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She was not afraid of him.
At least, Helen had told herself so a hundred times over, and had even made certain to tell Marcus MacPherson the same when he was glowering down at her.
Yet, the truth was, she was running from him, and that bit of truth left her cheeks warm from temper. She snorted, finally pleased with some part of her circumstances. Standing in the rain, looking out over a deserted moor, she needed any way to warm herself, even being disgruntled. Her fingers were frozen, and beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all.
“Having second thoughts, Helen?”
Helen turned to look at Brenda Grant. “No, simply enjoying a view that does no’ include MacPherson Castle.”
“Ye were there a long time.” Brenda spoke softly, her tone hinting that she wasn’t convinced by Helen’s answer. “Long enough to consider it home.”
Helen shook her head. “It is no’ me home—that’s why I left with ye.” She felt something tugging at her heart but was determined to resist naming it. She’d made the choice to leave, so there would be no dwelling on anything left behind.
One of the Grant retainers burst out laughing. He was sitting with his comrades farther up the hillside from them in front of a fire. The men had built a crude shelter for the women before withdrawing to what was likely thought to be a respectable distance to preserve their good names. In the middle of the wilderness, it seemed ridiculous.
Brenda let out a sigh. “No’ that I am one to offer advice on men. Me own circumstances are a mess, to be sure.”
She patted the length of wool next to her. “Sit down, Helen, I am nae yer mistress. Share the shelter with me.”
“I’ve no quarrel with me circumstances,” Helen responded. “I am grateful.”
Brenda’s face contorted with disgust. “Oh aye, we are both reduced to being grateful for having to run like a pair of rabbits from the places that should have been our homes. Men have no kindness in them.”
Helen settled down next to Brenda.
“Do ye think they know we’re gone?” Brenda asked.
“I hope no’. The longer they think we’re in the chamber with Ailis, the better.”
Brenda looked at her. “Ye think Marcus will come after ye?”
“Nay, he has too much pride. The man is War Chief of the MacPhersons,” Helen answered. “I worry they will come after ye, because returning ye to Grant land would gain them good favor.”
Brenda was the niece of the current laird of the Grants, and she was a rare beauty. Laird Grant had arranged a second marriage for her, and she’d run before being forced to the altar.
“That is all we are to men in the end. A tool to be utilized,” Brenda said. “Ailis is fortunate to have Bhaic’s love.”
“She is,” Helen agreed as the rain increased and they both drew their feet up.
Brenda’s words were haunting. Helen heard them well into the dark hours of the night, likely because the fairies and other night creatures enjoyed tormenting her by reminding her of her lot. Her simple life had shattered the moment she met Marcus MacPherson. He’d plucked her from her happy home as easily as he might a flower.
But she would not be broken, would not wither. No, she was going to find a way to regain control of her fate. So she’d left MacPherson Castle dressed as Brenda’s serving woman. For sure, many would tell her it was reckless to venture out with so few men, but her alternative was to remain inside the castle and wait for Marcus to force a marriage on her.
She shifted in her sleep, the memory rising in full color. Marcus had lined up his men and offered her as a bride to them. To settle her into her life, he’d said. Well, she’d have none of it. Nor was she going to think about the way the man had decided to fight over her before one and all, as though he’d offered her even a single kind word that might have made her inclined to accept him. Damn him. He was her captor. She wouldn’t be forgetting that.
Ever.
* * *
MacPherson Castle was huge. It needed to be, because there were over three hundred retainers alone. When supper was laid out on the tables, their conversation echoed through the stone corridors. But that didn’t stop a woman’s scream from penetrating the chatter. Men came off their benches, their kilts flipping aside as they started toward the back stairwell where the sound had come from.
What stopped them was their War Chief, Marcus MacPherson, coming through the wide arched passageway. He had a woman with him who wasn’t pleased to be his captive.
“What are ye doing?” Shamus MacPherson demanded from his seat at the high table.
“Uncovering a deception,” Marcus replied to his father and laird. He set the woman in front of the MacPherson laird. “Helen and Brenda are no longer in this keep. Ailis has kept to her chamber to deceive us all into thinking Helen and Brenda were there with her. While this one”—he pointed at the girl—“has made sure no one saw her face to notice the game.”
Shamus dropped his knife and looked at the girl. Her eyes widened. “I did as I was told by me mistress.” She lowered herself awkwardly.
He snorted at her in reprimand. “Allowing her to act foolishly and leave the protection of this stronghold is no’ to be commended, girl. Ye lack the sense to be a personal servant to me daughter-by-marriage.”
The girl paled, shaking like a dried-out leaf in a windstorm.
Shamus grunted and waved her away before turning to his other son. “Best ye go discover what yer wife has been about this last week.”
Bhaic MacPherson was already pushing his chair back. There was a grim set to his jaw as he moved behind the other chairs and down the steps to where his half brother was glowering at him.
“With child or no’, that wife of yers needs a reckoning,” Marcus growled.
Bhaic stopped in the passageway, just out of sight of the rest of the clan. “She is with child, so ye’ll manage yer temper or no’ be seeing her.”
Marcus crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at his brother. Bhaic grunted, recognizing the promise in the expression. No one liked a fight better than Marcus, except perhaps Bhaic.
“I mean to have words with her, Brother,” Marcus warned Bhaic. “And they will nae be kind.”
“If ye truly want to frighten Ailis, speak nicely to her.”
Marcus grunted and took to the stairs. Bhaic reached up and pulled him back by the shoulder.
“Helen may well be in the hands of the Gordons, thanks to this deception. Ye killed Lye Rob, and they would take great delight in paying us back in blood.”
Marcus shot back at his brother. “Brenda and Helen could no’ have more than half a dozen men with them.”
Bhaic’s face tightened. “I know ye’re right to be angry, Brother.” He passed Marcus and took to the stairs. He offered his wife a single rap on the door of their chamber before he pushed it in and Marcus followed him.
Ailis Robertson was waiting for them. She stood in the center of the receiving room, ready to face them. Damn, but Marcus loved her spirit, even when it was at odds with what he thought she should be doing with all that strength of character.
“Ailis…” Bhaic began.
“I’ve deceived ye,” she stated. “I’ve been pretending to be more ill than I am, so the women could stay with me and no’ be seen.”
“Ye know very well how the Gordons treat their captives.” Marcus pointed at her. “Did ye no’ think of what might happen to Helen and Brenda if they tried to ride across the Highlands with naught but a handful of men?”
She paled. Bhaic reached forward and gripped her forearm, but she sucked in a breath and steadied herself.
Marcus snorted at her. “How long have they been gone?”
“Four days.”
Marcus gripped his sleeves so tightly his knuckles popped. “Where did they go?”
“To court, to seek shelter from Brenda’s kin.”
