Not Mine to Give (3 page)

“Milady.” Duncan spoke in a loud clear voice and focused his gaze on the woman kneeling at his feet. “You have not failed. Only your death would mean failure. You will not be blamed for giving up the crown.”

She looked up at him, her deep blue eyes filled with pain and torment. Duncan silently pleaded with her to abandon her attempt to save the Bishop’s Crown.

“I cannot.”

“I will have the crown! It’s here and I will have it, or you, my lady, will wish to hell you had never deceived me so.” Bolton raised his hand and the leather strap cut through the
air with a snap.

Her shoulders jerked and Duncan heard her gasp. He watched in horror as a long red stripe stained a frayed tear across her back. “Give him the crown, milady.” Duncan struggled at the straps that bound him to the pole until he felt warm blood trickle down his fingers from the cuts around his wrists. What in God’s name was she doing? “There is no need to do this, lass. Give him the crown.”

She hung her head and moved it from side to side.

Bolton muttered a vile curse, then issued an order to his guards. “Tie her. Against the wall.”

Duncan fought against the straps that bound him. “Nay!” Dear God, he prayed, don’t let him do this.

One of Bolton’s men picked her up and pushed her against the wall while the other secured her wrists. When finished, they both stood back.

“I want the crown, my lady.”

Duncan raised his eyes to heaven, imploring God to help him. “Give him the crown, milady. I beg of you. Give him the crown.”

Her voice was small yet firm; her words in Gaelic so Bolton would not understand; her meaning a cut through his heart. “I am no more able to give him the crown than you are.”

His heart flew to his throat as he focused his gaze on the small figure. She’d closed her eyes and stood with her cheek pressed against the cold, damp stone wall. When the first snap of the whip cut through the air, her body jerked and a tiny gasp echoed in the cell.

Duncan fought to get loose with all his might. Violent waves of anger crashed against his ears. His head spun in black confusion. Again and again he bellowed for Bolton to stop, but his demands went unanswered. With unerring accuracy, the whip snapped, flaying her flesh until her gown was soaked with blood.

“My lord! My lord! Hurry. We must leave.”

Bolton’s steward burst into the cell and the earl flicked his wrist for the final time. “What now, Garret?”

“Ferguson’s men. They’ve crossed the stream and are almost to the top of the ridge.”

“Have my men get ready. We’ll fight them here.”

“It’s too late. The men are already leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Yes, my lord. The Fergusons have not come alone. There’s a huge army behind them. We must leave now or there will be no chance to escape.”

Bolton gave a vile curse, then fled the small cell, his steward and the two guards in his wake.

Duncan dropped his head back against the rough pole and let his chest heave as he struggled to fill his body with air. He worried not that his own body was bloody and bruised. He cared only for the brave lady who had kissed his lips and caressed his cheek.

He wrapped his fingers around the metal in his fist and held it tight. William Bolton would die. ‘Twas a vow he made to God on his honor as a Scot.

“Holy Mother of God!”

Malcolm
MacInnes of clan Ferguson burst through the cell opening with sword drawn and dagger ready. Gregor and Balfour flanked him, one on either side. The sight of them together with the Ferguson plaid over their left shoulders was a vision Duncan had waited to behold.

For more than an hour he had pushed away the darkness his mind wished to consume him and stared at the limp figure hanging from straps on the wall while he waited for his clansmen to reach them. He had welcomed the soft moans she’d made at first. At least he knew she still lived. But there had been no sound from her still body for a long time now.

Malcolm and Gregor rushed to cut their laird from the pole, then supported him when he leaned against them. Balfour went to Lady MacIntyre but stopped, not certain how best to free her.

“Do
na touch her.” Duncan stood with the help of the two men, thankful they were both more than average in size. There were not many he’d trust to support his massive bulk. “I will take her.”

“You do
na have the strength to hold yourself, Duncan Ferguson,” Malcolm scolded. “I’ve been at your right hand for all this time. Let me do your bidding here, too.”

“Not in this. No one will hold her, save me.”

Malcolm nodded to his laird, then stood at Duncan’s side where he had been for ten years and more as Balfour cut the straps holding her.

Lady
MacIntyre crumpled into Duncan’s arms and he held her slight form to his chest. He felt a soft whisper of air from her lips when he rested her head under his chin.

“Please, my lord. Do not leave me… in the dark. Not… in the dark.” The sigh she uttered against his neck was weak, but it was all Duncan needed to hear. She was still alive.

“Nay, milady. I will na leave you in the dark.”

Blood still ran down his arms and the open slashes on his chest and back burned like the fires of hell, but Malcolm’s steadying hand was there to support him.

“Is she still breathing?” Malcolm’s question was sincere. By looking at her it was impossible to tell for sure.

“Aye. She will
na die. I will na let her.”

