A Highland Knight's Desire (A Highland Dynasty Book) (2 page)

Duncan placed the missive on the table. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together. “And if you march an army across the border, you’ll risk destroying the truce between England and Scotland.”

“Exactly. Can you ferret her out quietly?”

“If anyone can, ’tis me brother,” John said.

Duncan again glared at his younger sibling. “Sounds easy enough—spirit inside under disguise, find a weakness and slip her out.”

“Do not underestimate Lord Percy. He’s a slithering snake, that one—nothing about this mission is easy, else I’d have done it myself.” Arthur leaned forward. “You’ve been to England?”

“Aye, let’s say I’ve had my dealings with Queen Margaret and the Lancasters. I was there long enough to develop a foul taste for the Yorkists as well.”

Arthur leaned back and drummed his fingers on his armrests, as if he were considering his options. “You’re awfully confident, but then I’d expect that from a Campbell.”

Duncan had no time for a pompous Lowlander or any slights against his kin. He crossed his arms. “Do you want your sister returned to Tantallon or nay?”

Arthur stood and moved to the sideboard. “She’s a feisty one, Meg.” He poured three tots of whisky. “She thinks she wants to take up the veil, but I’ve an alliance to make with her hand.”

Duncan’s gut twisted. “Do you believe Lord Percy would ruin her?” He could not abide any man who defiled a woman. The thought of it made the blood run hot beneath his skin.

Arthur paled. “If the bastard does, he’ll break the truce for certain.”

Duncan accepted the cup and sipped, savoring the oaken flavor.
I must spirit Lady Meg away quickly, lest she be ruined. Boar’s ballocks, the entire country could go to war because of an earl’s sister
.

The earl tossed his whisky back and cleared his throat. “Bring her home and I’ll see you’re rewarded for your trouble.”

Duncan set his cup on the table and fingered it. Then he looked directly into the earl’s eyes. “I’ll need a quarter now.”

Arthur gaped. “A quarter to an unproven pup?”

Duncan stepped close enough that the Earl of Angus was forced to crane his neck. “If it is credentials you’re seeking, I’d be happy to give you a demonstration in the courtyard forthwith—else I’ll be taking the quarter to cover my men’s expenses and be on my way.”

For a moment, Duncan thought Arthur might lead him outside, which he’d welcome. It never hurt to demonstrate one’s abilities to a paying customer.

But the earl ran his finger around the inside of his cup and licked it. “Agreed.”

Duncan let out a slow breath. Perhaps he should have negotiated for half.

Meg paced across the wooden floor, her arms tightly hugged against her ribs to stave off the cold. Her misty breath billowed with every exhale. They’d locked her in a tower someplace in godforsaken England. Her tiny chamber had one arrow slit, from which she could see little. At least she’d discerned the room was higher than the battlements. Occasionally, a sentry passed on the wall-walk below. Opposite the courtyard sat a chapel with a cross atop a steeple, and that was all she could see.

Before she’d arrived, her captors had ridden for two long days. Fortunately, about three miles outside Melrose, they’d stopped and allowed her to sit astride the horse, though they’d kept her hands bound. She’d asked countless questions, until they gagged her again.

One day those two brutes would see justice, and so would anyone else a party to her kidnapping.

They’d approached this castle in the dark of night. Its enormous outline loomed in the moonlit sky.
The fortress of the devil
. The heavy black doors of the barbican opened for her like the mouth of a sea monster swallowing its quarry.

Pulled from her horse, there was no time to find her bearings while they’d bustled her up countless tower steps and thrust her inside this miserable chamber. Meg squeezed her arms tighter. The guard who brought her meals spoke in monosyllables. Sooner or later someone must come and explain why she’d been kidnapped from a place of sanctuary. She was the daughter of an earl. That also had to count for something.

The sound of iron keys clanked and scraped in the lock. Meg stood straight and faced the door. By all the saints, she would never allow a one of her captors to think her a coward. A tall and lanky man stepped inside with an appraising smirk. Well dressed in red velvet, he could have passed for a king, right up to his richly ornamented doublet and feathered cap.

