Daylight would soon fade. Annabel shivered, not because the air had grown cold, but because of the way Stokes continued to leer at her over his shoulder. His hungry eyes made her skin crawl.
He fidgeted in the saddle, leather reins held in a tense grip. Every now and then he rubbed the back of his neck, continuing to fire glances at her as if she were the source of his irritation. She saw the tightness in his jaw and the occasional licking of his lips.
She had an unshakeable sense that he planned to do evil, the very thing he’d spoken of to Roderick during their altercation earlier in the day. She must not let Stokes or any of his men touch her, for if she were indeed pregnant, she must be certain the child belonged to Roderick and no other.
Stokes issued an order to his men. ‘There’s a wide stream up ahead alongside the woods. We’ll make camp there.’
A shudder went through Annabel. She could think of only one thing that might protect her from a fate worse than death. She must make use of her free hands now, before her wrists were bound as they had been before bedding down these past few nights. Granted, she’d slept alone, but a soldier had stood guard outside her tent.
She gathered the cloak around her to conceal her clothes. One hand delved inside her skirt pocket and gripped the handle of the hidden knife. She jabbed and cut her way through layers of material until cold steel touched the inside of her upper right thigh.
Her body tensed, teeth clamped together, and she cut her flesh deep enough to bleed. She grimaced against the pain of her self-inflicted wound then exhaled on a shaky breath.
Her horse suddenly stumbled over a rut in the earth, causing the knife to stab her leg. On instinct, she cried out in pain, drawing the attention of every soldier.
Including Stokes. ‘What is it?’ he barked.
‘Nothing.’
He gave an impatient snort, returning his gaze to the woods ahead.
Beneath the cloak, Annabel switched the knife from her right pocket to the left, there for safekeeping. She pressed the material against her wounds and between her legs to make sure the wet, sticky blood soaked through her skirts.
As they approached the stream, Stokes pointed out to the men where to pitch his tent. It was, Annabel noted, to be set apart from where the soldiers were to pitch theirs and build the camp fire. The location of the captain’s tent could work in her favour, if all went according to her plan.
When they dismounted, she hovered on the fringe of all activity, gathering wood for the fire as instructed, and careful to keep her soiled clothes concealed within the cape. Only when the captain’s tent had been pitched did she seek him out. ‘I’d like to bathe beside the stream.’
His eyes glittered. ‘And I’d like to watch.’
‘I should like to bathe in private.’ Upon saying the words, Annabel opened her cloak to reveal her bloodstained skirts.’
‘What in God’s name—?’
Stokes drew the intended conclusion. He looked at her with the same aversion as he’d done when Annabel pronounced Jessie to be plagued with the pox. She used the disgust in his eyes to her advantage. ‘Need I explain?’
It was a cringe-worthy discussion he clearly wished to avoid. ‘Go! Over there.’
He pointed to where a clump of low-lying bushes grew along the bank of the stream. ‘Be quick,’ he said. ‘And if you try to flee …’ He touched the sword at his side.
Annabel hurried towards the water. Darkness was falling fast. She unclipped her cloak, removed her boots and stockings and lifted her skirts, tearing strips from the hem. She stepped ankle-deep into the chilly stream, visible to the captain’s eyes only from the waist up.
She turned her back to him and washed the blood from her skirt and then from her wounds, satisfied they would heal quickly with little chance of infection. Another dry, wide strip of material from her skirt served as a makeshift bandage around her thigh.
She drank handfuls of cool water and splashed grime from her face before stepping out from behind the bushes.
The captain banished her to a small tent, pitched close to, and facing, the camp fire. A guard hovered outside. She ate the meagre meal he passed her, and the instant she placed the empty plate on the ground outside the tent, he slapped a hand over her wrist and tied her hands together, ordering her back inside the tent.
With her cloak wrapped around her for warmth, Annabel sat on the ground and listened to Stokes and his soldiers laugh, belch and make ribald merriment. They retold years of encounters and skirmishes with the Scots, boasted bloodshed and lives taken, speaking of all Highlanders as a people to be purged, if not completely eradicated from their land.
