Skene didn’t care for being left behind. He had no wife, and his mother had died several winters past. He liked to ride out with Marcus because he knew the day was coming when he would have other responsibilities and would have to remain at the castle while the younger lads went out to seek adventure.
He sat in the hall, long after the supper had been cleared away and the conversation had died to hushed whispers. Men had unbelted their kilts and lain down for the night. He heard a quick step on the stone floor and looked up. Young Senga Robertson was hurrying along, her eyes on him. He started to smile until he realized her eyes were wide with horror and there was fresh blood on her hands.
“Come quickly…” She reached out for him, unaware her hands were covered in blood. “Oh please, come very quickly.”
Her frantic tone gained plenty of attention. Men who had been doing their best to woo the household maids came out of the shadows as those sleeping awoke and raised their heads. They all instantly recognized the scent of blood.
Skene knew the men were getting to their feet, but he followed Senga as she pulled him down the passageway and back into the darkened areas of the castle.
“Here now, lass.” He pulled her to a stop as he drew his sword. More men caught up to them, and he let Senga lead him to a small cell.
“She is dying,” Senga said as Skene took in Duana.
He put his sword down and dropped to his knees next to the Head of House. She struggled to draw in breath, her clothing soaked with her life’s blood.
“Ye there.” Skene spoke to a younger lad who stood with his sword still drawn. “Wake the castle and the Tanis. Lower the gate, and get the mistress down here to see what can be done. Quickly, man.”
There was immediate action. In a few moments, Skene heard the bells on the walls ringing. The level of light increased as torches kept at the ready for emergencies were lit.
“There is…naught…to do.” Duana’s voice was just a strained whisper. Skene reached for her hand, at a complete loss as to how to comfort a dying woman.
Ailis Robertson came into the room in only a dressing robe, her husband on her heels. “Here now, mistress.”
Ailis knelt down and looked at the wound, but Duana had been run straight through her body. Her firmly laced bodice had kept her alive because it kept the wound from spilling her blood too quickly. She opened her eyes and looked at Ailis.
“Ye…likely think…it…just…of Fate.”
“I think nothing of the sort.” Ailis took Duana’s hand as Skene gratefully relinquished it.
“Who did this?” Bhaic was there on one knee, his expression grim. Duana had lowered her eyelids. He tightened his jaw and reached out to press on the wound. “Duana, I must know.”
The Head of House jumped as pain went through her. But she opened her eyes and looked at Bhaic. “Robert Gunn,” she answered softly. “He…claimed he was…wed…by proxy to…Helen…and took…”
Duana was out of breath. She struggled to draw in more, but there was a rattle in her chest. She looked at Bhaic and then smiled as she appeared to be looking beyond him. “Oh, Willie…” she whispered with a smile on her lips. “It’s been so long…since I saw ye…me sweet husband.”
Suddenly sitting up, Duana reached out to someone only she could see, with a smile that spoke of love. It was so bright, her eyes glittered with it, and in the next moment, her body slumped back into Bhaic’s arms, her chest still as her eyes shut and death took her. He laid her down gently while those watching made the sign of the cross.
“Skene.” Bhaic spoke quietly. “I charge ye with me wife.”
Ailis looked up. Bhaic offered her a hand, helping her gain her feet before he nodded. “I must go. Ye’ll stay in our chambers until I am certain Helen was the only target of Morton’s attack.” He looked past her at Skene. “Take no chances.”
“Aye,” Skene responded.
Bhaic gave his wife a quick kiss before he was out the door and heading toward the hall. He cursed when he arrived at the doors, because the storm was fully on them. Snow came down in plump, wet clumps. Tracks would be filled in quickly as the wind swept snow into drifts, and the horses wouldn’t be happy about venturing out.
But there was no choice. Because there was no way he was going to tell his brother he’d let his wife be taken.
Even though that was exactly what had happened.
* * *
Robert Gunn didn’t share his food with her.
At first, Helen would gladly have refused. Three days later, it was becoming harder to take comfort in her pride because her belly ached and the cold threatened to snap her in half. She tried to eat the snow, but it soon left a ring of blisters on the inside of her mouth.
Robert came and sat near her at last. He considered her as he chewed on a piece of bread. Her belly rumbled low and long in response. She looked away only to hear him grunt at her efforts to maintain her pride.
“I do nae want a wife,” he declared firmly.
“Excellent.” Helen looked back at him and lifted her bound hands up.
“The Earl of Morton wed us by proxy.”
Helen glared at him in response.
Robert snorted, a hint of a smile raising the corners of his lips. “No argument? I expected one from ye.”
“When it comes to the Earl of Morton and his ideas concerning marriage, there is no sense in pointing out what is logical. The man seems to have no care for anything but his agendas.”
“Aye,” Robert agreed, noting her surprise. “The man forced me to accept his arrangement, sure enough. I’ve no desire to strike a blow at me fellow Highlanders.”
“The MacPhersons will no’ take doing murder inside their castle while they gave ye shelter as anything else.”
Robert Gunn knew what he’d done and was content with his actions. It was horrifying to look into the eyes of a man who felt no remorse. He viewed his choices as ones he’d made for the best reasons. That meant she was at his mercy.