Duncan looked down on her and a gnarled hand twisted his heart in his chest. None of the lashes had touched her face. He didn’t think he could stand knowing her beauty had been marred because of him. “
Gregor, find Angus. Have him bring his salves with him.”

The young clansman nodded, then ran to do his laird’s bidding.

Twice on their way from the dungeon, Duncan staggered, and twice more he halted to catch his breath.
Sweat ran down his face, stinging the cuts above and below his eyes, but still he climbed one step after another until they were out of the darkness of the dungeon. Neither Malcolm nor Balfour offered to take the English woman from their laird’s arms. They knew it would be of no use.

When they reached the great hall of
Kilgern Castle, a large number of MacIntyre serfs and clansmen rushed to see to their mistress. Loud, muffled cries of dismay echoed in the large hall as the women dabbed at their eyes and held their hands to their faces. The few men still at the castle, mostly the old and feeble, hung their heads, ashamed they’d been unable to protect their laird’s wife.

Only one woman, an English woman by her dress, probably the mistress’s handmaiden, braved to go near her lady. Without a word, she glanced at the woman in his arms, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, ran ahead of the Ferguson to lead the way to her lady’s chamber.

Duncan carried the mistress of Castle Kilgern up the next set of steps, then through the opening and laid her on the bed. Before he had time to peel the blood-soaked gown from her back, the door to the chamber opened and Angus Kilbride burst into the room. Like a roiling thundercloud that darkened the sky on a clear, spring day, he charged forward, scattering everyone in his path.

He closed the distance in three easy strides and stopped in front of his laird, giving Duncan’s wounds an evaluative glance, then gazed down on the bed. Thick, bushy brows met to form a nearly solid line above dark gray eyes that had seen more than his share of wounds in his fifty-odd years. Harsh crevices deepened when a fearsome frown covered his face. He set his bag of salves on the edge of the bed and wiped his hand over his shaggy white beard. “Malcolm, get your laird a seat. I have better things to do with my time than pick the master’s large carcass up off the floor.”

As if the order had been given by the laird himself, a stool suddenly appeared. Duncan sat while the white-haired giant lifted a frayed edge of the lady’s gown.

“Do your knees hit the floor at the sight of blood, woman?” Angus asked Lady
MacIntyre’s handmaiden.

The servant shook her head.

“Glad I am to hear it.” In a loud, booming voice, he issued his orders. He wanted plenty of warm water, plenty of clean cloths and a tankard of ale. A half dozen servants rushed from the room to do his bidding, then he turned and pointed a weathered finger at the door. “The rest of you leave us be and go about your business.”

Everyone filed out of the room save Duncan and Malcolm and the mistress’ servant called Edith. When they were alone, Angus took his dagger and slit the lady’s gown and laid it open.

The breath froze in Duncan’s throat and he tightened his fist around the Ferguson medallion.

“Is the bastard who did this still alive?” Angus asked.

“He is.”

“Then I will be at your side when you ride after him and it will be my sword that opens him wide after you have run him through. I need to see what kind of heart beats inside such an animal.”

Duncan nodded. He couldn’t lift his gaze from the lady’s back. He had seen enough open wounds and severed limbs in battle to become hardened to the sight of blood, but never had the flayed flesh been that of a woman. A woman who was close to death because of him.

Angus dipped a cloth in the basin of warm water that had been placed on the table by her bed and touched it to her skin. Lady
MacIntyre moaned softly. “Keep a hold on your mistress,” Angus ordered, then touched the cloth to her skin again.

Duncan wiped the sweat from his face then rubbed the
heels of his hands against his eyes. Days of no food, or water, or sleep, plus the toll of his wounds on his body made him light-headed and unable to focus his eyes.

Angus laid a clean wet cloth over her back, then opened his sack and placed three large jars on the table. No one knew the contents of the many jars he carried, and no one was allowed to get close enough while he mixed his potions to guess their ingredients. All anyone knew for certain was that the mixtures contained magic healing powers.

“What think you?” Duncan pushed himself to the edge of his seat and tried to stand.
He sank back down and lowered his head to his hands until the room stopped spinning.

“I think the lass was either
verra brave or verra foolish to try to save you by herself. I’m not sure you’re worth the price she paid.”

Duncan rubbed his hand over his face. It was terribly warm in the lady’s room. The guilt eating at him made it feel warmer. He owed her. He owed an English.

“’Twas not wise for you to ride to Kilgern Castle alone.”

Duncan stiffened his shoulders and glared at the man who had been as a father to him. “I will
na answer to you, Angus.”

“Aye. You are the laird of clan Ferguson now. You do
na need to answer to any man. But you should na have ridden out without your men at your side, and well you know it.”

Duncan knew Angus was right.

