The Border Lord and the Lady (15 page)

In the wagon bed Cicely began to shake off the bonds of unconsciousness. She struggled to make some sense of what had happened to her, of where she was. She could feel motion beneath her, hear the muffled drone of voices nearby. Opening her eyes, she tried to look about her, but her vision was blocked by the sack in which she realized she was now confined. She moved her limbs gingerly. With relief she realized she had not been bound. Carefully she began to stretch herself, and her head pushed from the sack.

Wiggling as quietly as she could, she freed herself of the confines of the rough pouch, realizing as she did so that she had been placed beneath a heap of straw. She stifled a sneeze, freezing momentarily to be certain her captors were not aware she was now awake and alert. Then in a flash it came back to her: She had been at Mistress Marjory’s shop choosing lace and silk ribbons for the queen when two masked men had burst into the room. One of the men had hit her on her jaw when she sought to flee.

Cicely reached up and winced as her fingers touched her face. Her jaw hurt. She would be bruised, she realized. But what on earth was this all about? And why was she in some conveyance beneath a pile of straw being driven . . . where? What could these men want of her? She felt the wagon begin to slow down and, realizing that when it stopped she would have an opportunity to flee these villains, she tensed, waiting. The vehicle had only just ceased its motion when Cicely burst up from beneath the straw covering her and, seeing that the wagon in which she had been transported had no barrier in its rear, leaped from it and began to run. Exiting the little grove of trees, she turned quickly, hiked up her gown, and sped back along the narrow track that the wagon had followed.

“Jesu and Mary!” a male voice roared, and then she heard the sound of boots pounding behind her.

Cicely’s legs pumped hard as she ran. Her throat began to burn as her lungs frantically drew in gulps of cold air in her effort to elude her captors. Her caul came loose, and her hair billowed out behind her. She screamed as a hand caught her by her long tresses, yanking her backwards. Spinning about, she flailed at the big man, feeling a small satisfaction as one of her balled fists made hard contact with his cheek, but she cried out as pain shot through her hand.

“Jesu, woman, give over!” Ian Douglas said.

“Let me go, you villain!” Cicely shouted at him as she attempted to hit him again. “I am Lady Cicely Bowen, daughter of the Earl of Leighton, friend to Queen Joan. You will hang for this affront! Take your filthy hands off of me at once!”

The laird of Glengorm ducked her blow and, tucking her beneath his arm, smacked her backside a hard blow. “Be silent, you little harridan,” he said in a fierce tone.

Cicely shrieked her outrage, for the blow stung even through her gown. “How dare you strike me! Ohhh, now you are certain to hang, striking your better!”

He set her down and, taking her hand in his, the laird said, “Now, madam, you are going to get on your horse and ride with us. I will have no more of your rebellious behavior.” The lass was spirited, Ian thought, pleased. She would give him strong sons.

In response to his words Cicely yanked his hand up and bit it as hard as she could. “Go to the devil, villain!” she shouted. “I’m going nowhere with you!” Then, as he pulled his hand from hers with a roar of pained surprise, Cicely turned once again and began to run as fast as she could.

Fergus Douglas stood, rooted in amazement at the battle raging between his brother and the lass Ian claimed to love. In spite of himself he found himself admiring the lady. But then his sibling took three long steps, catching up with Cicely, and, picking her up, threw her facedown over the horse he had brought for her. While Cicely struggled and screamed, attempting to escape him once more, the
laird tied both her hands and her feet together. Then, taking a piece of silk cloth from his saddlebag, he gagged her, muffling her shrieks.

“Gently, Ian, gently,” Fergus cautioned. “She’s just a wee lass, after all.”

“She’s got a fiery spirit and will take a bit of taming,” the laird told his brother. “Mount up now, Fergus. We have a long way to go before we get home.”

“You can’t expect the lass to travel like that,” Fergus said.

“For an hour or two until she understands that I’m the master here,” Ian Douglas replied. “The vixen has sharp teeth, but at least she didn’t break the skin on my hand.” He climbed onto his stallion and, reaching down, took the lead rein of Cicely’s horse. Then he moved off, Fergus scrambling onto his own mount and following.

