Focussing on her breathing, she carefully drew her attention across her body. Her head hurt. Had she been struck? Something caked her cheek and cracked when she tried to move her jaw. She tried to shift her hands but could not. They were bound hard. So were her ankles, bound tightly with many winds of thin cord. The wad of cloth in her mouth was choking her. She gagged.
Time drifted for her in a nightmare of half-suffocation and physical discomfort. Had she slept or fainted? She did not know. There came a time when she realised that she had stopped bouncing. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves had been a steady background noise that she hadn’t noticed it until it stopped. She hung there, tense and trying to make out the muffled voices mumbling in the silence around her. She could not.
She tensed as rough hands grabbed and dragged her from the horse. Her legs were numb from hanging for so long, and she gasped more with shock than pain as they thudded lifelessly to the ground. She was dragged, bound hands scuffing cruelly against the rough terrain before being propped up and the cover hauled from her face. A light shone in her eyes, unbearably bright after the long darkness. Emily flinched, screwing up her eyes and turning her face away, but a leather-gloved hand grabbed her jaw and forced her face upwards. The light glared into her eyes, painful even through tightly closed lids.
“Well?” It was an English voice.
“That’s her alright,” replied another. “Go and tell the boss.”
The hand released her face, and the light faded abruptly. Emily hung her head and opened her eyes, but could see nothing. The bright light scored white afterimages across her retinas, and for a moment, all she could see were dancing phantom lights. She closed her eyes again and listened carefully. Footsteps, heavy boots crunching away from her and the muttering of voices. Beside her, she could hear a man’s heavy breathing.
Further away, horses were shifting and blowing. Another tread approached, lighter and brisker than the first. A crunch of gravel as the newcomer stood before her.
Emily lifted her head and peered through half-closed eyes: at a pair of high, well-turned leather riding boots. She tried to raise her head but couldn’t. A hand gripped her hair, pulling her head upwards. She squinted,r eyes closed in anticipation of a blow, but none came. Just a voice, a cruel, cold voice that she dreaded.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. I’ve got you now, you traitorous little harlot. I’ve got you right where I want you, and you will never, ever get away from me again.”
She knew the voice but forced her eyes open against the pain. His face was close to hers. His breath stank and his eyes glittered with hatred and cruelty as he grinned at her with malevolent satisfaction.
Clairmont had caught up with her at last.
Chapter Nineteen
They retied Emily’s hands in front of her to allow her to eat. She was given a little hard bread, a strip of dried meat, and a drink of water from a flask but nothing else. One of the guards threw her a rough, horsey-smelling blanket, which she managed to get around her shoulders. One of the men stood watch over her as she huddled on the ground and tried to sleep a little. Emily dozed.
The first grey of dawn was filtering through the trees when she awoke. A heavy hand was shaking her roughly.
“Get her up,” hissed Clairmont’s cruel voice. He was standing in front of her, dressed for riding, with a short whip in one hand and his other hand casually in his pocket. A little way away, Emily could see a small party of hooded and cloaked men astride saddled horses, ready to ride. A grey mist swirled around them and the horses’ breath steamed in the shafts of light breaking through the trees.
Hauled roughly to her feet, she realised that this was a small party, riding stealthily and fearing pursuit. Slowly, the pieces came together in her aching head. The raid had been staged to capture her specifically; a strong force to attack the house, and a small, elite team to extract her. Murdo, she thought, the image of him charging into the battle foremost in her mind. Please, God, let him be unharmed.
Clairmont brought the little whip down against his thigh with a sharp crack. The sound brought her back with a jolt, and he smiled with satisfaction to see her fear.
“You should hang for treason Miss Naismith, but I am not without influence. I prefer that we should be married, as I promised your father. I am a man of my word, and it will happen. For the next stage of the journey, I will put you on the back of a horse, sitting up and with your eyes unbound. If you behave, you will be treated civilly. If you do not, you will not. Do you understand?”
She gave a tight little nod.
“Good,” he said flatly. “Wilkins cut the bonds at her feet.”
The man drew his knife and severed the rope that tied her feet.
“Now bring her over to the horses and help her mount.”
Wilkins reached up to take hold of her shoulder. She ducked and fled.
Emily did not realise how difficult it would be to run with her hands bound. She tried to sprint but found she could not keep her balance easily, nor put on the speed she strived for. For all that, she gave them a good run.
The brush caught at her ankles, and low branches whipped at her hair, tangling in her tunic as she ran. Her breath came loud in her ears. Behind her, she heard a shout, followed by footsteps crashing through the brush. Stupid, she thought, stupid. You should have waited until nightfall and slipped away. You’ll never get another chance now. She was approaching a rough edge. If she could get over that and down, perhaps she could escape. She stole a glance over her shoulder.
