Let Me Be Your Hero (18 page)

“Aye.”

“Oh, I wish I were going,” she said, “for I have longed to ride that way.”

“Next time,” Kenna said. “Come, sisters, and help me dress.”

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread
,

And having once turned round walks on
,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows, a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834),

British poet.

Lyrical Ballads
“The Rime of the Ancient

Mariner” (1798)

C
laire opened her mouth to speak, but someone must have been waiting behind the door, for she heard a noise behind her. She started to turn, when something swooped down and over her head, and the world went dark.

She was thrown to the floor, and the air was knocked from her lungs.

“Make certain the bindings are secure,” Lord Walter said. “We dinna want her wiggling loose.”

“Aye, she willna get loose, your lordship, I can promise ye that.”

She did not recognize the voice of the other man who yanked her arms behind her. She was wrapped in something—a plaid more than likely—and her body was tied and bound, snug as a moth in a cocoon.

It was an odd sensation to feel her body hoisted upward, and then the jarring motions of movement as she was carried where she knew not. She only knew Lord Walter was at the bottom of it, and wondered what he had in mind. She prayed her final destination was not going to be the bottom of the loch.

She winced with pain when she was lowered, and then dropped roughly to the ground or something hard, at least. She landed shoulder first and cried out at the excruciating pain.

Soft voices were speaking Gaelic, but they were spoken too softly for her to have any understanding of whom the voices belonged to. The sound of someone walking across rocky terrain overrode the voices completely, and then the crunching steps stopped.

It was eerily quiet, and she found it did strange things to her mind to lie helplessly out in the open, unable to see who or what was about. Never had she felt so vulnerable.

“Take her.”

Airborne again, she heard the splash of water, and then the sensation of being lowered to a surface that gently rocked from side to side. The next thing she heard was the sound of the water in the loch slapping against the side of a boat. She was leaving Inchmurrin.

“No, ye willna…ye willna….”

Briana’s words came back to haunt her, and she tried to think if there was something she could have
done, even if she had known, as Briana seemed to, that she would not return to the company of her sisters. Would her absence be permanent?

Homesickness settled like a heavy stone within her and weighted her spirits down. Would she ever again see the beloved tower of Lennox Castle again, or feel the loving embrace of her sisters? The burn of tears stung her nose, but she forced them back by remembering the things her father taught her.
I am the Earl of Lennox. I am the laird of my clan and the head of my family. The memory of my father still rules my spirit, and I am the thread that follows the needle. They willna make me cry. I do not break, nor will I allow my faith to falter because some men are ruled by the dark side of life. I may be only a woman in some eyes, but they err who think that brands me weak.

I am not a weakling. I will defend…

I will defend…the motto of Clan Lennox. The very thought of it caused the blood to surge within her. She was only one link in the chain, but she was determined not to be the weakest one.

Lord Walter underestimated her if he thought he could force her to sign away her heritage. Did he not know that the old Celtic earls of Lennox were once the ancient Celtic Mormaers of Levenax, or that they commanded the Vale of Leven, the River Leven, and the great lake the ancients called Lochleven, now called Loch Lomond? Did he not know that their blood had soaked the land there for centuries, since they first fought the Danes hundreds of years ago? Did he truly think that she, knowing all these things and more, would give him what he wanted?

She would rather die along with her sisters and see
the title revert to the crown than fall into the hands of Isobel and Lord Walter, because she knew that once he had the Lennox title and wealth in his hands she and her sisters would all meet with death.

In a way, Claire was glad this had happened, for she felt it was the prod she needed to fight back. As plainly as if he were sitting beside her, Claire heard her father’s voice speak the familiar Gaelic words he taught all of his children:
“Cuimhnichibh air na daoine bho’n d’thainig sibh.”

Remember the people whom you come from….

With a rejuvenated heart, she felt a sense of peace—not that it would be easy, but she was of sound mind and stout heart, and would follow the right path no matter what. With that thought to comfort her, she drifted off to sleep.

