by Cathy MacRae
Kenneth stopped all pretense of eating. “She got away?”
Duncan shook his head, trying not to laugh at the expression on his father’s face. “Nae. I alerted the gate master to drop the outer gate. I placed a dozen men at the other end with orders not to harm her. When she entered the gateway, I had the gate lowered. She made a run for it but dinnae make it. Howbeit, ’twas close.”
Kenneth stared at him, apparently finding it hard to grasp the tale. “Where is she now?”
“I put her in another cell. I checked to make sure this one locked properly, though I could find no fault with the one holding her before.”
“She was not injured?” Kenneth rubbed his brow, his bewilderment plain.
“Nae. Though she did ask if her attempt will earn her a beating.”
The laird grimaced. “What did ye tell her?”
“I told her, not this time.” Duncan’s lips quirked upward.
Kenneth sat quietly, staring at the contents swirling in his mug. “I told ye she needed to be secured.” His tone sounded smug with a hint of bluster, as if trying to hide guilt over imprisoning a noblewoman.
“Aye, and I said she wouldnae feel the need to escape if she were treated like a guest—which she has earned.” After a few tense moments, Duncan rose to leave before his anger grew worse. He knew there would be no winning this dispute.
* * *
Five days. Five days his father forced Anna to sit in that curst cell. For what purpose? He would find out tonight, as a rider had arrived this afternoon bearing news regarding her. Duncan sat by the hearth and waited for his father to broach the subject. After arguing with him several times already, Duncan thought he would try a more passive approach.
“I know my handling of the English lass has been difficult for ye.” Kenneth filled his cup and Duncan’s with wine.
“’Tis not my place to challenge yer orders, Father.” Duncan replied, avoiding eye contact.
Frowning, Kenneth continued, “I could ask for no better son, but ye have done more than challenge my orders on this matter.” His voice carried the frustration of their ongoing argument.
Duncan let the well-earned rebuke slip past unchallenged.
“Ye know my priority must be to protect our people. A woman who appears out of nowhere, who has skills equal to our best warriors, who is both Scots and English, ’tis a dangerous problem.”
Duncan gave a curt nod in agreement.
“Why is she running?” Kenneth mused. “From whom does she run? And most importantly, could these enemies be brought to our doorstep? I took a risk by bringing her here, but feel a tremendous debt to her for what she did for Nessa.”
“Aye, I know, ’tis a difficult situation.”
Putting down his cup, Kenneth faced Duncan fully. “Do ye? I see the way ye look at her. I hear the emotion in yer words. I see how ye wish to protect her.” He paused between each sentence for effect. “I fear by bringing her here we risk the whole clan. Perhaps even our allies.”
“Then why treat her like a prisoner? Do ye know she asked me what makes us different from the men she killed defending Nessa?”
Kenneth closed his eyes, a frown on his face as he leaned back in his chair, fingers rubbing an old battle wound on his shoulder, a familiar gesture when vexed.
“When I told her we would protect her, she thanked me for the protection we had provided thus far, reminding me of the wound Shamus gave her, which she stitched herself.” Duncan’s aggravation rose, crested, finally softening into surrender. “I trust yer judgment, Father. I just dinnae understand it.” Duncan’s resolve to remain cordial began to slip.
Kenneth grunted. “I dispatched a rider before ye brought her back to camp that day. I needed to know as much as I could about her. I have found out she is Lady Anna Braxton, daughter of Baron Everard Braxton, a border lord. Her mother was Lady Rossalyn, daughter of the Elliot Laird. Her mother has been dead for several years.”
His father shifted his weight in the chair and ran a hand through his graying hair.
“Her father and brother were killed in an attack by a neighboring noble who has been trying to gain Anna in marriage. He wanted to acquire her lands upon Lord Braxton’s and his son’s death. Apparently, Anna had rebuffed him repeatedly. Lord Braxton would not force her, and it seems the man grew weary of waiting. None within the keep survived the attack.” Kenneth’s somber voice reflected the harsh reality of her story.
