Highland Conqueror (6 page)

Obviously her prayers were to go unanswered for the moment, Jolene thought. “You make a poor jest, Cousin.”

“I ne’er jest and we are but distant cousins. It was not very hard to get a special dispensation since our blood ties are so very thin.”

“And some bishop was so very greedy.”

“Tsk, so little respect you have for our esteemed clergy. I but made a gift to the church out of gratitude for their help and understanding.”

Jolene rolled her eyes, then scowled at him. “You are very free with coin that is not yours by right.”

“I hold it and Drumwich, thus ’tis all mine.”

“It all belongs to Reynard, my brother’s son, his heir.”

“For now.” Harold took a drink from his wineskin and then offered it to Jolene.

Thirst overcame her urge to spurn his offer, but Jolene pointedly wiped clean the mouth of the wineskin before taking a drink. The way Harold narrowed his pale blue eyes told her she was stirring his formidable temper, but she doubted she could keep too firm a rein upon her tongue. Simply being so close to the man who had Peter’s blood upon his hands roused her hate and anger to a near-feverish pitch. The knowledge that he would kill Reynard, too, if given the chance, and do so without remorse, only hardened those feelings.

“What do you mean by that?” She hated to ask, but felt compelled to as she handed his wineskin back to him.

“Such young children are very prone to dying, are they not?”

“You would actually stain your hands with the blood of an innocent, helpless child?”

“Not if I can help it. I was actually planning to have him proclaimed a bastard. Although I was willing to take the easier, swifter path, if the boy fell into my grasp, making him illegitimate will work as well.”

“That would still leave you with nothing. You are not the next male in line.”

“But I am named Peter’s heir after Reynard.”

For one brief, horrifying moment, Jolene thought he was telling her the truth, but then she saw how intently Harold watched her. He was waiting to see if she was fool enough to believe him. It was something he habitually did when he lied, something she had noticed years ago. She was disgusted with herself for forgetting that.

“Nay, Peter would ne’er have named you his heir,” she said firmly. “He would have hesitated to disrupt the proper line of succession, but, even if he had, he would ne’er have chosen you. If naught else, he ne’er fully trusted you. He would have chosen Roger
whom he loved as a brother and trusted in all things.”

When she saw the fury which darkened Harold’s face and saw him slightly raise one fist, Jolene braced herself for a blow. It surprised her when he controlled that urge. Harold never resisted the urge to strike those who displeased him. In a strange way, Harold’s newly acquired ability to control his fury made him seem all the more dangerous to her.

“I
will
hold Drumwich and I
will
hold you,” he said between tightly clenched teeth.

“Nay, you will
never
hold me.”

“I will marry you, securing my hold upon Drumwich, and I will bed you, thoroughly.”

The very thought of Harold’s bloodstained hands touching her made Jolene feel cold and ill. The way he flushed told her that she had done a poor job of keeping her revulsion hidden. He had to be mad to think she would submit herself to a man who had her brother’s blood upon his hands and would be perfectly content to add her nephew’s to that stain.

“The bride has to say she is willing,” Jolene said. “You must know I will never mouth such a lie.” The way Harold smiled gave her such a chill, she actually shivered.

“I have been most careful in my choice of the priest who shall marry us. Once wed, I can claim your very healthy dowry and use your place as my wife to try and get Reynard back in Drumwich.”

There was such a calm, firm certainty in his voice Jolene felt unable to argue his plan. It was all too easy to believe a priest would just ignore her protests and denials. The man did not even have to be corrupted by a heavy purse. Too many men of the church felt a woman was too weak-minded to know what was best for her. Harold could even threaten her life and she was not sure she would choose death over even a short time as his wife. If he had the wit to know he would lose, too, if he killed her, she knew he could use pain to bend her to his will. Jolene knew she was no coward, but her endurance had never been tested before. It took only one small crack in her will, one whispered
aye
, and she would be married to Harold before God and the laws of England. She would be trapped. And, he was right to say he could get Reynard through his marriage to her. The laws of both lands would demand it and the Camerons could pay very dearly if they tried to keep Reynard, tried to hold him safe with them.