“Court.” Marcus spat the word out like a curse. “Right into the hands of the Earl of Morton. Ye might recall how that man treats women he thinks can be of use.”
Ailis stiffened. “I do.”
Marcus grunted at her before he purposefully turned on his heel and left the chamber, the longer pleats of his kilt flaring out behind him.
* * *
“Ailis.”
Bhaic MacPherson adored his wife, but his tone made it clear that he was less than pleased with her.
Ailis turned to face her husband. “I had to help Helen. Surely ye can see why.”
“I was worried about ye,” Bhaic informed her. “Abundantly so.”
Ailis felt the nip of guilt. “I am sorry for that, truly.”
Bhaic considered her for a long moment before he grunted. “Ye twist me, madam, and it is no’ kind of ye to lord such a skill over me.”
“It was nae for naught,” Ailis defended herself. “Helen needed to escape before she was forced to wed a man whose only interest in her was pleasing his laird.”
“Are ye blind, woman?” Bhaic demanded. “Marcus is smitten with her. He’s been waiting for that serving woman to pop her head out of this chamber so he might have words with her because he thought she was Helen. Waiting. Marcus does nae wait on anyone except our father.”
Ailis slowly smiled. “And yet, Marcus has no’ said a single word about claiming her, only shown her to his men.”
Bhaic was brought up short, forced to admit his wife was correct. “Marcus is a man of few words.”
“As ye said, the only man in MacPherson Castle more stubborn than ye is yer brother.”
Bhaic’s eyes narrowed, but then he chuckled quietly. “Aye, I said so and it’s a solid truth. But he fought for her. When Symon was here, and ye know Symon had to offer to take her home since she was his kin and he is going to be the next laird. Ye know, Ailis.”
“Aye, I do,” Ailis agreed with a flush staining her cheeks. “That does nae mean I agree with the way yer brother locked Helen away the first time Symon was here.”
“Because”—Bhaic held up a finger—“he is smitten with her.”
“Yet he did nae declare himself.”
Bhaic let out a long, frustrated breath. “He fought to keep her.”
“After offering her to his men.”
“He wanted to see if she’d take one of them. Marcus can no’ afford to appear weak. He is the War Chief. The woman he takes to wife must crave only him.”
Ailis offered her husband a small shrug. “He will have to decide if his pride is more important than admitting that to her.”
Bhaic chuckled. “That will be an epic battle indeed.”
Ailis moved closer, needing his touch, since she’d been going without it for most of the week. “Am I forgiven?”
Bhaic closed his arms around her, inhaling the scent of her hair. “Nay. Marcus is correct. It is dangerous to ride without proper escort.” He lifted her chin so their gazes locked. “Ye know it full well.”
“I do, and yet ye and I both know what it is to be forced into a union. Fate has been kind to us, yet that is not what happened to Brenda. Her husband was a harsh man.”
“Aye,” Bhaic admitted. “I see why they felt the need to run, but life is often hard, Ailis.”
She knew that. It was such an undeniable fact that she stretched up and kissed the man she loved, taking solace in the way he brought her body to life and touched her heart. As for Brenda and Helen, she’d done all she could for them.
Helen was in the hands of Fate now.
* * *
“Marcus.”
There was only one man who could have stopped him in his tracks at that moment: his father. Shamus MacPherson still had moments when he sounded every bit as strong as he had been in his youth. But his hair was gray now and his body frail from the years he’d lived. Still, he sent his voice booming across the hall, so Marcus turned and moved toward him.
“They’ve gone to court,” he informed his father.
Shamus made a soft noise in the back of his throat. Marcus ground his teeth together—he’d wanted to avoid discussing this with his sire. Shamus wasn’t just his father; he was his laird. His word was law.
“Well now, they should have spoken to me on the matter,” Shamus began. His captains were seated at the high table next to him, listening intently. “The Earl of Morton sent me a message, demanding details of how yer brother’s union is faring. Bloody regent for the king, thinks his word is law—yet I suppose it is, for the time being.”
His father seemed to lose track of what the point had been. Marcus watched him put a chunk of cheese in his mouth and chew it.
“Were ye planning on sending a message back to the good regent?”
“Aye!” Shamus slapped the tabletop. “The man wanted yer brother and wife to come to him, but seeing as the lass is so ill with carrying the babe, I can nae agree to her traveling.”
There was a gleam in his father’s eyes that made Marcus relax just a bit. “It’s the truth that she’s been in her chamber for nearly a week.”
“As we all know,” Shamus continued. “And I can nae see sending Bhaic away, when it may well distress the lass further to have her new husband gone. Women are controlled by their soft hearts.”
There were nods from the men listening.
“So then,” Shamus said firmly, “I see no other course than to send ye along in their place. Since you’re me only other son, the earl will have to be satisfied. Even if he is a Douglas.”
Marcus reached up and tugged on the corner of his bonnet. He didn’t trust himself to speak because everyone would have heard how much his father’s orders pleased him.
They shouldn’t have. He’d already spent far too much time thinking about Helen Grant. It might have been better if she’d been allowed to make her escape, for then he’d be able to get on with forgetting her.
Indeed, he’d told himself the same every day that he’d waited on the stairs for one of Ailis’s waiting women to emerge from the chamber. He’d come so close to ripping the door open, and was slightly stunned that he’d managed to control the urge. Only his brother’s assurances that his wife was ill had kept Marcus from the room.
He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t coldhearted enough to risk scaring a woman while she was carrying a babe. Ailis was a formidable woman, but he knew what he was as well.
Feared.
There were times his reputation was helpful. Marcus stopped and wrestled with his frustration.
He needed to let her go. It would be better to have his father make a match for him with a bride who came to the union amenable.
Ha! More likely her knees would be knocking beneath her skirts!
“Going to be good to get out in the open air.”
Marcus turned to find Finley coming up behind him. The retainer was wearing his customary grin, prompting Marcus to wonder for about the hundredth time just what the man found so enjoyable about life.
“Been inside for months now,” Finley continued as he passed Marcus on his way out into the yard. He stopped and looked up before glancing back at Marcus. “Full moon, too.”
“It will be that, all right,” Marcus agreed.
Damn him for a fool.
He followed Finley, taking the fact that the moon would light their way as a sign he should go after Helen.
Indeed, fool. He could only hope he might come to his senses before he caught up with her. He was the War Chief of Clan MacPherson, a position he’d taken knowing full well he had to be suspicious, else he’d fail his clan. With a king on the throne who was only eight years old, it was best to look after his own kin, because that very same king’s mother was intent on taking back the child and country she felt were hers. Elizabeth Tudor had done many in Scotland a favor by imprisoning Mary Stuart. The Earl of Morton, now regent for the king, was one of those.
