Highland Thirst (16 page)

And
if he killed Hervey what would he do to her, she thought. Fear became a living
thing inside of her but she fought its hold. If the only thing she could do to
preserve any scrap of dignity was not cower and cry out for help then she would
do it.

She
bit back a cry of pain as he yanked her off the bed and started to drag her out
of the room. “Where are we going?”

“To
the chapel,” Angus replied, pulling her along after him as he went down the
stairs.

“Why?”

“Because
ye are going to marry me.”

Brona
tried to drag her feet and slow him down but he yanked her along so hard and
unrelentingly that she had to move or she would end up being pulled along the
floor and the rocky ground. “My cousin isnae here and he has to approve this.”

“He
approved this years ago and I mean to see that he finally keeps his promise.”

By
the time they entered the chapel Brona’s arm was hurting her so badly from all
the pulling that she was biting back tears of pain. She looked around the
chapel and saw the priest, a plump man of uncertain morals, cowering near the
altar. It was not likely that such a cowardly man would help her and stand
against Angus but Brona felt she had to at least try to win his aid.

“Father,
I havenae agreed to this!” she said and cried out when Angus hit her again.

The
priest’s only response to that brutality against the old laird’s daughter was
to cower some more and look around frantically for some route of escape. Brona
knew there would be no help to be found there. He would do whatever Angus told
him to. Just as so many other people at Rosscurrach, the priest was thoroughly
cowed.

“We
are here to be married, Father,” Angus said.

“But
where is the laird?” asked the priest. “Mistress Brona is his kinswoman and he
should be here.”

“He
cannae be here right now, so get on with it.”

“But
there is a war—”

The
priest squealed to a halt when Angus drew his sword and held it at the man’s
throat. Brona thought for just a moment that the priest was going to fall at
their feet in a faint, but despite his trembling, and to her utter
disappointment, he waved his shaking hand in a silent command to kneel before
him. She tried to keep standing but Angus knelt and pulled her down beside him.
Brona landed on her knees so hard that she knew they would be bruised and
painful for days. It took all of her willpower not to faint from the force of
that pain.

In
a weak, shaking voice, the priest began the marriage service. Brona tried to
catch the man’s eye, tried to silently plea for him to help her, but he kept
his gaze upon Angus’s now sheathed sword. When she was asked to repeat her
vows, she hesitated, but Angus drew his sword again and pointed it at the
priest’s throat once more. The threat was clear and she could not be
responsible for the trembling priest’s death. Brona repeated her vows even
though she choked on each and every word. Her stomach was clenched and bile
stung the back of her throat as she thought of how Angus was forcing her to lie
before God, as she had absolutely no intention of honoring a single vow she was
now taking.

Once
the vows were done and a tremulous blessing was given, Angus started to take
her back toward the keep. Brona ceased fighting his pull, for it hurt and she
knew she might need to use that arm in the very near future. She kept a few
paces behind him, however, refusing to walk by his side as if she had accepted
him as her husband. Just as they reached the wide stone steps leading into the
keep a man ran up to Angus, shouting his name, and Angus cursed viciously before
turning to face the man.

“The
MacNachtons are here,” the man said, his fear ringing in his voice. “They are
outside the walls.”

Brona
wanted to run up on the walls and see them. She even pulled against Angus’s
grip, but he yanked her right back. Brona wondered if Heming was there and she
ached to see him, to see that he was alive.

“I
told ye they would come. That was why ye were all put up on the walls,” snapped
Angus. “Told that fool Hervey, too.”

“But
what shall we do?”

“Ye
shall watch them, fool. If they do anything more than just stand there or hurl
insults at ye, then kill them.”

“Are
ye nay joining us?”

