Captured by a Laird (3 page)

Haigh’s main rival in both wealth and land was an equally vicious man. Trent Fogert had money. His lands were rich and fertile and lay many leagues to the west of Haigh’s barren borders. Stref Harris had land that divided the two powerful men, with Rwenor lying on the lower planes of the landscape. Fogert’s people flourished, yet his greed knew no bounds. Living in his spectacular castle with liveried servants and immaculate grounds, he loved to survey his estate from the top of his tallest tower. What became his unhealthy obsession from this vantage point, was the land that did not belong to him. He could see land owned by Stref Harris, as well as the fertile valley that made up Rwenor, and it enraged him. Wanting it all was Trent Fogert’s fixation. It was what drove him. It was all he spoke of, and was driving him slowly insane. Trent’s long-suffering wife, Emma, along with most that knew him could not stand the sight of her jowly, pompous husband. Instead, she took comfort from a handsome young footman who was only too happy to oblige his sweet-smelling, well-groomed mistress. Fogert had one son; a pasty individual who showed no interest in the outdoor pursuits that suited his father. Rather the boy had been caught and shamed with a footman with an eye for a certain type. In disgrace, the boy had been sent to complete his adolescence and schooling with an aunt who resided in the more fashionable and prosperous city due south of the highland plains.

Located between the rival men, Stref Harris had been a most unwelcome arrival. As a nephew, he had a legitimate right to claim his uncle’s lands and lairdship over them. Haigh and Fogert had, albeit reluctantly, abided by the highland laws and upheld the claim of the new Harris. Instead, they each decided to turn their attentions on their nearest lowland neighbour Rwenor. With its verdant lands under their command, they each harboured the desire to overwhelm the smaller clan of Rwenor. What followed was a series of unprovoked attacks on the outskirts of the croft, burnings, raids and vicious attacks. Each lord was then baffled by the retaliation of the new champion, the one they called Green Bow. His arrival and the mighty presence of the golden eagle had sent even the most hardened warriors scurrying back to their lords in fear. Both Haigh and Fogert, from their respective homes, now seethed and plotted, waiting for their next opportunity to strike at the lands of Rwenor.

* * * *

The quiet sound of hooves on the road ahead signalled the approach of a rider. The band of men drew their swords and faced the oncoming intruder.

“At ease, men,” came the familiar voice of their Laird.

Each man lowered his weapon in relief. They grinned as the shape of a lifeless body draped over the horse became apparent.

“I see we have a prisoner,” cackled the toothless man.

“Aye, Bill, seems we have. We’ll put him in the dugout and have a good look at him on the morrow.”

Bill’s laugh filled with perverse anticipation, and echoed around the quiet track. “He’ll rue the day he was caught by Stref Harris all right!”

The men mounted and moved off northwards, their hooves making the only sounds on the dusty track.

The night was at its blackest when they arrived at the gates of Harris Keep. The gatehouse doubled as a holding cell. Prisoners were a rarity in the Highlands as attacks were often bloody and merciless. Occasionally, a hostage would seal an alliance, but brute force was usually the only bargaining tool required. The still motionless body of Green Bow was tipped into the small round cell. A large lock was secured at the door and the tired group of raiders returned to their beds. All except Stref who paused to pour himself a large tumbler of fiery amber liquid. He marvelled at the feel of the burning trail the drink left in his body as it rushed down to pool in his gut.

“Ahhh!” he gasped as he raised the vessel to repeat the sensation. As with many things, the next gulp had less impact and he drained the cup, disappointed that he could not reclaim the thrill of the first taste. Out of the corner of his eye, Stref saw the buxom form of Anna, a cook in the keep. She had been known to warm his bed after a raiding trip, and was doubtless looking for the invitation to do the same. As with the drink though, Stref found himself increasingly tired of her obvious charms. The first time had been a heady sensation, it was true. Her soft fair skin and tumbling auburn locks had been a welcome port, and her fleshy breasts had tasted as sweet as her moist feminine core, but she had not the brains or wit to maintain his interest for very much longer.

