The Laird's Right (6 page)

“Run, my little lady. Run.”

She did. Too bad, he was faster than her. He grabbed her by the back of her gown. The rent of fabric echoed throughout the hall. Somehow, she got to the chamber. She turned and slammed the door. Not fast enough, it came back and crashed in to her face. Blood gushed from her mouth. But she didn’t feel pain. Her fear numbed her to everything.

She backed up, scanning the room for a weapon. She jumped for the wood stack only for him to grab her.

“Do you know what happens when women disobey? They are beaten.”

She noticed the whip in his hand and raised her hands for flimsy protection against its force as he struck her again and again. The leather slashed into her flesh, deeper and deeper. Her skirts failed to soften the blows and finally ripped as the strikes landed, faster and faster with each one. She screamed, cried and pleaded but her desperation fuelled him. She crawled away only to be caught.

He threw her and she hit the wooden floor. Blackness over took her. The sharp stabs of pain cramped her body. She awoke to find him sitting beside her, cleaning his nails with a dirk.

“You will be my wife. I cannot be baron without your dowry. You shall obey or be beaten. You will not speak unless I wish it or be beaten.” He smiled, appearing the brave knight ladies of the court sighed over.

“My father shall never allow this.”

He spread his arms and motioned about the room. “Where is your father now? Fighting against the king.” He tapped the dirk’s blade against the tip of her nose.

“He will come for me.” She prayed he came soon.

He rose, straightening his lavish cote, the green as rich as a forest in the summer. He ran the blade along her arm, cutting flesh. “My brother liked your wilfulness, asking about your thoughts. But you are a foolish woman that I have no need for. In a year, you shall fall and will not survive.” He shook his head.

Chapter Five

Someone had taken a blade and scraped the inside of her throat then stuffed her mouth with a ball of sheep’s wool without washing it. Dull pounding aches were the only sensation that let her know she was alive because moving her head stole the final reserve of her strength. All of her felt heavy. She lacked control of her body. She couldn’t lift her hand to rub the grit from her eyes. The smell of sick radiated around her. Her hair stuck to her scalp and a coat of sweat and medicine rested thick against her skin.

But she was alive.

In a chamber, she had never seen.

She knew the man throwing peat in the fire. In the dim chamber, the flames shined about him, showing his broad back and the cut of his muscles. His hair hung about his face, shielding his profile from her eyes. He rose and stretched with his arms over his head. The light played about his muscles, showing his reined in strength.

He had cradled her tight in his arms. She had felt safe, protected. Worse of all, she yearned to stay in his hold.

She parted her lips then winced as her dry lips cracked. She smacked her lips and called to him. Her voice came out like a beastly moan. She tried again, then once more.

“Alec.” Her words barely reached her ears yet somehow he heard her.

Three steps and he was at her side. “You’re awake.” He brushed her hair from her face. The touch was light—more of a caress than an act of kindness. Without her asking, he poured her some water. Settling on the bed, he cradled her head in his hand for her to drink.

Each sip slashed through her insides and tasted of pure sweetness, the sweetest thing she had ever sampled. Drops fell from the corners of her mouth and cooled her skin from a heat still raging within her. Alec pulled away the cup before she had her fill. Using her last reserve of energy, she lifted her head for more.

“Rest. Tomorrow you will be better.” He sat at the edge of the bed. He peeled her sticky strands of hair from her face.

“Don’t leave,” she said.

He lowered his head so she repeated her request.

“Rest, Portia.” He placed a tender peck on her forehead.

“Can’t.”

Her eyes closed, heavy and final but not before she heard him say, “The baron will not come for you.”

* * * *

Faint sunlight softened the dimness of the chamber. Alec was gone. That she wished he was here was one emotion she pushed aside. She did the same with the linens. Her toes curled as her bare feet touched the cold floor. Not that it mattered, she thought, as she rose and held her breath. She clutched the bed’s edge. At any point, she could release her hold but if Alec found her a crumpled mess on the floor, she’d be confined to the bed until her old adage. She let go and her legs trembled and her muscles were mush but she remained on her feet. She knew what the next test was—walking. She took a step. For the first time, Portia understood what it felt like to be the last leaf on the tree as the winter winds blow.

