The rain continued, though not as heavy, throughout the next day. The party of English soldiers, who had been in the saddle since dawn, grumbled among themselves about the harsh terrain, the scarcity of food, the lack of women.
Leonora rode in their midst, her hands bound, her reins held by Alger Blakely, to prevent her from attempting to escape. Since witnessing the fate of the peasants, Essex saw no reason to continue the pretense that they would return her to her father.
Each time their party passed a crofter’s cottage, each time they entered a farmer’s land, Leonora held her breath, praying they would not stop and wreak more havoc on these innocent people. And yet, each time she passed another family working in the fields, she had to resist the temptation to cry out for help.
What could these simple people do for her? she reasoned. Would a scythe or pitchfork equal a razor-sharp knife or a sword? Could a farmer, no matter how muscular, be the equal of these soldiers whose strength had been honed by years of battle? And why, she asked herself, would simple Scots peasants come to the defense of an Englishwoman in the company of English soldiers?
She could not involve these good people in her fate. And so, as she passed each one, she met their gazes solemnly, showing no sign of her inner turmoil. But as day faded into evening, the terror grew within her. They were approaching the English border. The time for confrontation was drawing near. Alger had left no doubt that, were she to give in to his lustful demands, he could see that her life was spared. She wanted to believe that he would help her, but despite his boastful claims, it was obvious that Essex was the true leader of this band of murderers. And in the duke’s mind, she had been marked for death from the beginning.
She thought of Father Anselm’s last words to her. Had he sensed the danger she would face? Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer for safety. “And if,” she added, “I cannot be kept safe, at least let me face death with courage.”
“I spy a cottage,” Essex muttered to James Blakely, and pointed to a small building and several outbuildings across a meadow. “We will take shelter until we are rested.”
Peering through the mist, Leonora’s heart nearly stopped. Though the last time she had seen this place she had been nearly consumed with exhaustion, she was certain she was not mistaken. The cottage was the same one in which she and Dillon had sought shelter on their way to the Highlands.
Oh, sweet heaven, she thought with growing panic as the scene of carnage in the barn flashed through her mind. It was the cottage of Brodie of Morayshire. And his shy, sweet wife, Anthea, and little sons and infant daughter.
~ ~ ~
“You are certain, man, that they did not pass this way?”
The old man, his face the texture of aged leather, his hair as white as the delicate Alpine flowers that grew atop the Highland mountains, nodded vigorously. “There is naught that passes this way that I dinna’ see, m’laird. I would know if English soldiers and an English lady crossed o’er my land.”
Dillon wheeled his mount, whipping the animal into a run. He had just wasted precious time following a false trail. Though he was a man who had rarely known fear, there was a knot of it threatening to choke him.
~ ~ ~
“Where is your man?” Essex and James burst through the door of the cottage, followed by the soldiers.
The young wife looked up just as Alger Blakely, hauling Leonora roughly by the arm, entered. As Anthea’s eyes widened in recognition, Leonora gave a quick shake of her head and prayed that the young woman would understand her signal.
The sight of so many drawn weapons caused Anthea to lift her squalling infant from the cradle. The two frightened little boys hid behind their mother’s skirts.
“He is...” She swallowed and tried again. “My husband is in the forest hunting.”
Essex pointed the tip of his sword at her. “Whoever would like the privilege of killing the woman may first use her as he pleases.”
Before any of the men could volunteer, Leonora pulled free of Alger’s grasp and moved to stand beside her. “Nay,” she cried, clasping the palm of the frightened young woman between her bound hands. “Can you not see that she has recently given birth?”
“What is that to us?” one of the soldiers said with a sneer. “She is still a warm body.”
Leonora’s mind raced. “Which would you rather satisfy first? Your hunger for the flesh, or your hunger for food?”
“The lady has a point,” Essex said as he warmed himself by the fire. The cottage was redolent of the fragrance of biscuits baking and a kettle of stew simmering over the fire. Leonora’s generous gift of jewelry had obviously supplied them with the finest of flour from the mill and more than enough food to feed their hungry family. “We can always take our pleasures later, on a full stomach. You will feed us, woman. But first, I would savor a sip of spirits.”