Jolene sternly pushed aside the sense of defeat creeping over her. She might weaken, might slip deeper into Harold’s grasp, but that did not mean she had to stay in his hold. Nor did Harold’s plans have to go as he had laid them out. It might not come now, but a chance to escape
would
come. She had to believe that or all hope was lost.

“Am I to get a chaste bride?”

His abrupt question startled her out of her thoughts and she stared at him. Suddenly she thought of Sigimor’s kisses and felt herself blush. The rage on Harold’s face frightened her, but, again, he managed to bring himself under control. He probably did not wish to drag a badly beaten woman before a priest, she thought cynically.

“So, you have let that bastard Scot touch you, have you?” he demanded.

“Which bastard Scot do you refer to?” she asked sweetly, wondering what possessed her to goad him so.

“Would you have me believe the too-proud lady of Drumwich has become naught but a common whore?”

“Common? Nay, ne’er common. Yet, such lovely, big, handsome men—” she began.

“Filthy Scots! You dishonor the Gerard name and blood!” Harold took several deep breaths to calm himself. “I do not believe you,” he said after a few moments, the tremor of rage still lingering in his voice. “Nay, you would never demean yourself so, not with one of those Camerons. Barbarous lot. Infamous. They are known throughout this cursed land for their tempers, for their proclivity to breed only redheads, and for their eccentric ways. Tis how I know where the fool is taking you.”

“At least they are not infamous for murdering their own kinsmen because of greed.”

“Twas bad fish that killed Peter.”

Jolene ached to scratch the smug look from Harold’s face. “Twas poisoned wine.”

“That can ne’er be proven. No one will heed the claims of a disobedient wife against her husband, the lord of Drumwich. Once we are married, your word will count for naught against mine, and there is no one to stand with you against me.”

“My kinsmen will heed me.”

“You best pray that they do not, not if you wish them to live.”

“You cannot kill them all.”

“I can silence enough of them to put the fear of God, or me, into the others.” He grabbed her by the chin. “And, if you cause me too much trouble, even the pleasure of having your soft body at my command will not stop me from silencing you. That would be unfortunate,” he murmured, stroking her cheek, then scowling when she pulled away from his touch, “for I would prefer to hear you cry out in pleasure as I bed you. The two of us could make the Gerards of Drumwich the greatest power in all of England.”

It did not really surprise Jolene that Harold had plans far beyond the stealing of Drumwich. Far beyond his capabilities as well, she mused. Then again, he had learned to control his rage, to harness that urge to blindly strike out. If he has learned caution and subtlety, he could be a threat to far more than her, Reynard, and Drumwich. The mere thought of Harold gaining any real power, power over more than Drumwich, was frightening. She had to put an end to this man’s plans.

Jolene was just considering a blind attempt to flee, praying surprise would aid her, when one of Harold’s men shouted in alarm. His cry was followed by a panic among the horses. Both of Harold’s men were suddenly, fully occupied in trying to keep the horses from fleeing. One of the men cried out something about an adder. It seemed her prayers were about to be answered. Although Jolene thought a snake a strange savior, she took immediate advantage of Harold’s distraction.

Clutching the rock she had kept hidden beneath her skirts, Jolene leapt to her feet. Harold turned back toward her, but he only had time to shout one curse before she struck him in the side of the head with the rock. He was still crumpling to the ground when she retrieved her dagger and started to run.

“Run, lass!”

Jolene did not hesitate as she ran through the woods. She had the wild thought that it was odd how her heavenly guardian sounded like a Scot. Then Liam was at her side. He moved to keep just far enough in front of her to lead her, yet be near enough to immediately help her if she needed it. She wanted to tell him that all she needed was someone to point the way, but decided she had better save her breath for running.