With
a speed that was startling, Angus hit the man, sending him sprawling in the
dirt at his feet. No wonder everyone was terrified of the man, Brona thought.
She had become so good at staying out of his and Hervey’s way, at staying
hidden and quiet, that she had almost forgotten how the two men were so good at
just striking out, often for what appeared to be no reason at all. That
constant expectation of violence and pain striking at any moment had obviously
been inside of her but she had smothered it, hiding it even from herself. It
made one afraid, however, and she had been afraid all of the time. Just as this
man was afraid.

“Watch
the bastards,” growled Angus, “and unless they are flying o’er the walls or
coming up through the floor, dinnae trouble me with questions ye already have
the answers to. I am going to be verra busy for a while consummating my
marriage.”

Shock
was the first expression on the other man’s face as he slowly stood up and
looked at Brona. It was quickly followed by a look that Brona could only
describe as pity. Brona felt as if her face was on fire she was blushing so
hard with shame and embarrassment. She felt a lot of pity for herself, but it
was humiliating to know that now everyone at Rosscurrach would be aware of what
was happening to her. Her coming rape by Angus would never be some deep, dark,
terrifying secret she could keep to herself. As Angus dragged her into the keep,
Brona prayed that the MacNachtons did get inside Rosscurrach, for she knew only
a real threat to Angus’s life would stop him from accomplishing what he planned
to do to her.

Ten

“Someone
died down here.”

Heming
exchanged a grin with his father and then looked at his cousin Berawald. He
liked the man but often got the feeling that his cousin lived in the world of
spirits far more than he lived in the world of men. Then again, if he had lived
surrounded by ghosts for as long as Berawald had perhaps he, too, would have
some difficulty in holding fast to the line between the two.

“I
am nay surprised,” Heming drawled. “‘Tis a dungeon. Sad to say too many have
probably died here.”

Berawald
simply nodded, either ignoring Heming’s slight sarcasm or unaware of it. “This
mon didnae die down here and he died verra recently.”

For
a moment, Heming was terrified that he was too late to save Brona and he asked,
“Ye are sure it is a mon?”

“Och,
aye. Verra definitely a mon.”

When
Heming moved to the steps that led up into the keep, he realized that Berawald
was marching off in another direction. A heartbeat later, he realized that his
cousin was headed for the cage Hervey had kept Heming in. A chill ran over his
body and Heming told himself not to be so foolish. He was still alive and,
aside from getting Brona back, that was all that mattered. Cursing softly, he
then hurried after Berawald. The man had to stop wandering off or he would get
himself killed.

When
Berawald stopped in front of the cage and held his lantern up, Heming had to
force himself to walk up to him. Before he could say anything to his cousin,
however, he glanced down at what Berawald was staring at and cursed again.
Hervey’s body was sprawled on the floor of the cage, his elegant clothing
stained with his own blood, and his head sitting on his chest facing the door.
The man’s face was forever frozen into a petulant expression. Hervey had
obviously never seen death coming.

“This
mon didnae die here,” said Berawald, and then he frowned. “His death was so
recent that his spirit hasnae yet understood that he is dead.”

“Weel,
Hervey Kerr wasnae always the most clever cat in the pack.”

Berawald
actually smiled, but quickly grew solemn again. “If death is violent and occurs
quickly, I have discovered, that the spirit of the dead one is often confused.
This mon didnae see the blow coming.”

“I
thought the same thing.”

“Ye
ken who this mon is?” Berawald asked, looking at Heming.

“Aye,
as I said, ‘tis Hervey Kerr. ‘Tis the laird of Rosscurrach, my Brona’s cousin,
and the mon who held me prisoner here.” Out of the corner of his eye Heming saw
his father’s elegant hand curl tightly around one of the bars of the cage.

“This
is where he held ye?” Jankyn asked. “In chains?”

“And
naked,” Heming said quietly, a little impressed by the vileness of the curses
his father spit out. “I am nay sorry that the mon is dead but I am verra sorry
that it wasnae I who struck the blow. I had dearly wished to kill him myself.”

“Step
back,” ordered Berawald, yanking Jankyn’s hand from the cage and pulling him
away.