Annabel felt morally incumbent to those of her ilk, and certainly for personal reasons, to kill the leader of this pathetic pack. She lay on her side with her bound wrists exposed, knowing the soldier outside her tent would make periodic checks on her.
She’d give him no reason to believe her to be anything but weak and afraid. A helpless and obedient hostage who would do as she was told, giving him no cause for concern on his watch.
In fooling the guard, the moment arrived when the camp had quietened and the men’s snickers had long since died to snores. Annabel retrieved her knife under the cover of darkness. She sat up, positioned the handle between her boots and cut the rope against the blade.
She rewound the loose rope around her wrists, leaving them exposed, and lay still should the guard think to check on her. A few more hours and she’d execute her plan and means of escape. Until then, she had time to think.
About Rodrick. He’d looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. A man yoked in worry. Worry for her, or for the child she might be carrying? Would he have come for her if he knew for sure she was not with child? He would. The Laird of Clan MacLeod was an honourable man and he’d see out his vow to protect her for as long as she remained with him at Finvreck.
She could only assume it was either Gillis or Darach, Roderick’s inseparable and loyal friends, who had given him the news of her abduction and Raibeart’s death. Were his men with him now, watching from afar?
Her future. What did it hold? If she were to miraculously return to Finvreck, only to learn she was not carrying Roderick’s child, what then? Where would she go? Not to her father’s keep. That was out of the question. The moon would be fully illuminated in the coming week. If she could rendezvous with the ship’s captain, as originally planned, then she’d be free to sail away to France, there to seek out her uncle.
The chillingly beautiful screech of a night owl drew Annabel back to the present. She opened her eyes. Darkness had surrendered to the first nudge of light. One surreptitious peek through the tent’s opening and she spied the guard, chin on chest and deep in sleep. She shrugged off the heavy weight of her cloak and cut a slit in the back of the tent, where she made her escape.
On foot, she picked her way across the moisture-laden earth in the direction of the captain’s tent. His loud snores filtered through the canvas. Knife in hand, she slipped inside the tent. Stokes lay on his back, slack-jawed in the throes of another loud snore. He slept in his boots, breeches and shirt, his greying hair loose and straggly.
His unsheathed sword lay on the ground bedside him. Annabel bent ever so slowly, and picked it up. Only then did she pocket the knife and breath out.
Rallying courage, heart hammering inside her chest, she stepped over him, firmly planting one foot on the ground either side of his waist.
She gripped the sword’s hilt with both hands, touched the blade’s tip to his throat, and applied enough pressure to wake him. His eyes flared wide. ‘Nae a word, Captain,’ she hissed.
On his back, and at the mercy of a woman, he bared his teeth in a silent snarl.
Annabel smiled at his humiliation and issued a curt, quiet warning. ‘Alert yer men and I’ll skewer yer neck like ye did Raibeart’s belly.’
His was a terse retort. ‘You lack the nerve to do it.’
‘I will kill ye. But first there lies between us a personal matter and ye need yer throat to speak.’ Her eyes went to the puckered skin on his neck. ‘That scar. Tell me about it.’
‘Why?’
The sword nicked his throat. Blood beaded on his skin. ‘Answer the question.’ Her heart raced in anticipation of his reply.
‘Scratch marks. Courtesy of a heathen whore.’ He seemed to study her face and hair with keen interest. ‘Much like you.’
Annabel felt the urge to retch. ‘And yer earlobe?’
‘The witch had sharp teeth.’ He wore a pitiless smile. ‘She didn’t take kindly to me plunging my cock inside her.’
Annabel tamped down an anguished cry. Dawn’s grey light cast shadows on his face as evil as his vile crimes.
‘She was a spirited bitch,’ he added. ‘Until I fucked her so hard she fainted beneath me.’
Annabel’s mind reeled from his coarse admission.
‘What’s it to you?’ he asked with a bemused smile.
Annabel took a deep, rattling breath and let it out on a loud scream. ‘She was my mother!’
She’d unleashed on him years of pent-up rage, caring not who heard her. He’d confirmed the truth of her mother’s dying revelation. The sword at his throat shook with the intensity of her grip on the hilt.