The young woman produced a wooden cask of finest Scottish whiskey. The men gathered around and began to drink. As they did, Leonora lifted her bound hands.
“If you would free me, I could help this woman prepare your food.”
“Aye. And be quick about it.” Essex pulled a knife from his waist and cut away her bindings.
When he returned his attention to the spirits, Leonora beckoned Anthea to the other side of the small cottage, where they began to prepare a meal. While they worked, they spoke in whispers.
“You must pretend we have never met.”
Anthea nodded and glanced down at the boys tugging on her skirts. “I have heard the rumors about these English. They will kill us all.”
“Aye. And I will fare no better. How soon will your husband return?”
“Perhaps not until the morrow, depending upon his good fortune.”
Leonora felt her heart tumble. By then, they would all surely be dead. “We must devise a plan.”
The young woman’s fear was evident on her troubled face. “I would gladly die if they would but spare the wee ones.”
“These men are monsters who will leave no living thing in their wake. We must find a way to strike the first blow.” Leonora’s eyes narrowed in thought, then suddenly widened. “You are a healer, Anthea. You know herbs and plants. There may be a way, but if it should fail, our punishment will be horrible indeed.”
“Tell me, my lady.” Anthea clutched her sleeve. “So long as there is a thread of hope, I will do anything.”
Leonora shivered at the enormity of her plan, then whispered her instructions. The young woman nodded in silence, drew the infant close to her breast and knelt down to hug her young sons. If she failed, they would pay with their lives.
~ ~ ~
Leonora moved among the soldiers, filling their tankards each time they were emptied. After such a tedious journey, they were only too happy to sprawl around a cozy fire and enjoy the warmth of ale snaking through their veins. Even the Duke of Essex and Lord James Blakely seemed ready to relax their guard now that they had made it to the border.
“On the morrow, we shall be on English soil,” James said, lifting his tankard.
“Aye, home,” Essex muttered. “And none too soon. Even these scrawny Scots women are beginning to look tempting.” He cast a glance at Anthea, who quickly ducked her head and continued preparing their meal.
“More ale, your grace?” Leonora had cast aside her coarse traveling cloak to reveal the regal velvet gown. Her long hair, spilling over one shoulder, gleamed blue-black in the firelight.
“Aye.” He held out the empty tankard.
As she bent to refill it, he gazed longingly at her high, firm breasts, exposed beneath the low rounded neckline.
“But no one,” he announced to the others, “can compare to the beauty of our lovely English ladies.”
“Aye.” James, seeing the lustful gleam in the duke’s eyes, said sadly, “I had hoped for a match between the lady and my son Alger. With her wealth and beauty and his ambition, they could have left a legacy for my progeny.”
“Alas,” Essex said with a laugh, “poor Alger will have to look elsewhere for a bride.”
“The king’s cousin has an impressive dowry,” Leonora said, pausing to fill James’s tankard.
“She is but ten and three,” he said with a trace of scorn.
“The perfect age for your son.” Calling on all her skills, she slanted a look at Essex, the man who wielded all the power in this small company of soldiers. “Clumsy lads do not interest me, your grace. I prefer men who have spent enough years learning how to pleasure a woman.”
Essex blinked. “You, my lady? I had heard that you have managed to resist all the men at court.”
“Aye.” Leonora sauntered closer to pour more ale into the duke’s tankard. She saw his eyes follow each movement of her hips. “I was waiting for one special man to pay heed.”
Across the room, Alger sat brooding as he watched Leonora flirt with Essex. He drained his tankard in one long swallow and she quickly moved to refill it. After only a few drops, she gave him a look of exaggerated disappointment. “Forgive me. The cask is empty.”
“No matter,” James said, “There is another with the horses. We did not travel all this way without fortification.”
“I will fetch it.” But as she started across the room, the duke’s hand clamped around her wrist.
“Nay, beautiful lady. Let the peasant retrieve it.” He motioned with his empty tankard to one of the soldiers. “Gather together the peasant’s children and keep them here until she returns. That way, we can be assured that she will not attempt to run.”
When one of the soldiers caught up the children, the infant began wailing and the little boys joined in, howling for their mother, who was shoved out into the night.
