Heaven and the Heather (33 page)

A shudder chased through her. “I will not.”

“Precisely what I expected you to say.”

Before she could escape the vicinity of his nasty breath and his penetrating stare, he unsheathed his slender sword and slashed open the front of her gown. His cruelly expert swordsmanship cut the brocade from her throat to her navel. The gown separated and fell from her shoulders revealing her shift. She tried to close the gown, but her heart screamed in her chest when Campbell reached forward and ripped the gown the rest of the way off of her body.

“Evil!” she screamed. “Devil!”

“Yessss,” he hissed and placed the tip of his sword under her chin.

Sabine lifted it high because he forced her, for those horrid moments he took her strength with his weapon and his demand.

Slowly, he drew the blade down between her breasts. The linen tore and the tip drew a thin crimson line in her flesh. Sabine remained rigid, lest he dig his blade in deeper. His gaze melted her resolve more than the blade did on her bared skin.

“I have nothing for you,” she managed to say, tone firm. “And what you want from me now, you will have to take.”

He paused, the tip of the sword at her belly. Her breasts strained against the torn tunic. She breathed shallow and quick. There was nowhere for her to go from Campbell’s blade.

He lowered it and placed it neatly in its sheath.

“No,
mademoiselle
, I cannot take what I know the MacGregor possesses.”

“
Comment?
” What could he possibly see and know? He could not have known that she had given Niall her maidenhood. The memory of that beautiful night uncloaked itself at the worst possible time. She would never forget it, no matter that she had lost Niall, and no matter that she would surely die under Campbell’s acid touch.

He took a step closer, pressing his body against hers, hands at his sides.

“If there is evidence to the contrary of my undying loyalty to the queen, you would not have it—the MacGregor would. And what he has is rubbish!”

Campbell would find his only comfort with that lie, she thought.

He slowly turned, leaving a trail of French perfume behind him.

Sabine clasped her tunic closed as Campbell walked to the door, his gait nauseatingly civilized.

He took the door latch in his fist, turned, and regarded her.

“The MacGregor is certain to come and challenge me with this ‘proof’ if it exists.” He paused and looked her up and down. “And I’ll wager my lands and castle, that he comes in search of you. I will be waiting for him.”

And in a blink he was gone. The slamming of the heavy door boomed in her ears.

“Niall will not come after me,” she said, clenching the tunic tight in her fists. “I gave him what he needs for the queen. ’Twould be folly for him, ’twould mean his life. That he knows as well as I.”

She stepped over the remains of her gown and walked to the table by the bed. A thick green glass carafe with a wine and a goblet rested on the dark wood. She shakily poured herself a glass. Niall would not come after her. He should not. The last words she had screamed at him, and the blow to his face that still made her right hand throb, should have convinced him to take his proof and go to the queen…for the sake of his clan.

A lone tear escaped down her cheek as she gulped down the wine. She prayed to Saint Giles that Niall would not come to find her. He would do well to forget her, and she would do equally as well to forget him. They had been so foolish to mask the differences between them.

She poured herself another goblet of the wine. The rest of her life, however long that was, would be behind these gray walls. She would be Campbell’s prisoner or his wife—little did it matter?

She crawled up on the bed. The wine made it very easy for her to forget where she was, but not to forget Niall. That would take her a lifetime.

W
ith one hand Niall held his cloak closed under his chin. He kept his head bowed and his claymore hidden under the swath of dark wool. Under the canopy of grey mid-day clouds, he observed his warriors, also disguised as farmers, dispersing among the crowd within the bailey of Castle Campbell Dubh. A few more steps and he would be underneath the portcullis to join them.

He hiked the fardel higher on his back and sighed in frustration at the sluggish procession. Some of the farmers glanced at him. Niall glared them into keeping their eyes to themselves.

He stole glances at the two guards as he shuffled under the portcullis, imitating the stooped gait of Campbell’s tenants. The guards stood with hands on pikes, faces sagged by boredom. They could not have welcomed Niall any better. He stepped into the bailey, closer to Sabine, closer to finding a traitor whose name was not Campbell, but Rory. The thought lanced Niall’s mind with anger and pain. He had asked himself over and again why would Rory betray him by siding with Campbell?

Now, he had to place the question out of his mind, and focus on the task at hand. The answer would come much later, after he saw that Sabine was well and removed from this nasty place—whether she wanted to be or not.

He quickly stepped from the procession into a dark recess near the gate. One of his clansmen, a young, eager lad, stood in the recess on the opposite side of the gate. He eyed Niall just before a cart loaded to full of hay rumbled past. Stifling a sneeze, Niall looked through the dusty air at the lad, nodded and sliced his hand downward. With a flourish he threw down the fardel and withdrew his claymore from beneath his cloak. The lad proudly did the same. Simultaneously, they sliced the ropes that held the double portcullis up. The barred gates slammed down sending up an enormous cloud of dust and a thunderous noise.

It should have been Rory helping him, and not this way with Niall hunting him down like the dog he was. He shoved the thought aside and turned away from his handiwork, catching the eye of another clansman. An old warrior, who had seen many a battle with Niall’s father, held Campbell’s factor hostage with his dirk to the man’s throat.

“To it, lad!” the old warrior shouted. “Tell these good folk what they wish to hear.”

Niall nodded and raced up the stair on the side of the bailey. Below him, the warriors roared to life and took over the proceedings subduing the surprised and stunned guards. The farmers stood around in confusion, their tithe to Campbell in purses dangling from in their fists or bleating from the ends of short tethers.

“Oy! Oy!” he shouted to the farmers raising his claymore high. “I am, Niall, Chief of Clan Gregor. I offer ye protection not servitude! Join us now and ye may farm and live on my lands as equals, not as tenants!”