“What
is it? Is something wrong?” Heming felt a bone-deep cold suddenly sweep through
him and stepped even farther away from the cage.

“The
spirit has gone back into its body. Watch.”

Heming’s
eyes widened as a dark shadow swirled up from the floor and over the body. He
felt something dark and dangerous in that shadow and could swear that he heard
someone screaming in terror as if from a very long distance away. Just as he
started to convince himself that he was letting Berawald’s talk of spirits
cause him to imagine things, the shadow retreated back into the floor. Heming
felt someone pressed close against his back and looked behind him to find a
white-faced Peter staring over his shoulder.

“Jesu,”
whispered Peter. “Something just took that bastard’s soul down to hell, didnae
it.”

“Exactly,”
said Berawald. “Weel, let us go and save your woman, Heming.”

Heming
watched Berawald walk away, cast one last look at the floor, and then hurried
after his cousin. “Have ye e’er seen that before?”

“Och,
aye. A lot of spirits linger after death. The reasons are nay important and
they are many. But, the ones who have sins blackening their souls, the ones
bound for hell, arenae allowed to linger here. The devil isnae a patient mon.
Where do ye think they are keeping your mate?”

Used
to his cousin’s abrupt changes of subject, Heming answered, “I have no idea. I
have ne’er been in the place before. Nay, above here, in the keep itself. I am
hoping Peter can help me.”

“Ah,
weel, I am certain we can find someone to help us if Peter cannae.”

“Oh,
sweet Mary, nay more spirits,” muttered Peter.

Heming
shook his head and hurried up the stairs, moving rapidly past Berawald. He
needed to find Brona. Every instinct he had was crying out that she was in
imminent peril. The moment he stepped out of the underbelly of Rosscurrach into
what looked like a large solar, Heming felt all the cold resolve he needed to
do battle wash over him, readying him for whatever he might face next. He moved
to the side of the doorway leading to the dungeons, his father, Peter, and
Berawald moving to stand with him. As the other men who had come through the
passages came into the room, Heming listened to his father direct them.

Colin
had sent some Kerrs to them and those men were used to show the MacNachton
fighters around the keep. Heming suspected they were also there to try to keep
the loss of Kerr life as low as possible. There was a wariness in the men but
no more than that and Heming knew Colin was trying to ease his way, for the man
was certain that Heming would be the next laird of Rosscurrach. All Heming
cared about, however, was Brona, finding her and keeping her safe. The moment
all the men who had come in through the doorway were gone, making their way
through the keep to make it MacNachton territory, Heming turned to Peter, the
only one still at his side.

“Where
do ye think Brona will be?” Heming asked the man.

“Whene’er
the laird secured the lass it was within her own bedchamber,” replied Peter.

“Then
take me there. Now.”

All
the breath in Brona’s lungs was pushed out when Angus threw her onto her bed
and then flung himself down on top of her. Brona was too desperate to catch her
breath, to just breathe, to do anything to stop the man from roughly un-lacing
her gown. When she was able to finally breathe she began to struggle. Angus
punched her in the face with such a cold calm, it was not only the pain of that
blow that stilled her movements.

When
Angus started to tug her gown off her shoulders the fear that held her in place
fled and her sense returned. No matter what she did this man was going to hurt
her. He was going to rape her. Brona doubted Angus would even try to make her
want him, to ease the taking of her body by stirring even a little desire in
her. She decided that, if she was going to be hurt, she would be hurt while
fighting this man. He might not be planning to kill her but what he wanted to
do to her would destroy her in ways she did not even want to think about.

Even
as Brona punched Angus in the face she knew she was starting a fight that she
had absolutely no chance of winning. It was also a battle that would leave her
in a great deal of pain, but she no longer cared about that. He was going to
put himself inside her, join their bodies, and leave his seed in her womb. The
mere thought of that terrified and revolted her. Only Heming had been there and
she would fight to the death to try and stop Angus from befouling what she had
shared with Heming. She closed her mind to the pain as she fought with Angus.