The Laird (17 page)

And he liked her. Verra much. He would enjoy giving her a child if he learned her addled mind was simply due to injury.

And speaking of addled, while curled in his arms like a kitten, his ladywife had finally finished her tale. Ack, the poor lass, believing in sky scrapes and in him becoming a ghost, of all things. ‘Twas so sad he wanted to cry for her, for she truly believed her tale to be true. Believed it wholeheartedly, which made it all the more heartbreaking.

But for not knowing whether or not she could give him an heir, she would make a bonnie wife. Bonnie indeed. She was soft spoken, had a wry sense of humor, lovely breasts, a lilting voice, and liked to tup. What more could a man ask?

He rolled and reached for her. Finding the bed empty, he opened his eyes and saw her silhouetted in profile against the morning light.

Tall and slim, draped only in sheeting and with her little breasts reaching for the sky, he thought her a sight to behold. She raised an arm over her head still unaware of his perusal.

Then light bounced off metal and he saw the blade in her hand.

“
Naaay!
” His roar echoed in the solar as he vaulted out of bed and knocked the blade away. He’d used such force he’d knocked her to the floor as well.

“
Why, woman?
” Why would she take her life? His heart pounded a furious beat as he picked her up by the shoulders and shook her. Shook her so hard, she started to cry. And well she should. Christ’s blood!

He shoved her toward the bed and retrieved the knife. When he discovered who had given it to her, he’d slice their throat with it.

Why?
Had last night meant nothing to her? Had her kisses meant nothing?

“Ye are
Wode
, woman!” he roared. “
Wode!
Do ye hear me?”

Had he awakened a moment later, he’d be again standing ankle deep in a ladywife’s blood.

She cowered against the headboard sobbing as he approached.

“Duncan? I don’t understand--”

“Close thy mouth!” His entire body quaked with pent-up rage at her betrayal. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her knees before him.

“Why?” she sobbed, “Why are you so upset? I was only--”

He raised his hand and she screamed.

“Augh!” He dropped his hand. “Christ’s blood. Ye’re making me as wode as ye be.” He’d never hit a woman in his life. The realization that he’d nearly done so-—coupled with the fear that filled him seeing her trying to slice herself open--made him nauseous.

Heart aching, blood roaring in his ears, he grabbed his kilt and stormed out. Her plaintive “Why...?” and sobbing followed him like a witch’s curse.

He stormed into the great hall and all went tomb quiet. God’s teeth! Had everyone heard? He had little doubt everyone in the bailey certainly had, since nothing in the solar windows would have muffled his furious railing. Ack!

With his face still hot with infused blood, he scanned the hall’s rigid and silent occupants for Angus. Not finding him, he settled on venting his rage on Isaac.

Pointing to his financial advisor, he hissed, “In the library.
NOW.
”

He crossed the hall with Isaac--now ash gray--following. Passing Flora, Duncan growled, “What the hell are ye grinning about?”

“Nothing, my lord. Nothing.”

On the stairs he turned to see her eyes still followed him, her snide, all-knowing grin still gracing her deceptively lovely face, and his anger grew.

In the relative privacy of the library--the room, like most in the keep, still had no door, Isaac murmured, “My liege, have I done something to offend ye?” He started to pace. “For if I--”

“Lock yer jaws, Isaac, and heed.” Duncan collapsed into a chair still not believing it could be happening again. He couldn’t believe he’d begun fancying himself in love with Beth. “Just moments ago, I awoke to find my ladywife trying to kill herself.” He threw the blade onto the table. “Do ye ken who owns this blade?” He’d racked his brain and couldn’t picture any of his men carrying the
sgian dubh
. Made of silver and quality steel, the six-inch knife would have been well beyond the purse of most within the clan. And it was not Beth’s. He’d been present when Beth, still unconscious, had been placed in the solar. She’d not carried it on her person. Nor would a blade of this caliber--of such great value--be left about so she might find it. Nay.

Someone had given it to her.

He pushed his hair off his face with both hands. “Isaac, I swear I have never been as frightened nor so furious in my life as when I saw the wee daft lass holding that blade to her armpit.”

“
Armpit
, my lord?”

“Aye. A truly odd place to slash, I grant ye, but ‘twas where the blade’s edge pressed.” His friend looked as ghastly as he felt. “Isaac, sit. Ye look about to faint.”

