“Berriedale,” she mused, liking the sound of it. She was about to ask him to tell her about his home, when Craig, at the lead, came to a full stop and let out a low clucking sound that halted everyone else.
Iain maneuvered the horse between Donal and Hew before them and they saw what Craig had. The trees opened up and an army stood before them.
Maggie’s breath caught in her throat.
The bright green and gold and red of the Sutherland plaid, draped over more than half of the riders, was easily discernable even at this distance. There must be fifty men, she imagined with no small amount of horror, and was nearly choked by her fright when she spied Kenneth Sutherland at the fore. My God, he’d trespassed onto Mackay land to retrieve her. But how had Kenneth...? Had she been followed? Quickly, she put aside her questions of how, and dwelt on the belly-churning fear that gripped her now. She wanted to look away, hide herself from the coming army, unreasonably believing, if only for a second, that if she didn’t look upon them, they wouldn’t notice her.
Oh, but she had brought trouble to these very kind McEwens. Oh, dear Lord!
While the laird’s attention was fixed on the sight before them, and when they weren’t yet fully emerged from the trees, Maggie lifted his hand from her middle, swung her leg over, and dropped from the saddle. She landed poorly, fell forward and only thrust her hands out at the last minute to prevent herself from landing face first in the snow. Scrambling, she took off running, back across the tracks they’d only just made in the snow.
Chapter Nine
“HEW,” IAIN CALLED LEVELLY, keeping his eye on the horde before them. “Fetch Maggie Bryce. Keep her out of sight.”
Hew turned and frowned, his gaze having been fixed on the large number of riders before them, unaware that Maggie had dropped and bolted from Iain’s horse. He yanked his mount out of formation and gave chase.
Iain moved further to stand his horse next to Duncan’s.
“That’s Sutherlands,” his captain noted.
The mass of the encroaching army was scattered about the flat meadow before them. One man sat on horseback near the front of their sloppy columns, a big man, dressed finely enough to suggest he led this group. As Iain watched, another large man, older than the first, walked his mount forward, stopping near the first man. They gave the appearance of nonchalance, no weapons drawn, but Iain was not fooled. He’d play it the same way, he supposed, non-threatening until his purpose had been made known.
“And plenty of them,” Iain replied. The lass had something to do with this, he was sure. A Sutherland would not dare cross the river onto Mackay land for no good reason. And a nameless, faceless fear would not have sent the lass scurrying away.
There would be no fight, whatever their aim. He wouldn’t commit his men to death, and death it would be—the seven of them against what he assumed to be more than fifty. Twenty, he would consider taking on. Twenty, the lads would insist they could take on. But not fifty. He spied the bows, held casually in the hands of several of the Sutherland men. Fifty, including a dozen archers, while only Daimh and Craig carried bows and arrows in their party. ’Twould be naught but a slaughter.
“I am Iain McEwen,” he called across the naked span of thirty or more yards, “Laird of Berriedale, kin to Donald Mackay, and you, sir—and your men—are on Mackay land now.”
The younger man, the one Iain had guessed was the leader, urged his mount forward a few more yards. “Kenneth Sutherland,” he called back. “Aye, I’ve trespassed. As have you, though you’ve hidden her now. Yet, I believe you are in possession of my betrothed.”
“Christ Almighty,” Duncan seethed without moving his lips. Iain would not know if this were in response to the lass being affianced, or to the identity of her betrothed.
Betrothed. It made sense now. No convent after all, Iain thought disgruntledly.
The older man, seeming almost too large for his smaller destrier, ambled forward. “Margaret Bryce is my daughter, and I want her returned to me this instant.” His voice boomed across the space.
Iain knew several Sutherlands, had at one time fought alongside them, at Falkirk and at Stirling bridge, in the days when so many had marched to the ardent drumbeat of the great William Wallace. He’d heard the name Kenneth Sutherland, that was all, did not know any more of the man than what rumors had come to him, none of them favorable. But then, all news of a Sutherland that might reach his ears would never come in a positive light.