Duncan stood, anger pounding in his skull, demanding he protect her from the schemes of this unknown Sassenach.
“From what I have learned, she and her brother were out hunting and came across the attack upon their return. Her brother must have forced her to run, because he met his death in defense of their home.”
Duncan settled into the chair, his mind awhirl, absorbing the facts. This explained so many things. The English and Scots blood, the training and regal bearing—though it didn’t explain why she was a fighter instead of the wife of a nobleman.
“She sought refuge with her grandda’s clan, then?” Duncan still wondered about the circumstances of discovering her alone so far from the border.
As he leaned forward in his chair, Kenneth’s face grew harsh. “Nae. She never went near Elliot, never sought aid, nor made contact. They likely fear she is dead or worse. She apparently does not know who attacked her family. She dinnae flee to another barony, but rather deep into Scotland, into the unknown. The heart of a lion, this one.”
Duncan finally heard the same admiration he felt mirrored in his father’s voice.
“To answer yer question, I have held her prisoner because ’twas possible she committed some sort of crime. I wanted to make sure she had no opportunity to flee. As ye know, there are those who would brutalize her then slit her throat simply because she is English. I captured her as much for her own safety as anything.”
This last statement reverberated through the room. Duncan couldn’t tell which of them he tried to convince. Duncan laced his fingers together across his chest, pushing deeper into the plush cushions of the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Yes, he’d seen her bravery played out several times. This story fit with what he knew of her character.
They sat in silence, considering the situation, considering the options. The truth of her circumstances only proved to intensify Duncan’s feelings for her.
“What will ye do?” He shifted position and rubbed his legs, awaiting an answer.
Kenneth strolled to the window overlooking the village. He stood quietly for a long time, staring into the distance, watching night absorb the remaining daylight. “MacGregors never back down from a fight, and we never forget a debt owed. We will harbor her here, hide her if her enemies come looking. Though I cannot think this Englishman will risk war by invading so far into Scotland over one lass.”
Duncan carefully chewed over his words before asking the next question. “Considering her experience thus far, is there reason to think she would trust us and accept such an offer?”
A genuine smile crossed Kenneth’s face. He seemed amused they were finally able to have a cordial conversation about the matter. His amused expression dissolved into something harder before he answered.
“I had three days to consider life without Nessa. Each day I imagined having to look into yer mother’s eyes if we’d failed to find her, or if she had died during the rescue. Lady Anna Braxton is the reason I willnae daily see the pain of Nessa’s death on yer mother’s face. I will offer her my sincerest apologies and treat her as a daughter if she will allow it. If not, we will provide escort to wherever she wishes to go.”
Duncan leaned forward, hands stroking his chin in a lazy manner, pondering his father’s plan. He readily agreed it was the right thing to do, however, the thought of her leaving was—unsettling.
“I spoke with her guard. She sits in silent concentration for regular intervals. She recites the Bible and poetry in several languages and performs complex fighting dr
ills daily. She has eaten very little since her arrival. She has not touched the stew we have given her here, nor on the three days’ ride here,” Duncan said as if offering a crop reporting.
This last bit of knowledge brought a scowl to the laird’s face. “She starves herself?”
Duncan paused, considering the question. Fear for her well-being bullied its way into his thoughts. He firmly denied it access. “Nae, I dinnae think so. She hunted and killed on the ride back. She added this to some dried meat and fruit in her pack. I dinnae know why she has chosen to eat naught other than porridge and bread in five days. I do know each of her days is exactly the same. Her pattern is predictable, it doesnae vary. And there’s still the wee mystery of how she escaped her cell.” Duncan couldn’t stop the esteem he held for her, or the accompanying grin when he thought again of her escape.
With his scowl still firmly in place Kenneth asked, “She has been trained to be a captive?”
Duncan uttered a humorless laugh, lowering his head in agreement. “Aye. ’Tis a logical explanation.”
“Why the hell would a young woman of noble blood be taught to endure captivity?”