Completely at his mercy.
* * *
Marcus raised his fist, telling his men to pull up.
He turned his head, listening intently as he tried to identify what had gained his attention.
“Marcus!” Kam raised his hand and waved in the air from just over the rise behind them.
“That lad is killing his horse,” Finley growled.
Kam struggled up to them, his horse snorting as it was allowed to stop for a rest. “Trouble at the castle,” Kam got out between the snorts coming from his horse.
Marcus felt a chill go down his spine. “What sort of trouble?”
* * *
The weather broke at last, granting them a clear blue sky and bright sun that made the new snow sparkle. It was magical, unless one’s toes were frozen.
Helen tried to curl hers in an effort to get some warmth into them.
They’d only stopped because the horses were exhausted and the Gunns had decided the remedy was to steal fresh mounts.
Robert tied her to a tree with a wink. “Do nae worry, lass. As soon as we arrive home, I’ll have more time for ye.”
“Why are ye playing the puppet to Morton?”
Robert stopped and considered her as he slid his dagger into a scabbard hanging from his belt. “I gave me word to the man. So I’ll see it through.”
“He is a long way from here, and the MacPhersons are much closer,” she warned him.
She caught a flicker of distaste in his eyes. “And yet, we’ve all felt his reach. Have we no’, mistress? Only a fool would anger him.” Robert sent her a hard look. “Ye did so, and now ye see the man has plenty of resources to strike back at ye.”
“I would have thought a fellow Highlander would no’ have anything to do with Morton’s vengeance.”
Robert leaned down and lowered his voice. “Marcus was in chains for a day. I was rotting in that dungeon for two years. Wedding ye was a price I was willing to pay to be free.”
“I am another man’s wife.”
“With no dowry and the wrath of the regent aimed at him for keeping ye?” Robert shook his head. “With ye gone, his father will make Marcus see reason. As a bastard, he’ll be wise to accept. Just as I was when I took Morton’s offer. Ye”—Robert’s tone took on a stern warning—“will do the same, for I’ll no’ be suffering yer discontent. Ye will no’ be fed unless ye please me.”
He turned and left her, disappearing over the rise. Her chest tightened as she fought against the rope binding her to the tree. She felt the skin on her wrists tearing, but that didn’t deter her. She was fighting for her life, one of her own choosing.
Marcus.
He was her choice. As she worked her wrists back and forth across the rough bark of the tree, she fought back the lash of reality. The MacPhersons would be in better standing with Morton if she were gone. Marcus would also be viewed in a kinder light by his fellow clansmen.
Stop it! she chided herself. Marcus had declared himself to her. All her fretting was an insult to his integrity.
And still, she fought against the tide of her doubts just as surely as she battled to free herself from the rope around her wrists. It felt as if she were trying to change all of the world and make life suit her whims. Of course that was ridiculous. Well, as ridiculous as realizing she needed Marcus as much as her next breath.
She loved him.
For a moment, she leaned back against the tree, exhausted by the admission and nearly smothering beneath the weight of her guilt for having resisted acknowledging it until now.
Now, when it was too late to tell him.
No.
It was more than a word; it was a rejection of all her circumstances. Marcus would never surrender, and neither would she. Helen yanked on her bindings, and one of the coils of rope suddenly gave. It slipped right off her wrist. She gasped and pulled on her arms until one hand popped completely free. She sat stunned for a moment as she looked at the bloody mess her hands had become. Her fingers were so cold that she couldn’t feel them, and she realized that the rope had slipped free because her body was contracting as it tried to conserve warmth.
The new blanket of snow surrounded her. She stared at it for only a moment before she started across it because there was no help for it. Robert might return at any moment. The worn-out horses were clustered under a tree, trying to huddle together and ease their suffering. The Gunn had provided no food for the poor creatures, abandoning them now that they had no more strength to be used.
Helen spoke softly to one, reaching out to run a kind hand along its neck. “Carry me away, and I will find ye a stable.”
She didn’t know if she was trying to convince herself or the horse of that fact, only that she had to concentrate on doing what she could instead of the very real fact that Robert would easily ride her down if he succeeded in stealing a fresh horse.
The animal was reluctant to leave the shelter it had found but it did, beginning to trot down the road they’d come. Helen forced a smile onto her lips, refusing to let doubt into her thoughts. She had to succeed, and what frightened her more than anything was the certain knowledge that Robert Gunn felt just as strongly about making good on his word to keep her.
She would be an unwanted thing for the rest of her days.
* * *
The horse’s strength truly was spent.
Helen felt the poor beast limping as it slowed. She rubbed its neck but accepted that she couldn’t ride it any longer. There was nothing in sight, and it grieved her to know she could not make good on her promise to find it a stable. All she might do was see it to a thicket, where the animal tossed its head at her in farewell.
“Aye, good luck to ye too,” Helen muttered as she surveyed the landscape.
The trail they’d left was plain, making her feel as though her efforts were hopeless. While she stood contemplating her options, she heard the sound of water.
The water wouldn’t show her tracks.
Of course, she might freeze if she got her feet wet.