Indeed, Marcus was suspicious by nature, and he suspected the earl would make good use of both women if they arrived at court. The earl had his own objectives, and they didn’t include taking into account the feelings of those under his dictates. Brenda’s uncle was laird of the Grants, so Morton wouldn’t fail to see her use.
And Helen? Her father had a small, profitable estate in the Highlands with all the makings of a good place for Morton to position a spy.
The horses were already in the yard. Duana, his father’s Head of House, came out of the passageway behind him with his personal belongings. Women were spilling out of the hall to bid their men farewell. Marcus lingered for a moment, watching them. But he snorted and tied his bundle to his saddle.
She ran from ye.
There was no reason for him to be thinking about having Helen to bid him sweet good-byes. Nay. He was going to perform his duty and nothing more.
He was not going to be dancing to love’s tune.
And that was final.
* * *
Court was not what Helen expected. Not one bit.
“Do nae stare.” Brenda took her arm and steered her down one of the hallways. “I know they look a fright.”
The ladies of the court had faces painted with white powder, red rouge, and lip color. Their hair was pushed up and over their heads to make it round. Their dresses were stunning silks and brocades that Helen would have enjoyed touching just to see what they felt like, but the dresses were huge and clearly supported by special undergarments of some sort. It was insanity to see how each lady held her hands perfectly in position due to the elaborateness of her costume. Some wore huge standing collars that went as high as their hair in the back. It was little wonder there was a small army of servants shadowing them.
“I have never seen anything so frivolous.”
“Aye,” Brenda agreed. “Fortunes are spent on those dresses, and for what? Ye must stand about all the day, hoping to be noticed for yer clothing alone. I was glad me husband sent me away from court.” She drew in a deep breath. “It was the only thing he did that pleased me.”
“I am sorry.”
Brenda turned and considered her. “As if Fate has been any kinder to ye?”
“I believe it has,” Helen admitted, realizing she was paying Marcus a compliment of sorts. “Ye were sent here to do yer duty, and I was taken for much the same reason. At least life among the MacPhersons did no’ include someone having rights to me person.”
Brenda’s face tightened, memory taking hold of her. She shuddered and drew in a shaky breath. “Come, this way.”
The women made their way deeper into the castle toward the rooms Brenda’s kin had provided them. It was an older section of the castle, the stones dark and reeking.
“Court is no’ so polished as ye hear in stories,” Brenda said once they’d gone into their set of rooms and firmly closed the door. Inside, there was a receiving room that opened to a dressing chamber, and a bed was in the back. Only curtains separated the rooms.
“What a stench,” Helen exclaimed. “Ye’d think those with finer blood than ours would know how to use a chamber pot.”
“Ye’d think as much, no? I heard tell, Henry the Eighth forbid his courtiers to piss in the passageways, even had some of them lashed when they did nae obey because he was so a-feared his son Edward would catch disease.” Brenda was pushing one of the windows open. A gust of cold air came in, but at least it carried away some of the stale air trapped in the chambers. It also disturbed the thick layer of dust coating everything. “Well, I suppose giving us these rooms is as warm a welcome as I am due.”
“We’re in the castle proper,” Helen said as she looked around the rooms. “So we’ve no’ come all this way for naught.”
Helen began to pull the coverings off the table and chairs. Dust swirled in the air, but the furniture was sturdy and in good repair. Beyond an arched doorframe there was a bedchamber with a large bed that was hung with thick curtains.
“The difficulties will come with gaining enough coin for sundries,” Brenda said. “Wood, food, drink, even water will have to be paid for. I’ll need to go see me father’s secretary and hope he has nae heard I’ve run away from the match me uncle made for me. It’s still early enough in spring to think a letter has no’ arrived here just yet.”
A hope that was frail at best, but they would have to take what was at hand.
There was a pounding on the door. “Open in the name of the king!”
“The king?” Helen asked as she went to open the door. “The king is a lad of eight.”
But there was an official-looking messenger standing in front of her. He wore the livery of the king and had a staff of office resting in his fingers.
“The Earl of Morton will see you both.”
Helen felt a tingle shoot down her back. “We’ve only just come from the road.”
“The regent will nae be kept waiting on yer vanity, woman. Ye’ll come now as summoned.”
There was no choice, really. Brenda knew it, coming across the receiving room. “Perhaps there will be supper,” she whispered as they followed the messenger.
“Let us hope that is all there is,” Helen whispered back. She knew full well what the Earl of Morton had pressed on Ailis Robertson. She would either wed Bhaic MacPherson or watch both their fathers be hanged because of the feud the two clans had been engaging in. Morton was determined to end such fighting and unify the Highlands. It sounded quite grand, until one considered that Morton was not above murdering to gain his will. He was not a man to be trusted, and Helen’s belly knotted as she followed his messengers toward his receiving chambers. The doors they stopped in front of bore the royal seal of Scotland.
Indeed, she hoped the man would decide they were not worth his time, because if he took an interest in them, it would undoubtedly be for his benefit.
* * *
James Douglas, the Earl of Morton, was a hard man. But what chilled Helen’s blood was the gleam in his eyes that told her he believed in what he was doing. A greedy man might be controlled or influenced, but when one faced a man who had decided he was doing something for all of the right reasons, there would be no dissuading him from his course.
“Ye are the niece of Laird Grant?” he asked Brenda.
Brenda lowered herself. “Aye.”
The earl’s lips rose slightly. “And widowed?”
Brenda hesitated, earning a grunt from Morton. “Answer up, woman. Ye came to court seeking shelter. Well, I will be the one deciding on yer fate. Make no mistake.”
“I am widowed. Me husband was a Campbell.”
“I knew him,” Morton said. “A petty bastard he was. And by the look of ye, it seems the rumors were true—the man preferred lads in his bed. Ye would get a monk’s staff to rise. Ye are either barren, or the man did nae like women. Since he sent ye away so soon after yer wedding, I believe the latter.”
Brenda was biting her lip and looking at the floor. Helen could see her battling the urge to speak her mind. The fact that she didn’t sent a warning through Helen.
“Who are ye?”
Helen discovered herself under the cutting glare of the regent. Although she really should think of him as king, because that was how much power he wielded.
“Helen Grant.” She lowered herself before him.
“Who is yer father?”
“No one of any importance,” she answered.
Morton’s lips curled just a bit. “I will be the judge of that.”
“Me father has a small country home of his own and three sons.”
“Hence she is me waiting woman,” Brenda said.
The earl swept Helen from head to toe, taking in the modest clothing she wore. It was functional, made of serviceable wool.
He grunted. “Welcome to court. Ye are both me personal guests.”
Brenda paled but sent the man a smile. “That is so very kind of ye. It seems my prayers have been answered.”
“How so, madam?”
Brenda had regained her poise and offered the man a polished expression of serenity. “Me uncle, Laird Grant, is dying. He made a match for me with the Gordons. Such a match will serve only to unite the Gordons and Grants against the MacPhersons and Robertsons.”