Liam stopped her only once. He gave the call of a blackbird. Jolene was just about to compliment him on how perfectly he did that, when it was answered. Knowing that meant other Camerons were not too far away, she did not really need his signal to start running again. She suspected that, if she knew where to go, she would run right on past Liam, so anxious was she to get back to Sigimor and the others.

Her first sight of Sigimor was him scowling at her. Jolene did not think she had ever seen a more beautiful sight. She gave into an urge she did not fully understand and ran straight for him. To her relief, he opened his arms and caught her, holding her almost too tightly against him. She wrapped her arms around him and let the feeling of being safe again flow through her.

“Trouble?” Sigimor loosened his hold on Jolene slightly, but took due note of the fact that she did not ease her tight grip upon him.

“Harold,” Liam said as he caught his breath.

“Following ye?”

“He will be soon.”

Sigimor eased Jolene’s grip on him and looked at her. “Can ye run a wee bit farther?”

“Aye,” she replied. “Just point the way.”

“We can discuss this further when we put some distance between us and Harold.”

As they ran toward the clearing where the others waited, Jolene suspected Sigimor’s
discussion
would consist of a lot of awkward questions concerning Harold. That would probably come after the lecture, she mused, which might give her enough time to think of what to say, something she hoped would not tell the full truth yet not truly be a lie.

Then she caught sight of Liam and groaned. She was now certain he was the reason she had been given the opportunity to flee. There was a chance he had heard many of the things Harold had said and he would not hesitate to tell Sigimor every word. When they finally stopped running, she hoped she still retained enough wit to
discuss
things with Sigimor. She was not sure what the man would do if he found out all of Harold’s plans, but Jolene suspected it could mean trouble for her, something she already had a bounty of.

Sigimor used only a few curt words to get everyone moving the moment they reached the others. He secured Reynard snugly against his own chest and Jolene made no protest. He was the better rider and the weight of such a small child would not hinder him at all, as it occasionally did her. She inwardly groaned when she mounted her horse, but made no complaint. She fully agreed with Sigimor’s plan to use what little was left of daylight to put as many miles as they could between them and Harold, and as swiftly as they could. There would be time later to pamper her bruises and recover from her ordeal.

The murky gray of late twilight finally stopped them. Jolene fought the urge to collapse as she dismounted. She took Reynard from Sigimor and saw to the little boy’s needs. When he fell asleep within moments after he had finished his meal, she envied him. Not only was he able to achieve the deep, restful sleep of the innocent, but he had enjoyed the comfort of being pressed against Sigimor for the duration of their hard ride, the man’s big, strong body undoubtedly protecting Reynard from the worst of it.

Jolene wished she could have been pressed so close to Sigimor’s chest. It was such a lovely chest, she thought as she started toward some trees and thick bushes at the far edge of their camp hoping to take a private moment or two to see to her own needs. Broad, strong, and smooth. She sighed as she thought of how nice it would be to rest her cheek against that warm skin, to smooth her hands over that chest, especially if he wrapped those long, muscular arms around her to hold her close and—. She frowned as she realized there were soft footsteps echoing hers from behind. Jolene turned and directed her frown at Sigimor who was close on her heels.

“I am slipping away for a moment of privacy,” she said, but Sigimor did not move.

“Aye, I ken it,” he replied. “I am escorting ye.”

“How can I be private if you are with me?”

“Ye can be private on one side of the tree, or bush, whilst I stand on the other side.”

“But, well, you will be able to hear me,” she nearly whispered, her voice weakened by shock.

“I believe I can bear it.”

His eyes were bright with laughter and Jolene’s shock quickly changed to annoyance. She might as well toss what few scraps of modesty she had left to the four winds. Jolene actually ached to yell at him, to vigorously argue this infringement upon her privacy, but she did neither. Not only did she feel sure he would not be moved in this, but her personal needs were becoming almost painfully demanding. She muttered a curse and marched off toward a big tree with a thick tangle of bushes at its roots.