It was a chance she had to take. So was turning and moving back upstream. She’d find where the river split and take a different route south. It was slow going as she climbed over boulders and trudged through ankle-deep water. She tucked her skirts up high to keep them from the water as she tried to ignore the way her belly hurt.
She had never been so hungry.
But there was nothing to do but go on. She only wished she didn’t know just how alike she and the horse were. At some point, she would have to accept she had no more strength, and then she’d have to wait for her death.
* * *
Helen understood how the horse felt now.
There was something about a thicket of tree branches that was inviting, sheltering, and really very comforting. She lay down on a patch of fallen leaves that was bare of snow and enjoyed the way it felt warm against her back.
Yes. So nice.
She drew in a deep breath, and then another slower one. She’d been trembling for so long, it felt rather normal. Yet as she stared up into the tangle of dry leaves and bare branches, she felt the tremors leaving her body.
That was much better. In fact, she didn’t feel so very cold any longer. Just tired. So weary. Sleep offered her release and balm for her aches, so she went to it willingly, happily wrapped in its embrace.
* * *
Helen was gone by the time Marcus tracked her to the thicket.
He reached down and felt the ground but there was no warmth left, only the faint indentation from her body. Bhaic was farther down the slope, inspecting the tracks that led away from the spot.
Marcus joined his brother, both of them working their way to the top of a rise. They stayed low to the ground, hugging the earth as they peered over it.
“She never knew how close she was to shelter,” Marcus said bitterly. Below them was the castle of the Earl of Sutherland.
“One can never be sure if the Sutherlands can be trusted,” Bhaic answered.
“Just what we need,” Marcus replied. “Another earl who thinks himself king.”
“Aye,” Bhaic said. “But if Helen is still alive, she’s down there. Someone picked her up.”
Marcus nodded. “I’m going after her.”
“Agreed,” Bhaic said.
“Ye are no’ joining me, Brother.”
“The hell I’m not,” Bhaic argued.
Marcus caught his brother by the bicep. “We can nae allow the Sutherlands to have both of us. Ye must leave me here.”
“So ye can ride up to that castle alone?”
Marcus slowly grinned. “I was no’ thinking of riding up.”
Bhaic felt his lips twitch at his brother’s daring. “Marcus, the Sutherlands make a good show of supporting the king. Cormac might well put ye back in chains and write to Morton.”
“Aye,” Marcus agreed. “He might at that.”
Bhaic shoved his brother when all Marcus did was continue to look down on the castle.
“Perhaps it might be better to gain Symon’s support in getting Helen back.”
Marcus turned a hard look on his brother. “Ye’d never have left Ailis. So do nae ask me to do anything of the sort with Helen. She is mine.”
Bhaic slowly nodded. He clasped his brother’s hand. “I’ll be waiting for ye.” His voice never faltered, but every man among them knew the situation didn’t favor them. Not one bit.
Marcus didn’t hesitate. He pulled his kilt off, leaving his legs covered in a set of plain trews that protected him during the colder months. He reached up and pulled the fine brooch off his bonnet before trading swords with one of his men for one that had a plainer hilt.
Indeed, it was deceptive and the Sutherlands wouldn’t take it kindly if they discovered him. Men could be hung for disguising who they were in the Highlands.
Marcus didn’t give it another thought. At that moment, there was only the need to get Helen back.
So that was what he was going to do.
God help the man who stepped into his path.
* * *
Helen gasped, her eyes opening wide because it felt as if someone was peeling the skin off her feet.
“I know, it stings,” someone said softly. “Yet it will keep ye from losing yer toes to the frost.”
Helen looked at the girl sitting beside her. She was pretty, with golden hair and large, blue eyes. “I am Annella. Ye are at Sutherland Castle.”
Helen was slumped in a huge chair with a padded seat and back. At her feet, two maids were gently working her stockings free from her toes. The firelight made the ice crystals sparkle. Annella offered her a glass. “This will dull the pain.”
Helen sniffed the liquid and discovered it was nothing more than whisky. She downed it and gasped as it burned a path to her empty stomach.
“Who are ye?” Annella asked. “Yer arisaid is plain.”
So it was. Helen had adopted a brown length of cloth down her back instead of one with clan colors when Marcus dropped her in the MacPherson yard. “I am Helen Grant.”
“And who is yer father?” Annella asked sweetly.
Too sweetly, Helen decided. She looked past the girl toward the shadows of the room and heard a grunt. Annella offered her a smile before she stood and walked away.
“I have nothing to hide,” Helen said.
The man who emerged from the shadows was just as massive as Marcus. He had the same golden hair and blue eyes as Annella, but there was nothing sweet about him. He was a hardened clansman, and the gold brooch on his bonnet winked at her.
“Cormac Sutherland?” Helen asked.
His lips twitched. “So ye know who I am.”
“No’ really,” she answered as the maids finished and left her feet soaking in a basin of warm water. Helen was avoiding looking down. If she was going to lose any of her toes, she would have to mourn them later, once she’d determined her circumstances. “I know what gold looks like and who is the eldest son of the Earl of Sutherland.”
Cormac nodded once. “Yet I do nae know who ye are, mistress.”
“Helen Grant. Me father has a small home that me brothers farm.”