Keeping her arms crossed, Meg balled her crippled hand into a fist and tucked it beneath her armpit.

He sauntered into the chamber. “Margaret Douglas.”

“Lady Meg,” she corrected. No one ever called her Margaret—that had been her grandmother’s name.

He scoffed, his eyes trailing down her body as though he hadn’t eaten in a week. “I’m shocked to see a repugnant chap like the fourth Earl of Angus could produce from his loins a creature so comely.” He stepped closer.

“I demand some answers.” Meg scooted backward. “Where am I and why was I stolen from the sanctity of holy ground, aside from being gagged, bound and wrestled into this abominable tower?” She tried to keep her voice from quavering, but the sneer stretching his lips unnerved her.

He took another step.

Meg’s shoulder blades hit stone. Her heart hammered so forcefully, she feared it might thump out of her chest. She straightened her spine against the wall. “And you, sir, are
shameful
coming in here, eyeing me like roast mutton without so much as an introduction.” She pursed her lips and tried to swallow. Her gaze darted to the door. He’d left it open, but a gauntleted hand grasped a poleax just beyond.
No chance to flee—yet
.

He stopped inches away. “I am Lord Percy, the Earl of Northumberland,” he said with an air of arrogance. “And you are my prisoner.”

She would not allow his English title to impress her. She’d lived in the castle of an earl her entire life. Meg willed herself to steel her nerves. “Why?”

“Let us just say your father had something to do with your unfortunate state of affairs.”

That is madness
. “My father has been deceased for fifteen years.”

“Mercifully, he has.”

How dare he be disrespectful?
“You are a barbarian speaking of the dead with such disdain.” She tried to slip aside, but his arms shot out and pinned her where she stood. “Where am I?” she demanded, staring at a ruby in the center of his medallion suspended from a heavy chain.

He pinched her chin and forced her to look up to his cold steel-blue eyes. His smug sneer made Meg shiver. She took an instant dislike to his gaunt face, made longer by a twisted English nose. “I beg to differ, my sweet. Scottish swine are not fit to dine at English tables.”

She jerked her chin from his grasp and her head hit stone. Meg ignored the pain jarring her skull. Lord Percy hadn’t answered a one of her questions. “Please.” Perhaps being polite would gain her more information. “Will you at least tell me where we are?”

“Alnwick.”

She gasped. She’d heard the stories. Her father sacked this castle in 1462. “Whatever it is you want, my brother can pay handsomely.”

Lord Percy dropped his arms and laughed, not a warm laugh you might hear at a Yule feast, but a grating cackle, filled with scorn. “Do you think I’m seeking financial gain?”

Meg took advantage of the gap he’d opened, and scuttled toward the empty hearth. Dare she ask? “Then what is it you seek to gain by kidnapping a
woman
?”

He ambled toward her. “Ruination.”

God, no
. Ruined, she’d never be accepted as a novice. She’d be a burden to her brother for the rest of her days. Then the deadly glint in Lord Percy’s eyes brought on another chill. “Do you aim to kill me?”

“Not yet. I’ll use you first. ’Tis not
your
ruination I’m seeking—I want complete destruction of the Earl of Angus and George Douglas’s spawn. I want to meet all of Scotland on the battlefield and watch them bleed. When your brother marches an army across the border, he’ll break the truce and pull our nations into war.” He spread his arms wide, with a sickly sneer on his face. “And it will all be blamed on him. The fool-born Earl of Angus will then know what it feels like to lose lands and title and have his name soiled throughout the kingdom.”

She’d be the cause of a war? Her family’s ruination? Meg’s gut heaved, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting all over his long, pointed leather shoes. “You’re mad.”

“I’ll have my revenge. My title was stripped because of your father. Do you have any idea what it cost me to have it reinstated?”