They must have been watching them, either had trailed them for days, possibly had been made immobile as well by the storm, or they’d happened to spy them today while out searching and had raced ahead of them. ‘Twas his own fault, being attentive of the bewitching lass and not their surroundings.
“Which of you two fine gentlemen laid a hand on her?” The words were sent across the field before he thought better of them.
He quickly read Sutherland’s expression, a quick but not overly concerned frown, which suggested more of an internal query of why Iain should care than a visible admission of guilt.
“I laid my hand on her,” shouted her father without a trace of shame. He offered nothing else, no excuse, no reasoning, no justification. His tone actually suggested some daring, as if he only wanted to be challenged or reprimanded for his heavy-handedness.
Kenneth Sutherland slowly looked to his left and then his right, as if only to draw Iain’s eye to follow, to remind him of the strength of his numbers. He faced Iain again, leaning forward over the pommel, and wondered, with a bit of a chuckle, “Are you to return my betrothed to me, McEwen, or shall I take her by force?” No sooner had the query come than Sutherland’s archers drew on Iain and his men. “Seems a high price to pay for one woman.”
“And yet, here you are,” Iain returned, “venturing onto Mackay land to claim her.”
The archers pulled back.
“Wait!”
Iain clenched his teeth when he heard Maggie’s cry.
She came from the trees, calling out franticly, “I’m here! I’m here, Father.”
Hew’s frustrated and abbreviated call of, “Maggie, don’t—” possibly did not reach the Sutherland army across the distance.
Iain turned his steed around so that his back was to the Sutherlands, so that he faced Maggie Bryce as she tramped toward the front of their line.
When she stood near to his horse, he ground out, “I specifically asked you if you were running from something that might bring danger to my men.” His anger just now might more be the result of his own powerlessness. That she had lied to him, that he felt betrayed even as he barely knew her, that he could not save her from her own wedding, if that had been what had sent her running.
She was as pale as the snow, which highlighted starkly both her freckles and the remarkable green of her eyes. Damn her, but it was unfair for a lass’s eyes to be that color!
She blanched before him at his dark tone. “I’m so sorry,” she mouthed. He couldn’t be sure, as she removed her gaze from him to reclaim her basket from the end of his saddle, but he thought her eyes watered.
“I thank you all for what you have done for me,” she said to the rump of Iain’s horse.
Inside he fumed, over this circumstance, over his own helplessness just now. But he said no more to her, his jaw tightened almost painfully to keep his mouth shut and his anger reined in.
Maggie Bryce lifted her gaze to him. Indeed, tears threatened. So many emotions were alive and glowing in her gaze, but he could read only anxiety and sorrow. She opened her mouth, but no words came forth. And then she turned away, lifting her skirts above the snow, and walked toward the Sutherland army.
Iain pivoted his mount again and did not take his gaze from her, even as he directed, “Craig, Daimh, draw on Sutherland.”
“I became lost in the storm,” Maggie called out with false cheeriness to her betrothed as she walked toward him. “These men were kind enough to offer shelter to me.”
Daimh and Craig positioned the
mselves at the far left and right of their group, nocking arrows aimed at Kenneth Sutherland.
Sutherland steered his mount forward a few feet, his expression dark, possibly unaware that he was a target just now. “The storm was days ago,” he challenged Maggie in a loud voice.
“And we,” she returned, “were trapped in a cave, with snow to my hips.” She was starting to pant heavily, either from her exertions traipsing through the snow or because of a fear that her lies might be exposed, Iain could not be sure.
“And he has now attempted to hide your presence from me,” Kenneth Sutherland pointed out.
Iain heard her scoff breathlessly and say, “Laird McEwen sought only to hide my presence from an approaching army. Of course we had no idea that it was you. The man was intent only with keeping me out of harm’s way. You should be thanking him for such care he—all of them—have shown me.”
Iain’s jaw tightened yet more. The bastard made her walk all the way to him, did not come to collect her, though it was obvious to all that she was too small for the deep snow.