Wilkins was crashing through the branches toward her. She leapt over a wet ditch and ran toward the steep edge of the ridge, planning to fling herself down it and up the other side where they could not take the horses, if she died in the act what would it matter? At least she would die standing up to him. But then a tree branch caught her left foot, and tumbled, sprawling flat on the muddy ground. Her bound hands hindered her, and before she could get back to her feet, Wilkins was on her, his weight pinning her to the ground. His breath hissed in her ear, “For God’s sake, Miss, don’t make it worse than it already is.”
Emily twisted her head around and spat in his face.
He dragged her back, bent double with her bound arms twisted painfully. Clairmont had not moved. Wilkins held her in front of him, her bound hands yanked up toward her shoulder.
“Turn her around and remove her cloak.” The man did not hesitate, revealing Emily’s muddied tunic. The silence was charged, and she knew that the men watched, curious to see what would happen to her. She gritted her teeth and did not cry out as Clairmont brought his cruel whip down across her back and shoulders. Once, twice, three times. The fourth time he brought it down on an already open wound, and she yelled out in pain.
“Enough,” he said, and Wilkins covered her cloak around her once again. She was turned around, and Clairmont gave her a ringing blow across one ear with the back of his leather-gauntleted hand. She staggered as he leaned close to her.
“Emily, I have fifteen men here. If you misbehave, again I swear I will have you stripped, and I will see that every single one of them takes his turn on you. Do you understand?”
She raised her eyes and looked into his. Horror flooded her. There was no jest or idle threat in his eyes. He would do it. He had sworn. He was a man of his word. She nodded slowly.
“Good,” he said. And that was that.
There was no opportunity to try to escape again, even if she had dared to. Once again, she was put on a horse, her hands bound to the saddle, and her eyes covered.
They rode in silence at a steady pace all day. Her sweat stung agonisingly on the welts he had dealt to her back, and her legs became numb and stiff from the endless chafing and shifting of the horse. She could not run now, even if she tried.
That night she was bound hand and foot, bundled up in a blanket, and leaned against a tree with two men taking turns to stand guard over her. All was silent, and there was no sign of pursuit.
Somehow Emily managed to sleep. In the morning, she ate dried meat and hard bread and took a mouthful of water from a flask. The guards were stoic and silent, and after Wilkins’ warning of the previous day, none of them spoke to her again. She was hauled up and placed on the horse, bound and blindfolded as they moved on their way again.
Back in the saddle, the stiff numbness in her legs slowly intensified, and after several hours it became excruciating. Her back throbbed and stung with a merciless heat, and she sweated despite the chill in the air.
Emily tried to breathe deeply and slowly, focussing on what she could hear around her. Birdsong and the swish of leaves; the dull thud of horse’s hooves on the deep forest floor; the clink and jingle of the harness. She mastered the pain; had no choice. Taking deep breaths, she thought of Murdo, his kind smile, strong hands and dark eyes. In her mind, she could almost see him. Were his eyes on the trail as he followed behind?
Stopping, she heard snatches of a muttered conversation.
“...just wants it all to be over... prepared to help if... the woman’s safety...”
Suddenly Clairmont’s voice rang hard and clearer. “Quiet, you fool. Not here.”
Footsteps moved away, and the voices began again, now too low and far away to make out.
The little party moved off again, and after a short while, she could feel the heat of the sun on her face and became aware of a change in the sound of the horse's hooves. The dull thudding changed to a sharp click-clack as if they now rode on a road of stone. They picked up the pace, and she heard Clairmont give the order for a man to ride off ahead.
“Tell them we’re coming,” Clairmont ordered, “and ready the chambers.”
Her mind drifted in a haze between waking and unconsciousness, always kept just above true rest by the jagged, hot pain as her thighs chafed against the horse. Soon there was a bustle of voices around them and a smell of woodsmoke and cooking, rotten vegetables and horses. She heard the excited shriek of children, and a dog barked happily. It was a pleasant, domestic soundscape, and she listened with interest, wondering what it meant. The horse stopped.
“Get her down,” Clairmont ordered as hard hands grabbed and hauled her down from the horse. She swayed on numb feet but kept her balance. All around she could hear men dismounting, stretching and groaning.
“Take the prisoner up into the keep,” Clairmont boomed. “A room has been prepared for her.”
Bound and blindfolded, Emily was marched briskly through a crowded open space. The air on her face become cooler, and the sound of footsteps echoed as if they were in a stone corridor. The man escorting her stopped and spoke to someone.
“Major Clairmont’s prisoner. He says you have a place prepared?”
“Ah, yes,” said the other voice, “follow me.”
They moved again, and a jingle of keys was followed by the creak of a heavy door being swung back on poorly-oiled hinges.
“Stand here,” instructed her guard. He grabbed her bound hands, and she heard the scratching noise as a sharp blade sheared through her bonds.