“Something I have little tolerance for.”
“Yes,” Brenda continued. “I heard of Bhaic and Ailis’s wedding and surmised ye would no’ be pleased with such a match.”
“Ye think ye know me mind, woman?” the earl demanded.
Brenda lowered her body gracefully. “Only so far as I understand ye want an end to feuding, and such a match would have worked against that will.”
The earl considered her for a long moment before he grunted. “Ye’re intelligent enough, it would seem.” He tapped the arm of the huge throne-like chair on which he sat. “Aye, well done.”
The earl gave them a flip of his fingers, dismissing them. But four of his men followed them back to their chambers and took up position by the doors.
“Sweet Christ,” Brenda breathed as she dropped into a chair. “I have brought ye to ruin, Helen. The Earl of Morton is a Douglas, and he’s got his mind thinking about how to use both of us to his advantage. Damn all men and their ambitions. We are but lambs.”
“Do nae say such,” Helen admonished her. Brenda looked at her, uncertainty glittering in her eyes. “Ye heard me. We crossed the lonely moors with but a handful of men to find our own destiny, so do nae be giving up on that just yet. Yer kin will nae be able to force ye to wed one of the Gordons at the moment. That is what ye wanted, yes?”
“Aye,” Brenda agreed as she stood. “It is. We’ll take each day as it comes.”
“Ye beguiled the earl well enough.”
“Better to have him thinking I am his servant,” Brenda remarked. “We might need his trust.”
“For the moment,” Helen said, “it would seem we have found a means of providing the sundries we need. If we are the man’s guests, he can bloody well provide for us.”
“I am more concerned about what he might decide we need beyond food.”
So was Helen, but she didn’t voice her concerns. She’d learned during her time at MacPherson Castle to keep her thoughts close and her mind working on ways to achieve her goals.
There was no way she was going to become submissive now.
* * *
Morton’s men were still at the door when Helen decided to venture out in search of supper.
Helen didn’t let their presence disturb her. Instead, she focused on the fact that she was allowed out of the chambers. Guards might be lost in the crowded kitchens. She and Brenda had escaped Castle MacPherson, so all she needed to do was to discover a way out of court.
But she needed a place to go as well.
Why was life so difficult?
She made her way around the kitchens, simply another servant among many. There was a bustle near the cooking fires as the cook tried to decide where the best cuts of meat should go. Everyone was intent on making their way as best they might. Helen gathered up plenty of fresh food, telling the cook that she worked for a “personal guest” of Morton when the man thought to forbid her some rare oranges.
Helen was hurrying into the passageway, moving away from the kitchens, when someone stepped into her path. She started to go around, but he reached out and clasped her upper arm.
“Take yer hands—” Her tongue ended up stuck to the top of her mouth as she looked straight into the eyes of Marcus MacPherson.
And the man was furious with her.
“I’ve a mind to put them on yer backside, woman,” he informed her under his breath as he pulled her out of the passageway and behind a door while she was still gathering her wits.
Realizing they were alone sobered her quickly. “Stand aside at once.”
Marcus braced himself between her and the door. “If ye think to leave this chamber, ye’ll go through me or no’ at all, Helen. We need to have words.”
The use of her first name sent a ripple of sensation through her. It was a familiarity he was using deliberately. “I can nae believe ye came after me.”
“I did nae.” He scoffed at her, his expression set in a hard mask. “I was summoned by the Earl of Morton. But that will not stop me from telling ye how foolish it was for ye to travel without a proper escort.”
He hadn’t come after her.
That knowledge shouldn’t have stung, and yet it did. She felt as if a deep, burning mark were left across her emotions.
Shame.
She knew what it was called and couldn’t truly shrug it from her shoulders because Marcus stood there, his eyes ringed by dark circles of fatigue because he had ridden hard after her. He’d worried about her welfare and she was sorry for that.
“Nae foolish, when ye made such a mockery of me good name by kissing me as if I were yer strumpet in yer father’s open hall before ye fought over me and denied me the opportunity to return home with Symon Grant.” She drew in a deep breath but kept her tone mindful of the concern she saw in his eyes. “Any decent woman would have left such a situation. I could not stay without declaring to one and all that I belonged to ye.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed, giving her the only hint that she had affected him at all. Yet that failed to please her. All it did was make her feel as if she were the most unkind creature drawing breath.
“It was necessary to leave and so…I did.” She meant to brush around him, but Marcus didn’t move.
“We’re nae finished.” He grasped her upper arms the moment she came close enough. The food went spilling onto the floor as she gasped, feeling his touch as though his fingers were somehow on fire.
She’d convinced herself her memory was clouded and she hadn’t felt his grip so keenly during that kiss at MacPherson Castle.
Now, she knew it was a solid truth that his touch affected her, and she recoiled from it.
Marcus jerked her to a halt.
“Do nae,” she warned softly. “Ye have yer position. Do ye nae realize that me good name is all I have?”
“I did nae take ye from yer father’s house without thinking I had few other options.”
It was the closest thing to an apology she’d ever heard from him. She shifted because she was not accustomed to being anything more than a hostage to him. Apologies, well, those were given out to friends and people that a person valued.
She had no idea what to make of it at all.
He was watching her intently, allowing her to be drawn into his topaz gaze. It was spellbinding, weaving some sort of magic over her that made her want to stand still and simply enjoy the moment.
“Marcus…” His name slipped through her lips while she was too caught up in the strange effect he had upon her.
“I like the sound of me name on yer lips.” His attention slipped down to them. “But I believe I’ll enjoy the taste even more.”
She knew she would agree. Which was why she rebelled, lifting her knee and jamming it up toward his genitals. He shifted so she hit his thigh, but she was free and the door so very close. Helen grabbed it and scurried into the passageway as though her skirts were on fire.
Maybe they were—with hellfire, that was—because the temptation to kiss him was so strong that Helen suddenly didn’t fear eternal damnation.
“I am sorry ye felt responsible enough to make certain I was safe.” Back in the passageway, there were other servants about. Marcus stopped and crossed his arms over his chest when he realized they had witnesses.
“Gather yer things. I’ve business to attend to. Finley is in the stable with the horses. This is no fit place for ye or any decent woman.”
He spoke the truth and was using her reasoning against her. She couldn’t stop that thought from filling her mind. Marcus read it in her face, because he stepped closer, angling his head so he might look down on her from his greater height. How had she argued with him so freely? The man truly was huge. He could close his fingers all the way around her upper arm and lift her with ease, but she always seemed to forget that when he was close, saying whatever came to her mind. He set something loose inside her.
“I’ll take ye back to the Highlands, lass.”
“To what fate?” He really was the last person she should have thought to appeal to, but she couldn’t seem to stop the words from crossing her lips. “One of yer men?”
