Never Love a Highlander (14 page)

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.

C
HAPTER
15

“My lady! My lady!”

It took all Rionna’s effort to raise her head and stare ahead, though she couldn’t make out who was yelling. Her right eye was nearly swollen shut and her vision was blurry out of the other one. Her ears still rung from the blows she’d received.

“Dear God, lass, what happened to you?”

“Hugh,” she whispered. She made a feeble attempt to hold the tattered tunic to her breasts.

“Aye, lass, ’tis Hugh. Tell me what happened.”

She licked her lips and tasted blood. “Men.” Her voice was raspy, barely recognizable. Her throat was swollen from the attacker’s grip. “Came across the brook.”

“To arms!” Hugh roared.

Rionna pitched forward, the last of her strength gone as she listened to Hugh shout orders for the men to get to their horses.

“Rionna!”

Gentle hands touched her shoulders and carefully turned her. Then shoved the mass of hair from her swollen face.

“Oh, lass,” Sarah moaned. “What has happened to you?”

“C-Cold. Help me inside.”

“Nay, don’t move. I’ll have one of the men carry you. Does anything feel broken?”

For some reason Rionna found amusement in that. She grinned crookedly and promptly regretted moving any part of her mouth. “Just my face.”

“Mangan, come carry your mistress to her chamber,” Sarah ordered.

Rionna groaned when she was lifted by the burly warrior.

“ ’Tis sorry I am, lass,” Mangan said gruffly. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’m fine, Mangan. Just a little bruised.”

“ ’Tis disgraceful for a man to abuse a woman so,” he growled.

“Aye, ’tis,” she whispered. She shivered, remembering Caelen’s reaction to her father striking her. He would be furious when he learned of the attack.

Mangan bore her inside and up the stairs, with Sarah and several serving women following along the entire way.

“Put her on the bed. Careful now!” Sarah said briskly. “Neda, fetch me warm water and rags and have hot water brought up for the lass to have a bath. She’s going to catch a chill. Mangan, bring up wood for the fire. I need a brisk flame to warm her.”

Rionna sank onto the bed and moaned softly. Now that she was safe and inside the keep, the battle to remain conscious was lost. The room grew dimmer and dimmer, and despite Sarah’s attempt to keep her awake darkness crowded in and she let go with a weak sigh.

“ ’Tis a fine shot you made,” Caelen said to James as he stood over the fallen stag. “Your father is right. You’ve a steady aim with a bow.”

The younger man grinned in acknowledgment. “That makes two. Three, counting the stag we sent back to the keep. One more and ’twill be enough meat for many weeks to come.”

“Aye, perhaps on the morrow we’ll down another one. ’Tis getting dark. We should seek a place to camp for the night and start a fire.”

Little more than an hour later, the men sat in front of a warm fire with one leg of the stag roasting over the flames. Simon pulled a piece from the bone with his knife and tossed it toward Caelen.

Caelen took a bite and nodded in approval. “ ’Tis a fine piece of venison.”

Simon carved pieces for the rest of the men until the bone was picked clean. Gannon hunkered down next to Caelen and leaned back against the log.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been on a long hunt. All I’ve done of late is trail after difficult women.”

Caelen snorted and coughed as a piece of meat got stuck in his throat. Gannon pounded him on the back and both laughed.

“ ’Tis the truth I didn’t envy your duty,” Caelen said ruefully. “I took my turn at trailing after Mairin. ’Tis not something I want to do again. I oft wondered what bad thing you’d done to make my brothers choose you to look after their women.”

Gannon shook his head. “And I’ve oft wondered if Cormac got himself married just to avoid the duty.”

Caelen chuckled. “ ’Tis possible, I suppose. You have to admit Mairin ran him ragged.”

Simon took a seat on the other side of Caelen as the rest of the men settled around the fire. “Tell me something, Laird. Do we stand a chance against the might of Duncan Cameron’s army? Would we even be in his sights if we hadn’t allied ourselves with your kin?”

Caelen’s eyes narrowed at the innuendo. “Gregor approached us because he feared Cameron. This alliance was at his instigation.”

“But you benefit.”