Highland Knight (11 page)

“Aye, I can, though I thank ye for the kind lie. Nay, DeVeau men hurt women. ’Tis their way. I wonder why Avery didnae sense the danger,” she muttered, frowning slightly.

“Weel, they probably slipped up behind the lass, caught her by surprise.”

“That wouldnae matter. She must have been distracted.” She smiled faintly at Cameron’s look of confusion. “Avery is verra good at sensing an approaching threat. She gave us warning ere the DeVeaux attacked our kinsmen. There isnae much time to act upon her feelings or warnings, but that time ’twas enough to allow the Lucettes to fight, to make the DeVeaux attack a battle instead of a slaughter.” She shrugged.” I suppose it doesnae always work.”

“She can
sense
danger?”

“Aye. ’Tis as if she can smell it in the air sometimes. Her father can, too. ’Tis a fine skill, e’en if it doesnae always work. Like this time.” She saw the men beginning to gather around Cameron. “Ye are going to save her.”

“’Tis our plan. I dinnae think her life is in any danger,” he added, hoping to ease any fear she might still suffer.

“Nay, not unless she gets loose and tries to kill Sir Charles. God’s speed,” she said before hurrying off to help the women break camp.

Cameron led his men back toward the DeVeau camp. He tried to push Gillyanne’s parting words from his mind, but he could not. Avery was not a woman to meekly accept her fate, to sit quietly weeping and pray someone would come to save her. He was not sure what one small, unarmed woman could do against Sir Charles, but he knew the man was a dangerous one to anger. For a brief moment, Cameron was sorry he had kept Avery’s knife, then shook that regret aside. The fact that she was unarmed might be enough to keep her alive until he could get her out of there.

“Your plan to free her is a good one,” Leargan said. “We will get the lass back.”

“Aye, if she doesnae do something foolish like try to save herself,” Cameron muttered.

“Ah, I hadnae considered that. Sir Charles ordered her weel secured. She probably willnae be able to try anything nay matter how much she may wish to.”

“While the thought of that swine keeping her tied and helpless isnae one I care to linger on, ’twould be best for her if she is.”

“The lass must be used to it by now.”

Cameron was glad they were mounted, or he would have struck his cousin for that remark. And, the sad truth was, Leargan did not deserve to be knocked flat for stating a simple fact. He could only hope Avery did not see too many similarities between what Sir Charles planned for her and his own actions. Cameron knew he could never have hurt Avery, not physically, but he was not sure she knew it.

“Let us hope he, too, softens the sting of the ropes with silken underwrappings,” Cameron murmured, feeling the need somehow, even subtly, to defend his actions. “And let us hope he is still eating his dinner.”

“Do ye think he meant his threat? About setting his bastard growing in her?”

“I dinnae think he kens just what he will do with her, although the tone of his voice when he made the threat implied that he rather savored the idea.”

The thought of Sir Charles touching Avery, possessing her, made Cameron almost ill with rage. Avery was his. It did not matter that he intended to set her aside, or that he staunchly resisted feeling anything more than lust for her. He was the first man to taste her passion, and until he set her aside, he intended to be the only man who enjoyed it. If Sir Charles raped Avery, he would soon be made to view his cousin Michael’s death as a merciful one.

Leaving their horses at a safe distance with two men to stand guard over them, Cameron and the rest of his men crept closer to the DeVeau camp. Cameron tensed when he saw that Sir Charles was no longer outside his tent. He had to fight down the urge to charge into the man’s tent, sword swinging. Quietly he ordered four of his men to slip around to the other side of the camp and enact their diversion. That left Cameron with Leargan, Wee Rob, and Colin. It also left him with the nerve-racking need to do nothing but wait.

“It willnae take them long to pull all eyes their way,” Leargan whispered.

“Cease trying to comfort me, cousin,” Cameron replied in an equally soft voice, wondering how he must look if Leargan kept feeling the need to try and calm him down.

“Weel, ye did look ready to charge that tent a moment ago, sword swinging, and a battle cry upon your lips.”

“It was only a passing urge.”

“Mayhap ye ought to ask yourself why ye have the urge at all. After all, ’tis only wee Avery Murray, the lass ye mean to toss back into her family’s lap soon after we reach Cairnmoor. Ye still have wee Gillyanne to make your trade.”

“And if ye shut your mouth right now, ye may still have a tongue to delight the lasses with.”

Leargan rolled his eyes, but he shut his mouth. Cameron returned to staring at the tent, frustrated that he could not see inside, that there was no way to let Avery know he was near. Such waiting also left him with little more to do than think, and he cursed silently, when Leargan’s words refused to be silenced or ignored.

He should not be so enraged that another man touched Avery. He should not be so angry and afraid because she was under threat that he nearly acted with reckless foolishness, even had to have help to stay calm. Somehow, he was failing in keeping himself aloof in enjoying the passion they shared but never allowing it to become some emotional entanglement.