She gripped the bed curtains. The red and blue tartan was made of the silk and caught the firelight. She smoothed out the fabric, leaving behind wrinkles. Everywhere in the room, she saw displays of wealth—silver trays, weapons of the finest design, and tapestries with gold filigree even leather books from the Greeks that now flowed into the lands. The water pitcher and bowls were made of gold and bore the badge of Clan Cameron. On every spot, there were gilded crosses of various sizes, boxes that might be shrines. Drinking horns of ivory, water pitchers of silver even seals forged in silver. There were some of the finest tapestries procured from monasteries or nunneries even a Gryphon’s egg on silver mountings. She couldn’t say whether she spent too much time in the room or the lack of warmth but this space was lifeless. Not like Alec.

She stopped at a clock. Rubies caught the light and flickered against the gold and glass. She ran her fingers over the Celtic knots. Not a speck of dust marred the clock. Someone cared for this.

The door opened. She hoped Alec had come, instead two women entered the room. Their faces were both familiar to her. Both women were very different in their looks. One had glowing red hair scraped off her face, though strands still broke free, showing her untamed curls. Her green eyes shined from her face, which was graced by freckles. The other was pale and small with delicate features and light skin, though her hair and eyes were of pure brown, not marred by any other hue. They had cared for her.

“My lady, you are awake.” The brunette’s braid swung as she hurried to Portia’s side. She wrapped an arm around her waist. Her head was even with her shoulder.

Portia bore her own weight as her body burned the last of her will. She couldn’t brace herself on the woman, she was too small to carry Portia’s gangly form. “I feel well but for the pain on my side.”

“Nevertheless, you should rest.” The tall one straightened the bed sheets.

“Perhaps, but I cannot remain in that bed.”

She steered her to the chair. “This will be fine then.”

“You are very kind. What are you called?”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “I am Leah.” She curtsied. “And this is Cairine.” The redhead curtsied as well.

“The laird must trust you to allow you to care for his captive.”

“You have met my husband—Hurley.” Pure joy had Leah smiling. “And she is Quinlan’s wife.”

“Two fine gentlemen.”

“Tis been hard to make them that,” Cairine said, earning a nod of agreement from Leah.

Cairine answered the quick rap on the door. A towering man handed over a pile of clothing. Portia twisted her neck for a glimpse and spotted two guards planted at the door. The man actually had guards outside the door. Did he expect her to crawl from the chamber?

“I must thank you for your care of me.”

“Our pleasure. Though, Laird cared for you most of the time.” Cairine shrugged.

She stared at the bed. He had stood over her. What had he said to her? Orders to get better, though he had softened his demands by tucking the linens around her. She had come to depend upon seeing him at her side. Truth was she wanted to prove that she wasn’t weak.

“You are very lucky Alec kidnapped you, right, Cairine?”

“Aye, the Chattan are devils.” She twisted her mouth in disgust.

“Have you met the chieftain?”

Both women shook their heads and Leah said, “He’s a disgusting man, a fat man with fishy lips. He spits over everyone. And he smells.”

“They say he eats with his dogs. My lady, you don’t understand—from the same trencher he does. I sneak treats to my dog but he won’t eat from my plate.”

With each passing word, Portia sickened. Her stomach rolled. Her sister would have never allowed that and if she did, she must have had a reason. No matter, her father should arrive soon.

“MacKintosh wished to wed you to that vile man. Thank God, our laird kidnapped you. You are so very blessed.” Cairine shivered in disgust. “To be away from those devils.”

“Devils?”

“They encroach on our lands, thinking we are weak. We are Camerons. They smear the laird’s name, spreading an awful tale that he killed his father.”

“I have heard the tale. He poisoned his father slowly to control the man while acting as laird.” Portia had heard the tale spoken as proof of his evilness and cowardice. She couldn’t comprehend the tale then and now, knowing the caring of the man she couldn’t believe it but still held on to the possibility that it was true.