‘She was my mother,’ she repeated on a sob.
There were stirrings of life outside the tent and shouts rang out. It was a matter of time before she was discovered inside the captain’s tent.
‘Good God!’ said Stokes, staring up at her. His expression changed from astonishment to mirth.
His cold eyes mocked her until the precise moment he understood the connection between herself and him.
He laughed with condescension. ‘So … I’m your—’
She silenced him with a sudden swipe of the blade to his half-chewed ear, severing it from his head.
He screamed in pain. ‘Bitch of a whore!’
A second, swift manoeuvre and she pressed the tip of the sword in the hollow at the base of his neck. To her gratification, she saw shock in his eyes.
He put a hand to his bloodied head. ‘I’ll whip every inch of flesh from your—’
‘Nae. Ye willnae,’ said Annabel. ‘I curse ye, Hubert Stokes. To hell with ye. Sassenach scum!’ She hunkered over the sword, ready to throw her weight on it.
‘Annabel!’
Her gaze swung towards the sharp, familiar voice. ‘Father?’
William MacDonald stood tall and fearsome, broadsword at the ready. ‘He’s mine to kill. Nae yers.’
Stokes laughed like a madman. ‘A fitting family reunion, is it not?’
‘Quiet!’ snapped Annabel, throwing her gaze down at him. She barely contained the urge to silence him forever.
‘Step aside, Annabel,’ ordered William.
‘Nae.’ She didn’t take her eyes off the captain, her hands heavy on the sword’s hilt. ‘Leave. Before the soldiers capture ye.’
‘The soldiers are dead.’
She looked up and blinked. A costly mistake. The sword’s hilt jabbed her in the cheek, throwing her off balance and causing her to loosen her hold on the weapon. Before she could recover and react, Stokes was on his feet, pulling her hard against his chest with the blade tucked neatly beneath her chin.
‘Drop your sword,’ he snarled at William.
Annabel cried out, ‘Nae. Kill him, Father.’
Stokes breathed hideous laughter in her ear. ‘Are you talking to him, or me?’
William stepped forwards.
‘Drop it,’ warned Stokes, ‘or I’ll bleed her like a pig.’
‘Ye’d kill yer own flesh and blood?’ Hatred rang true in William’s voice.
‘She’s nothing to me. But what about you? Will you save your life, or hers?’
William dropped the broadsword where he stood.
Was his pained expression the missed opportunity to kill Stokes, or because he genuinely wished to save Annabel’s life?
It was a bittersweet rescue attempt. To the only father she’d ever known, Annabel shouted, ‘Ye should have let me kill him!’
William would not look at her. Instead, he kept his steely gaze fixed on Stokes.
Annabel knew she was the captain’s ticket to freedom. Kill her, and he wouldn’t escape the Highlands with his life. If William didn’t kill Stokes, there’d surely be clansmen ready to lynch him outside the tent.
With nothing to lose, Annabel dug her heels into the ground and suddenly threw her weight against Stokes in a bid to escape his hold.
In a counter move, he went with the momentum, taking two steps back and regained his footing. His blade pressed hard against her throat, evoking in Annabel the worst fear. She swallowed then winced as sharp steel bit into her skin.
William still did not move, except for a fleeting, hard glance at her. ‘Yer back’s to the wall, Captain.’
He gave a sudden grunt, edged with pain. His hand twitched on the sword at Annabel’s throat. She wasted no time in using the split-second opportunity to bite down on his wrist. It was enough to further slacken his hold on her, giving her time to pivot to the left, inward and under her assailant’s arm.
William caught her as she lunged forwards. He propelled her unceremoniously out of harm’s way and through the tent’s entrance. Even before she landed hard on the ground in the thin light of dawn, she could hear sounds of a scuffle from inside the tent.
A firm hand latched on to her upper arm and lifted her to her feet.
‘Hamish!’ Her arms went quickly around her brother, and his around her. ‘Ye came for me.’
‘Aye, sister. Thank God ye’re safe.’
She twisted in his arms at the sound of familiar voices and took in the sights and movement all around her. Gillis, Darach and Broc ran from the woods and returned into it, carrying lifeless soldiers. The bloody-nosed captain stumbled from the tent and fell to the ground. Blood smeared his shirt behind his right shoulder.
