The Highlander Series (94 page)

Rionna stood in the window of the guard tower and stared over the snowy landscape. It had been three days since the hunting party had departed and there was still no sign of their return.

On the first evening, one of the younger warriors had returned with a fine stag. He bore Caelen’s instructions for the meat to be dressed, stored, and properly cured with a generous portion to be prepared immediately for the women and children to eat.

The rest of the party was remaining on the hunt until they killed enough game to refill the larders.

She watched the men below training to Caelen’s specifications. For three days she’d held out against the temptation to join in the exercises. Instead she’d remained indoors and listened to endless instructions about the preservation of meat, how to properly stock a larder, cleaning schedules, not to mention sleep-inducing lectures on proper etiquette for ladies and how to greet and be hospitable to important guests.

As if they ever had important guests at McDonald keep.

It was apparent that her husband wasn’t returning this day, and there were several hours of daylight yet. She
fairly itched to be down in the courtyard where she could vent her frustration with a good sword fight.

The problem was Sarah would have no compunction about ratting her out to her husband. Which meant she’d have to sneak to the courtyard after telling Sarah that she was retiring to her chamber.

She turned, wrapping her cloak tighter around her as she began the descent from the tower. At the bottom, she was met by one of the serving women that Sarah had no doubt set to monitor her whereabouts.

“I’m going to retire to my chamber,” Rionna said in a low voice.

“Are you not feeling well, my lady?”

Rionna smiled at the woman not much older than herself. “I’m fine, Beatrice. I’m just a little tired.”

Beatrice smiled knowingly. “You’re not sleeping well since the laird’s departure. He’ll be home soon, my lady, and with meat to take us through the winter.”

Rionna smiled faintly as she turned toward the stairs up to the chamber she shared with Caelen. While the men were not as accepting yet of Caelen as their laird, the women of the keep suffered no such hesitancy. Whatever he’d done, he’d inspired confidence in the female members of her clan. They all accepted that he’d see them through their difficulties and restore their larders and their might.

Rionna supposed that if he did, indeed, accomplish all that, she should be well content with her marriage.

Should be.

When she entered the chamber where she’d slept alone three nights past, she marveled at the mark her husband had already left on the room. It wasn’t as though he had a lot of things. Indeed, he’d packed very sparsely for his journey from his former home.

But whereas the chamber had been barren and nondescript
before, it now felt masculine, as if he’d breathed his very essence into the small space.

The furs he’d brought from McCabe keep covered the bed. Luxurious, thick furs that she’d already grown accustomed to sleeping beneath at night. Even the furs covering the windows had been replaced by his own.

There was a small table with a chair by the fire that housed his scrolls and quill and ink. They roused her curiosity. She’d love to know what was contained in the scrolls, but she hadn’t the ability to read. The fact that her husband was so learned surprised and intrigued her.

Caelen had many hidden depths, which she hadn’t even begun to plumb. He’d certainly shut himself off from others, only allowing people to see what he so chose. It was frustrating for her because she desperately wanted to know everything there was to know about the man she’d married.

She went to the chest that housed the dresses the women had fashioned for her. She stretched her hand behind it, in the small space between it and the wall, and pulled out the tunic and trews she’d hidden there.

The material slid lovingly over her fingers. Worn but comfortable. Familiar. Anticipation tugged relentlessly at her until she hurriedly stripped the dress from her body and began pulling on the tunic.

When she was dressed, she pulled her boots from the corner where they’d rested ever since they’re arrived back on McDonald land. First she pulled on her precious stockings and then the boots over them.

The stockings made the boots a bit snug, but they weren’t uncomfortable. More important, her feet were warm.

She practically danced to the wall where Caelen had hung her sword. She was grateful he hadn’t had it melted down for armor. ’Twas a sin to abuse so fine a weapon.

She slid her fingers over the hilt and carefully lifted it
from its perch. It felt glorious in her hand. The weight. The grooves, fashioned just so for her grasp. Light enough that she could wield it with a deft hand but heavy enough to inflict a mortal wound.

She tested the sharpness of the blade, satisfied when the hair she brushed across fell neatly into two.

Now to brave the stairwell and hope she didn’t run into Sarah.

A few moments later, she burst into the courtyard and hurried through the line of men so she could position herself at the fartherest point away from the entrance to the keep. If Sarah came looking, she wanted to be well out of sight.

The mixed greeting from the men bewildered her. A few looked genuinely glad to see her and called out a greeting. Others seemed more reserved and exchanged uneasy glances. A few were more bold and stepped in front of her, though their stance wasn’t in the least aggressive.

No, they looked concerned. And protective.

Hugh McDonald frowned and then swallowed uncomfortably. “Rionna, perhaps ’tis better if you remain indoors. ’Tis cold today. You shouldn’t be indulging in a man’s training.”

Rionna’s mouth gaped open as she stared back at the burly warrior. Hugh was directly responsible for most of her skill. Aye, he’d taught her almost everything she knew. He’d knocked her on her arse more times than she could count and always taunted her to get up and try again.

“He’s gotten to you, hasn’t he?” she demanded. “He’s not been here a week and already he’s turned you against me!”

Hugh put out a placating hand. “Now, Rionna. ’Tis not what’s happened at all. The laird has made us see
that ’tis not the best course for you to be fighting. ’Tis not a seemly pursuit for a woman.”

She scowled at him and drew her sword. “How seemly would it be for a woman to put you on your arse?”

Hugh put up his hand to the others. “The man who puts sword to hers will answer to me.”

Hurt squeezed her chest, turning her insides into a knot. “You’ll forbid the men to spar with me?”