“Raise your hands, palm out and place them on the wall.” She did as she was told, feeling the cold, rough stone under her palms.
“When you hear the key turn in the lock, you may remove your blindfold,” he said before stumped away. She heard the door slam closed behind her and the key turn in the lock.
It took her a moment or two to get the blindfold off; the knot was tangled in her hair. When at last she did, Emily found herself in a small, square, stone-walled room. The ceiling was high and vaulted, and at one side just below the ceiling, one barred window let in daylight. Below the window was a stone shelf holding a rough straw mattress and blanket, on the opposite wall stood a formidable door of thick dark beams riddled with metal studs. By the door was a bucket full of clean water and by the bed was a bucket with straw at the bottom.
Moving shakily to the water bucket, she drank deeply, before moving to the bed and laying down on her belly before falling into a deep sleep.
She woke with a start. There was a moment’s confusion – where was she? – Too soon the realisation clicked back into place. She was a prisoner, captive of Major Clairmont. The light had gone from the high barred window, and she knew it must be evening. In the corridor outside the cell, she could hear the tread of heavy boots and the jingle of keys. As the key rattled in the lock, she curled into a ball like a trapped animal. Flooded with fear, her heart raced. She was a captive here and utterly at his mercy. There was no escape from him now.
The door swung open.
Chapter Twenty
Emily cringed but did not close her eyes. Instead of the tall, dreaded figure of Clairmont, three people stood in the doorway: two tall guards and a woman; bedraggled, dark-haired, her clothes torn and dried blood about her mouth. The guards pushed the woman into the room, and she dropped heavily to her knees on the rough stone floor. The door was quickly closed, the keys rattling once again in the lock. She heard the murmur of voices as the footsteps retreated back down the corridor.
Emily sat completely still. The woman knelt where she had landed, her dark fringe covering her face so that only her mouth was visible. Breathing heavily through parted lips, her chest was heaving. After a moment, she lifted a hand to her face and pushed back her black hair. It was Alice.
“My God!” cried Emily. “Alice! What in Heaven’s name have they done to you?”
She jumped up from the bench and moved toward her friend. Alice looked blankly at for a moment, before smiling painfully.
“Miss Emily,” she croaked. “Fancy meetin’ ye here.”
Emily sat her on the bed. She tore a cleanish corner from the sheet and dipped it in the water bucket, carefully wiping the blood from Alice’s face.
“What on earth happened to you, my dear friend?”
Alice coughed out a laugh.
“I fought them, that’s a’. I fought them nae matter whit they did tae me... nae matter whit.” Alice gasped and clenched her jaw. Emily simmered with anger but said nothing, instead settled down to care for her friend as best she could.
Alice was in a bad way. She had been beaten, and her clothes were ragged and torn. Dried blood, cuts, scrapes, and bruises covered her body; there was only so much Emily could do. One wound on Alice’s left thigh was deep and had become dirty, and the angry swelling around the lips of the wound looked dangerous.
Emily worked in silence, and her ministrations had a calming effect on Alice and, after a time, they spoke to one another quietly.
“What happened at the house at Rowan Glen?” Have you any more news of Murdo or the MacPhersons?”
Alice shook her head.
“They came in so fast. Efter I saw ye being trussed and picked up I ran tae Mrs MacPherson’s side, and we tried tae mak’ a stand together, but they were no’ interested in fighting any mair once they had ye. I took up the long sword frae the man that Eilidh had felled and went for them, and made them fight. They grabbed me up and bound me too. I didnae see whit happened then, but I heard the horns sounding the retreat when they had got the baith o’ us. That’s whit they were after, and nae doubt about it.”
Emily nodded thoughtfully.
“I thought so too, though the house at Rowan Glen will no longer be safe for the MacPhersons. Were you mistreated on the journey here?”
She could have bitten out her tongue at her clumsy words. Alice gave a bitter little laugh.
“Oh, aye,” she answered, a sardonic note in her voice. “I was mistreated all right. I fought them every step o’ the way and when they were sure that I was just yer serving maid, and no’ ye yersel’, then they didnae hold back.”
“Were you... did they...”
“No,” Alice shook her head firmly. “They didnae dae that. Orders one o’ them said, though the others were all ready tae bend their orders given half a chance. But no mistress, I escaped that, I suppose I should be grateful.”
Alice heaved a great sigh and leaned back
against the cold stone wall of the cell. They sat in silence for a little while, contemplating their dismal situation.
“Will we be hanged as traitors for going aff wi’ the rebels, dae ye think?” asked Alice after a little while.
“Not according to Clairmont. He means to marry me, or so he says, and if he wants to marry me, then he must keep you alive too, I think.”
“But ye are already married! How can he?”
Emily laughed.
“Somehow, I do not think a man like Clairmont is going to take my word that I’m married already and call off his plans. Do you?”
Fighting For A Highland Rose (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 1) Page 14