Duncan shared his father’s exasperation, but had no ready answer. ’Twas a good question. Perhaps if she accepted his father’s offer, if their treatment of her hadn’t pushed her too far already, they would find out.
Chapter 5
On the evening of the fifth day of her captivity, the door to Anna’s cell opened. Instead of bringing food, the odious guard glared at her and gestured for her to leave the cell. His clenched fists and constricted face told her his anger toward her hadn’t cooled.
Every fiber of her body tensed. Standing at the doorway, she waited for him to move, refusing to turn her back to him. With a grunt of disgust, he walked past the door of the prison, opening the next door, and continued without waiting to see if she followed. He entered the great hall, leading her toward a door at the other end of the large room.
The enormous chamber bubbled with activity. Everyone, from the men and women eating, to those serving, halted their actions and stared as the guard led her through to the next doorway. The experience rattled her, raising the hair on the back of her neck as though she’d been hurled into a room full of predators—with her the blooded prey.
When the guard opened the next door, she saw a smaller, opulent chamber with a table surrounded by high-back chairs. Thick, colorful tapestries covered the walls. The candle stand on the intricately carved table held dozens of candles, the unmistakably sweet smell of beeswax filling the air. Everything about this room bespoke wealth.
This was obviously a private hall where MacGregor entertained guests. The lavishness of its décor aimed to impress or perhaps intimidate. Her guard jerked his head, motioning her forward. As she entered, both Duncan and his father rose from their seats. Raising his cup, the laird spoke. “Lady Anna, join us for a meal.”
His tone sounded warm and inviting—in other words, confusing. The guard roughly pulled the chair out at the opposite end of the table, indicating she sit. She did so, then adjusted her chair to keep him in her line of sight.
“Please, help yerself. My son tells me ye have eaten little in five days.”
The gentle scold reminded her of her father. She maintained a calm facade, belying the anxiety coursing through her.
“Thank you, Laird.” Anna placed a small piece of cheese, a slice of bread, and an apple on the plate in front of her.
“Try the wine,” MacGregor urged.
If the lightness of his voice and gesturing were to be believed, he relished the role of host. Gone the harsh warden of the past sennight, and in his place a congenial gentleman.
She ignored his request and reached for a pitcher of water instead. Anna had no intention of fuddling her wits with wine. She’d know if they’d tainted the water. It was easier to drug or poison wine.
After she assembled a small plate of food, the laird encouraged her to eat. Anna took a bite of apple and waited for him to pronounce her sentence. Bringing her into such a room, asking her to join them to sup, went beyond her expectations. As she chewed, she scanned the room for escape, keeping track of the guard. She suspected his movement would forewarn her of any danger.
“Lady Anna, I wish to apologize for taking and holding ye against yer will. Ye must understand I dinnae know who ye were. I did not know what crimes ye might have committed, or what enemies ye might be fleeing.”
Crimes! The accusation overrode his conciliatory tone. Anger burned through her blood and it took all the control she possessed to stay seated. She stopped chewing, her fingers gripped the wooden armrests of the chair, and her pulled spine arrow-straight.
He continued. “The day ye assisted us, I sent a rider to follow yer trail, seeking to find out about ye. Since ye were unwilling to talk, I had to know what trouble ye ran from, and mayhap led to us.”
“And now you know about me, Laird?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“Aye. Ye are Lady Anna Braxton, daughter of Baron Everard Braxton and Lady Rossalyn of the Elliot clan. Ye fled after yer home was attacked by a rival nobleman, yer family killed, yer home burned. For that I am very sorry.”
Having endured eight days of captivity, all for rescuing his daughter, Anna had heard enough. “You are sorry?” she spat as she sprang to her feet. “For what? The death of my family, the loss of my home, or for wrongfully imprisoning an ally for a sennight?”
An unlooked-for blow sent her flying from her chair. The angry scrape of chairs, the furious voices as Duncan and his father shouted at the guard who attacked her, were all a muddle of nonsense as lights danced around her, her head throbbing. She tasted the metallic flavor of blood and felt the warmth of it on her face. A red haze fogged her vision.