James roared with laughter: “You are sly, Essex.”
“Aye.” He joined in the laughter and ran his hand possessively along Leonora’s aim. “The woman was not born who could outwit me.”
Leonora swallowed back the terror that clawed at her throat. Forcing a smile to her lips, she perched on the arm of the duke’s chair, exposing a length of ankle. She knew she played a dangerous game that might easily turn violent.
While Essex stared at her ankle with lecherous fascination, she mentally ticked off the passing moments until, at last, Anthea returned, carrying the cask. At once, the soldier released the children into the arms of their mother.
“I will pour,” Leonora said, springing to her feet.
When she filled the duke’s tankard, he watched her with a frown of concentration. “This ale is going to my head,” he muttered. “It is time for some food.”
“Aye, your grace.” Leonora glanced at Anthea, who had wrapped a strip of linen around her hand and was lifting the heavy kettle from the fire, while at the same time emptying something from her apron into the kettle. Then the young woman bent over, stirring furiously.
When Leonora had filled each tankard, she crossed the room and began to assist Anthea in ladling stew into wooden bowls, which were passed out to the hungry soldiers. Along with the stew she offered hot steaming biscuits.
The men, made careless by the ale they had consumed, and ravenous from their long journey, ate quickly, barely tasting their food. As soon as their bowls were empty, Leonora and Anthea filled them a second time and watched with satisfaction as the men emptied them yet again. “There is more stew, your grace,” Leonora said, reaching for his bowl.
“Nay.” Shaking his head, the Duke of Essex set aside his bowl and reached for Leonora’s hand. “It is not food I crave now.”
“But it is too soon,” Anthea cried.
“Too soon?” he asked suspiciously.
Leonora licked her dry lips and glanced quickly at Anthea, whose wide eyes registered absolute tenor. “She means, your grace, there is still so much food to savor.”
He relented. “One more serving, then.”
As she moved about the room offering more stew, Alger caught her by the wrist and said, “Do not think I have not noticed the invitation in your eyes for Essex.”
“What makes you think it is only for Essex?” she asked, knowing this game became more dangerous with each passing moment.
He got to his feet. “Come, my lady.” A look of hatred darkened the duke’s features as Alger said loudly, “It is time you tasted the kisses of a real man.”
The others, emboldened by drink, laughed and looked from Essex to Alger. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they would get to witness a fight between these two.
Essex stood so quickly, his bowl of steaming stew upended and sprayed across several nearby soldiers. “I am leader here,” he roared, reaching for the sword at his waist. “Let no man usurp my authority.”
“You promised her to me,” Alger shouted. “All during this tedious journey, you assured me I would sample her charms before she met with her... untimely death.” He turned to his father for support, and seeing none, reached into the fireplace, grasped the end of a flaming tree branch, and held it aloft threateningly.
Essex blinked and backed away. “I see the woman has made your blood hot.”
“Aye. Be warned, your grace. Let no man try to stop me. I will have her.”
He shoved Leonora ahead of him toward the sleeping chamber, brandishing the flaming stick like a sword. When they reached the doorway, Alger pushed Leonora inside, then tossed the stick aside. He closed the door firmly and leaned against it. Taking a small, deadly knife from his waist, he lifted it aloft until the blade glinted in the reflection of the fire on the hearth.
“Essex will kill you,” Leonora said.
“Essex needs me and my father,” he boasted. “Remove your garments, my lady. I would see this precious jewel who was held in such esteem by her proud father.”
“Do not speak my father’s name at such a time,” she whispered.
“And why not?” His high, shrill laugh scraped across her already tautly stretched nerves. “My father and I have long hated your father. And the king he so loyally serves.”
“What you speak is treason, punishable by death.”
“Nay, my lady. What I speak is the truth. Our king is a coward and a weakling, who would prefer to talk peace instead of defeating his enemies on a field of battle. But, as Essex said, your death will change the course of history. When your father sees the proof of the Highlander’s deception, there will be no more talk of peace. Now we have wasted enough time. Remove your garments.”
She tossed her head. “You promised to be my friend. You said I would be safe with you.”
His lips peeled back in a feral smile. “I indulged in a falsehood. Remove your clothes.”