Duncan hadn’t wanted another wife, but if God and Albany in their infinite wisdom lusted it so, then why in hell hadn’t they given him a sane one? Now he would die without an heir, his beloved castle, his lands, and clan would all be taken over by a Bruce or Stewart, no doubt. He toyed with her knife. Mayhap, Beth had the right of it. He should just slit his throat and be done with it.

Isaac held out his hand. “May I have that, my lord?”

“Relax Isaac.”

“Aye, but just give it here.”

He handed it over and heard Isaac sigh in relief.

“Where’s Angus? I want the labor resumed on her apartment at once. I cannot watch her every moment, nor can I have her slipping, slicing, or jumping to her death so long as Albany lives.”

“Angus is with the MacLean as ye ordered... the arrangement for the tournament tents?”

“Ah.” He’d forgotten he’d sent Angus to barter fish for canvas. “Then find Brian and order the work started.” Angus’s second in command could deal with it. “And summon yer ladywife.”

Ashen, Isaac nodded. “Rachael is in Drasmoor at present, my lord.” He looked at the blade in his hands. “As soon as she arrives I shall send her to ye.”

Seeing the marked distress on his friend’s face, Duncan heaved a heavy sigh. “Isaac, I’ve no plans to rail at Rachael, but ask for her help. The only lock I have is on the dungeon grate, and I cannot place Lady Beth there, much as I’d like. Nor can I truss her like a goose in the solar for she will scream the walls down, surely. Nay. I want yer ladywife joined at the hip to Lady Beth, day and night, until I can cloister her for her own safekeeping. And order every knife not strapped to a man’s thigh taken out of the keep. Take them to your croft, take them to the sea, I care not where, but take them away.”

~#~

Tears coursed down her cheeks as Beth vomited into the chamber pot. When the painful retching finally stopped, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and cursed. Since childhood, every damn time she became terrified—-felt that familiar overwhelming heartache--she’d vomit.

Why, God? Why has he done this?

Her breath hitched and hiccupped as she staggered to her feet. With her neck and shoulders sore, she looked at her equally aching arms and saw his handprints around her biceps.

She’d married a madman.

Beth limped into what had once been her bathroom, now her closet, and rummaged through the trunks. She uncovered her jeans and sweater, but no underwear. She could live without them.

This could not be happening. Not again. God, not again.

Just fifteen minutes ago she’d been contentedly musing over the realization that she’d fallen in love with a beautiful man, and he with her. How stupid could one woman get?

Sniffing, she yanked up her zipper and went looking for her sneakers. She didn’t know whom to be angrier with; herself for believing in the unbelievable—-that a handsome man could love a plain woman such as she--or with him for his painful deception and blatant use of her. That she’d brought it all on herself by opening her heart to him didn’t bear thinking about. She’d known better.

Dressed, she scoured the sparsely furnished solar for a weapon. She’d not be caught off guard again. Not physically and never again emotionally. If the son of a bitch dared come through the door while she plotted her escape, someone was going to die and it wouldn’t be her.  She hadn’t fought all her life for respect to become Duncan MacDougall’s punching bag. No way.

Her gaze settled on the cast iron fire poker. She hefted it, testing its weight and balance in her hand. It would do.

At the window, firer poker in hand, she studied the boats leaving the quay. She had to get on one to leave, but how? The few times she’d asked to be taken to Drasmoor just to see the village, she’d been told to seek out her husband or been given some excuse as to why now wasn’t a good time. Duncan had apparently ordered his men to keep her here. But she wouldn’t stay. Couldn’t.

She continued pacing. Haunting images of Duncan’s tenderness in the wee hours of the night and his later inexplicable brutality constantly interrupted her thoughts of escape.

“Why?” she kept asking aloud. Why had he bothered to show her such consideration and warmth to only yank it away come dawn? Was he schizophrenic or something?

The twenty-first century certainly hadn’t invented madness, so yes, he could well be clinically insane, and no one here would dare lay a hand on him for fear of reprisal. He was, after all, the MacDougall—-the Black. No wonder she’s wife number four! Had he killed wives two and three? Probably. Had he lived in her time, he’d be the one kept in isolation on an island, not her.

