Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (6 page)

Marrec let out a breath that she guessed was supposed to be subtle.

“I confess to not having the mind for it. I am…a follower,” he answered.

“You are wise to know your strengths and weaknesses,” Macrath said. “Did you follow your last laird?”

Again Ceana glanced back to study his expression when he responded.

“’Twas hard. I did my duties, though I—” He broke off, eyes shifting away.

“Say your piece, Marrec,” Ceana encouraged.

“I fear you will question my loyalty, my lady.”

“Loyalty is proven. We’ve no cause to question it as yet,” Macrath said.

Marrec sighed a little louder this time. “I would not always follow his orders to the exact wording.”

Ceana cocked her head with interest, the spark of hope igniting into full flames. “Why?”

“They were sometimes harsh and cruel.”

“And you sought to change him?” Macrath asked, pausing on the stairs to confront Marrec.

Marrec’s gaze shifted from them to the wall and back, he hesitated before answering. “There was no changing him. But I did not always have to carry out his orders exactly as he would see fit, and the ones he punished were grateful. Unless I was being watched by one of his followers, I could get away with it. There are many, you will find, that did the same.”

“Then there is hope after all,” Macrath said gruffly.

Ceana held her smile in check, feeling blessed by the gods once more. The royal council was going to burn in the flames of her revenge.

“That is all there is,” Marrec said. “Hope.”

“Not with all,” Ceana said. “Some have lost all hope.”

“Then you must give it back to them,” Marrec said, and then gasped. “Apologies for overstepping my bounds, my lady, my laird. Please, your majesties, I did nay—”

Macrath held up his hand, cutting Marrec off. “There is no need to grovel, for we took no exception to your words. They are merited. ’Tis our desire to restore Sìtheil and its people to greatness and beyond.”

Marrec’s shoulders sagged with relief, but he quickly straightened. “The people will see you as their saviors.”

“We strive only to be good leaders, not compared to gods.” Ceana recalled how in the games, there were victims and saviors. She hated the two distinctions. They were all people and everyone with a good heart should be given a chance to survive.

“As is your pleasure,” Marrec said.

“Please, show us to my brother,” Macrath said.

Without another word, Marrec slid past them and continued down the stairwell and into the great hall.

Victor leaned on his elbow against the hearth, looking more casual than he should. There was an air of superiority about him, as though he felt he belonged there. Ceana immediately bristled.

He did not wait to be addressed by Macrath, but instead swaggered toward them with a haughty smile and said, “Brother, I’ve come to relieve you.”

Macrath stiffened beside Ceana. The muscles of his arm, beneath her fingertips, rippled with tension.

“Relieve me of what?” Macrath said.

“Why, your post, of course.” Victor’s grin grew, reminding her of the wolves in the forest. Her most intense fear.

Ceana’s stomach tightened as she anticipated a violent reaction from Macrath. She imagined them ripping each other to shreds.

Macrath put his hand to his sword at his hip, his entire body stiffening. He towered over his half-brother. “I do not hold a post, but a title. A title far superior to yours, Victor. You’ll not be relieving me of anything save your company.”

Victor laughed and waved away the words, not at all moved by Macrath’s obvious anger. “You are too naïve, brother. Did you truly believe they would let you become a prince? A bastard born and raised, now a member of the royal line?” He made a tsking sound and rolled his eyes. “What dreams have they fed you?”

“Get. Out.” Macrath spoke through bared teeth, his knuckles white, he clenched the hilt of his sword so tight.

Ceana felt her blood drain to somewhere around her feet. Could what Victor said be true?

“Let me save you the embarrassment of having the king’s guards forcibly remove you,” Victor continued, without any reaction to Macrath’s orders to leave. “They are coming for you. Sìtheil is mine.”

Chapter Seven

BEATRICE MacAlpin sneaked through the corridors like a wraith set on retribution until she came to her bedchamber, and then through the secret panel into the undisclosed space housed there.

Breathing rapidly, heart pounding, she struggled to get her torch into the iron holder bolted to the wall, cursing as sparks hit her skin. She let out an outraged yelp and gave a final thrust, securing it.

Fisting her hands, another tortured cry flew from her lips.

She ripped at her clothes until she stood naked, chest heaving with her pent-up anger. Whirling in a circle, she searched for something sharp. Something that would cut deep into her skin and release the anger, discharge the pain and return some sense of control to her rampant mind.

Chains and shackles hung from hooks along the stone walls. Whips. Ties. All the things she used to torment her subjects, but not one fucking blade?

She was obviously being too kind to her guests.

Then her eyes lit on the rune-carved trunk. The place where she kept her souvenirs. Precious objects she didn’t want anyone else to find. The chest had been passed down for decades within the womenfolk in her family, just as some of the implements of torture had been. She was not the first woman warrior in the MacAlpin clan.

Soon, she’d need to have the trunk moved to another hiding place. The shackles and chains torn down. The various instruments of torture relocated. For it would not be long before the Bastard and the Bitch found her little nook. She knew he’d be looking for it. He’d threatened her enough while she’d whipped him. Probably had already begun his search. He wanted to burn her special chamber to ashes.

