Highland Dragon (3 page)

“Nay. Her name is Isobel, and she is not your precious bride either and ye weel know it. Why do ye toy with us, MacLeod?”

Calin tried to understand Kendrick’s sudden spike in mood. “I know ’tis been a long time, auld friend, but—”

“Enough games!” Kendrick cut off his words, eyeing Calin cautiously. “Two MacLeods came here a sennight ago. I was tendin’ the herd while the girls went to pick berries. Your men were proddin’ at Isobel when Akira jumped onto one o’ their backs. The girls said she beat your mon with a switch like a wild animal. The one MacLeod grabbed at her waist and ripped the wool o’ her kirtle. When they caught sight o’ the birthmark on her backside, they called her a witch, and then hauled her over the back o’ their mount onto her belly. One o’ them told Isobel to inform me that ’twas time.” Kendrick’s tone grew bitter. “Ye could’ve at least made a place for her kin at the weddin’.”

This revelation enraged Calin. The flesh beneath his eye began to pulse. None too gently, he pushed Kendrick into a sticky pine branch. “Ye dunderheid. There has been nay wedding. I dinnae send for her. Hell and damnation!”

Kendrick’s eyes narrowed and his head cocked. He shoved Calin back, hard enough to set him off balance. “They were MacLeods. If ye dinnae send them, then who took her and where?”

“The MacLeod warriors are loyal to me. They wouldnae betray me, nor would any of them steal my bride.” Calin defended his kinsmen, but he trusted Kendrick as one of his own. What would any MacLeod gain by taking her? He struggled with the question, but he had neither the answer, nor the time to contemplate the issue. A sennight fell between him and Akira’s captors, making any trail impossible to track. A sickly sensation attacked his gut when he thought of the place they might have taken her. How the hell would he ever find her there? He wouldn’t know Akira if he saw her.

Calin made a gesture in the air with the quick jerk of his wrist. Three of his warriors emerged from the grove on horseback. Sirius came to a halt at his side, just as the black stallion had been trained to do. “We must ride at once. Can your sisters see themselves home?” he asked and mounted the warhorse.

“Nay. They cannae.” Kendrick tossed a sideways glance at the girls gathered around Isobel. The eldest held the reins to a chestnut-colored roan and waited.

“If I’ve been informed correctly, the cot-house ye moved into is not far from here. They look plenty able to see themselves home.”

Kendrick turned to walk away.

Irritation mounting, Calin wondered how Kendrick could be so apathetic about the sister he’d fostered since birth. “Have ye nay interest in the welfare of your
other
sister, or is she of nay concern to ye now?”

Kendrick rounded hastily and shot him a look of disdain. “I am nay an idiot! Ye dinnae care about Akira’s welfare. Your first concern is the alliance and we cannae unite the clans without her. So ye can quit the play-actin’ and just admit it. Ye wouldnae know the lass if she bit ye on the arse.”

Calin ignored his statement, though it galled him to acknowledge Kendrick spoke the truth. He steadied Sirius. The beast must have sensed his exasperation.

“I intend to ride with ye only because I know Akira, and she’ll not go with ye of her own free will.”

Why the hell not?
He’d provided for her over the years and sent private monies to the Abbot at Beauly Priory for her education. He’d seen the secret of her lineage protected. Besides Uncle Kerk and Aunt Wanda, only Kendrick and Akira’s foster mother knew Laird Kinnon had sired her. He had hoped Akira would enter their union without protest. Arguing these facts with Kendrick now seemed a moot point. “We’ve nay time to tarry. We ride at once.”

Kendrick’s face reddened and his fingers curled into fists. “Though Akira’s safety concerns me, I’ve five more to care for first. Isobel cannae walk. She’s been crippled most of her life. Since Da passed, there is nay one strong enough to carry her except myself, now that Akira’s gone.”

Calin felt like a complete arse. Now he understood why Isobel wasn’t up skipping around the loch with her sisters. “Ye tend to your kin. I have to return to the keep and petition the council for monies. We’ll meet at dusk where our soil borders the Donalds’. Come alone. She is on MacLeod soil.”

Kendrick’s harsh features softened. “Do ye know where they’ve taken her then?” he asked, his tone hopeful.