“Castle MacPherson is a fine place to live,” he answered her. “What will ye have here but a different union? One Morton makes the choice of. I doubt he’ll be asking yer opinion on the matter.”
He was right, but he was also the reason she could never go home. However, perhaps it was time to be bold enough to challenge him. “Let me go home. Lift the threat ye laid upon me when ye took me. Tell me ye will nae burn me father’s house if I return to it. I will go with ye if ye do, and be grateful.”
His jaw was tight, his neck corded. “And just what will yer kin do with ye? Do ye think I do nae know what their thinking is?” He shook his head. “They will wed ye to a Gordon, so they might think themselves safe from MacPherson reprisals when they take to thieving our cattle again.”
“Me brothers were stealing back cattle that were taken,” Helen said in defense.
Marcus scoffed at her. “If someone stole yer cattle, it was nae MacPherson men. Why do ye think I was riding on yer father’s land? I was tracking our own missing heads. Yer brothers knew full well they were taking the easy way out by taking from MacPherson stock, thinking we have so much, no one would be the wiser. But we have more mouths to feed. The moment I fail to stop one family from stealing from me father is the beginning of everyone thinking they can thieve from us, and then I’ll no’ be able to feed me own kin. Ye have seen how many men expect supper in the hall. It’s me duty to make sure they are provided for.” He caught her arm when she tried to step back. “I took ye for yer own good, Helen. Yer brothers were playing a dangerous game, dabbling in dishonesty. Ye would nae have been safe from it.”
She drew in a deep breath, trying to fend off hopelessness.
“It is long done now, and me brothers have learned ye will no’ leave the matter be.” She spoke firmly, fighting back against the truth of his words. She had to. Otherwise, the only course of action left was to submit to his will. “Lift yer promise.”
“I will nae.”
“Then I will nae go with ye,” Helen told him softly. She pulled against his hold. He hesitated, but the curious looks being cast their way made him release her.
He let her go, and that stung far more than his grip had. “Perhaps me fate here is uncertain, but I will embrace it over being a prisoner of the MacPherson.”
She turned her back on him and hurried away.
Beast.
She should hate him.
So why didn’t she?
Oh, she knew it was in the way he’d come after her. Her emotions were a tangled mess as she battled the urge to trust him while trying to recall that she couldn’t do anything of the sort. The man had stolen her.
Yet he’d ridden after her.
Tangled.
And she very much feared that she was going to be strangled before she reasoned it all out.
* * *
“MacPherson sent his bastard to see me?”
Morton growled but he wasn’t really angry. No, anger only served one’s enemies. He was thinking. Contemplating what he had to work with, which at that moment was Marcus MacPherson.
“Your plan to keep the MacPherson heir will not be realized,” Morton’s secretary said.
“That day will come,” Morton warned in a low tone. “Have no doubt of it. The clans will come to respect the crown, and that can only be assured if their sons are raised here.”
“Shall I dismiss the man?”
Morton held up a finger. “Nay. Marcus is MacPherson’s War Chief.”
The secretary nodded.
“I have a use for him that will send a stern message into the heart of the Highlands. Tell him I will summon him later today.”
* * *
The Earl of Morton was the fourth regent for James Stuart, and he knew that fact full well. He knew a few other things too, such as the fact that his predecessor had been poisoned. Of course, he had ordered the deed done.
He held out his hand for his cup. A burly retainer held it to ensure that Morton didn’t suffer the same fate he’d given. Morton took a long sip and didn’t allow guilt to settle on his shoulders. Scotland needed sacrifices. He’d done what needed doing to ensure that young James remained king and a Protestant. England’s Queen Elizabeth could keep Mary Stuart as long as she liked, because if Mary ever came back to Scotland, Morton would happily kill her.
It really wasn’t a matter of faith, choosing Protestant or Catholic. No, it was about unity. Morton wanted Scotland to rise up and become a respected nation. That would never happen if Scots fought Scots in a war that would only end when half the population was dead.
Which meant religion wasn’t the only matter he needed to quell. Morton considered Marcus MacPherson, now before him. The man was pure Highlander and none too happy to have been kept waiting. Morton felt his pride rise as he considered the stance Marcus had taken in front of him. There wasn’t a hint of fear in him, his feet braced at shoulder width, his arms crossed over his massive chest. The man had tugged on the corner of his knitted cap, but that was as courtly as Marcus was likely to get. Morton enjoyed that too. He didn’t care for the feminine airs many of his courtiers had adopted from France and England. Scotland needed to unify, but her men should bloody well recall that they were men and leave the simpering and silk for women.
Marcus hadn’t put on any velvet to impress him. No, the War Chief stood there in his kilt and wool doublet, with a leather jerkin. The only concession he’d made was to wipe the mud from his boots. Men such as Marcus would lead ranks of fighting Scots the rest of the world would have to reckon with. Which made it imperative that Morton bring the clans under control. He needed them to defend Scotland and keep her young king on the throne, not feud with one another.
“Yer father sent ye.”
Marcus wasn’t intimidated by the Earl of Morton’s tone. “If ye do nae want to speak with me, I’ll be on me way.”
The earl smiled. “And no doubt consider the summons answered.”
Marcus shrugged. “Well now, me brother, Bhaic, and his bride are expecting a child. That should assure ye they are doing their best to make the match ye insisted upon a good one.”
“And the raids between Robertson and MacPherson have stopped,” Morton cut in. “Aye, but now the bloody Gordons are making trouble.”
“They are hardly the only ones, and old Laird Gordon is no’ going to see the end of next winter,” Marcus responded. “Lye Rob was a rat, and ye know it well. More important, the men of the Gordon clan knew it. They will nae have the heart to fight over his memory once their laird is gone to join his son. Better turn yer attention to Diocail. He’ll be laird of the Gordons, and I do no’ think him a fool.”
Morton slowly grinned. “Ye’re a worthy War Chief.”
Marcus inclined his head. “I do me duty, and now that I’ve seen ye, I will be on me way. A War Chief belongs on his land, where he can attend to his duty.”
“Let us discuss what I consider to be yer duty to Scotland.”
Marcus stiffened. “Ye’ve already had yer way with me family in the matter of me brother’s wedding. The feud between Robertson and MacPherson is put to rest. Keeping it there will take a great deal of me time, and I can nae attend to the matter while I’m standing here in the Lowlands.”
“So do nae trespass upon yer patience?” Morton asked.
Marcus nodded once.
“Scotland needs all of her sons. The English queen is past her child-bearing years, and every nation in Europe is making ready to invade her realm.”
“All the more reason for me to be grateful I was born Scots.”
“Aye,” Morton said. “Yet the world is nae as small as it once was. No’ with ships sailing farther and discovering new lands. It is a fact that we share our island with England. War with England has cost Scotland greatly for centuries. Without an heir, our king is in line for the English throne.”