“You will have to tear them from me.”
“It will be my pleasure.” He advanced on her, wielding the knife. He pinned her hands behind her, grasping them painfully in one of his hands. With the other, he lifted the knife to her throat and in one smooth movement slit her garments from top to bottom. The torn remnants fell away, revealing pale, smooth flesh.
“Ah, my lady. You have been worth waiting for.” With a look as evil as the devil himself, Alger tossed her down on the sleeping pallet and levered himself above her.
Tears stung her eyes. All her prayers, all her schemes, had not been enough to save her. But at least, she thought, scraping her fingernails across his face, she would die fighting.
“Wench! You are no better than a tavern slut.” His brutal slap snapped her head to one side. “Now you shall pay.” He gave another shrill laugh, and reached for her. But just as his fingers closed around her shoulders, his grip slackened.
With a look of surprise and confusion, he released his hold on her and turned away. He rose, staggered a few paces away, then fell back to his knees.
Scrambling from the pallet, Leonora took up his knife, and without giving herself time to dwell on what she was about to do, she plunged it into his shoulder.
He looked up at her, his eyes wide with shock and pain. With a roar of fury, he pulled the knife free and lumbered to his feet. When he reached for her, she managed to step aside and began racing for the door. He lunged at her and brought her to her knees. But as he lifted the knife, prepared to plunge it into her heart, his eyes glazed over and he wavered, nearly toppling. In that moment, Leonora brought her knee against his hand, and plunged the knife into his chest. As he lay in a pool of his own blood, she pulled on her tattered remnants and tore open the door.
And stepped into a blazing inferno.
~ ~ ~
Dillon’s fury built with every meadow he crossed, every cottage he visited. He had witnessed the brutality of these men. The bodies of the murdered peasants had been a ghastly reminder of what Leonora faced at the hands of her captors. Though his heart wished otherwise, he was convinced that she had not managed to escape. At each farm, each crofter’s cottage, the stories were the same. Of a beautiful Englishwoman, hands bound, being led by a band of English soldiers.
As he headed toward the English border, he lifted his head. From across a high meadow came a pall of thick, black smoke. And lighting up the twilight sky, a bright orange ball of fire.
He spurred his horse into a run, praying that he was not too late to save the woman he loved.
~ ~ ~
“Anthea, where are you?”
With her eyes burning, Leonora dropped to her knees and began crawling across the floor of the cottage. Everywhere she looked, men were either crawling groggily or sprawled unconscious.
Flames licked across the wall, then ignited the thatched roof, which blazed into a blinding fireball.
“I am over here.” The young woman lay in a corner of the cottage, her terrified children clinging to her.
“Hurry! You must run.”
“I cannot. I am trapped.”
Crawling closer, Leonora realized the young woman’s legs were pinned beneath a wooden beam that had collapsed inward. Though she struggled with all her might, she was unable to budge the heavy timber.
“Never mind about me,” Anthea shouted above the roar of the fire. “Save my children.”
“I will be back,” Leonora promised as she caught up the infant and ordered the terrified little boys to hold tightly to her skirt.
With their eyes and lungs burning, Leonora and her little party stumbled through the thick black smoke, tripping over bodies, dodging falling sparks, until at last they made it to safety.
She set the squalling infant in the grass and commanded the little boys to remain at the babe’s side. Then she took a deep breath and dashed back into the inferno.
The smoke was thicker now, and the entire roof was ablaze. Sparks had fallen into the infant’s cradle, igniting the blanket. As she inched her way across the floor, Leonora could see that the roof over Anthea’s head would soon collapse right onto the young woman.
Frantically she struggled to lift the heavy timber. At last, using a piece of burning wood as a lever, she ignored the pain to her searing hands and managed to pry the timber high enough to allow the young woman to slide free.
“Oh, my lady, it is too late,” Anthea cried just as the roof began to cave in.
“Nay! Run, Anthea.” Leonora dragged her toward a wall of flame. When the young woman refused to go through, Leonora pushed her to safety. But when she started to follow, a hand closed over her wrist and she was held fast.
With a cry she turned. And found herself facing the Duke of Essex. In his hand was a small, deadly knife.