“I see,” Cormac answered. “No one of any importance, is that what ye would have me believe?”
Helen made a motion over her clothing. “Do I look as though I come from a family with means?”
He shook his head but looked at her boots. “Those are fine work.” He swept his eyes over her once again and aimed a hard look at her. “So tell me why yer wrists are bleeding from being bound. If ye are no one of any importance.”
Helen looked at her wrists. Honestly, she’d forgotten about them, but now that she was warming up, the wounds were throbbing. In fact, the pain felt as though it was traveling up her body in a thick wave that knocked her back into unconsciousness when it hit her head.
* * *
“Ye might have let her eat something first,” Annella said to her brother.
“I need to know if we are bringing someone dangerous into the castle,” Cormac replied. He considered their guest with frustration.
“Oh aye,” his sister replied. “She appears so very fearsome.”
“I detest that tone of yers,” Cormac informed her. “What did our aunt teach ye, anyway? How to vex men?”
“I believe she called it minding me place.” His sister shot him a look full of loathing. “That I might always be pleasing to my lord-and-master husband. According to our dear aunt, that is a woman’s place.”
“And ye are still angry with Father for sending ye south,” Cormac said. He made a soft sound under his breath before he scooped Helen up and carried her to the bed. The maids hurried in front of him to pull down the bedding. “I need to know more of why she was found out there.”
“Clearly someone stole her,” Annella answered her brother. “Is nae that what ye forever warn me might happen if I stray from the care of yer men?”
“If that is so, then ye know I have no’ just been trying to frustrate ye with me warnings.”
Annella stuck her tongue out at him in response.
“I hope ye never have reason to know that me warnings are justified, Annella. There are men in this world who differ little from beasts.”
“A few women as well,” Annella responded. “I met them at court.” She shuddered.
His sister smiled at him, hugging him before she went on her way, two of his men trailing her. Cormac took a moment outside the chamber door to instruct the guards to ensure that their guest remained inside the chamber until he’d had a chance to learn her story. It had better be a good one, supported by facts he could see for himself, because the times were uncertain, and he would not allow a would-be assassin into his father’s castle.
She wouldn’t be the first woman used for such a purpose, which meant he wouldn’t be the first man to have to stomach his distaste for hanging a woman.
But he’d do what had to be done to ensure the safety of the Sutherlands.
* * *
Robert stopped and looked at the tracks where they disappeared into the water. He gave a little grunt before he straightened and rejoined his men.
“How does a hot meal sound, lads?”
His captain offered him a doubtful look. “At Sutherland, ye mean?”
“Aye,” Robert confirmed. “Since we no longer have a captive to hide, we can blend in with the merchants going up to the castle. I hear the Sutherlands still keep a lower table for travelers.”
It was an old tradition that dated back to the Crusades. The last table in the hall would be open to anyone seeking food. Of course, it was not wise to enter the castle of your enemy, but there were advantages to being only a chief of a branch of the Gunn clan. No one would think of taking Robert hostage because the laird could easily replace him instead of paying a ransom.
“Let’s fill our bellies before making our way north.”
“And yer wife?” his captain inquired.
Robert shrugged and looked up the river. “She surprised me, no doubt about it, but she’ll no’ last much longer. No’ with how empty her belly is. Likely better this way. I did nae want a wife, and the wolves will take care of her body.”
It was harsh, just like life. He admired Helen for taking a hand in her own fate. Fate was a bitch, and all a man might really ask was to die well.
Helen had achieved that goal. It made him just a bit sorry that he wouldn’t be getting a son from her. Strength had to be bred into offspring. She would have produced a fine litter for him, but at least she’d given him a clear idea of what to seek in a bride.
* * *
Marcus was in her dreams.
But in reality, she was stuck inside another castle. Helen awoke at first light and tested her feet. There was still pain, but she was relieved to see that all her toes were pink. She wrinkled her nose when she looked at her stockings. They had dried during the night but were stained with mud and muck and smelled to high heaven.
There was a rap on the door as she was contemplating them and the necessity of dressing.
“I’ve brought ye something much nicer to wear,” Annella said as she pushed the door wide, without a care for the fact that Helen was wearing only a chemise and there were three retainers looking in on her.
Two maids followed their mistress, their arms heavy with clothing. Annella might have been young, but clearly she was experienced in commanding the staff. She pointed at the table, and the maids laid down their burdens. The retainers sent Helen a look that made it clear they’d snap her neck if they heard even a tiny sound of alarm from inside the chamber.
“Me father wishes to see ye.”
The door hadn’t fully closed, and now two young men came through, shouldering a tub. They set it down, and a line of other boys began to dump water into it.
“We’ll have ye fit for him in no time at all,” Annella declared as the last of the boys left after pouring steaming hot water into the tub.
One of the maids had come right over to Helen and begun to gather up her chemise in order to pull it over her head. The door was barely closed when Helen was stripped bare. She happily climbed into the tub for the shelter it offered, but the maids followed her, scrubbing every inch of her body while their mistress looked on.
“Out now,” Annella said. “It’s too cold to linger.”
Helen tried not to shirk, but Annella noticed. “Does no’ yer father’s house have servants who bathe ye?”