“That will be a fine bit of justice, sure enough.” Marcus chuckled. “Maybe settle a few ghosts down and give us some peace during the dark hours.”
“Aye, justice at last,” Morton agreed. “Our king will need strong alliances in place to support his reign.”
Marcus wasn’t slow-witted. His expression hardened. “What are ye getting at, man? I told ye that if ye want that feud to stay buried, I am the one who will make sure of it.”
There was a clear warning in Marcus’s voice. Morton wasn’t offended, instead admiring the Highlander’s strength.
“It shall require yer attention, of that I have no doubt,” Morton said. “A marriage only begins the process. Highlanders do nae like to let their feuds go easily.”
“Good to hear ye agree with me.” Marcus reached up and tugged on his cap. “I will tell me father that ye considered the summons answered.”
“Aye,” Morton agreed.
Marcus was heading toward the door in the blink of an eye. Morton made a motion with his hand, and the men standing guard braced themselves in front of the door.
“Yet there is a service I require of ye, War Chief of the MacPhersons.”
Marcus turned around slowly, clearly wrestling with his temper. “And what might that service be?”
Morton chuckled, letting out a crusty laugh as he hit the arm of his chair. “Ye are pure Highlander, man. Ye have no idea how it turns me stomach to walk through yon doors and witness good Scotsmen taking up the ways of the French court. That bitch Mary Stuart brought it here. Lace, perfume, men painting their faces like doxies. It is me pleasure to know her son will nae be raised by her.”
“I’m Highlander enough to want to be finished with this summons. I belong on MacPherson land. Tell yer men to move aside before I lose me temper.”
“The service I require of ye first.”
Marcus faced off with him. “Keeping the feud between Robertson and MacPherson buried is going to take the next ten years of me life.”
“Aye, and that is a service I appreciate, to be certain.”
“Glad to hear we are in agreement.” Marcus turned toward the door again.
“Yer father has raised a worthy son. I admire him for teaching ye duty before preference,” Morton stated firmly. “I have a duty for ye.”
* * *
He didn’t want to turn around.
No, Marcus would happily have chosen a fight with the men at the door, and that made him grind his teeth. The Earl of Morton had used such tactics before. The man was crafty, no doubt about it. Marcus had to think of his clan. The Earl of Morton was the regent, so there was no fighting his way out of the chamber.
Marcus turned and sent the man a hard look. “What is it ye want of me?”
“Since ye will be returning to MacPherson land and staying there,” Morton said, “ye could help me establish a strong alliance with England by taking home an English bride.”
“The fuck ye say.”
The earl only smiled at his outburst, which pissed Marcus off.
“I thought ye wanted alliances. Tell some English lass she’s to wed me, and she’ll die on the spot the moment she gets a look at me. I do nae think that is the sort of alliance ye seek.”
Morton started laughing.
“Enough,” Marcus grunted. “Ye are toying with me.”
The earl sobered. “I assure ye, I am no’.”
All traces of amusement were gone from Morton’s tone. Marcus suddenly understood in a very personal way just how his brother had been forced to wed. The man in front of him was ruthless to the core and intent on gaining his way. There was a cold, calculating gleam in his eyes that Marcus knew better than to discount.
The earl made a motion with his hand, and one of the doors was opened. There was a rustle as someone came in. Marcus prided himself on his strength, but he wanted to puke when he got a good look at the female Morton was presenting to him.
“She is a child,” he spat in disgust.
“Fourteen.”
Marcus stared at the girl in horror. She still had that slimness of limbs that went with an immature body. She blinked at him, her eyes large in her face. Two of Morton’s men were pushing her forward. She shook her head and stepped farther into the room.
“Ye see? Katherine has a solid spine. She’ll be a fine match for ye.”
Marcus turned his attention toward Morton, but not before he caught the flash of fear in Katherine’s eyes.
“Katherine Carew is the natural daughter of Francis Russell, the second Earl of Bedford. Bastard born, as ye are. Her father will soon sit on the Privy Council in England. It will be a fine alliance.”
“Ye stole her.” Marcus spoke quietly to mask his temper. “There is no way her sire would agree to an arrangement like this.”
“Which is why I have selected ye for her groom,” Morton explained. “Ye’ll wed her tomorrow, stay one night so I can make certain the union is binding, and then take her to the Highlands until she gives ye a son. Her father will have no recourse after that.”
Marcus actually took a step away from Katherine. “The hell I will.” He growled at Morton. “She”—Marcus pointed at her—“is too young. For all that I am a bastard, and a mean one, I’ll admit, I will no’ be putting me hands on so tender a lass. ’Tis indecent.”
“I am assured by the midwife that she has her woman’s flow.”
Katherine was pale. It was all Marcus could do to stand in place and try to think of a solution that did not include locking his hands around the Earl of Morton’s neck. If it were only him, he would indulge his temper, but the lass standing there blinking at him and biting her lip to keep silent would only be given to another. Perhaps a man who valued Morton’s approval more than his own decency. There were plenty of men who would sell their souls for the approval of the regent.
“A wedding and I will take her home, but there will be no bedding until she is grown fully to womanhood.”
“Ye think me a fool?” the earl asked.
“To offer me a lass for wife, ye must be,” Marcus answered pointedly. The earl’s eyes narrowed with his displeasure.
“Take him.”
The guards didn’t hesitate once the order was given. Marcus turned on them, relieved to have an outlet for his disgust. But more men poured in from the side entrance, shoving Katherine aside. As he fought, he smiled when he noticed the lass grabbing her skirts and running toward the door that led to the court. She yanked it open and tried to escape while Marcus kicked one of Morton’s guards through the door behind her.
Finley had been waiting on him. The retainer jumped into the fray as two guards grappled with Katherine. Morton had planned his attack well, making sure there were too many men for Marcus to defeat. They held him down by sheer numbers as he snarled at Morton.
“Ye’ll wed her and bed her. Defy me, and yer clan will suffer. I swear that to ye,” Morton hissed. “A night in chains will help ye see the wisdom of doing what I say. Take him away.”
* * *
“Helen, what is wrong?”
Brenda came toward her, cupping her shoulder to turn her around so she might get a better look at her face.
Helen stared, horrified by what she had to tell Brenda. “Marcus is here.”
Brenda gasped. “He followed ye.”
Helen scoffed. “The beast claimed he did not, that the earl summoned him.”
She couldn’t seem to stand still. She paced across the chamber and back as Brenda watched her.
“Of course. The earl is likely making certain Bhaic and Ailis are truly wed. Morton is a man who intends to have his way.”
“Aye,” Helen answered.
That was likely the way of it. She should be happy, but she wasn’t.
No, she wasn’t. Her heart ached, and that only frustrated her because she had set her mind to forget him, and yet she’d longed for that kiss, just as much as he had.