Avery was fun, he mused, making him laugh—something he had done little of in
the past few years. She was actually a very likable young woman with her own special, endearing wit and charm. Despite her higher station in life, she did not hesitate to work alongside, and even befriend, the wives of his men at arms. Avery was quick to rush to the aid of any injured or ill person. The journey across France had been rough, sometimes even grueling, but she made no complaint. In truth, the only thing they could not even discuss without anger was the matter of his sister’s accusations against her brother.

Cameron decided that he did like Avery, enjoyed her company. It amazed him, but it did not feel odd to think of Avery as a friend as well as a lover. There was also the fact that he and his men owed her their lives. All good reasons to risk life and limb to save her now, he decided, easily dismissing the faint voice that told him he was fooling himself again.

To Cameron’s relief, if only because it stopped him from thinking any more, his men gave him the diversion he needed. Two of the small carts at the far end of the camp caught fire. To add to the resultant confusion, the horses were sent racing through the camp. Smiling grimly, Cameron made his way to the back of Sir Charles’s tent.

It was not easy, but Avery hid the fear she felt when Sir Charles entered his tent. The way he looked at her splayed out on his bed like some ancient sacrifice, and then smiled, made her wish that she still had her knife. Killing the man, as she so dearly wished to do, would undoubtedly earn her a quick, brutal death, but, at that precise moment, it seemed worth it.

“Is this how your fine Scottish lover kept you at his side?” Sir Charles asked.

“Nay,” she replied; then she recalled that she had to speak French. “He but secured one wrist to the bed. A braver man than you.” She barely repressed a squeak of alarm when he suddenly drew his sword and touched the cold, sharp point to her throat.

“You should be more careful with your taunts, woman, especially considering your current position.”

“You will stain your fine sheets, my lord.”

“Ah, yes, there is that to consider.”

Avery held her breath as he began slowly to cut the laces on her bodice. This DeVeau was obviously as cold and twisted as the ones her mother had confronted. Considering how long her mother had had to deal with such chilling insanity, Avery was surprised the woman was as sweet and happy as she was. It also explained why her mother rarely returned to the land of her birth. Despite how fond she was of her Lucette kin, Avery knew that, if she managed to get out of this trap alive, she would be reluctant to return to France, too.

“Do you mean to return me to my family naked?” she asked, proud of the calm way she spoke, her voice revealing none of the very real terror she felt as he carefully, almost idly, cut the clothes from her body.

“No, I would never be so lacking in chivalry,” he replied. “I shall put you into a fine, elegant gown. One worthy of a DeVeau whore. One much like my cousin Vachel gave your mother so many years ago.”

“And just how is dear Sir Vachel? Dead, I hope.” She inwardly shivered as he flicked open her cut gown with the tip of his sword.

“Quite dead.” He stepped closer to the bed and gently stroked her legs.

Avery forced herself not to flinch at his touch, but it was a lot harder to quell the nausea that afflicted her. “Died peacefully in his bed, did he?”

“In his bed, yes. Peacefully? I fear not. About ten years ago, it was. Some traitorous dog fed him a particularly nasty poison. It took him days to die—long, torturous days filled with pain.”

The tone of Sir Charles’s voice told Avery that, if Sir Charles himself had not killed Sir Vachel, he knew who had done it, how it was done, and why. Undoubtedly, he had profited nicely from the death. She thought it very hypocritical of the man to condemn her mother, who had been proven innocent, when he himself was obviously guilty of murdering a DeVeau. Clearly, the DeVeaux considered the killing of a kinsman their own personal privilege.

When he sheathed his sword and began to unlace her chemise, Avery had to bite back the pleas for mercy that rushed into her mouth. She would not give the man that satisfaction. It did strike her as strange, however, that the lack of any outward signs of lust, the lack of even the most feral warming in his eyes, made her more uneasy than did his touch. He was doing this to humiliate her, nothing more, and that realization chilled
her to the bone. And she knew, at that moment, that he would toy with her for a very long time—quite probably until she was so mad with shame and fear that she would beg him to rape her just to get it over with.

Sir Charles opened her chemise and stared down at her breasts. He frowned slightly and tapped one long finger against his chin. Avery wished she could get her ankle free so that she could kick him—repeatedly—in the face.

“Your breasts are somewhat small,” he murmured. “I have always favored lusher curves.”

“If I had known you would be judging them, I would have made an effort to fatten myself up more.”

“The nipples are perfection, however,” he continued, ignoring her sarcasm. “Large, and a lovely shade of pink. I suspect they will service me and my bastard very well.” He placed his hands on her breasts and rubbed his thumbs over her nipples. “Not very responsive, are they?”

“You want a response from me? Lean closer. I am quite prepared to vomit.”

She bit back a cry when he slapped her face. It was done with the same cold, precise calm with which he did everything else. Avery was beginning to feel as if none of this were real, as if she were caught up in some nightmare. Surely no man could be as lacking in feeling, good or bad, as this one seemed to be? She tensed when he pushed up the hem of her chemise, exposing her braies. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed his look of surprise, as it was obvious that he rarely indulged in any expression at all. All she could think of, however, was how little now stood between him and the most intimate part of her.