Stumbling to her feet, she launched at her attacker. Using every bit of strength she could muster, Anna planted a kick between his legs, gratified to hear his grunt of pain. Grabbing his hair with both hands, she rammed her knee into his face. The satisfying crunch sent a spray of blood across her tunic. She twisted her body and uncoiled, throwing her weight behind an elbow strike, hitting the hinge of his jaw, just below the ear.
As he fell to the floor in a heap, she drew his dagger to finish the job.
“Lady Anna!” Duncan’s voice broke the haze of her fury. “Dinnae kill him. I wouldnae wish to see ye hanged for murder.”
Glaring at Duncan, Anna grabbed her fallen guard by the scalp and carved a four-inch long gash on his cheek as a reminder. The pain seemed to awaken him and he moaned. Dropping him to the floor, she stalked toward the entry.
“Lady Anna, please stay. We will see to yer wounds. Sit with us, finish yer meal. We wish to speak with ye.” The laird gestured toward the table and her empty chair.
Still in a rage, she managed to answer, “Thank you, my laird, but I seem to have lost my appetite. If you will excuse me, I will withdraw to the accommodations you have so graciously provided.” She took two steps toward the door when Duncan spoke again.
“Anna, I am sorry, he shouldnae have struck ye. He will be punished.”
Realizing she still had his dagger in her hand, she spotted a target board for darts on the wall. She hurled the dagger, hitting near the center.
“Tell your men not to touch me again. The next barbarian who does will die, consequences be damned!”
Slamming the door behind her, she staggered into the main hall. She ignored the stares and the thrum of voices, only making it a few feet before her faltering steps forced her to stop. She leaned against the wall, struggling to clear her head and right her balance. The laird’s words about her family, about her home, echoed in her mind. Angry tears burned their way down her cheeks. She wanted to lash out at someone, to scream.
A wave of dizziness swamped her. She gripped the wall. The buzz of conversation filled the hall, though she could not make out the words. As the dizziness eased, she assessed her injuries. A tender knot on the back of her head throbbed, but sh
e detected no broken bones. She wiped the blood from her nose and mouth on her sleeve.
Her left eye began to swell, likely to be closed before morning. Her skin remained hot where his hand had landed, the sting still pulsing. The hammering in the back of her head felt as though a smith had set up shop. Controlling her breathing, Anna focused on letting the dizziness pass. Instead, it folded back, doubling in intensity. She took a ragged breath and slipped to the floor.
* * *
Duncan exploded with rage. The urge to protect Anna roared to the fore, stronger than ever. Only his father’s intervention kept him from killing Alain with his bare hands. Deaf to reason and dimly aware of Kenneth’s shouts, he fought his father’s grip as Alain stumbled through the door. The guard gone, Kenneth bade Duncan follow Anna to make sure she wasn’t seriously injured, ordering her moved upstairs for Nessa and Isla to tend.
Duncan charged into the main hall to find her and spotted a crowd surrounding something on the floor. Panic bolted through him, and he strode quickly to the crowd, pushing aside those in his way. His gaze fell on the woman kneeling at Anna’s side.
“She has fainted, sir.”
Duncan nodded his thanks and reached to smooth Anna’s hair from her face. He scooped her into his arms, drawing her to his chest, and carried her toward the stairs to Nessa’s room. Murmurs of speculation followed, fading as he ascended the stairs.
He took in the blood on her face and clothing and fought back the fury eating away at his control. His murderous rage gave way to an all-consuming need to comfort and safeguard her. Though he knew most of the blood on her clothes belonged to Alain, the knowledge did little to allay his concern.
He shook from the raw emotion of having her in his arms. He had no idea what was happening to him, but knew she belonged there. He hefted her to one side as he opened the door. She weighed more than he thought, her arms and legs surprisingly thick with muscle. This was no delicate lass, but a sturdy woman with a warrior’s body.