“Aye. If what ye say is true, there’s only one place a MacLeod would take a woman believed to be a witch—
Tigh Diabhail.
” Calin kicked his stallion into a full-blown gallop and prayed silently he wouldn’t be too late.
Tigh Diabhail
was Hell’s den and appropriately named the Devil’s House. He’d been there only once before, but the conduct of his brothers-in-arms repulsed him to the point he never wanted to return. Formerly, the isolated port had served as a weaponry exchange for King James’ predecessors, but now they only bartered female captives.

And what they did to the virgins was horrific beyond imagination.

“How many men do ye think I killed in Drumchatt, cousin?”

“I dinnae know, Jaime. But I’m certain ye believe ’twas more than I.” Calin rolled his eyes beneath his lids. After listening to the tenth battle story, he regretted bringing his cousin along to rescue his bride.

Although Jaime was like a brother to Calin, he’d always been undisciplined. Though three years younger, Jaime constantly strived to best him. If Calin killed a red deer with six points, then Jaime set out to kill one with ten. The desire to surpass Calin made Jaime a determined warrior, and Calin admitted to being proud of that quality in his cousin.

“Think ye the number was greater than fifty?” Jaime asked, continuing his exaggerated tale of valor as Calin crested the rise.

Morning’s blue mist blanketed the small island of Bania. Scores of MacLeod men littered the landscape below, but this breed of MacLeods weren’t brethren Calin cared to call kin. He reigned in his warhorse, every muscle in his body ached from the three-day journey. Not conditioned to the wider saddle, his arse had long since gone numb. The three MacLeod warriors along with Kendrick cantered up beside Calin and paused to look down at the tented pavilions.

“I’d bet my hind teeth the number was closer to a hundred,” Jaime said, oblivious of the fact that they’d reached their destination. “Think ye the number—”

“Jaime,” Kendrick interrupted, agitation pinching his brows tight. “Ye speak another word, and I’ll remove those hind teeth ye just wagered.”

Calin grinned, causing Jaime to frown, after which they spent the final leg over the knoll in blissful silence.

Calin had little trouble gaining admittance. His gold proved all the encouragement the bastards needed to permit him, his three kinsmen, and Kendrick beneath the canvas with the rest of the swine.

By late afternoon, attendants shuffled in and out of the main tent. Most wore the heavy Highland plaid, but some were clad in dress fashionable in France and Germany. Surcoats embroidered with their country’s crests identified the nationality of each man not wearing a plaid. Trimmed in gold braids, their heavy tunics hung loosely over snug-fitting trews.

Though the year was well into summer, the salty gales from the sea crept beneath the walls like icy splinters. The bystanders shivered from time to time while they bartered for one woman after another on the auction block, but Calin’s skin didn’t even pebble. The depravity surrounding him heated his blood and sent waves of fury through his very soul.

The bidding ceased at dusk at which point the wastrels spent their coin on hearty amounts of ale and told stories of battle. Their lies grew bigger with every barrel rolled onto the dais. Calin would’ve given anything to be back astride his steed with his bride safely in tow, listening to one of Jaime’s tales. Instead, he was buried within a crowd of rancid-smelling Highlanders, wondering if their stench had seeped into his pores.

At dawn, the auctioneer took up his gavel and began the day anew. After a grouping of olive-skinned women were sold, a blond child was hauled onto the wooden platform. She was easily the youngest maid brought to the dais since they’d arrived. The girl hadn’t even grown into her overbite and, as clearly seen through the thin gauze of her shift, she hadn’t developed. She couldn’t be more than ten years of age. Her hands were bound loosely in front of her, and her head bowed in obedience while tears of humiliation rolled down her cheeks. Calin couldn’t bear it. He would find a place for her at Cànwyck Castle. Mayhap with the laundress. He motioned to his man in the back to prepare the funds.

The baritone hum within the pavilion dwindled when the shrilling cadence of the auctioneer began. “How much am I offered for such a prize? Now, my good men. What a sight the lass will be in your beds. How much am I offered? Speak quickly, for she will surely sell.” Standing behind a scaffold, the auctioneer slicked graying strands over his balding head while awaiting the bids.

“Is she a virgin?” one of the bystanders asked in a surly voice.

“Lass, answer the mon’s question,” the auctioneer ordered.

The color rose in her cheeks, and Calin damned each and every one of these men to the fiery pits of Hell.

“Nay.” Her answer was barely audible.

Disappointed moans filled the air, which disgusted Calin further. Half these men weren’t here to purchase brides or servants, but to witness the entertainment
Tigh Diabhail
provided.

