Duke’s face went flinty, “Victoria, I cannot do that. Your home is in England.”
“But my heart is in Scotland,” Victoria replied. “And where my heart is, there is my home. You lost your sister, Father, I understand, but shedding blood will not make it any better. I will not leave from here, Father. You can either let me be or carry my dead body back to Crowland.”
And for once, since the madness started, Victoria saw some regret in her father’s eyes. “I cannot bear to have you away from me…but I will not lose you. My father was consumed by hate and I was for a while but…I cannot have you hate me.”
And if she is with child already, what then? Would I throw her in a dungeon and then have the babe killed, like our father did with Emily? It is unthinkable. Do I hate the Scots so much that I will rip happiness away from my daughter and destroy her offspring? It is madness. I CANNOT relive this family nightmare. To end it with castle-burning and the death of the MacTavish Clan – NO.
“I came here to torture and kill the men who took you from me and from your life in England…” the Duke said heavily, “But…I cannot allow myself to repeat my father’s mistake. To keep you, I must let you go…I only ask that you come back to England once more.”
“Only if me an’ me men go wi’ her,” Hector snarled, as his sword hadn’t moved from the Duke’s face. “I dinnae trust ye no' tae take her away from me - ye hae taken tae much already.”
“Do not doubt, MacTavish,” the Duke replied heatedly, “that you would do the same for your child. General Crane, order your men to cease and desist immediately.”
The General looked infuriated, “But, Your Grace—”
“Do it now,” The Duke ordered in a commanding, resolute tone as he chanced to stand up.
Victoria looked at the soldiers who grumblingly let down their arms. A few men clocked the nearest armed men with hard fists, and some spat at their feet, but there was no more killing.
Hector said to the Duke, “Take yer men an’ leave. Victoria an’ I will send word when we can come.”
The Duke’s apprehensive eyes shot to Victoria, a look that Hector interpreted. “Yer daughter will be cared fer an’ loved here. I hae all tha intentions o' marryin’ her.”
“I have no doubt you will.” The Duke replied coolly, “Make no mistake, I will have you hunted down if you don’t.”
Looking around at the shaken Clansmen who had elected to remove the bodies of their fellow men and line them up along a wall, while some of the Englishmen did the same with their injured and wounded men, Victoria felt the fight drain from her system.
Hector sank to the ground, reaching out a slightly trembling hand to the man who had been there for most of his life - his
friend and now, revealed - his brother.
“Me friend… me conscience sometimes, an’ me contrast at others. He was me brother in bond, but noo...me brother in blood.” Hector said quietly. “He must live.”
“Aye, I will,” Donald whispered. The wounded man stirred, breathing laboriously. He looked toward Hector. “Help me up, Brother. I dinnae plan on dying t’day.”
At the sight of this miraculous resurrection, the Clansmen began shouting in joy and disbelief. Hector and Victoria gently raised the severely injured man.
“He needs tha medicine room.” The woman said, “I can treat him there.”
Highlander's Forbidden Soulmate Page 26