She continued to talk, giving more defense or possibly sweet-talking her future husband, but Iain could no longer hear what she said.
Next to him, Hew ground out quietly, as ferocious as Iain had ever heard him, “Do not let her go with them. She obviously didn’t want to marry him, or she wouldn’t have lied about going off to St. Edmunds.”
“’Tis no’ our business,” said Duncan sharply, his gaze trained on the archers, “between a man and his betrothed, certainly no’ a Sutherland union.”
Iain felt his heart lurch. He clamped his teeth tight.
“Sutherland lass,” Donal said behind them, disbelief shading his tone. “She dinna act like one.”
“God damn you,” Hew cursed at Iain, ignoring Donal. “You coward.”
Iain nodded. What else could he do? The lad would understand. At some point, perhaps. It would serve no purpose to object, when they were only seven men. They would be cut down, mercilessly, and for what? The lass would still be leaving with Kenneth Sutherland, when they were dead.
“Archie, get him out of here,” Iain said tightly. His fingers curled slowly into fists as he watched her walk across the space that separated the Sutherland ensemble from his Mackays, his expression grim. A sickening ache rumbled in his chest and stomach, while his nostrils flared with disgust at his own weakness, and at that part of him that for a brief moment actually considered calling her back to him anyway.
Hew spat at Iain, his saliva landing on Iain’s thigh before Archie shifted his horse and collected the bridle of Hew’s. Iain caught only a glimpse of Archie’s glowering red face before he pulled Hew away from the scene.
When Maggie had reached the army, Kenneth Sutherland raised a hand, summoning a young lad forward. The lad dismounted and helped Maggie into his saddle, not without some difficulty. When she was settled upon the horse, Kenneth Sutherland faced Iain again and called out, his voice painted with condescension, “I ought to cut you down where you stand, McEwen.”
Maggie Bryce had kept her head bowed in shame upon mounting, but now cried out and glanced up sharply at her betrothed.
Jaw tight, Iain ignored her and made a point to look left and then right, as Kenneth Sutherland had done a moment ago, alerting the man that he was in the sights of two archers himself. “Trained on you, Sutherland,” he called out. “You’d be the first to drop. Think your archers can hit ‘em before they let loose?”
There was still quite a distance between them, but Iain was sure he saw the man’s lip curl.
Iain and Kenneth Sutherland exchanged stand-off glares for a full moment before Sutherland made a motion with his hand that began to move his army away from the meadow, headed west. Even when Kenneth Sutherland steered his own mount away, he continued to scowl at Iain.
“We’d do best to make ourselves scarce as well,” Duncan said beside him.
“No’ until they’re out of sight.”
The meadow was wide, and the Sutherland army had a way to go to reach the trees which would remove them from the open space. Iain and Duncan watched until the very last Sutherland disappeared into the dense strand of pines.
Craig and Donal lowered their bows when the last Sutherland had disappeared.
Iain dismounted while he waited, stretching his legs to ease the tension coursing through his entire body. Some sound made him turn, just in time to see young Hew charging at him, his face still contorted with his anger at what he perceived to be Iain’s spinelessness.
Duncan sprung from his saddle and yanked Hew back by the collar of his fur.
Iain met the accusation in Hew’s glare while Duncan upbraided the lad.
“Be done with it!” Duncan snarled at him. “It’s no’ as if she’d give you the time of day, Hew,” Duncan spat out, needing the lad to understand he hadn’t lost anything, really. “You think she’d have looked twice?” Duncan ground out, shaking Hew’s shoulder, holding him close to his heated words. “Think you finally met the one who might notice you? Did you ken that—”
Hew pushed off him, an unprecedented amount of strength and fury shown as he shoved both hands against Duncan’s broad chest, startling the older man, sending him reeling.
“I never said she—I dinna expect anything!” Hew cried out, spittle following the impassioned rush of words. “I dinna think anything! I dinna hope for anything! I just wanted to—” He stopped suddenly, his perpetually pinkened cheeks bright red just now. He lost his shout, lost the heat of his anger, that he finished in a wobbly voice, “I just wanted to ken her.”