Calin assumed the girl lied, as most of the bystanders did, but the bylaws stated that each captive must answer the same question prior to purchase.

A man sobbed at Calin’s left, catching his attention; his wrinkled face shone wet with tears. He clutched a satchel in one fist and stared glassy-eyed at the girl.

The auctioneer slurred over a string of numbers, guiding three men through their bids. The man at Calin’s side only managed to enter a small bid early on.

“Is she your kin?” Calin asked without looking at him.

“My daughter,” he finally answered after a long pause.

“Bid what ye must. I will cover the remainder.”

“I cannae repay ye.”

“Ye will owe me nothing.”

Within seconds the bidding ended and the man successfully purchased the girl for thirty groats, twenty of which Calin gladly supplied.

“Bless ye, sir,” the man offered then pushed his way to the front. The guards tossed the girl from the dais with no regard for her safety, and Calin wanted nothing more than to see them hang from the tallest tree in the Highlands. The thought of Akira manhandled by these foul heathens made his jaw lock and his palms sweat. Desperation clawed at him, making his fingers pulse.

What if she’d already been sold? What if she’d never even been brought here?

Just as the questions entered his mind, the untamed hiss of the next captive pierced through the drone of bidders. Hair black as midnight framed her porcelain face—a face twisted into a ferocious expression of revulsion. Oaths spewed from her mouth in English, French, Gaelic, and another language Calin didn’t recognize. Two sentries in black hooded robes restrained her, and unlike the other women, her hands were bound tightly behind her.

“Christ, that’s Akira,” Kendrick announced in a loud whisper then started for the dais.

“Nay.” Calin placed a firm hand on Kendrick’s chest. “Dinnae draw attention to us or our interest in her.” Calin spoke calmly enough, but his insides were erupting. If the guards dared to strike her, he was fully prepared to start a war.

She lunged at the men confining her to the platform. The woman certainly didn’t lack for spit and fire. She was a fighter. Though relieved he’d found her safe, Calin worried over their initial meeting. Introducing himself to his bride under these circumstances might prove to be an awkward task.

When she drove a knee into the groin of one of her guards, Calin recoiled and instinctively cupped his bollocks. The injured sentry grabbed a mass of her hair, twisted her sideways, and forced her to her knees. Her eyes bled desperation just as she hollered out. The high-pitch note of pain bounced off the canvas walls.

Calin’s hands fisted into tight knots. Had he been permitted to keep a weapon, these men would be skewered over the end of his broadsword. He gestured to his clansmen dispersed amongst the crowd. With the silent order, the three men exited posthaste. “Remove your hood,” he commanded Kendrick. “If possible, I want her to see ye. Mayhap ’twill calm her spirits.”

“Did I happen to mention Akira has a bit of a temper?”

“A bit?” Calin eyed him warily, but he had no time for banter now. “We will retrieve Akira by any means necessary. When we leave, she will ride with me, and I will deal with her
temper.
”

The same gruff voice sounded out of the crowd. “Is she a virgin?”

He hoped she possessed the wit to reply the same as all the others. His breath caught in his throat, waiting for her answer.
Say nay. Say ye are not a virgin.
He willed her to answer accordingly.

The guards tightened their hold on her, giving her encouragement to answer the question. Her eyes narrowed into dark slits. She tilted her dainty chin and stared at the barbarian who asked the question. “Aye, I am a virgin. And I intend to stay that way.”

Calin’s gut plunged to his knees.

Silence fell over the assembly. A silence so absolute the breaking waves could be heard over the cliff behind the pavilion.

The hush lasted two heartbeats, then cheers resounded, and a bawl of bedlam rumbled. Every man’s eyes brimmed with lust.

Damn foolish wench!
Could she not have told a wee white lie? How dim of wit could the lass be not to answer the same as the rest? The siller he’d sent for her rearing had not been spent wisely. Rolling his neck until it popped several times, he tried to control his frustrations.

The auctioneer stiffened his grip on his gavel. He flashed a wicked smile at a woman standing behind him. “Nattie, fetch the oils.”

The crude spectators roared even louder and, though it seemed impossible, the narrow space of the tent tripled in attendance, as if the bastards outside could smell a virgin. The shrill sound of heckling amplified with every passing second. Two more guards wormed their way through the crowd collecting added compensation.

A flush of uneasiness crept over Kendrick’s face. “What’s amiss?”