Well, she doubted he’d ever find it.

She’d concealed the entrance well when she had been mistress here—and then she’d drugged her brutal husband, chained him inside and given him exactly what he’d given her.

No mercy.

When he’d disappeared, there were questions from his guard. There were questions from the people, but it didn’t last long. Not when some semblance of peace and order remained. And whenever someone went missing—though it wasn’t too often—there was a little bit of grumbling and then it was over.

People were glad to be rid of those who went against the grain. The ones who did not follow her rule. The council’s rule.

That was why the Bastard and the Bitch had to go. Maybe they would go missing like her husband. And then she could finish what she’d started. Pity though about Ceana. She had liked the little imp once. Had wanted to keep her for herself.

Beatrice liked to believe that she had been the most powerful of Morrison rulers, though she knew she was probably not, compared to some men, like the great Olaf the Black. Bastard. If she’d met him one hundred years before, she’d have given him hell. Maybe even subdued him enough to drag him into her little space.

She’d just have to settle for being the most notorious and powerful female warrior to ever rule Sìtheil.

And she wasn’t about to give that up to some idiotic little cunt.

The trunk creaked as she wrenched it open. She riffled through her precious trinkets. Bits of fabric, jewels, a leather pouch of teeth, a cup, slippers, gowns, scarves, a small targe, a pair of men’s boots, several rolled and yellowed scrolls and then she found it—the dagger.

The dagger that had belonged to Ceana’s mother. Isla MacRae. Beautiful as she was dangerous. Beatrice had taken the dagger when she’d taken the gown, slippers and clan sash.

Beatrice hated Isla from the moment she met her until she’d watched her breathe her last. Ironically, she’d loved her fiercely, too. She’d wanted to be Isla. To make Isla hers. To climb inside her.

Her death was perhaps the most tragic event Beatrice had ever encountered—beyond any of the battles, her victims, her marriage, the lives she’d taken. She mourned Isla.

Mourned her and despised her for making her still care all these years later.

And Ceana, looking so much like her mother, and acting the part—well, she hated her, too. But her hatred of Ceana was borne of many ills—foremost that she’d taken Macrath. That he made love to her. That his cock raged hard for her when it had not risen at all for Beatrice.

Beatrice wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the amethyst-jeweled dagger, gripping tight enough to feel a sting of pain in her palm. She brought the metal tip to her naked thigh and pressed hard. Pain seared her skin. A crimson drop colored her pale flesh, and then she dragged it an inch, watching as a red line instantly appeared and the pain of the cut took away some of the agony in her heart.

Another inch and she gasped, dug a little deeper. Between her thighs throbbed and pulsed as the blood spilled from her body. A feeling of euphoria took over her. Another inch, and then another. She dropped the blade, staggered backward and collapsed to the ground. Blood ebbed from her cut, seeping onto the wooden floor, absorbed by the boards. Mixing with the blood of those of the past. She slid her finger through it. Smeared it. Brought it to her lips and tasted. Moaned.

Aye, this was what she needed.

Her sex throbbed for more. She needed the satisfaction, the release only a victim could give her. Then she could go on for days. Perhaps even a sennight.

She crawled to the iron maiden in the corner. Stark wood and iron. There was a man in there. One of the victims of the lake. She’d fished him out herself. Saved him.

He owed her. He was her beloved now. Her new guest.

Beatrice stood and unlatched the six hooks that held her precious maiden closed. Opening her up as wide as she was going to spread her own thighs.

The man gasped as the thin spikes that just barely pierced his skin slid free. He glanced down at her with fear and gratitude.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

“My mistress,” he choked out.

Beatrice held out her hand. “I am your mistress, and you must do my bidding.” The world spun and her nipples tightened.

“Aye, mistress, anything.” He coughed hard, his dry throat not used to speaking. He’d been in there a while.

“Clean yourself immediately, and then I require you to perform.”

“Perform?”

“Do not question your mistress.” She pointed toward the basin and cloth. “Strip.”

The beaten warrior dragged himself to the basin, stripped of his filthy garb and began to scrub himself.

“Nice and clean, for I do not like to be fucked by a filthy animal.”

He glanced at her, his eyes widening.

“Oh, dear,” she said with a little laugh. “Did you think I had another duty for you? Poor thing.”

When he finished cleaning, she ordered him to lie down on the rush pallet. Then she climbed on top of him.

“Do not disappoint me,” she warned.

His eyes burned with a fever she wasn’t sure was passion or delirium, and she truly did not care. What pleased her was his hard and thick cock thrusting up inside her. She took his hands and pressed one to her breast and the other to her bleeding thigh.

“Fuck me hard, you little bastard.”

FROM somewhere within the castle came a painful bellow. It echoed off the stones, flowed through every open window, sounding otherworldly, in a haze that encompassed the castle.

They stood in the center of the courtyard, their backs momentarily facing away from Gowp, who was about to be executed.