It would seem she had not escaped at all, and the only way to do so was to purge Marcus from her thoughts.
It was her poor luck to discover she had no idea how to accomplish that goal.
* * *
It was hours later when Helen returned to the kitchens for more food. Servants were taking their ease, now that their masters had been served their suppers, and were enjoying their drink.
“Ye should have seen him…”
“He took on six men before they managed to capture him…”
There was a breathy female sigh. “A Highlander for sure. Such a shame he’s to be wasted on so young a bride.”
Helen slowed down, listening to the maids. They stopped when they caught her looking at them. It was rude. She should have looked down and been on her way, but their words were stuck in her mind.
“Are ye talking of Marcus MacPherson?” The words seemed to cross her lips before she decided to ask the question.
One of the maids smiled. “Saw him, did ye? Then again, he is no’ a man that is easily missed.”
Helen offered her a nod.
The maid looked around before she continued. “The regent wants him wed to an English chit that he’s had locked away in one of the towers. I hear she’s related to nobility.”
The tray Helen held slipped from her grasp. The maids jumped as food went spilling onto the floor.
“Are ye daft?”
“Mind yer duties.”
Helen stooped down to gather up the mess. “What happened to the MacPherson?”
“The earl had him tossed into chains, of course,” one maid answered with a shrug. “The man is the regent. His will must be obeyed.”
“Marcus MacPherson is the War Chief of the clan,” Helen said. “He will not bend.”
“Oh, he will,” the maid informed her smugly. “There’s a reason the Earl of Morton is the regent. The man is ruthless. That MacPherson will break.”
“How?” Helen inquired in a hushed, horrified voice.
The maid was enjoying the moment. She smiled as she leaned closer to Helen, lowering her voice so it didn’t carry through the stone passageways. “The earl is going to use the whip.”
Helen cringed but her confidence returned. “Marcus will die first, and the earl will not want to have to explain to the MacPherson clan how such a thing happened.”
“No, no, the whip will not be used on the War Chief,” the maid explained. “The girl. Only a monster would fail to break when her tender back is bloodied.”
* * *
“Helen?”
Brenda cupped her shoulders and pulled her completely into the chamber before shutting the doors.
“Tell me what has ye so horrified.”
Helen snapped out of the shock she’d been in since leaving the kitchens. That left room for her temper to rise. “The Earl of Morton is a vile villain.”
“Worse still, one who believes his cause is just,” Brenda agreed. “Such makes him very dangerous, make no mistake. Now tell me what ye heard.”
“The earl has Marcus in chains.”
Brenda’s face tightened, but Helen suspected it was because the other woman thought Helen was beset by tender feelings.
“And I would be angry if it were any innocent man put into chains,” Helen informed her.
“We’ll puzzle that another time,” Brenda said, sweeping Helen’s declaration aside smoothly. “Why is Marcus in chains?”
“The earl wants him matched with an English bride. Yet she is only fourteen.”
Brenda recoiled in distaste. “It would seem Marcus is worthy of my good thoughts.”
“Aye, worthy.” And yet he was in chains. Helen paced across the chamber, desperate to discover a means to assist the man.
“Ye want to help him?” Brenda asked.
Helen turned back. “The earl plans to whip that girl until Marcus relents.”
Brenda sucked in her breath. “He will have to, or Marcus is no’ the man I believe him to be.”
“She is fourteen, just barely so.”
“I know full well what she faces.” Brenda was standing, her fists tightened as she relived the nightmare of her marriage. “And I doubt the earl will leave the matter of consummation in question.” Brenda’s tone was tight. “This is court, so there will be witnesses to the bedding.”
“That is disgusting.”
“Aye.” Brenda shook her head. “And no amount of tears will stop it. There are true villains here who enjoy the suffering of the innocent. It will be an entertainment enjoyed to the fullest by some.”
“And they will no doubt enjoy seeing Marcus’s honor break because they have none of their own.” Helen felt her temper rise. Only this time, it was on Marcus’s behalf. For certain, she found him overbearing, and he had wronged her. But she now recognized he had taken her for all the right reasons, and he deserved respect. Had earned it.
Brenda stared for a moment into the air, her mind lost to a memory. She shuddered before she drew herself together. “There is only one solution.”
Helen moved closer.
“Marcus must wed tonight.” Brenda shot her a determined look. “To ye.”
Helen jumped back, but Brenda reached out and captured her hands. “It can nae be me, because I am widowed and no longer a maiden. The union might also be annulled on the grounds of the contract me uncle has made for me.”
That was true. Young couples who ran away in the hope of being wed to their heart’s choice often returned home to discover that their parents had such unions annulled because of contracts with others. “And we dare not leave Marcus unwed for Morton to utilize in his plans. Yet, Morton might annul the marriage in the morning.”
Brenda nodded in agreement. “The earl has dismissed us as merely women. So, we must be cleverer.”
Helen felt her lips curving in spite of the situation. “It is indeed an honor to be able to prove to that man that he does nae control all he sees.”
“I will have to find a priest willing to defy the regent and some witnesses Morton will no’ be able to intimidate. They will keep him from annulling the marriage.”
“I will want it annulled,” Helen exclaimed.
“What ye do once ye leave this castle does nae matter,” Brenda replied. “Except ye shall have to gain Marcus’s agreement for such an action.”
“He’ll give it,” Helen answered. “For no other reason than we are saving him from Morton’s plans. Marcus does nae bend well nor does he forget when a service is done for him.”
Brenda nodded. For a moment she looked like she was going to argue, but she returned to her planning. “In the morning, I will change places with the girl so she can leave with ye.”
“The earl will no’ be letting ye leave, especially once he discovers we have ruined his plans for Marcus.”
Brenda slowly smiled. “Leave that matter to me. There is something else I know about court, and that is where many people’s dirty secrets are hidden. There are those who will help me keep Morton from making alliances with England, of that I am sure.”
“But what of yer fate?” Helen asked. “Ye will be left here to face the earl’s wrath.”
“That can nae be helped, and I can no’ return home. So, it must be me to stay and ye to go. For certain, I will face that man if it means he can nae force a girl to wed,” Brenda said quickly. “Enough talk. We must away to church and find a willing priest.”
“And the guards?”
Brenda rolled her eyes before she aimed a sad, pleading expression at Helen. “They will be no trouble at all.”
Helen believed her but discovered her feet frozen to the floor. Brenda looked back at her. “It is the only way, unless ye prefer to leave him to his fate.”
“Such would make me a monster.”
But what would helping Marcus do?
Helen shuddered as she forced herself to move. Life often offered difficult choices. She sighed as they emerged into the hallway and discovered the guards away from their posts. They could hear the men down in the shadows of the passageway, several giggles telling them exactly what the men were about while they believed Helen and Brenda were eating.