The moment she squatted behind the tree, Jolene knew this was not going to work. The urge was still there, sharp and demanding, but nothing was happening. She was simply far too aware of how close Sigimor was, of how a man she was deeply attracted to was near enough to hear her let water. Although her embarrassment lingered, anger over her own foolishness and the awkward situation he had put her in pushed it to the side for a moment.

“You are going to have to make some noise,” she snapped. “Sing.”

“Sing? Och, nay, lass, ye truly dinnae wish me to do that.”

She could hear the laughter in his deep voice and she gritted her teeth. “Do it or we could be here all night and I will probably do some permanent injury to my innards.”

“Why dinnae ye sing?”

“Sigimor! Will you just do it, please?!”

“Dinnae say I ne’er warned ye.”

He started to sing and Jolene was so stunned, she had finished her business before she even realized she had started. Using a small square of linen, she tidied herself, then used a little water from the waterskin she had brought to wash her hands. She then hastily straightened her clothing, raced around the tree, and put her hand over his mouth. The way his lovely eyes gleamed with humor even in the dim light told her she did not have
to fear insulting him. Then she felt the tip of his tongue stroke her palm. Heat flared up her arm, and she yanked her hand away.

“I did warn ye, lass,” he drawled, studying the slight flush upon her cheeks and wondering if it was caused by anger, embarrassment, or, as he hoped, a sudden flash of desire.

Jolene forced herself to concentrate on that noise he had made, one that seemed to have startled every living creature in the wood into silence, and not on what that odd little caress had made her feel. “I do not understand how a man with such a fine speaking voice could sound like that. You have no sense of tone or tune, do you.”

“None at all,” he said cheerfully as he grasped her by the hand and led her back to camp.

As she let him tug her along with him, Jolene stared at their joined hands and wondered if Sigimor was some sort of sorcerer. It was a strange thought, but no stranger than the way he made her feel all warm and shivery inside simply by clasping her hand. She did not believe she had ever felt that way before, but she could not, at the moment, recall any other man touching her hand.

Sigimor stopped, drawing her attention. They had reached the camp. Jolene saw that the other men were frowning at Sigimor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him point at her, causing all four men to look accusingly at her.

“Ye
asked
him to sing?” demanded Liam.

“Well, at that precise moment, it seemed like a good idea,” she murmured as she and Sigimor moved to sit by the fire.

“It is ne’er a good idea to ask Sigimor to sing.”

“He is kind enough to ken the pain it inflicts upon the innocent,” muttered David.

“Oh. I see.” Jolene laughed and looked at Sigimor. “You are taking this criticism very well, I must say.”

Sigimor shrugged. “Tis but a wee failing.” He looked at her sternly. “Nay as big a one as getting lost because one wanders too far away and, as a result, gets taken up by one’s enemies.”

Jolene could see by the look upon Sigimor’s face, and those of the other men, that she was about to be informed of all she had done wrong and what rules she would now be expected to follow. She helped herself to a bowl of the rabbit stew one of the men had made. There was no doubt in her mind that she would need the strength the food would give her, if only to keep herself from arguing or getting angry. In her heart, she knew she deserved the scold. She had been careless and put them all at risk. She just hoped she could remember that, she mused, as Sigimor began a somewhat scathing account of all her mistakes. He proved far more skillful at delivering a lecture than her brother Peter and she often had to bite her tongue to keep from defending herself.

“Now, Liam, ye can tell me exactly how much trouble the lass got herself into,” Sigimor said, satisfied by the way Jolene was glaring at him that she had heard and understood every word he had said.

“Weel, Harold had captured her,” replied Liam. “He and two of his men—”

“There were only three men with her?” Sigimor scowled at Liam when he nodded. “We ran from only three men? Did ye nay think it would have been a fine time to put an end to the fool?”

“I did think on that, but they were waiting on the rest of their men. I didnae have
time to go and see if those men were near enough to be a threat as weel. We wouldnae fare weel in the killing of Harold if near to a dozen of his men suddenly crept up behind us. I thought it best to just get the lass out of there.”