“Lies,” Cairine said with a faith that had Portia believing the talk was lie.

“They will be run from our lands.” Leah’s soft voice was at odds with the vehemence steeling her words.

“That they will. The previous laird would have killed them all—women and children.” Cairine crossed herself.

“All…” In these dangerous days, such an act was not unusual however, she witnessed the suffering the peaceful villagers dealt with when they only wished to have a successful harvest and care for their families.

“The old laird was a man who never let anything stand in his way of power or retribution. Poor Ailsa, she suffered from his cruelty.” Cairine shook her head in sympathy.

“Ailsa?”

“Alec’s sister—she’s Lairdess MacLean now,” Leah answered.

“Even his first born son’s murder was not a reason to stop his grand plans. Connor was a good man.” Cairine crossed herself, sending a quick prayer for the deceased.

“Connor?” She wished she wasn’t quite so intrigued by Alec. But she couldn’t stop herself from discovering more about the man.

“Connor was killed by the MacDonalds, but the old laird didn’t care about righting the wrong. He was greedy.”

Portia saw that. The chamber revealed that truth. She had been a victim to a man’s cruelty and had no power to fight against it, except her wits. Was she caught in the same web with Alec? He kidnapped her to use her to get the land and wipe out a clan.

“Is Alec like his father?”

“Nay,” Cairine said in a hard tone. Leah shook her head.

“Alec is a good man. The clan is better with his leadership. Don’t let the men hear this but the times have been peaceful.”

“How long will it last with me here?”
Not long.

Again, she was under the control of a man who wanted something from her. Would he harm her too?

The ladies fell silent when two men entered bearing a tub, followed by a line of bucket carriers. Cairine dipped her hand in the steamy water after each pour. When she was satisfied with the temperature, she gave them a nod of approval.

“Alec ordered a bath for you. I was against it.” Leah laid out linens and soap.

“Do you require assistance, my lady?”

Portia shook her head. Steam waved off. Portia crossed her arms over her middle. Both ladies waited for her to undress. “I can do this alone.”

“We cannot allow that. You are still weak,” Leah said.

“We have seen the scars.”

Leah gaped at Cairine along with Portia.

“You are safe here.”

“Aye, Cairine is correct. No one shall know the evil you faced unless you wish to share of it.”

Portia bit the inside of her lip. She wished to believe it, to be safe again even as she was being chased. Since they had cared for her, she knew she was acting foolish and began to undress. Hunched and twisting her arms to cover her scars, she climbed into the bath. Thankfully, the ladies did not stare or whisper about the marks. Perhaps, they were waiting for later, but Portia lacked the will to care.

The restorative bath cooled before Portia was satisfied. At least, the sickly sweat coating her body washed away and she felt more herself, even as the water prickled the wound on her side. The red angry welt looked ugly. She shouldn’t be vain, though in truth, she was glad it would remain covered like the others marring her flesh. She gingerly fingered the scar.

“Some balm on that will help heal and lessen the scar.” Leah held out a jar.

The thick ointment held a nutty smell. “It smells nice.”

“No reason for a lady not to smell her best.” Cairine flicked out a leine.

Cairine pointed to her cote, soiled with blood, dirt and ripped. “Shall you like your garment laundered?”

“Nay, nothing can save it, you can burn it.” Portia scooped fingers full of the ointment.

After rubbing in the balm, Cairine slipped the garment over her head then proceeded to wrap a berry red and pale blue plaid around her.

“This plaid is worn by the laird’s family, but Alec insisted. You are taller than Ailsa. Luckily, her plaids do fit you.”

As she straightened the last pleat, Alec crossed into the room. He froze two steps inside. He pushed back his hair, making the ends stick out about his ears. She lifted her hand to comb down the unruly strands only to let it fall at her side.

“You look good in Cameron colors.” His gaze traced the curves of her form and heated as it lingered on her breast and hips. She froze under the heady perusal. His eyes held approval then disappeared as quickly as it had fired.