“What was that?” Victor asked, for once looking shaken. His gaze flicked from the imposing castle walls to the sky to Macrath.

Served the bastard right. Ceana was proud Macrath had ignored his brother’s threats, telling him he’d deal with him later and that as long as he was prince, Victor would need to heed his word or be tossed in the dungeon. And that if he did not vacate the land, the latter would be his future.

They knew Victor’s threats had to be false, given the council had not mentioned it during their traitorous conversation. More likely, Victor had decided while on his way back to Argyll that he’d rather take his chances on Sìtheil. He was greedy. He wanted to rule now—and their sire was a hardy man who would live to see many more years.

But they couldn’t discount the threat altogether either.

Aye, Victor had backed down easily enough when Macrath grabbed him by his throat and squeezed, but that didn’t mean he was giving up forever.

They could put nothing past Leticia. She would most likely send a daily missive to the king expressing her outrage at Macrath’s elevated position. When she finally did arrive at Argyll, she’d lie to her husband and tell him that Victor was going to rule Sìtheil instead, or some other such nonsense the two of them had most likely schemed up.

While escorting Victor to his horse, because Macrath had banished him from the castle, they’d come across the quickly built pyre for Gowp’s execution. The guards and clan were ready. They waited in clusters around the thick stake jutting from the ground surrounded with piled wood. Almost all of them avoided the stocks where Gowp was still pinned. Marrec held a torch, ready to set the heap of timber into flames.

Ceana wasn’t ready. She felt mostly nauseated, but kept her face void of emotion. She leaned a little against Macrath, needing his strength.

“The spirits call to you, my laird,” his guard said.

“They do not sound pleased,” Macrath answered.

Marrec shrugged. “When they call, they always sound in pain. ’Haps it is a spirit from Hades wishing to take Gowp now.”

Ceana rather doubted it. The scream had been real. So real. It came from inside the castle. She noted that the royal council was absent. Was Beatrice now killing Leonard and the others? Tormenting them with her forsaken games?

Ceana glanced around the crowd of clan members. They were equally divided into those who trembled with fear at the sorrowful wails, and those who nodded with pleasure, believing a demon had finally come to take Gowp down to the dark, fiery depths where dragons breathed and evil thrived.

“We are ready,” Macrath said. He signaled for the guards beside their prisoner.

They yanked the nail from Gowp’s ear amid the man’s howls of pain. Blood covered the side of his face, and urine stained his plaid and woolen socks.

Gowp was forced to climb over the pile of wood until he reached a thick stump. They yanked his arms behind the stake, tying him tightly, and doing the same to his ankles, just above the knees and around his chest.

“Marrec will set the flames,” Ceana murmured, seeing no one else holding a torch.

“I am the executioner,” Macrath said, his voice heavy with some unexpressed emotion.

Ceana fisted her hands in the skirt of her gown to keep from pressing them to her lips in dismay. “I cannot allow you to do that.”

Though it was not unusual for the chief of a clan to execute his enemies, it was common for him to have his own executioner, as well—especially if he was also a prince.

“Let Marrec do it. Fire burns in his hand and in his eyes. He wants to. You cannot do this. Already you bear the price of many souls,” Ceana said.

“One more will not make a difference, love.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead then stepped forward, his palm open for Marrec to pass the torch. “We gather here today to punish a traitor. A violator of the laws of the gods and of humanity. What say you, Gowp? Do you beg for forgiveness? Do you confess?”

Shivers stole over Ceana as Macrath changed. His expression was different, his mannerisms different. In the face of this insufferable task, he easily put away the man she knew him to truly be. ’Twas frightening.

This was a different façade than the fighter in him. They’d battled together day after day, and yet she’d still not seen this side of him. Alarming as it was, she was grateful he was capable of such a change. She supposed that being able to switch in and out of moods would help him heal from having to dispatch of this vile creature.

“I confess nothing.” Gowp sneered from his place upon the block. “I did nothing wrong.”

“Even in the eyes of Hades you are guilty, and you shall forfeit your life for it.”

“Kiss my arse, Bastard.”

Macrath laughed, a cruel, cold sound. “I’ll not be doing that. But I will gladly rid you of breath.” With that, he touched the torch to the pyre. A tiny spark smoldered and caught. He moved around the pile, lighting it in several places. Gowp screamed though the flames had yet to touch him.

Smoke rose, licking the flames and climbing over every inch of the wood until the first bit of fire touched Gowp’s boots. They burned—not yet lighting, but smoking and turning black first.

The man screamed and screamed and screamed as the fire consumed him.

Ceana somehow managed to keep her eyes open, and to keep from swaying, though she felt dangerously close to fainting.

What was happening to her? She’d once been fierce, could have handled this. Hadn’t she killed a man before even entering the games? Aye, she’d killed her brother’s murderer. An eye for an eye. This was the same.

Then why did she feel so terrible about it?

It was because it was so prolonged. The deaths she’d dealt before had been swift.