“Nay,” Helen answered as the maids dried her body before one of them offered her a clean chemise.
“Hmmm,” Annella offered by way of response. “Me mother instructed me on no’ flinching while I was being bathed because there would be gossip that I had something to hide, such as a witch mark.”
Helen sat down and pulled on stockings that a maid tied securely above her knee with a garter. “Well, me father’s house is modest. There are nae servants to tend to the tasks I can do meself.”
She stood and had a hip bolster fastened around her. Next came an underskirt of thick wool flannel. She enjoyed the weight of it against her legs while it cut out the chill, and then one of the maids brought over a pleated skirt.
It had been a long time since she’d worn a bodice and skirt that matched. So long, that she realized clothing wasn’t very important. No, being with the people you loved, that was what mattered.
She’d never told Marcus she wanted to be his wife. It was a failing she prayed she would receive an opportunity to correct.
Of course, Fate had never been given to granting her desires.
* * *
Cormac Sutherland had learned a great deal from his father.
The earl considered Helen as she was brought into his private study. Cormac stood off to one side, clearly there to protect his father should the need arise.
Such was the way life was. A wise person always took precautions against attack. Helen felt a nip of guilt for how hard her thoughts had been toward Marcus. He was only doing what harsh reality had taught men to do in order to defend their own families.
“Me son claims ye say yer father is a man of no great name,” the earl began.
“That is true,” Helen answered. She’d lowered herself to the man and stood waiting for him to decide what her fate was. “Although he has more than many. A small plot of land to call his own and a good house.”
“And ye have brothers?” the earl asked.
Helen nodded.
“No man should ask for more than enough and healthy children he is blessed with seeing grow to adulthood. Three sons, aye, that’s a fine thing for a man to have.”
His eyes glazed over for a moment, making it clear he knew about loss from personal experience.
“Let me see yer wrists.”
She’d had her hands clasped behind her back. It took a moment for her to extend them.
“Closer, me eyesight is no’ what it once was.”
Cormac moved with her, making sure he was close enough to intercede should she lunge at his father.
“A man of no great name, and yet”—the earl looked up from the torn mess of her wrists—“someone took ye by force.”
Helen stepped back.
“Deciding whether or no’ to trust me with the tale?” the earl deduced.
“I’d surely be a fool to think ye do nae hold a great deal of power over me.” Marcus would have had something to say about her sharp tongue, and she let out a little scoffing sound.
“I know that sound,” the earl declared. “There’s a man who’s told ye that ye have spirit.”
“More than is healthy for me, in his opinion,” Helen confirmed.
“Who?” Cormac wasn’t willing to let the conversation dissolve into one of pleasantries.
“Marcus MacPherson.”
The earl’s eyes narrowed. “Shamus’s bastard? He’d say something like that. Marcus is a fine War Chief, and no mistake, I’d ride beside him. What are ye to him?”
Helen debated her answer; it might serve as her deliverance or her undoing. The Sutherlands ruled as kings in the north. There was no telling what they’d do with her once they established that she had worth.
“And who stole ye from him?” Cormac demanded.
“Robert Gunn.” Helen took the opportunity to shift attention from herself, looking at Cormac in time to see the man’s eyes widen.
“Bloody hell. The man is inside the hall this very moment.” He cursed before he went toward the door. At the last second, he turned and looked at her. “With me, mistress, and do nae make me drag ye. I will no’ be leaving ye here with me father.”
“I’m coming with ye,” the earl announced. “I would see what Robert has to say for himself.”
Fear went through Helen, and she recoiled. It wasn’t a choice; it was pure reaction. “Robert is inside yer castle?”
Cormac had the door open. “I just said so.”
“He murdered the MacPherson’s Head of House.”
She gained a glimpse of Cormac’s rage before the man ran down the passageway. Retainers noticed him and joined the charge. One of them caught her by the bicep and dragged her along. The hall of the Sutherlands was as grand as that of the MacPhersons. Helen only had a moment to note the noble coat of arms displayed above the high ground before Cormac was shouting at men sitting at the end of the hall.
“Chief Robert Gunn,” Cormac bellowed in a voice laced with authority. “Ye will stand and explain yerself.”
Everyone in the hall came to a stop. Children were pushed behind adults as Sutherland retainers flooded in from the passageways in response to Cormac’s tone. More than one sword was pulled, and the few beggars who had been breaking bread at the low table scurried away, leaving Robert and his men to face the Sutherland.
Robert stood and caught sight of her. His lips actually twitched. He faced Cormac.
“I see ye found me wife,” Robert began.
“Yer what?” Cormac turned to look at Helen. But he caught sight of someone behind her and his eyes widened.
“She’s my wife,” Marcus announced. “And I’m going to enjoy choking the life out of ye for taking her, Robert Gunn.”
The Sutherlands were alarmed to discover Marcus in their midst. There was a scuffle as they moved toward Marcus, and he threw a couple of them off him like puppies. Helen gasped, trying to run toward him, but the men beside her grabbed her around the waist, lifting her right off her feet as she struggled against their strength. Marcus let out a roar but directed his words toward Cormac.