Heart pounding erratically, she walked the keep in her mind. If she could get down to the third floor unseen, she could circumnavigate the fortification on that level to the portcullis stairway leading to the quay. There’d be guards above and below, but most would be busy. She crossed to the window overlooking the bailey, hoping to spy something to hide behind until everyone went to the hall for the midday meal. Nothing appeared large enough. Fine. She’d just have to find a storeroom to hide in until all but the tower guards went to the hall. She could be in a boat and pulling away by the time a tower guard could reach the quay. So long as the guard didn’t give immediate chase in another boat, she might be able—

The solar door swung open and Beth spun, poker held over her shoulder like a baseball bat.

White faced, Rachael raced to her. “Madame!”

The poker fell from Beth’s hands as fresh tears welled. Arms out, she rushed to greet her friend. “Oh, Rachael, I’ve been so scared!” Sobs ripped from her throat as Rachael’s arms embraced her. “He...he threw me on the bed...and after all we’d shared...and then he screamed...” She sucked in a deep breath. “And I didn’t know what to do...I couldn’t get away and then...he raised his fist and I...I...”

“Ssh. Ssh, my lady, come.” Rachael wrapped a protective arm around her and led her to the foot of the bed. “Sit and tell me all, but slowly.”

  Beth buried her face in her hands and continued to sob. “I don’t know...what happened. One moment he was...” She hiccuped. “We made love last night. He’d been so gentle and I’d been so happy. And then I got up...” she grabbed a lung full of air, “...and started getting ready for the day and the next thing I know he’s shaking me like a rag doll and I’m sure I’m about to die...and...”

Rachael brushed the hair from Beth’s face and whispered, “Tell me about the blade,
mon ami
.”

“The blade?” Beth sniffed as she studied the concern etched on Rachael's finely boned face. What blade? “Oh, your pretty knife. I’m sorry. He took it. I don’t know where it is now.” Beth wiped the tears from her face, heaved a heavy sigh, and hiccupped again. “I didn’t even get a chance to finish shaving my damn armpits.”

Rachael stood abruptly. Her voice rose as she waved in agitation. “Are ye saying all this--all yer crying and himself storming about like the wrath of God--is because ye wanted to shave yer
ARM PEETS
?”

Why was she upset? “Rachael, all I know is that one minute I’m as happy as a lark and the next I’m facing a madman.”

Rachael shook her head and collapsed on the edge of the bed. “My
petit chou
, the MacDougall isna wode—-mad—-as ye think, but terrified. He thought ye about
se suicider
—-to kill thy self.”

“
WHAT?
” Beth bolted to her feet, mouth agape. “Why would he think such a thing?”

“
Oh, mon ami
. ‘Tis a wonder he
isna
wode with thinking it happening again.” Sensing Beth’s confusion, she said, “Ah, I see ye ken not.” She heaved a huge sigh and patted the bed. “Sit. ‘Tis a sad tale of deceit and deception I am about to tell ye. When we have this sorted, ye can then tell me of the tupping.”

~#~

Still upset, in part because of his brutal handling of Beth--in the past he’d been the one pounding sense into men for beating their wives—-and in part due to his great disappointment, Duncan returned to the fourth floor.

Outside the solar, he scowled at the guard. Why were peals of laughter coming through the door? What in God’s holy name could Beth possibly find humorous about their current state of affairs?

Women!

He kenned them not and would go to his grave in the same ignorance. Growling, he turned away.

Mayhap, God had placed women on earth to drive men into their cups and then into early graves. He had certainly consumed enough whisky in the last three hours to support the conclusion. He stomped down the stairs. He had to get to the carpenter before the man started crafting the chapel pews. There was nay hope for it; the precious wood would now have to be used to make a verra sturdy door for Beth’s cell.

In the kirk, after speaking with the carpenter, Duncan ran a gentle hand over the chiseled words on his first wife’s simple two-foot square stone marker. Tears formed then threatened to spill.

“I’m so sorry, lass. I did not appreciate ye full well while ye lived.” This woman, who had never sought him out, who had never returned a kiss, had been the best of the lot.

  His throat tightened as he whispered, “Someday, Mary, ye will have the fine bronze effigy I promised. Yer likeness will hold a lily in yer right hand.” She’d ken the reason he would choose the symbol of the Blessed Virgin. “My shield will be on yer chest, and our babe in yer left arm. Aye, and yer father’s shield will shine above ye. All who look upon it from then until forever will ken ye were the only jewel in my thorny crown of wives.”