Stref was restless. He had come to claim his uncle’s lands at the insistence of his mother. She had seen herself as the lady of the highland home. However, one look at the bleak landscape and crudely fashioned huts that surrounded the dark, dismal keep had sent her rushing straight back to the more hedonistic delights of the town. Stref loved the outdoors. He had grown to love the people who looked up to him and depended on him to maintain their protection. He enjoyed the raids and the battles, and had trained his warriors with a fierce pride, but Stref still yearned for something more. He wanted to be a father. He wanted sons and daughters that he could raise to love the land. He wanted a wife that would love it too. Someone who would bring light and companionship to his bleak and isolated life; someone who would love the people and the land with the same passion, and who would love him with a fervour that matched his own. Stref had seen the loveless marriage his parents shared. He had been the only offspring of the union, and once his mother had fulfilled that dismal duty, she had proceeded to live her own life in the company of the social elite that resided in the bustling city. Stref had stayed in the country home with his father, learning to hunt and fight, and respect his fellow man, no matter their social standing. His father had seen to it that his son was raised a highlander.

After the untimely death of his father, Stref had been forced to move to the city with his mother, where she had introduced him to what she deemed as “polite society.” The big burly highlander had been an interesting distraction to the social scene, until his boorish ways had grown tiresome to the elite. The scented ladies and their flirtatious interest had ceased, leaving Stref cast out. At that time, news of his uncle’s passing had reached him, and it had seemed prudent to take up the position as Lord of Harris. At twenty-seven, Stref had found the place where he belonged, and yearned to have his own family one day. He longed to lift a laughing boy above his head and swing him around in the fresh highland air, and teach his daughters to hunt and defend themselves. Stref often sat, almost hearing the happy sounds of laughter echoing through the hallways of his home. His heart ached as he brought himself back to the solitude of the room and the empty glass in his grasp.

Turning to smile at the round-faced cook who leaned beguilingly on the doorframe, Stref nodded his head with a lazy invitation towards the wooden stairway that spiralled up to his bed chamber. He once again resigned himself to a night of sexual satisfaction that always resulted in a hollow ache in his soul. Anna beamed and skipped towards Stref, her eyes alight with victory. Stref watched her, his desire for what was about to ensue thickening his girth and tenting his plaid. As she came into reach he stretched out his arms and grasped her rear with a vice-like grip. Pulling her into his arms, he lifted her off her feet. He growled as her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and he strode towards the bottom stair. Stref knew he would not allow himself to sleep whilst such an important prisoner was locked in his keep, so he decided he may as well pass the time until light with a willing mate. Ascending the stairs, Stref’s body focussed on the wench in his arms, but his thoughts were with the figure incarcerated in his dugout cell.

Chapter Three

Lena woke as the first rays of the new day penetrated her cell. Her initial sensation was pain. Her head throbbed as if it had a pulse of its own. A tentative exploration with her fingers revealed the cause. A large bump adorned the top of her skull. It protruded from her head and was tender to the touch. Lena recalled being held fast in the branches of a tree then nothing. She assumed, by the telltale wound that her abductor had used a weapon to ensure her docility.

The smell of her surroundings was the next thing that Lena noticed. The scent of freshly turned earth filled her nostrils, its pungent aroma familiar to Lena. Her hand reached out to explore the cold, damp walls, which had been roughly dug to form the tiny enclosure.

Suddenly realising the enormity of her situation, Lena pulled herself to her feet and tried in vain to see some of her surroundings. The narrow opening in the door allowing just a thin shaft of light was too high for Lena to see out. Its purpose was evidently to allow some light into the cell without giving the advantage of orientation to the prisoner. Knowledge was an advantage, and Lena knew the more she could discover about her jailor, the better her chances of escape. She had the advantage of her anonymity—for now.