“Tell yer men to get their hands off me wife.” Only Marcus would be brash enough to issue an order while standing in the hall of another clan.
Damned if she didn’t love him all the more for it, while at the same time, fear snaked down her spine because of the very real danger he was in.
“Hold!”
It was the earl who spoke, and his people responded to his command instantly, turning to look toward him.
“I will be the one to decide this matter.” The earl spoke evenly and firmly. “Since ye have both brought it into me hall.”
The earl didn’t climb up to his high ground. He sat down on a bench nearby and gestured for his men who were holding Helen to release her. She stumbled because they did so very quickly. Their unbreakable grips just opened, and she had to catch herself. The earl pointed to a spot near him. She drew herself up straight and went to it.
“Now, lass,” the earl began. “Who are ye married to?”
She felt Marcus watching her. Oh, there were so many others there, but the only one who mattered was Marcus and the fool he’d made of himself by risking his neck to come after her.
Which warmed her heart and her temper equally.
“Marcus MacPherson,” she answered clearly.
The earl swept her from head to toe before he looked past her to Marcus. His men released him but stayed close.
“The Earl of Morton”—Robert stepped forward, a parchment in his hand—“wed me to her by proxy.”
“We were already wed, man,” Marcus argued. “And the vows celebrated.”
“No’ when ye left court, they weren’t,” Robert argued. “That makes her yer slut, no’ yer wife.”
Marcus let out a warning sound. “When a man and woman speak their vows before a priest, that’s a wedding, lad.”
“But ye did nae fuck her there.” Robert didn’t hesitate to be blunt. “The earl dissolved the union and wed me to her before ye had her in yer bed. She is my wife and an adulteress.”
Cormac took the parchment from Robert and read it through. He looked up at his father. “It’s sealed, all right.” He handed it to his father, who took a long moment to read the document.
“If ye’re a true subject of the king,” Robert announced, “ye will give her to me.”
“So, ye think to call upon me sense of justice.” The earl spoke clearly, even if his tone was edged with age.
“Aye.” Robert pointed at the parchment. “That is the will of the Earl of Morton. Regent of Scotland. I am a loyal subject.”
“Ye are nothing of the sort,” the earl snapped back, betraying just how quick his wit still was. “Ye were part of the assassination of the Earl of Moray and a supporter of Bothwell and Mary Stuart. Now that ye know yer cause is lost, ye are licking Morton’s balls like the cur ye are.”
There was a round of crusty amusement from the Sutherland retainers.
The earl wasn’t finished, though. “However, I do nae care what this piece of paper says. Ye came to me home after doing murder and stealing another man’s wife. If ye think I am going to grant ye shelter from the justice of the man ye wronged because of some piece of parchment, ye are nae as intelligent as some of me hounds.”
“I took her by order of the Earl of Morton,” Robert insisted.
“Did he instruct ye to do murder?” Marcus asked. “Ye ran a woman through, under me father’s roof.”
There was a ripple of anger among the Sutherlands.
“At least I am no’ the one who snuck into this castle after taking off me plaid so no one knows who I am.” Robert made sure his voice was heard throughout the hall. “Ye are spying on the Sutherlands.”
“No, ye bastard,” Marcus snarled softly. “I’m making sure ye do nae escape, no matter who ye try to hide behind. Ye’ll no’ scare me into letting ye live. Ye ran Duana through in a sewing cell.”
“Ye should hang him.” Robert turned to address the earl. “Before ye find yer castle overrun by the MacPhersons and all yer throats cut.”
The earl was still, his face tight as he contemplated both men. Helen felt her blood running cold because his will would be done. More than a hundred men were looking on, just waiting to do their laird’s bidding. She felt as though her breath was lodged in her throat as the earl raised his hand for silence.
“Marcus MacPherson,” the earl said, “I do nae care very much for ye sneaking into me home.”
There was a ripple of angry agreement from those pressing forward. Marcus adopted his favorite pose—feet braced shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over his chest—and stared straight at the earl without flinching.
“But I admire ye for having the balls to do it.”
There was a scoffing sound from Cormac.
“It’s a Highlander’s way sometimes to do what needs doing, no matter the risk,” the earl continued. He made a motion with his hands. “Back up, lads. No Sutherland will be interfering in this fight.”
Marcus smiled. It was a slow, menacing expression. Helen gripped her skirt, staying in place only by sheer force of will. She needed to interfere but knew it was a lost cause. She’d be asking him to discard who he was, and that wasn’t something Marcus would ever do.
And Duana deserved justice. No matter how bitter the woman had been, Robert had murdered her simply because she was in his way. Marcus couldn’t let the injustice go, and that was the part of him that she realized she’d always known was there.
Marcus spared her one glance and Robert took full advantage of it, launching himself at Marcus. There was a grumble from the watching Sutherlands, but Marcus proved himself worthy by lifting his foot and planting it in Robert’s midsection while he rolled back under the force of the attack. They hit the floor, and Marcus kicked Robert up and off him before flipping over with a motion that showed how strong he was.
“Ye like to hit yer enemies when they aren’t looking, do nae ye, Gunn?” Marcus moved in a slow circle, taking the time to unbutton his doublet and shrug out of it.