Hugh looked as though he’d swallowed a mace. “ ’Tis sorry I am, lass. Aside from the fact the laird would have my hide, I’d not have you hurt. Or any bairn you might find yourself pregnant with.”

She closed her eyes and turned away. Desolation swept through her, leaving her empty and aching. Tears pricked her eyelids and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Give me your sword, lass,” Hugh said gently. “I’ll put it away.”

She turned to see the rest of the men standing behind Hugh, their faces set in agreement. None would battle her now. Biting back tears, she slowly extended the sword to Hugh. He took it and then handed it back to one of the other men. She didn’t wait to see what they did next. She turned and hurried out the back of the courtyard, never looking back.

Her chest felt near to bursting.

The wind blew cold over her damp cheeks. Tears she hadn’t registered froze on her skin. Her sense of loss was keen. It cut deep and festered like a week-old wound.

She felt horribly betrayed. Like her life would never again be the same. The people she loved, who loved her, had been swayed by her husband’s firm beliefs about a woman’s place.

How she longed for the days when she’d run free and her only worry had been avoiding her father. She missed the euphoric rush of victory when she bested one of her father’s men with a sword.

Out here, with her blade, her faults fell away. She didn’t feel inadequate. She was just another sword in a sea of warriors. Strong and capable. Not just a woman in need of protection.

She was no good at simpering or playing coy. She didn’t have the social graces necessary not to embarrass herself or her kin. ’Twas why her father had never shoved her in front of the noses of anyone of import.

She trudged down the hill toward the bubbling brook that connected the two lochs on McDonald land. ’Twas a pretty sight with ice crusted on the banks, reaching toward the middle where water still rushed over rock. Snow drifted on either side, framing the icy-cold water and blanketing the land in white.

She stopped at the water’s edge and hugged her arms to her chest. She closed her eyes and breathed deep of the crisp winter air. The faint smell of smoke from the keep’s chimney wafted through her nostrils, and for the first time in a long while, the smell of meat over a spit.

For how long she stared over the water she wasn’t sure, but shivering with cold she had the realization that what she hated wasn’t the loss of her freedom. It was the fear of the unknown.

She was acting like a petulant child whose favorite toy had been taken away. She could be part of the rebuilding of her clan. Perhaps not in the way she had the most knowledge, but everyone else was having to cope with change. She wasn’t the only one who didn’t like it.

If her husband wanted the perfect lady, a well-kept manor, the epitome of feminine grace, she could give him all of that even if it killed her.

She’d give him no reason to be shamed by her.

Her chin notched upward and her gaze settled across the brook. To her shock, men on horses bolted from the trees and charged toward her.

She turned and let out a yell just as the horses splashed
into the water. She ran along the shore, knowing she had no chance trying to run up the hill to the keep. She’d never outrun the horses.

She opened her mouth to yell another alarm, praying the men would hear from such a distance, but a boot slammed into her back, knocking her to the ground.

She landed in the snow with such force, it knocked the wind from her chest.

Ignoring the pain, she planted her palms down and got her feet under her once more to flee.

A hand twisted in her hair and her attacker yanked her backward and then flipped her onto her back. She stared up at a group of five men. The taste of fear was vile on her tongue. She faced them down, unwilling to show them just how terrified she was.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

The man holding her backhanded her across the face, shocking her into silence. Furious, she attacked, her fingers flying into his eyes. He howled in pain and stumbled back, giving her just a moment to make a break for it.

She didn’t get far before another of the men tackled her, driving her face into the snow. It filled her nose and mouth, numbing the throbbing ache from the vicious slap a moment ago.

Again she was turned and this time the second attacker clipped her with his fist on the cheek. His hand closed around her neck, squeezing with enough force to prevent her from drawing breath.

He held her there until she went slack. The other men gathered near and then the first attacker staggered up, blood dripping from one of the scratches she’d inflicted.

“Little bitch,” he spat.

He grabbed the neckline of her tunic and ripped downward until her breasts were bared. Once more she
began to struggle but the man holding her neck squeezed again until she was forced to quit.

She tried to scream but no sound came out. Tears of rage blurred her vision as one of the men fondled her breasts and then tweaked one nipple.

Just before she blacked out, the hand relaxed at her throat and she sucked in deep breaths. As soon as she had enough air, she opened her mouth to scream just as her face exploded in pain again.

He administered methodical, forceful slaps to her face, alternating sides until a haze of pain enveloped her. The other hands continued their lewd groping, twisting, and pawing her like an animal.

Hot tears slipped over her battered cheeks. Never had she felt so helpless in her life. Where was her sword? How was she expected to defend herself?

She would be raped here on her own land, helpless to do anything but lay there and cry.

When she was barely conscious, her attacker leaned in close until his hot, fetid breath blew over her face.

“You’re going to deliver a message to the new laird,” he hissed. “Tell him no McCabe is safe from Duncan Cameron. Not Mairin McCabe or her new daughter. Nor anyone the McCabes call dear. Cameron will destroy all who ally themselves with Ewan McCabe. He won’t rest until Neamh Álainn is his. You can tell him that your pretty face is a token of Duncan Cameron’s esteem.”

He climbed over her, kicking snow on her face as he walked back to his horse.

The sounds of horses crossing the stream filtered through her muddled mind. She tried to raise her head but pain swamped her. Her stomach revolted and nausea boiled up into her throat.

She closed her eyes and took small, steadying breaths until the nausea abated. Then she slowly rolled to her
side and lay there for a long moment collecting her strength.

When she tried to get to her knees, she pitched forward. Tears of frustration bit angrily at her eyes. By all that was holy, she had to make it back to the keep even if she had to crawl.

She nearly passed out again when she pushed herself upward. She glanced up the hill and sighed wearily at the seemingly interminable distance.

And then she began to crawl.