Lena recalled the voice that had spoken into her ear. Her body responded to the memory, shivering with desire. His voice had been like a caress, tingling along her skin and sending trails of delight through her. Lena could not let the prowess of the animal that held her, distract her from her purpose. Her people were at risk. Once word spread that Green Bow was no longer protecting Rwenor, it would leave the croft exposed to more of the raider parties that threatened the life of her people. With this thought in her mind, Lena felt more determined to free herself from the enclosure. She had seen with her own eyes the devastation that had rained down on her people. Women and children had been raped and maimed, houses had been torched. Men had been left for dead, tortured by brutal monsters that called themselves lairds. Lena baulked at the thought that she may even be at the hands of the Lord behind those raids. She imagined the possibilities of what her captor would do when he discovered her gender. She recalled her captor’s threat that she would be hung from the tower, and now this seemed an easy option compared to the havoc that could be wrought on her innocent body. Determined that he would never get near enough to discover her sex, Lena withdrew a small knife that she managed to conceal within her plaid. She had been unable to pull it from her garment last night in the tree, because she had been held too tightly, but the cool metal had teased her flesh with its potential to main the brute that ambushed her. Today would be her chance to get even. Her father had taught her well, and she was never without a few tricks up her sleeves, literally up her sleeve in this case. Positioning herself against the wall of sod, Lena leaned against the rustic surface, allowing her body to slide down into a stance that enabled her to be ready for action. Her cloak hung in folds around her, disguising her crouched position, and the hood covered her head. Frozen, she waited.

Soon a scuffle outside and the sound of deep male voices alerted Lena to the approach of the guards. She did not recognise the dulcet tones of the man who had held her close the night before. It meant that he had sent his men to collect her

This
, she pondered,
could be to her advantage.

Recalling the size and strength of his grasp, she realised that this may be her only chance to escape. Lena held her breath, allowing it to catch in her throat. She found that when nervous, the sound of her breathing could overpower the sounds that occurred around her. She could not afford to miss a single clue as to the strategy of her captors. The scrape of a heavy stone being moved coupled with gruff voices coming closer, focussed Lena’s mind on the right moment to pounce.

“Looks like he’s still out of it,” a rough voice noted.

“Might need a pail of water to wake him up a bit,” added a softer voice. “I’ll get one. It would be my pleasure.”

Hearing the second pair of boots retreat, Lena took advantage of the moment and sprang up. She swirled around, brandishing the knife. Its sharp blade made instant contact with the torso of the man before her and sliced smoothly through his flesh. Lena wiped the knife quickly against her side and stood ready for a counter-attack. Instead, the man cried out and fell forward, clutching his stomach as a streak of crimson blood stained through his tunic. The second man rushed back into the room, blocking the exit with his burly frame.

Lena cursed herself for not moving quickly enough or anticipating the second man’s speed. She turned and pulled the bleeding man’s sword from his limp hand, swinging it in a graceful arch with practised ease. She held her own weapon in her other hand and faced the man who stood between her and freedom. The second man, taking one look at the condition of his comrade, backed out of the dugout cell. Lena followed him into the gatehouse and gestured back into the damp space with the sword she now brandished. Understanding the action, the guard moved into the cell.

“How far do you think you will get?” the guard’s angry voice yelled. “You will be hunted down like an animal and killed by the Laird himself. No one can hide from a Harris in Harris’ own land,” he sneered.

Lena bit down a smile.

“Fool!” she scoffed at the man’s indiscretion.

Realising that she could never shift the massive stone that had taken both guards to move, Lena quickly laid the sword against the wall and selected a large rock from the ground. Brandishing the sword with a menacing stance, she stepped into the cell and raised the rock aloft. Bringing it down upon the guard’s head, she winced as the thud of the body hit the ground.

“Sorry!” she said in a soft voice.

As she turned to leave, a small smile played at the edges of her mouth.
Harris, was it?
She cursed herself for not paying enough attention to the deep-red and gold plaid that the guards wore.

“Know your enemy,” her father had always told her. Well, now she did—Stref Harris. Geographically, it was the closest to her own lands, so it would be easier to escape. Maybe, if she could locate a horse, she could be away before anyone else knew she was missing?

Pulling her hood further down over her head, Lena set off out the door. She held tightly to the sword she had acquired, and with her other hand, secured the small dagger back into the leather sheath that lay strapped to her arm.