“I like victory.” Robert pulled a dagger from his boot. “I’m going to fuck yer woman tonight, while ye’re rotting in a grave.”
He raised the knife up high, proving he knew how to use it. Both men were hard and trained. It was going to be a matter of who made a mistake first.
Helen’s fingers ached from how tightly she was clenching them into fists. Cormac had made his way behind her and caught a handful of her skirt at some point, but she never moved, never made a sound, hardly even drew breath as the fight went on.
It seemed to last forever. Robert drew first blood, slicing a path across Marcus’s forearm as Marcus blocked the blow. Marcus turned and smashed Robert in the groin with his foot, to the delight of those watching. Robert stumbled back, and Marcus pressed his advantage.
The two men ended up on the floor, grunting as they tried to kill one another.
That was of course their common goal. But the similarities ended there. Robert fought to claim a victory that wasn’t rightfully his, so he was choosing to win through might. Marcus refused to allow him to claim it. From the outside, there was little difference between them, but inside, there was a great divide. Honor separated them, and Helen prayed it would be enough.
But Robert’s men weren’t willing to lose. One of them threw a dagger that sank into Marcus’s shoulder. He growled, turning instinctually toward the new attack. Robert lunged forward, his dagger raised high to sink its blade into Marcus’s exposed throat.
Helen surged forward, breaking Cormac’s grip. She watched that dagger moving toward Marcus, the tip looking deadly sharp.
Marcus whipped around, dropping his own weapon as he clasped his hands around Robert’s wrist. Robert jerked as Marcus twisted and turned the knife on him. Robert recoiled, and the two men fell back onto the floor.
Cormac grabbed Helen from behind, pulling her to a stop, while the fight ended as quickly as it had begun. Helen searched both men for signs of life, her eyes widening with horror as a puddle of bright-red blood began to seep across the stone floor.
Helen felt her heart stop. Everyone in the hall seemed frozen, waiting to see which man would rise. Marcus’s shoulder was turning red, the thrown dagger having fallen out to leave the wound open.
He moved. Helen blinked, thinking she had willed him to do so, but he flattened his hands on the floor and pushed himself up and off Robert, who lay staring at the ceiling, his eyes lifeless.
Marcus fixed the Earl of Sutherland with a hard look. “Would ye be so kind as to summon yer priest? I have need of the man.”
Helen broke loose and went to him, inspecting the wound, but she discovered that although it was bleeding heavily, it was not dangerous. Marcus pulled her in front of him.
“It seems we need to be married again.”
* * *
Finley and the other MacPherson retainers were reluctant to come inside the Sutherland stronghold. Marcus rode out with Helen to meet them, not bothering to explain the fresh blood on his shirt. They rode long and hard for the next few days, stopping only when they had left Sutherland land behind.
The tavern where they stopped was better than the last one Marcus had taken her to, but he still had Finley take her above stairs while Marcus tended to the horses. As soon as the door shut, Helen found her composure crumbling. All of the fear she’d refused to show escaped. Tears stung her eyes as she paced around the room, caught between relief that Marcus was alive and anger for the chance he’d taken with his life. Her control seemed exhausted, leaving her furious.
He came into the room without knocking, opening and closing the door with a look that made it plain he felt it his right to share the room with her.
Which it was, but that only made her temper flare when she spied the dried blood on his shirt. That just drove deep how close he’d come to dying.
“What were ye thinking?” she asked. “Going into the Sutherland castle like that? Ye might have been hanged.”
He walked over and put his sword and doublet on the table. “I was thinking I was rescuing ye.”
“Ye were,” she agreed, but her tone was sharp. “But ye should no’ have risked yer life.”
He considered her from behind an unreadable expression, but it broke as his lips twitched and he grinned at her. “Ye were worried about me.”
“Of course I was. Ye acted the damn fool.”
“I acted as yer husband,” he said in a low tone edged with hard certainty. It was hypnotic in a way, especially when she coupled the sound with the way he was looking at her. As though she were something precious to him.
“Come here, lass.” He crooked a finger at her. “I want to hold ye.”
She lifted her chin. “Ye would have been furious with me if I’d done something so dangerous.”
His expression darkened. “Ye can be sure I would. Do nae ye ever test me on that, Helen. I’d have to take ye to task for yer own good.”
“Yet ye expect me to come to ye now, when ye have acted with so little regard for yer safety?”
His lips slowly curled up, and he flashed his teeth at her. “I do.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “I warned ye I would nae be obedient behind closed doors.”
She watched the challenge flash through his blue eyes a moment before he intercepted her and pulled her close. She wiggled, squirming against his hold.
“Have done,” he demanded, clearly becoming exasperated. “It was me duty to see justice done.”
“I know that.” She sent him a hard look.
He let out a little huff and released her. The moment he unlocked his arms, she realized the problem was inside herself, and there was no running from that.
He’d crossed his arms over his chest. “If ye know me nature, why are ye so angry with me?”
“Why?” she asked. She caught the glitter in his eyes even as he controlled his expression. “Oh!” She went back toward him and slapped his chest. Her blow landed with a soft sound; she’d hit him with her open palm because she couldn’t truly hurt him. Indeed, the conflict was within herself, and that was a solid fact.