He should have taken Malcolm and his clansmen when he left Lochmore Castle, but the sight of his slain family and the destruction of his home caused something to snap deep inside him. The bastard Englishman had taken the Ferguson medallion from around his father’s neck, and Duncan had come to enlist Ian’s help in getting it back. As soon as he’d crossed onto MacIntyre land, he’d regretted his decision and wished to have Malcolm at his side.

“Stop your talking, old man. My father granted you too many liberties with your mouth and now I suffer for it.”

“Your father recognized my wise counsel,” Angus said, lifting the cloth from her back and touching the first deep cut with the smelly salve.

Duncan rose from his stool when the lady moaned.

“Put your backside down on that seat, milord,” Angus ordered Duncan. “There is nothing you can do to help. Malcolm, give your laird this tankard of ale. See that he drinks it all. It will help to soothe his bitter tongue.”

Duncan took the tankard Malcolm handed him and drank. He did not care for the sweet taste of the ale, but he had such a thirst he drank it all to the bottom.

“Malcolm, help me stand,” Duncan ordered when the lady moaned again in pain. He attempted to rise but was unable to gain his balance. The light in the room slowly dimmed and Duncan leaned back in his seat as a strange sensation washed over him. In a moment more the stiffness and pain eased from his body.

“Malcolm,” Angus ordered without ceasing his ministrations.
“Do na leave your laird’s side. ‘Tis time to call for Gregor and Balfour to help you.”

Duncan felt his head fall to his chest as if he’d lost all power to hold it up. His legs were weak as a babe’s and his arms as limp as a doll’s. He struggled to stay in the light, but darkness came at him from every side. “Angus!” he bellowed as the empty cup dropped to the floor. “What have you…”

The laird of clan Ferguson slumped in his seat and Malcolm held him while he called for Gregor and Balfour to help carry their master to a bed. “You know there will be all forms of hell to pay when our laird wakes up, do you na, Angus?”

“Aye, Malcolm. But the mistress is coming back to us.
‘Tis better he does na hear her screams.”

Malcolm and Balfour and
Gregor carried their laird to his room. It took the strength of all three. They stripped him of his boots and after Balfour and Gregor left, Malcolm washed the blood and grime from his laird’s body then covered him with the Ferguson plaid. Angus would tend him when he finished with the lady.

Malcolm looked at his friend, deep in slumber, and breathed a heavy sigh. He had grown up with Duncan and loved him as a brother. He had been the first to kneel before him and swear fealty to his new laird when they rode back to
Lochmore Castle and found Duncan’s father slain. On that day he had sworn to protect his laird with his life. He had almost failed.

Instead, Duncan’s life had been saved by the lady. An English. They would wait to see how their laird abided his indebtedness to the enemy.

…

Light from dozens of candles lit the chamber as brightly as if it were day. She wasn’t awake, yet she knew the brightness wasn’t from the sun. Just as she knew he was with her. She could feel him beside her. Feel his flesh touch her flesh when he held her hand. Hear his soft voice whisper words that
bound her to him.

She wanted to die. The pain was so great she wanted to let go of the fragile web that trapped her in his world. But each time she came close to loosening her hold on life, he brought her back. His words pulled her out of the darkness and brought her closer to the light. Light that made the pain easier to bear. But she couldn’t stay in the light long before the darkness consumed her again.

…

She pried one eye open a small slit then let it fall shut again. She didn’t know how long she’d slept, but sensed it had been days. Maybe more. When she was able to keep her eyes open, she realized she was flat on her stomach. To lift her head without moving any other part of her body almost required more strength than she could find.

She opened her eyes again and watched the flames as they flickered and danced against the stone wall. The movements cast eerie shadows in the silent confusion of her mind that she couldn’t comprehend.

He was still here with her. She didn’t have to search to find him, she just knew her Scot was there. He’d put salve on her back and held a wet cloth to her lips so she could drink. He’d held her down when she’d thrashed from one side of the bed to the other to escape the pain.

As if he was aware that she was awake, he knelt beside the bed to bring his face level with hers.

He was close shaven now and his clothes were clean, but the bruises on his face still turned his cheeks and eyes a darkish tint of green.

“Good day, milady.” He held a wet cloth to her dry lips and she sucked a small amount of moisture. “I’m glad you are awake.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come out.

“Do na try to talk. It’s too soon.”

He poured a small amount of ale into a metal goblet and an equal amount of broth into another. “It’s important that you have some nourishment. Angus said you must take this to get back your strength.”

He moved the cups closer and sat on the edge of the bed. “I will lift your head so you can drink. There will be pain when I move you.”

He lifted her shoulders and turned her enough so she could get the liquid into her mouth. His movements were tender and careful and though she tried to be brave, she couldn’t stop the moan that echoed in the chamber.