At the same time as the sword-wielding MacDonald emerged into the open air, Annabel’s heart leapt with joy at seeing Roderick’s approach from behind the tent. He wiped a blade on the sleeve of his blood-spattered shirt. She didn’t doubt it was he who’d injured Stokes, which had then provided her the opportunity to escape certain harm.
But why hadn’t he killed Stokes? A blade in the kidneys could have felled the man. William’s words came swiftly to her. He’s mine to kill.
Stokes picked himself up off the ground and teetered on his feet. He eyed his surrounds. Soldiers lay dead, their bodies littering the campsite. He glared in defiance at Roderick, Hamish, Annabel and William.
‘Law-breakers! Heathens! Each one of you!’ he yelled. ‘The Crown shall hear of the injustice done here today and you and yours shall all be slain.’
Hamish retaliated with a fist to the captain’s cheek, knocking him back down to the ground. ‘And what of the injustice ye dealt my mother?’
Stokes spat the blood from his mouth. ‘The whore deserved—’
Hamish delivered a boot to the man’s groin. ‘Today, ye die. We’ll bury ye and yer men in unmarked graves, ne’er to be found. The Crown will think ye dishonourable men. Deserters.’
‘Hamish. Stand aside.’ William’s voice carried an undercurrent colder than death. He twirled the sword in his hands then held it still. ‘Stokes. Get up.’
Annabel caught the silent exchange between Roderick and William as if following a preconceived plan. She willingly let Roderick lead her from the scene, knowing what her father was about to do. As she was hurriedly led away, she glanced over her shoulder to see Stokes rise again to his feet. Words, derogatory and vitriolic, spewed from him mouth.
With a rancorous roar, William lifted his broadsword high above his head. In the moment before he cleaved the fatal downward blow, Roderick came to an abrupt halt and swung Annabel into his arms, with her face buried in the curve of his shoulder and neck. Large hands pressed against her ears, sparing her the gruesome sight and sound of her father’s brutal retribution.
She tensed and clung to Roderick, her protector, her tower of strength and safety. Her body shook with the shock of all that had occurred. Her life, and everything that had led to this point, overwhelmingly converged. Her mind shut down.
Consciousness was fading, but from somewhere in her foggy brain, she heard Roderick call her name. Again, and again, endearingly soft, drawing her up and out of her dark abyss. Feeling gradually returned to numb limbs. Warmth replaced cold with his lips against her brow. Awareness and the scent of his skin revived her.
She knew Roderick must, by now, be privy to her secret. It all made sense. He’d gone to see her father to demand from him the truth of her past. Even if William had not confided in him, then Roderick would surely have overheard her confrontation with Stokes.
To be held in disfavour through lack of trust was one thing, but for Roderick to learn that Stokes’s blood flowed through her veins, and possibly Roderick’s unborn child, was another.
For how long he held her, she couldn’t say, but when she was gently passed into the awkward embrace of another, and heard that man whisper, ‘Annabel. Daughter,’ she broke down and wept.
It was the first time in her life William MacDonald had held her in his arms. The first time he’d shown her any kindness and affection. The first time he’d acknowledged her as a member of his family.
She wept until exhausted of tears. Only then did William lead her away from the surrounding carnage to the stream’s edge. Together, they sat down on the grassy verge.
It was a long moment before he asked, ‘How did ye ken? About yer mother?’
‘She confessed all to me before she passed. She wanted me to understand why ye treated me as ye did. I promised her nae to tell ye I knew. It would serve nae purpose. Despite everything, I’ve always, and still do, consider ye my father.’
He did not look at her, but Annabel could see his eyes turn damp.
‘Yer mother said it was a Redcoat deserter who dishonoured her.’
‘Aye, because she kenned ye’d confront or want to kill every regiment in the Highlands and that would have been to yers and the clan’s detriment. Military retaliation would have been harsh and oppressive.’
William picked up a sizeable stone and threw it with force upstream. The loud plop punctuated the smooth gliding music of running water. ‘Yer mother protected me and the clan, and yet I wasnae there to protect her.’