Fools.
Or perhaps it was better to simply call them men, for males truly liked to think themselves smarter than women. Tonight, Helen would have to hope she was able to prove them wrong.
* * *
Marcus MacPherson was chained like an animal.
She’d expected as much, since the only guards were at the entrance to the passageway leading to the cells.
Helen drew in a sharp breath when she stepped into the dungeon, sickened by the sight. Here there was more than the smell of human waste; there was also the overwhelming stench of vomit. It made the rest of the castle smell quite fresh by comparison. The lack of lighting completed the feeling of hopelessness the place was designed to instill.
It enraged her to see Marcus there.
“Here to see me in chains, mistress?” Marcus was watching the door, as was his habit. There was only a small pool of light near the door, but she could see him leaning against a rough stone wall, a thick collar locked around his neck and his ankles secured in irons.
“I hope ye enjoy the sight,” he growled.
“I do nae.”
Brenda gave her a little push to get her to move past the doorway.
“Ah, Brenda,” Marcus remarked. “Another woman who will likely find joy in me plight.”
“Stop it,” Helen admonished him in a whisper. “We’re here to help.”
Marcus abandoned his lazy posture. “Go back the way ye came, Helen. Even if ye have somehow managed to steal the keys, I will nae leave ye here to answer for me escape.”
Helen shook her head at the commanding tone he used. Part of her was overjoyed to hear him back in command, even if she wanted to label him a fool for refusing her aid. “I swear, ye would nae allow me to toss a bucket of water on ye if yer kilt was afire.”
He flashed her a grin that she knew well and detested because it was so full of arrogance. “Ye should nae be so proud of yer stubborn nature, either.”
And yet she enjoyed it full well because it proved that he was not broken.
“At least I am honest and admit me sins.” There was an undertone to his words that heated her cheeks because she knew without a doubt his words were personal.
Brenda came into the cell, followed by the priest they’d found and a younger man who would act as witness.
“What are ye about?” Marcus demanded as Brenda shut the door firmly.
“I told ye.” Helen gathered her courage. It was trying to drain out of her like a tankard with holes in the bottom. Even in chains, Marcus was formidable. “We are here to help ye. The servants are carrying the tale of what Morton wants ye to do. How do ye think we knew where to find ye?”
“I’ll be helping meself,” Marcus informed them all. “And I will no’ be needing a priest. The earl might do a fair number of nasty things to me, but he’ll no’ put me life in danger. Let him whip me for refusing to wed. It will be a small price to pay for keeping me soul unblemished. He will not be breaking me to his will.”
“Morton will make ye watch as he has that child bride lashed,” Brenda informed him solemnly. “He knows yer weakness is the girl because she is innocent.”
There was a long moment of silence as Marcus absorbed Brenda’s words.
“Bloody fucking Christ,” Marcus swore, his eyes closing as his lips curled back from his teeth in disgust.
Helen waited for him to open his eyes. She watched his jaw tighten as the horror sank in, his knuckles turning white because he was clenching his fists so tightly. She was clinging to some small sliver of hope that he’d see a way out of it, other than wedding her. But when he opened his eyes, she stared at something she’d never thought to see in his eyes. Need.
Helen took a deep breath, gathering her composure to say what she must. Marcus looked past her at the priest and the second man, and he cursed again.
“It’s the only way, and ye know it.” Brenda spoke up.
“I’ll admit, it’s clever, and a part of me would dearly love to see the look on Morton’s face in the morning when he arrives and finds me a married man.” Marcus let out a chuckle that was really more of a snarl. “But no. I will nae leave that child to his care. I could no’ live with meself.”
“Will ye be able to live with yerself when ye are forced to consummate the union with witnesses?” Brenda asked. “This is court. Such events are quite well attended, and I do assure ye, the guests will no’ be polite enough to stay behind a wooden screen. They will stand right up at the bedside because they will be making wagers on how many thrusts it takes ye to penetrate her fully. There will be no soiling the sheet and pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes. I know how it will go. Me father thought it a fine thing to have me wed here, in a place where the Campbells could no’ send me back and keep me dowry by claiming the union was nae legally binding.”
“Jesus, Brenda,” Marcus exclaimed. “I knew yer father was a calculating man, but I never thought him such a cold bastard.”
“The alliance was the only thing that mattered,” Brenda explained in a hushed tone. “Morton is of the same way of thinking. He valued my sensibilities as much as he does yer sense of honor.”
Helen found herself caught in Marcus’s gaze again. He didn’t like it. Well, they had that in common. There was no hiding that fact as they stared at one another, both of them wanting to refuse, yet neither of them willing to live with the consequences of doing so.
“So ye came to help me,” Marcus said softy. There were others in the room but he was talking to her.
Only her.
“I cannot refuse to help that girl any more than ye can.” It was not the kindest thing to say, but she felt too exposed. As though she were submitting to his will, calling him master, when she had spent the last year making sure she didn’t bend to his demands. She could not lose herself to him. Better to have it thought they were united against an evil that needed preventing.
Even if there was a small part of her that enjoyed knowing she was the one to make the decision on who would wed whom. A small dose of humility would do him good.
“Her name is Katherine,” Marcus supplied, his expression becoming unreadable. He looked past Helen at the priest.
“And she is newly fourteen this month, Father, so I would appreciate it if ye would stop edging toward the door. The women are correct. This is the only solution. Much as I would have it otherwise.”
“At least for any decent person it is,” Helen added to soothe the priest. Perhaps she was really trying to convince herself. She was having a great deal of trouble staying in the cell.
The priest started to say something, but seemed to be thinking the matter through. He nodded at last and looked toward Helen. “If ye would step over to yer groom’s side.”
Groom.
God help her.
But the stone walls around her seemed to be permeated with hopelessness. Likely absorbed from the countless unanswered prayers trapped inside the dank air.
No, she was going to have to do this. That was the only way God might work the matter out.
Helen wasn’t sure her feet were going to respond to her will. There was a logical necessity, but that didn’t seem to be calming the wave of panic washing through her. She felt like she was standing in a winter storm, the wind biting through her clothing as the very strength of the gusts threatened to blow her away.
But she lifted one foot and then the other. A few steps had never taken so long, the space seeming to grow as time slowed down and allowed her to notice every little detail about Marcus MacPherson. Tiny things, such as the way little lines appeared at the creases of his eyes when he was contemplating her. His lips were thin and pressed into a hard line that betrayed how much he did not want to wed her. That fact made her heart ache, because no matter how much she didn’t want him for a groom, it hurt to know he rejected the idea of taking her to wife.
None of it made any sense. What she did comprehend was the sound of the priest beginning the prayers she knew by heart and had once dreamed of being a part of. Back when she was a girl and looked at a wedding as a day of happiness. Today would be no such thing.
For she was wedding her captor.