Iain nodded, fully comprehending Hew’s dismay.
“She was no’ ours, lad.” He said after a while, shifting his jaw to accommodate the delivery of those bitter words.
Iain waited, but Hew said no more, so that Iain gained the saddle again and began moving in the opposite direction the Sutherlands had taken, headed east. Of course, he need not look behind to know his men followed. They must move quickly now, put a good amount of distance between them and the Sutherlands; he’d never trust a Sutherland to let that simple leave-taking be that. With his jaw tight, he refused to allow himself to dwell at all on the lass, or Hew’s reaction to her leaving, and certainly not his own.
He was surprised by a sharp and curt whistle from behind him. Iain turned in the saddle. All had followed but Craig, who had wandered to where the Sutherland army had made their stand. Craig crouched in an area of well trampled snow, his forearms on his thighs while he waited for Iain and the others to come to him.
Iain did not dismount but circled around Craig.
Before he spoke, explaining his departure, Craig shook his head. He pointed to the beaten down, hard-packed snow in one spot. Iain lifted one hand, wondering what he was supposed to be seeing.
“Jesus,” Duncan breathed next to him, obviously understanding before Iain did.
Craig said finally, “The print.” He pointed to one very clear horseshoe impression in the snow. “Seven nail holes.”
The blood drained from Iain’s face and chest, pooling in a dreadful pit in his belly. “Nae,” was all he said, unable to believe what this implied. Woodenly, he dismounted, needing to verify this with his own eyes. And there it was, directly below Craig’s knee, a clear print.
Hew emitted a strangled and hoarse cry, drawing Iain’s gaze to him. He felt every bit of the hateful recrimination in the lad’s foul glare.
Iain glanced down at the print again and then up at the trees, through which Maggie Bryce had just ridden off with her betrothed, Alpin.
THEY ARRIVED AT THE Gordon keep in time for supper. The entire ride had been miserable, with Maggie beset by so much sorrow to have been taken away from the McEwens, the laird specifically. Beset as well by so much dread, because every time Kenneth Sutherland happened to glance her way, there seemed to be some promise of an unpleasant reprisal in his gaze. He hadn’t spoken another word to her since their leave-taking of the McEwens, but Maggie worried that
he did not, after all, believe her tale.
When their party crammed into the Gordon’s snowy and muddy yard, Kenneth himself came to collect Maggie. Without care, he yanked her by one hand from the horse, ignoring her stumbling upon the ground, and marched her into the keep. Ignoring Elizabeth’s fretting that she was safe, Kenneth took to the stairs and barked, “Which one?” as he contemplated the doors to the family’s chamber.
“Next floor,” came weakly from Maggie, and she was hauled up another flight of stairs.
There were only two doors on this floor that Kenneth easily ascertained which was hers by poking his head into each. He shoved her ahead of him with such force that she nearly fell to the ground inside her own chamber. Maggie’s chest banged with the same thud that accompanied his slamming of the door behind him.
He approached her slowly, all his menace shown now, his mouth distorted to ugliness, his brows angled low, his eyes soulless.
When he was close, he thumped his forefinger into her chest. His voice was absurdly velvety as he said, “When next you try to run from me, I suggest you get further away.”
“But I didn’t—”
“If ever I have to chase you down again,” he continued, ignoring her feeble defense, “I will make sure you are not fit to walk across a room, let alone away from me.”
“’Twas the storm—”
The fingers at her chest suddenly crimped into the folds of her closed cloak, twisting and pulling her close. “When I am speaking, you are not.” This was ground out with a barely restrained ferocity. And all the words that followed only grew louder and more ominous. “You are nothing to me, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be made to look a fool by you. Your role will be one of a slave. To me. To my needs. To my wants. For every moment of grief you cause me, I will visit thrice as much upon you. You will learn right quick that I will suffer no whims of disobedience or rebellion. Am I making myself clear?” He shouted this last, rattling his hand inside her cloak, shaking her up against him.
The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5) Page 11