“These men pay extra to witness the sale of a virgin. The coin goes to the chieftain who turns a blind eye to such an atrocity. I fear my bride is not only going to cost me far more than I intended to pay, but she’s to provide the entertainment as weel.” The dark tone of his voice matched the outrage of his thoughts. “I suspect your sister has nay idea what her pride is about to cost her.”

Calin offered a silent prayer for Saint Boniface to aid him, then hollered, “Twenty groats.”

“Twenty groats I am offered,” cried the auctioneer. “Who’ll offer more?”

“Thirty-fi’,” proffered another, tripping over a foreign language.

“Fifty.”

“Seventy-five.”

The bids escalated at a startling pace, quickly reaching three hundred. Calin intended to win, even if it cost him every coin he’d brought. The fires of Hades would be doused before he let another man touch his woman. He’d waited far too long to secure the alliance and avenge his father’s blood.

“I bid five hundred groats,” Calin hollered.

Curious whispers hissed through the crowd as hundreds of eyes studied him. The bid shocked the crowd and Kendrick as well. “Have ye that much siller with ye, mon?”

“Aye,” Calin answered briefly then awaited any challenge, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d never been one to flaunt or squander the MacLeod coin, but the survival of Clan MacLeod depended on his retrieval of this woman.
His woman.

“Who’ll give me more than five hundred groats?” the auctioneer shouted, but no response came. The smack of his gavel ended the bidding. “Sold!”

Calin’s men waited with the haversacks of siller. With the dip of his chin, he ordered his seneschal to complete the bill of sale with the bailiff. He parted the crowd to stand at the edge of the raised dais as all the other buyers before him had done, but instead of tossing Akira over his shoulder, the guards backed her to the furthest edge of the platform.

A blue-flame of energy surged within him—a possessive desire to protect, to claim, to kill. Fingers balled into fists primed for battle.

“Bring out the bed. Bring out the bed,” the crowd chanted.

The auctioneer gave orders for preparations to begin. The guards pulled back moth-eaten drapes revealing a rusty frame holding a straw-filled mattress. The woman, whom the auctioneer referred to as Nattie, reappeared with a steaming pail of oil.

Calin held the auctioneer’s stare as he spoke with contempt. “My seneschal has finalized the sale. I demand ye relinquish this woman unto me!”

“She’ll be delivered accordingly, but as clearly defined in the precepts of your bill of sale, nay woman leaves
Tigh Diabhail
with her maidenhead intact.”

Akira inhaled sharply, drawing Calin’s attention. The hot color of fury drained from her face and was replaced with pale-white terror. She wavered slightly before she closed her mouth and regained enough wit to glare at him. Although he didn’t feel he deserved such a fierce look, Calin held eye contact with her as they pulled him to the dais.

Her guards doubled in number to hold her limbs immobile while Nattie reached beneath Akira’s flimsy shift with a small sponge to wipe oils between her legs. With her hands still bound behind her back, Akira was defenseless against the bawdy woman’s boldness.

Two more henchmen carried the bed to the platform’s center. Despite Akira’s resistance, the guards placed her on the mattress. She tried to bolt, but they flung her back atop the soiled tick and tightened a leather strap over her ribs.

Calin’s muscles clenched. He wanted to kill every one of these bastards. He could reveal who he was, but his status as laird held no esteem amongst these swine. He would only be inviting trouble. Knowing he had little choice other than to proceed with the deed, Calin held his arms outstretched and allowed the guards to divest him of his plaid and
léine
shirt. Much to the old crone’s apparent disappointment, he declined Nattie’s administration of oils and accepted a white cloth as he approached the bed.

He crawled atop Akira on all fours, covering her from head to toe. Mocking their privacy, the guards lowered a gauze canopy—caging them like breeding animals on public display. She violently thrashed her head side to side, whipping a black web of hair to veil her features.

“Imigh sa diabhal, bastún,”
Akira cursed at him in Gaelic. And then in French.
“Focal leat! Retournez à la pute qui t’a accouchée!”

“I am nay a bastard, and my mother wasnae a whore.” Calin calmly corrected her expletives. Her obscene vocabulary both shocked and impressed him.

“To the devil with your black blood. May ye rot alongside the
bitseach
that birthed ye.”

“Nor was my mother a bitch.” Although Calin knew little about the woman who died giving birth to him, he felt a sense of honor to protect his mother from such heinous names. He exhaled dramatically, shook his head, and tsked. “How can such a vulgar tongue be placed betwixt the lips of such a bonnie fine mouth?”