Later, when she awoke, she knew by the cooler temperature that it was dark. She longed to stretch her muscles, for her body was stiff and numb from being in one position for so long.

Footsteps grew louder. Someone approached, then paused. Her bindings were loosened and the hood pulled back. She could only see the dark silhouette of a man—not Lord Walter, but one of his ilk. A hand slipped behind her head. A voice she did not recall hearing before said, “Drink.” A cup was pressed to her lips and clanked against her teeth.

She was thirsty and drank greedily, even though the water had a bitter taste that overrode the taste of metal. When the cup was emptied, she was gagged and the hood was pulled back over her head. She was bound once more, but she did not have the sensation of it being as tightly done, or as painful this time. Nor did
she care, for she felt drowsy and warm, as if she were floating.

“Load her in the cart.” She identified the voice as familiar, but her brain was too fuzzy to do more. She closed her eyes, and was mercifully out cold by the time she was roughly tossed in the back of a small cart.

She had no way of knowing how much time had transpired between the time she closed her eyes and when she awoke with a nauseous lurch of her stomach. She realized she was dangling, head down, over the back of someone, as if she had no more worth or weight than a common sack of barley.

She was jarred and jostled, and carried she knew not where. She only knew that no attention was given to the discomfort it caused her, or the grinding pain as her ribs thumped against a hard-boned shoulder with each jolting step. If not for the gag that bound her, she would have cried out in pain.

The scent of the sea penetrated the hood even before she heard the mournful cry of seabirds and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

“Give her something to drink.” She recognized the voice and knew Lord Walter’s accompanying her meant only one thing: she was being kidnapped, probably to some unknown and isolated place where he could take his time trying to bend her to his will, using whatever means he chose.

Pity he did not remove her gag, else she would have told him it was a waste of time, for she was not the naive girl she once was when she refused to believe Fraser when he tried to warn her about Isobel and Lord Walter.
Ye were right, Fraser, and it is sorry I am I turned against ye and did not believe what ye said.

Their brief words came back to haunt her:

“’Tis the Lennox wealth they are after, Claire. Can ye not see that, lass? Do ye not understand that they had a hand in the death of yer father and yer brothers? When you begin to see the truth in that, then I ken ye will see why it is important for them to ruin things between ye and me. Once I am gone, ye will be free to marry Giles. Surely ye see that Giles is too weak to withstand Lord Walter and Isobel’s plotting.”

“What are you saying, Fraser? That they will murder ye?”

“Aye, I ken they will, just like they did Kendrew.”

“Kendrew was ill, with the fever.”

“Kendrew was poisoned.”

“You lie!”

He looked at her sadly. “How many deaths will it take, Claire? How many loved ones will you bury afore ye see the truth?”

The memory vanished then, for someone called out,
“Greas ort!”

Hurry up…

It was Lord Walter’s voice, she realized, and Claire gave a start at the sound of his voice telling his men to move quickly. Evidently he was losing patience, which could bode ill for her.

Someone yanked the hood back. She blinked against the blinding brightness of the sun. The gag was ripped from her mouth, and because it had dried, it tore some of the skin of her lower lip, and she made a slight grimace against the pain. When a cup clanked against her teeth, she turned her head.

“No, I don’t want more…please…”

Someone grabbed her by the hair. Her scalp burned
when her head was wrenched back. She looked into the peculiarly arched nostrils of Lord Walter. “Drink it down to the last drop, or I will send one of these miserable lads back to bring your sisters so that they might share your fate.”

The cup was rammed against her mouth and water sloshed over the rim. She was so exhausted and thirsty by this point she decided sleep was preferable to the treatment she had endured thus far, and she drank the contents of the cup, not knowing if it was another sleeping draft, or poison.

The last thing she remembered for some time was the sound of Lord Walter’s voice. “Put her on board.”