Cicely felt sick to her stomach. She suffered a brief bout of the dry heaves before she fainted. When she came to herself again she was being bounced about as she lay across the saddle, for they were traveling at a rapid speed now. She was dizzy, and her eyes would not focus as the horse’s hooves pounded and the ground flew by beneath her.

She could not survive traveling in this position. And she certainly couldn’t escape flung facedown over a saddle, She would have to beg for mercy, and if she got it she would have time to consider how to escape these two men. What could they want with her anyhow? “Stop! Stop! Please stop!” she called out. The gag had come loose with the motion of the horse.

Ian Douglas heard her but ignored Cicely.

“Ian, for pity’s sake, stop and let the lass up. We can tie her to the saddle so she can’t escape, but you’ll kill her if you don’t let her up.”

Ian Douglas looked back at his prisoner. Fergus was right. She was only a lass. He brought his horse and hers to a stop. “Help me then,” he called to his brother.

Together the two men lifted Cicely from her animal. The laird untied the bonds about her ankles and lifted her onto her mount again,
this time tying her legs beneath the beast. Her bound hands he retied to the pommel of the saddle. “There, is that better, Fergus?”

The younger man nodded. “Aye,” he agreed.

“Then let us be on our way again,” the laird said.

The blood drained from her head, but it took at least half an hour for Cicely’s vision to finally clear. The two men were no longer masked, and while one of them was vaguely familiar, she didn’t recognize them. Who were they, and why had they taken her?

She looked about her as they rode. The land was simply gorgeous, hills now blazing with their autumn colors. She had never seen any as bright. And once again she marveled at the abundance of lakes, rivers, and streams. Scotland was a beautiful land. But as she had noted on her travels north from England, it was also very desolate. Where was she? And where were they going?

They rode for hours, and Cicely found herself dozing, for she was suddenly exhausted. Her temples were throbbing and her body ached. She was hungry and she was thirsty. She tried to make saliva in her mouth to swallow so she might soothe her parched throat. Finally, as the sun began to sink into the western skies, they stopped in a sheltered hollow near a small stream. The two men dismounted and tethered the three horses. The one who had hit her earlier untied her legs and lifted her from her horse. Cicely couldn’t stand and, to her embarrassment, collapsed to the ground. Tears sprang into her eyes.

“Scream if you want,” the big man said to her. “But there’s no one to hear you. You’ll only frighten the horses and probably hurt your throat, my ladyfaire.” He untied her hands, wondering if she would try to hit him again.

She glared up at him. “You do understand that you are going to hang for this,” she repeated, rubbing her wrists, which had been chafed by her bonds.

He grinned down at her. “Nay,” was all he said before he sauntered off.

The other man came over to her. “I think you might be a bit more
comfortable with your back to that big boulder over there,” he said. “May I help you, my lady? And then I’ll bring you something to drink, and an oatcake to eat.”

“Thank you,” Cicely replied. This man had done her no harm, and his handsome face actually bore a look of genuine concern.

“I am called Fergus Deuce, for I am my father’s second-born,” the younger Douglas told her. Then he helped Cicely to stand, bracing her while she regained her equilibrium. “Do you think you can walk now if I help to support you?”

“I think so,” Cicely replied, leaning against him as she gingerly moved forward.

Fergus led her a few feet across the small clearing. “Do you . . .” His face grew red with his embarrassment. “Do you need to pee, my lady? I can help you into the bushes, and I’ll turn my back,” he said.

Now it was Cicely whose cheeks grew pink, but she did need to relieve herself. “Thank you,” she told him. “Aye. I think I can stand alone now.”

Fergus brought her to a thick stand of growth and then, as he had promised, turned away so she might have a modicum of privacy.

Cicely turned her back on him and, hiking up her skirts, did what needed to be done. She considered attempting another escape, but the skies above were already swiftly darkening into night. She had no idea where she might be, and there was no dwelling nearby where she might seek help. She would be forced to bear the company of these two villains until the morrow. Mistress Marjory would have certainly sounded the alarm when she regained consciousness. One of her two apprentices would have found her by now. And the king would send a troop of his men-at-arms after her.