Annabel laid her hand over his. ‘What’s done is done.’
‘It wasnae until I heard Stokes speak the truth that I kenned it was him.’ William gathered Annabel’s hands in his. This time, he met her eyes. ‘My actions today were to atone for what he did to yer mother and I couldnae let the same happen to ye.’
‘Mother would be proud … as am I.’
He pressed the heels of both hands to his tear-filled eyes. ‘Ye’ve borne the brunt of my anger and resentment all these years. For that, I’m ashamed. Can ye forgive me?’
Annabel gave him a conciliatory smile. ‘I forgave ye the day mother died.’
He nodded, but still wore a deep frown.
‘What troubles ye?’ she asked.
‘That ye’d involved yersel with Jacobite rebels and I kenned nothing of it.’
She opened her mouth to justify her actions, but he cut her off.
‘’Tis obvious why any Scot loathes a Sassenach, and I understand from where yer hatred for the English comes, but I’m cursed for nae having shown ye the care and guidance a parent should.’
She followed his gaze to where Roderick and the men ferried the dead into the woods.
‘Roderick explained everything to me,’ he said.
Panic rose. ‘Everything?’ she asked.
‘Ye risked yer life too many times so that ye might preserve another’s. One of those men was my brother.’
‘Aye. Uncle Lachlan. I arranged his safe passage to France.’
William squeezed her hands. ‘Thank ye. My brother and I parted on bad terms but I wish him nae harm. How does he fare?’
‘Life on the run left him malnourished and he is easily identified by the welt on his cheek. If the Watch were to catch him, or if any disloyal clansman were looking to claim the reward for his capture …’
William would have understood her unspoken conclusion, but was that admiration in his eyes?
‘I’d always considered myself the fiercest of Highland warriors, yet ye’ve demonstrated more courage than me in yer short lifetime. I’m proud to call ye daughter.’
His voice was so unusually gentle. Annabel struggled with her own emotions. Her heart burst with what she could never put into words. But then, ‘Ye smiled, Father!’ She laughed with surprise. ‘Ye ne’er smile.’
‘Ye’ve given me good reason to do so.’ The softness of his voice belied hard-hearted distance in his eyes.
He stood and assisted Annabel to her feet. ‘This Roderick MacLeod. I like him. I approve of him. ’Twas he and Hamish who forced me to face the devil I’d become. If nae for them, I wouldnae be here, and I wouldnae see ye as clearly as I see ye now.’
Today, William MacDonald had shown himself to be the man with whom Annabel’s mother had fallen in love with, and married. A proud Highland warrior who was not above being humble, repentant, and fiercely protective of his family.
Birdsong served as a reminder of a new day dawned.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Full daylight is nearly upon us. There’s much to do before we leave here.’
They joined the men and worked fast and tirelessly. The dead, and all their belongings, including saddlery and weapons, were buried deep in the earth inside the woods, their graves unmarked and scattered. The stained soil where they’d been slain was dug out, removed and tipped into the stream. Roderick reclaimed his horse and those taken from Finvreck. The rest he set free.
Down by the stream, they washed dirt and blood accumulated on skin and clothes. Roderick approached Annabel with her cloak in hand and wrapped it around her shoulders. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye for fear of what she might see there.
Once he’d fastened the clasp of her cloak, he took her aside and settled one hand on her left shoulder, the other beneath her chin. ‘Look at me, Annabel.’
She did.
‘Stokes, did he …’
‘Nae.’ She pulled the knife from her pocket, explaining how and why she’d used it on herself.
His hand fell from her chin to grip her right shoulder. ‘I thank God for your tenacity and courage.’ He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry for what happened to your mother and for all you’ve endured in consequence. If I could take your hurt away, I would.’
The tight lines around his eyes and mouth said he meant every word.
‘Like William and Hamish,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep your secret safe. You needn’t worry about Broc, Gillis and Darach. They were well into the woods when Stokes blurted his despicable crime. Your maid, Jessie. Does she or anyone else know?’
‘Nae.’
In the silence between them, he looked so thoroughly exhausted, like a man who’d suffered lengthy torture.