A shout rose from the farmers assembled there, a shout of “Aye!”

Niall nodded. “Done then! To it! Join us in bringing yer landlord to rights!”

He turned and raced up the stair and entered deep into the castle. He made his way along the darkened corridor. The interior of the castle was unusually silent. Had good fortune winked at him by driving Campbell to certain peril in the bailey? That was his fervent hope. But men like Campbell had ways to escape any situation, any trap.

He suddenly dropped back into a doorway. At the end of the corridor, a pair of guards stood on either side of a large door.

“She’s there,” he breathed. “The most precious of Campbell’s possessions would be so well guarded.”

Niall slipped his claymore down the back of his tunic. He wrapped the cloak about his body and drew the hood up.

He walked piously down the corridor, head bowed slightly, and stopped before the guards.

“Who be you?” one of the men asked, placing another hand around the shaft of his pike. The other guard followed suit.

Niall eyed them but did not raise his head. “
Non omnis moriar.
”

“What did say you, Father?” the guard asked. They relaxed their grips upon their pikes. Just what Niall knew they would do. He raised his hands and face to Heaven.

“
Non nobis, Domine
.”

One of the guards wrinkled his brow. “Father?”

Niall dropped his hands behind his head, pushing the hood down with them. He grabbed the handle of his claymore with both fists and swung it out. With two rapid blows, he smashed the end of the handle on top of the men’s heads. The guards quickly crumpled to the floor.

“Sleep well my sons,” Niall said making the sign of the cross over them.

Without another second to waste, he jabbed the tip of his blade into the keyhole. The door swung open into a dimly lit chamber. The faint glow of a fire dying in the hearth was the only light. He swept his gaze to the bed, the curtains open, a pale figure curled in sleep on top of the covers.

“Sabine,” he whispered.

He rushed to the bed and stabbed his claymore into the floor beside it.

He sat on the edge of the bed watching her sleep, before he noticed the distinct scent of wine. Carefully, he placed both hands on her shoulders and gently rolled her to her back.

“Sabine,” he whispered. “Wake up, lass.”

The firelight reflected dried blood in the corner of her mouth and a purple welt below her left eye. His gaze traveled down to the slashed tunic, the thin line of dried blood from her throat, down between her perfect breasts, to the small swell of belly, stopping just above her navel. Any other time just looking at her sleeping, her body partially revealed to him in the shadows and orange light, would make his heart scream with want and joy.

But this time all he saw was unencumbered anger.

“Campbell’s handiwork, no doubt,” he breathed. “He’ll get a lot worse when I’m through with his hide.”

He leaned down and drew Sabine’s tunic closed against the chill of the chamber.

“My poor lass,” he whispered. “I will avenge this done to ye.” He licked his thumb and rubbed away the dried blood from her mouth. “A man who would do this to ye doesnae deserve to live protected within these walls. He will be punished, by God he will.”

She sat up, eyes wide. The goblet that she had held in her hand crashed to the floor.

Niall straightened on the bed. He smiled to show her all was well, that he was here to rescue her from this place.

“Well, Sabine, no proper welcome for yer rescuer?”

She stared at him for a moment then placed her right hand to her forehead. “I do not feel so well.”

“That’s the wine talking,” Niall said. “But ye’ve got to get up now and come with me.”

Her eyes suddenly opened wide. “
Non
!”

“No?” he asked. “Ye dinnae wish to escape from here?”

“Leave,” a familiar voice said from behind him. “If ye wish to live.”

“Rory!” Niall grabbed his claymore. He turned to face a man he once, not long ago, had called friend. Now all he could call him was, “Ye bastard!

“Ye’ve gone and spoilt everything for our clan just to save this lassie here?” he snarled. “Ye must leave, now.”

“What’re ye on about, doss bastard?” Niall demanded.

“Ye’ve got the
mademoiselle
, now,” Rory said. “
Now, go.
”

Niall blinked in disbelief. “Ye betrayed me because ye’re jealous of Sabine?” he asked.

“Dinnae be a daft git!” Rory growled.

“Ye’re a kidnapper and ye’re a traitor to yer clan,” Niall snarled. “Ye’re less worthy than the shite left in the heather by the sheep.”

Driven by anger deeper than the black water of Loch Lomond, Niall smashed the flat side of his sword against Rory’s face. Rory wavered for a moment, blinking, as if he completely expected the blow. As his knees weakened, he looked into Niall’s eyes and said, “I have, I can help Clan Gregor more than ye know.”

Niall raised his claymore high above his head, yet he had no conviction to dispatch Rory to that place where he could not return. The big man’s words echoed over and again in his mind.
Help Clan Gregor.

“How?” Niall asked. “How have ye helped my clan?”

His question was met with the solid thud of Rory hitting the floor.

Niall stared down at Rory and took in a deep breath. He turned to Sabine who had stood beside him the entire time. She had not said a word.

“We must leave,” he said. Of course, she would come with him. He did not wait for her to reply.

He raced to bed and tore the curtains down. With every new breath his head cleared. The reality of Rory playing Campbell’s pawn gnawed at him. Help Clan Gregor? How could anything that involved Campbell help his clan? He tore the curtain into strips. Aye, well, so damn Rory! He did not need him.

Niall knelt down and bound Rory’s ankles and wrists together like a sheep before shearing with the strips of curtain. With as much strength as he could muster, he shoved Rory across the floor and under the bed.

“Here,” Sabine said. Her torn tunic flapped open revealing her lovely body.

Niall removed his cloak and placed it on her shoulders. “Let me take ye from this gilded prison.”

“To Holyrood,” she said firmly, gaze set on him.

“Aye,” Niall replied. “To Holyrood.” He grabbed her hand and they raced for the door.

It swung violently inward at them.

“
Mon Dieu!
” Sabine screamed.