Meg could only imagine the cost, but groveling to his peers would have been involved. Humiliated men would stop at nothing for vengeance. What if Arthur
did
lead an army across the border?
He won’t
. Her brother was as shrewd as he was the Earl of Angus. Besides, she could not be the cause of war.

Her own death would be preferable to the senseless slaughter of Scotland’s fighting men. If she could convince Lord Percy his tactics were in vain, he might just kill her now and be done with it.

Boldly, she held out her left hand—
the claw
—a cleft consisting of a healthy thumb and a pointer finger fused to a stumpy, malformed nub. “Do you honestly believe my brother would risk leading an army against England merely to rescue a deformed sister?”

She didn’t miss the flash of doubt in his eyes, quickly covered by a frown. “He’ll come.”

She squared her shoulders and stepped into him, an aggressive move. “What makes you so certain?”

Lord Percy crossed his arms. “I left my calling card. No hot-blooded Scot can resist a challenge, especially a Douglas.”

Meg whipped around and faced the empty hearth. The earl did know her family well. For centuries, all factions of Clan Douglas had earned their reputation for hot temper and hot blood. Though she fought to control it, she was woven from the same cloth—but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it now.

Who knew how long she’d suffer the hospitality in Northumberland’s dank tower? “I may be your prisoner, but I’m no criminal.” She pointed at the hearth and faced him. “I need wood for the fire to take the edge off the cold, and I insist upon being granted leave to visit the chapel.”

He stepped into her, his hot breath on her neck. “How is it you see fit to make demands when I hold your life in my grasp?”

“You said you need me alive.” She narrowed her eyes in challenge. He’d said he would use her for leverage—that gave her some room to make a few small requests. “What good would I be if I succumbed to the cold—froze in the night? Must I remind you ’tis the dead of winter?”

His gaze dipped to her breasts. “I’ll allow a fire, but you can pray on your knees in this very room.”

Meg crossed her arms and opened her mouth for a rebuttal, but Lord Percy spun on his heel and marched out the door. Before she could dash across the floor, the hinges creaked and it slammed with a boom that shook the chamber. She pounded her fist on the hard wood. “Are you afraid to keep me, a mere woman, from Sunday mass—from compline, from vespers? Have you no decency? Are you to be damned to the fires of hell?” With every word her voice rose and echoed through the tower. “I thought the English prided themselves on their manners,
my lord
.”

She took a deep breath and leaned against the door. With any luck, her shouts were loud enough to be heard all the way down the tower stairs. Heaven help her, he’d disgustingly stared at her breasts. She shuddered down to her toes. If he tried to take her virtue, Arthur would seek vengeance for certain. She could never allow that to happen.

What chance of escape would there be? If she could convince Lord Percy to allow her to the chapel and perhaps a turn on the wall-walk, she’d devise her escape. Could she take a guard into her confidence? Meg paced. There had to be a way out. She must keep her wits and think.

Listening to the woman’s tirade, Henry Percy’s neck prickled. He’d nearly drawn his dagger and slit the vixen’s throat when she showed him her hand. In no way had he expected a cripple. Was she a witch? She certainly spoke bile. Did the Earl of Angus want to be rid of her? No. All Douglas spawn had a sharp tongue. Obviously, Lady Meg was no different. He would not allow doubt to sicken his mind. His plan was sound. Meg’s beauty far outshone her deformity.

Henry trusted his spies. He’d spent months waiting for his chance to steal the Earl of Angus’s youngest and, according to his informant, most beloved sister. Henry’s trusted men had followed discreetly while she made her pilgrimage to Melrose. Half the distance to Alnwick, the opportunity was too fortuitous to let pass.

Isaac, his scar-faced man-at-arms, followed Henry down the winding tower stairs.

“See to it she has wood for her fire. If she dies and word gets out, our cause will be lost.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Escort her to the chapel each night after compline. I’ll not be judged by God because I refused to allow the wench to pray.”

“As you wish.”

Henry stopped and shook his finger under the guard’s nose. “Do not allow her out of your sight.”