‘And I am so sorry,’ she said, ‘that in saving my life, ye were forced to do the verra thing ye abhor. Violence and bloodshed. Ye’ll remember that day in the cave, when we—’
She couldn’t bring herself to say made love, because of the profound realisation that she did, wholeheartedly and without reservation, love Roderick MacLeod.
Her gaze fell at his feet. She said, ‘I’d asked ye to promise that ye’d ne’er, on account of me, do or say anything to endanger or put at risk yer life, or any member of yer clan. I fear now for what today’s repercussions might bring.’
Roderick gently turned her face up to meet his. ‘Should others come to seek the captain’s whereabouts, I will answer any questions asked, but a man like Stokes will not be missed, nor found. As for the violence and bloodshed …’
His eyes travelled all over her face. His thumb brushed back and forth across her chin. ‘I would risk all to keep you safe.’ His hand moved to cup the base of her head.
Annabel tried to ask if it were she he’d fought for, or his child, assuming she was pregnant, but the words wouldn’t come. She didn’t know whether his hand guided her cheek to lie against his chest, or whether she unconsciously did so. What mattered was that her world had changed yet again.
She’d finally earned the love and respect of one laird—her adoptive father—and now needed to be sure of having earned those merits in the arms of another. A laird with whom she’d fallen in love. The man to whom, in God’s eyes, she wished to legally wed.
It was a matter of days before her menses were due. Would Roderick declare his hand for her or send her home? She wanted desperately for him to love her for herself. Soon she would know.
They were apologetically interrupted by a shout from Darach. ‘We should leave.’
Annabel sensed Roderick’s reluctance to let her go. She clung to hope.
They joined the others.
Gillis pointed to William’s broadsword. ‘Concealing small blades on our person will be easy enough, but for ye, that is less inconspicuous.’
‘I’ll hide it weel enough,’ said William, wrapping it in cloth. ‘’Tis best to return to our respective keeps under the protection of dense woodland.’
‘Aye,’ nodded Darach. ‘Even though it will take us four days or so to reach Finvreck, we’ll be less likely to cross paths with roaming regiments.’
Annabel gave collective heartfelt thanks to the men for having risked their lives to save hers.
Broc said to William, ‘’Twas an honour to do for yer kin what ye did for me and mine.’
William slapped a hand on Broc’s shoulder. ‘A debt weel paid. I trust yer wife and son enjoy good health.’
‘Aye. They do.’
William shuffled back and settled both hands on his hips. His chin dipped down.
The time had come to part ways. ‘Goodbye, Father,’ said Annabel.
He cleared his throat, and looked everywhere but at her. ‘Goodbye, lass.’
She threw her arms around his neck. His arms came lightly around her back. Annabel sensed his awkwardness. In the moment when she would have withdrawn from him, he held on a moment longer and tightened his embrace.
He surprised her with a kiss to her forehead, then said in a gruff voice, ‘Say goodbye to yer brother.’
Hamish took her hand and she hugged her brother tight. ‘Goodbye, Hamish, and thank ye.’
In her ear he whispered, ‘I didnae ken about Mother. If nae for Roderick forcing the truth from Father, I’d be none the wiser. I’m sorry. I should ne’er have let Father treat ye so puirly. I should have demanded answers from him long before now.’
Annabel pulled back. Hamish looked fey with grief. ‘Dinnae fash yersel about it.’ She wrapped her arms around him once more. ‘Now that ye ken, I nae longer carry the burden of the past.’
Over his shoulder, she watched the two lairds locked in a firm handshake.
‘Safeguard my daughter, MacLeod,’ said William.
‘Always. With my life,’ said Rodrick.
Each of them saddled up. Annabel glimpsed the pain of separation in her father’s eyes. In his customary stern voice, he farewelled her. ‘Be sure to come visit a foolish old man once in a while!’
He turned his horse’s head and rode away with Hamish. Annabel caught herself smiling after them.
A gusty wind had kicked up, curvetting through the woodland trees and pushing a ghostly morning mist before it.
Annabel and her rescuers rode away, leaving the wretched souls of the newly departed to wail in their wake.