A boat, she thought. It was the last coherent thought she remembered.

She had no inkling of the passage of time, only the vague recollection of the cup being put to her mouth at least two more times. Slowly, she was becoming aware of her surroundings—the feel of sea air on her face, the stiffness of her limbs, the headache that pounded like an angry surf against her temples, and the wretched taste of the sleeping draft in her mouth.

It was at this point when she realized both the hood and the gag had been removed. She took a quick glance around the boat and spotted the silhouettes of two men standing at the wheel. She did not see Lord Walter, and surmised he might have gone below.

She lay unmoving and silent, and stared at the full moon and stars overhead, not wanting to draw any attention to the fact she was awake, for fear they would force the draft down her again. Her stomach grew mutinous from both hunger and the effects of the sleeping potion she knew she had been given.

She was weak from hunger, yet the thought of food nauseated her. She licked her lips and felt the crust of blood where the gag had torn her skin. She closed her eyes. Perhaps sleep was the best way after all.

She awoke some time later when someone put a hand on her breast and began to squeeze. She was too groggy and weak to display much of a reaction, but she did attempt to roll over, when the sound of Lord Walter’s voice cut through the air.

“I’ll no’ warn ye again. If you so much as look at her wrong, I’ll cut yer throat.”

Again? Claire shuddered to think that someone had touched her while she slept. She was thankful that Lord Walter had not sunk quite that low—at least not yet.

She did not know how much time had transpired before someone put a hand to her shoulder and began to shake her roughly. She barely opened her eyes when she felt a hand snake around her waist. Her wrist was caught in a painfully tight grip and she was yanked upright, into a sitting position.

She did not know the man, although she had some recollection of having heard the voice shortly after she was abducted. She thought no more upon it, for all the laudanum she had been given was having an adverse effect upon her. Wave after wave of nausea churned her stomach. She was going to be sick. She no more than thought it, when her head was shoved forward to the railing and she heaved violently into the sea.

When the nausea subsided, she was pulled back and a cup came toward her. She turned her head and said weakly, “No more. Please, I canna…”

“Stop yer blithering. ’Tis almond milk. ’Twill ease yer stomach.”

Her head was yanked around and she gazed down into the cup. The scent of almonds wafted upward and she inhaled the familiar scent. It was at this point that she realized her hands were no longer bound. Her hands were shaking badly as she brought the cup to her lips, and she had only the faintest recognition of the deep bruises and crusted blood that covered her wrists before she took her first hesitant sips.

When she finished, she handed the cup back to the same sharp-nosed man who gave it to her. His hand slithered around the cup and curled tightly over her fingers. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held her fingers trapped firmly against the cup, and in her weakened state, she had precious little strength to display.

She looked him in the eye and said, “Release my hand…”

“What’s yer hurry, lass? We’ve a way to go yet, and time to become better acquainted, ye ken?” He pulled a small bottle out of his pocket.
“A bheil thu g iarraidh uisge-beatha?”

Her stomach revolted at the thought of it. She shook her head. “No, no whisky.”

“One little drink… What’s the harm? ’Twill warm ye.”

“No,” she said, only this time, more firmly.

The moon was bright enough that she could easily see the lustful leer, and the way he licked his lips in an indecent manner when he forced the bottle against her lips.

Disgusted as well as repulsed, she turned her head away. Never had she been so humiliated, and never had anyone dared look at her in such a lascivious
way. Had she not been in this situation with Lord Walter, he would not have dared such disrespect.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a blur of movement, and then everything passed quickly after that. Lord Walter suddenly appeared, and Claire could only watch what happened next with horrible disbelief.

With a flick of his wrist, and a flash of moonlight on metal, he sliced the man’s throat.

Blood spurted from the artery. Claire screamed, “Dear Mother of God, ye have killed him.”

Calm and poised, without so much as a ripple of remorse, Lord Walter released the man with a shove. Claire watched his limp body disappear over the side with a splash.