“Aye, aye, ’twas best. Once ye did that, we lost all chance of surprise anyway, and we were all split up, too. So, how did ye get her away from him?”

“An adder set amongst the horses and the two fools guarding them.” Liam briefly smiled his approval at Jolene as he said, “The lass was quick to seize her chance. She hit Harold upside the head with a rock and ran. The mon was so full of his own plots and boasts, he hadnae e’en tethered her.”

“What plans and plots?”

“Oh, all of his devious, traitorous plans to hold fast to Drumwich, of course,” Jolene said quickly, before Liam could reply. “There was naught said which would necessitate you changing any of your plans.” She tried to look calm, even innocent, beneath his steady gaze, but the way his eyes narrowed told her she was probably not entirely succeeding.

“What did ye hear him say, Liam?”

“He is after Lady Jolene to wed her, secure his hold upon Drumwich through her, and use her to help him turn the law full against us and get Reynard back,” Liam replied. “Ye were right to think Harold has heard all about us and so will ken exactly where we are headed. Calls us barbarous, infamous, possessed of a proclivity to breed redheads, and eccentric. He threatens our lives as weel as hers and the bairn’s. Oh, and for a moment, he wondered if she had taken one or all of us as her lover, then convinced himself that she would ne’er do such a thing. Is that all of it, lass?”

Jolene sent Liam a look that cried
traitor
, but nodded. Since Liam had heard all of that, he must have heard about her dowry as well, but had not mentioned it. Either he had somehow missed Harold’s talk of her healthy dowry, or he simply did not consider it an important fact.

“I suspected he wanted her for more reasons than Reynard and what she might ken about Peter’s death.” Sigimor looked at Jolene, an idea forming in his mind that surprised him, but did not disconcert him in the slightest. “So, ye either wed with him or ye die.”

“Aye,” she replied. “It seems Harold has obtained his dispensation, and has a priest at the ready, both men made very amiable by the generous use of Reynard’s fortune.”

“He cannae believe he can keep
ye
sweet and silent by wedding ye, can he?”

Jolene fleetingly wondered if there was an insult hidden in that question. “Nay, but he would give it his best effort, which would probably involve the giving of a great deal of pain. I believe he also contemplated cutting out my tongue, but I cannot be entirely sure which he was favoring during the last round of threats—death or mutilation. Of course, I would still be able to write down my accusations, but, if he caught me, he would probably have my hand struck off.”

“Weel, one of them anyway.” Sigimor was chilled by the images she painted of her possible fate in Harold’s hands.

“Nay, both. I can write with both hands, though ’tis more legible when I use my right hand. I can write with my right foot, too. Bless me, I could end up as naught but a tiny stump of a woman.” The way the men stared at her made Jolene all too aware of what she had just blithely confessed and she blushed.

“No one can write with their toes. Ye cannae grip a quill with toes. They are too
short.”

“Most are. Mine are not.”

“Show us.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“Och, weel, we dinnae have a quill and paper anyway. We will see the trick later. Tis nay important now,” Sigimor said before she could argue with that plan. “Now we ken why Harold willnae retreat, willnae give up and go home. Tisnae just the lad he wants. Tisnae just fear that ye may yet get someone to help ye make him pay for his crimes, either.” Sigimor frowned at Jolene. “Ye should have told us he had a thought to marrying you, to using ye to secure his claim to the title, the land,
and
the lad.”

“Since I have revealed no urge to meekly fall in with his plans, I had rather hoped he had given them up.”

“A mon caught tight in a lusting for a lass doesnae give it up easily. Aye, he kens ye are a threat to him, but he also sees that ye could be verra useful alive, at least for a while. He will take all he craves until ye prove too troublesome. In his eyes, ye are nearly as important and rich a prize as the laddie. Depending upon how fierce his lusting for ye is, mayhap e’en a greater prize.”