“Ye know me. Me duty is a part of me.”
“Yes.” She stepped back, feeling as exposed as if she were stripped to her skin. “That’s why I could never truly hate ye. Lord knows, I asked meself why I did no’, and now…”
He lifted her chin. “And now?”
The memory of how much she’d lamented not telling him how she felt tormented her. “I love ye.”
There. She watched her words impact him, saw the way his eyes flickered with emotion before brightening with satisfaction.
“Come.” He pulled her close again.
He nuzzled against her hair, drawing in a deep breath. The memory of him doing so before he left stirred, rising to smother her discontentment. He was hard and warm against her.
“Does that mean ye will have me, lass?” He tilted his head to the side so his lips were next to her ear. “I fear I will lose what little control I have left if ye say no.”
She could no more deny him than hold back the coming winter. “Good.” She slid her hands up his chest. “It seems only fair that ye understand how ye make me feel. As though me mind is no’ me own.”
He cupped her cheeks in his large hands, sending a ripple of awareness across her skin. Her flesh was awakening, becoming eager for his. “For all that it makes me sound like a savage, Helen, I will tell ye the only way I can think of ye is as mine.”
That was perfect. She smiled as his words sank in, and for a moment, their gazes locked together, making them feel as though their very souls were connected. And then he was kissing her, driving away every thought, sweeping them aside like items carefully placed on a tabletop, scattering them onto the floor in a tangle of unrecognizable things that meant nothing. She kissed him back, rising onto her toes so she could press her mouth firmly against his. He cupped the back of her head, keeping her in place while he teased her tongue with his own.
But that wasn’t enough. Both of them craved more than teasing and were impatient to be joined together. He turned her around, seeking out the lacings that held the bodice closed.
“I thought to give ye proper clothing…” Marcus exclaimed as he fought with the ties. “But now I’m rethinking the matter.”
The fabric made a threatening sound that made her squeal. “Do nae ye dare,” she warned him. “I’ve no’ had a proper dress in years.”
He yanked the laces free and the bodice slid down; at the same time she released the waistband of the skirt and reached inside to pop the little tie that held the hip roll in place. Her skirts slipped down her legs and puddled around her ankles, leaving her in a corset and chemise. Marcus cupped her shoulder and turned her, passion brightening his eyes, and he froze.
“I swear, I am going to make sure ye have a dozen of those contraptions,” he declared as he took in the sight of her with her breasts pushed up by the corset.
Helen stepped out of her skirts, putting distance between them. The look on his face made her bold, filling her with a confidence she’d never experienced. She teased the swell of one of her breasts where it sat plump and supported by the corset with just the edge of her chemise peeking out. “Oh, like it, do ye?”
He unbuckled his belt and let his kilt drop to the floor. His member was already stiff, pushing out the front of his shirt. “I do.”
“As do I,” she responded breathlessly.
She moved toward him, undoing one cuff and then the other. He reached over his head and tugged the shirt up and off before facing her in nothing but skin. Helen paused, her attention caught by the bandaging around his wound.
“It’s naught,” he informed her, scooping her up and carrying her to the bed.
They sank onto it in a tangle of limbs, seeking solace in each other’s embrace. Their skin warmed as their hearts accelerated and passion built. Helen couldn’t seem to touch him enough, couldn’t draw in enough of his scent, couldn’t move close enough.
Marcus kissed her again and again. Refusing to sink into her flesh as she craved, instead he cupped her cheeks and took a long time to explore her mouth with his. She made little sounds and listened to the way he growled gently next to her ear. Her need was raging. So was his, and yet he stroked her tenderly, slowly, making her feel cherished.
She returned the favor, showing him with every touch how deeply she needed to be near him.
“Mine,” she muttered against his neck, pressing a kiss to the place where she could feel the beat of his heart.
He caught her head and angled her face up so their eyes met. “Mine,” he said through gritted teeth.
He pushed her back at last, and she purred as he settled between her thighs. Her body was made to cradle his, to take the deep thrust of his hard flesh. Satisfaction was their reward, coming to sweep them both into bliss unmatched by anything else.
* * *
Every castle had its spies.
Sutherland was no exception.
The Earl of Morton read the letter twice before he cursed. Winter was raging around them and the letter had been written two months past, so the matter was well and truly done now.
Well then, Marcus could keep his wife, the earl thought. Of course, there was nothing he could do about it, but Morton had never been one to admit defeat.
Action had to be taken against the MacPhersons.
Some might advise him to allow the lesson to stand as it was. Their castle had been invaded, something no Highlander would sleep easy knowing. It was a good blow against those in the north who believed themselves so far removed from his reach.
Still, he was not content.
But that only made him chuckle.
A wise man was never willing to think he’d done all that he might to further his family. That was the difference between a noble and a commoner. Common men accepted their place, while men such as himself strived to climb higher, against the odds in many cases, and even in defiance of what was considered moral.
Still, he climbed.
The need set him apart, above other men. That was the reason he ruled Scotland: He’d earned it. Someday, he’d answer to God, but until then, he would make other men answer to him.
The Highlanders would learn to respect his will.