“My lady?” Fergus’s voice sounded anxious.

“I’m done,” Cicely said. There was no need to be unkind to this poor fellow who had had compassion upon her. She stepped from the bushes, and he led her back so she might sit down against the large dark boulder that commanded their little clearing. She looked about
for the other man, but he was not to be seen, although there was a small fire burning. Fergus helped her to the ground. There was a thick coating of moss on both the earth and the rock, making it surprisingly comfortable.

The other man suddenly appeared from the small wood carrying two dead rabbits. Without a word he skinned the creatures, cleaned them, and set them on a wood spit over the fire to roast. “These two poor coneys had the unfortunate luck to come across my path,” he said. “We’ll have rabbit for supper with our oatcakes.”

“I shall not eat a thing from your hand!” Cicely said haughtily.

He shrugged.

“Who are you? And why have you kidnapped me?” she demanded of him.

“You don’t recognize me?” he said, not knowing whether he should feel offended or not.

“Your face is vaguely familiar,” Cicely admitted, “but I do not know you, do I?”

“I am Ian Douglas, the laird of Glengorm, madam,” he told her. “And I am engaging in what is known here in Scotland as bride stealing.”

It took a long moment for Cicely to realize just what he was saying to her. Then she burst out, “You are mad, my lord! Totally, raving mad! I have absolutely no intention of marrying you. Why on earth would I marry
you
? I don’t even know you.”

Ian Douglas knelt before her. He took her small face between his thumb and his forefinger. “The first moment I saw you on the road to Perth I knew you were the woman for me, Cicely Bowen. I have never given my heart to any, but I am prepared to give it to you.” His hazel eyes looked directly into her blue-green ones.

“I don’t want it!” she cried, unnerved by both the unexpected declaration and by the passionate look in his eyes. No man had ever looked at her quite like that. Not even Andrew Gordon. That look both intrigued and frightened her.

“Ah, ladyfaire, do not be frightened,” he said softly to her. “I will love you.”

The gentle tone of his voice frightened Cicely far more than his earlier rough treatment of her had. “You must take me back!” she cried. “We will say it was all a misunderstanding! Though I said it, ’twas in anger—I will not let them hang you. But we must return to Perth, my lord.”

“I doubt the poor shopkeeper will consider the bump on her noggin a misunderstanding,” the laird said dryly.

“My lord, I cannot wed you!” Cicely told him.

“Why not?” he asked. His eyes were dancing with sudden amusement.

“I am already pledged to marry!” Cicely lied desperately.

“To the Gordon?” Ian said. “Nay, ladyfaire, you lie. The Gordon has not yet asked for you, although I am told he would. What is it, I wonder, that keeps him from it? Is there another he loves, but whose dower portion is not as fat as yours might be? Or perhaps a mistress who needs to be disposed of discreetly before he declares himself?”

“Andrew Gordon is a good man!” Cicely defended her suitor.

“Has he ever kissed you?” the laird wanted to know.

“That is none of your business!” Cicely snapped.

“He hasn’t.” Ian chuckled.

“He has!” she retorted. “And I liked it! I liked it very much!”

In response Ian Douglas leaned forward and kissed Cicely. It began as a fierce kiss that turned tender and deepened as he felt the petal soft lips beneath his yield.

Cicely’s head spun.
Oh, my!
she thought as she felt herself succumbing to the kiss, and kissing him back.

The laird drew away. “Did you like it as much as that?” he asked her wickedly.

“No!” She was practically shouting at him.

Ian Douglas laughed. “Ah, ladyfaire, you are a terrible liar. You
kissed me back.” Then, standing up, he left her to fume while he went to turn the rabbit on the spit.

She hadn’t kissed him back! She hadn’t! But she had, Cicely was forced to admit to herself. He was a horrible, horrible man! He had kidnapped her, treated her abominably, and when his mouth had closed over hers she was momentarily lost. It was certainly not going to happen again. Nay, it was not!

When the rabbits were well roasted, the laird brought Cicely a small haunch on a leaf along with an oatcake. “Here,” he said.

Cicely turned her head from him. “I’m not hungry,” she said. “I will eat nothing from your hand, villain. Take it away!”