“Did you think such a garment would protect you from a man?” he asked as he took a knife from his belt.

“They are warm,” she replied, her voice flat, as slowly her shame and fear was swamped by a cold, hard rage.

Sir Charles cut the side of one leg and flipped the front of her braies back, exposing her to his view. “You are gold all over. Intriguing. And you appear to be very clean. I approve.”

“I am going to kill you.”

“Now? I do not believe you are in any position to make threats.”

“I am a patient woman when I need to be. I can wait. Tomorrow, the next day, two years from now. It matters not. When the chance comes—and it will—I will kill you, and in a way that will make Sir Michael’s and Sir Vachel’s deaths look like kindnesses.”

Before Sir Charles could respond, there was an outcry in the camp. “I had best go to see what those fools are doing. When I return, you can entertain me with a recitation of all the ways you plan to kill me.” He gave her a slow intimate stroke between her legs with his cold fingers and then walked away.

Avery took several deep breaths to try and calm herself. She felt ill, but was not sure if it was from the strength of her anger or the feel of his cold-as-death fingers touching her flesh. Beneath her rage she knew her fear still lurked, that within her was a woman cringing in terror over the deeply personal abuse Sir Charles intended to inflict. Rage felt better, however, and Avery was determined to cling to it.

Suddenly, a strange noise, like something slowly ripping, penetrated her dark thoughts. She turned her head but could not see behind her, where the noise was coming
from. When Cameron and Leargan suddenly appeared at her bedside, she was too relieved to feel any embarrassment over her nudity, and anger still bubbled wildly in her veins.

“Where is Sir Charles?” Cameron asked as he cut her free and Leargan tactfully turned his back on them.

“He went out to see what the trouble was,” Avery replied, rubbing her wrists after Cameron freed them and waiting somewhat impatiently for him to free her ankles as well.

“Damn, I wanted to kill him. Leargan, keep a watch for the bastard.” Cameron quickly relaced Avery’s chemise, then tore several strips from the fine linen sheet upon the bed. “Did he rape you?” he asked as, after she removed her damaged braies and shoved them into her pocket, he tied her gown together.

“Nay. I believe he meant to torment me with the threat of it for a while.”

“Jesu. How I do ache to kill that mon.”

“Ye cannae.”

“I ken it now, but—”

“Because I am going to kill him,” she said as she grabbed the knife Cameron had set down on the bed and strode toward the tent opening.

Cameron quickly grabbed hold of Avery, but she was like a trapped wild thing in his arms. The fact that she was obviously careful not to hurt him with the knife she held told him that she had not completely lost her senses. They were, however, losing valuable time in which to make a successful escape. Finally, just as Cameron decided he was going to have to do something drastic, Leargan took the hard choice out of his hands. Murmuring an apology to Avery, Leargan gave her one quick, restrained punch on the jaw and she went limp in Cameron’s arms. Cameron sighed and tossed her over his shoulder as Leargan collected his knife.

“Sorry, cousin,” Leargan murmured as they both turned toward the rear of the tent.

“Ye had no choice,” Cameron said as, rejoining the other men, they loped toward their waiting horses. “In truth, I was just about to do the verra same thing. There was no time to talk her out of her madness. And, although I, too, ache to see DeVeau dead, ’tis best that we didnae kill him. That could easily have set his whole insane family on our trail.”

“Aye. Now we just have to worry about him, about how badly he wants Avery.”

“The mon ne’er travels with his soldiers, yet he was there.”

“So, we assume that he wants her verra badly indeed. Did he rape the poor lass?” Leargan asked quietly, holding Avery while Cameron mounted.

“Nay,” Cameron replied as he took Avery back into his arms. “As she said, he wanted to torture her for a wee while with the promise of the crime. Constant insults to her person and the threat of more to come. Nay wonder she wanted him dead.”

The moment all of his men were mounted, Cameron spurred his horse to a gallop, leading them all away from the DeVeau camp. It would now be a hard race to the port. DeVeau would not take the loss of his prisoner well, if only because the ease with which she was recaptured made him look the fool. He could only hope that either because of greed or embarrassment, the man would not bring any of his large, none too sane family in on the chase.

They caught up with the rest of their people two hours later. Cameron dispatched some men to cover their trail. He paused only long enough to reassure a worried Anne
and Gillyanne that Avery was fine. They would travel hard for two more hours, he decided, and then camp, for, despite his comforting words to the women, Cameron was a little concerned about Avery.

Leargan had not hit Avery hard, yet she remained unconscious. Cameron accepted her word that she had not been raped, his own eyes having reaffirmed her claim after a brief but thorough look at her body. Yet she had been as enraged as he had ever seen a woman and—in truth, few men. What had Sir Charles done to her? Would she waken still angry and eager to kill the man, or would she be shocked, devastated, or terrified? She had been naked, her clothes cut free of her body, so DeVeau must have assaulted her in some way. Selfish though it was, Cameron could not help but wonder if her experiences would temper her passion, change how she responded to him.

By the time they stopped for the night, Avery was awake but a little unsteady. Cameron dismounted, then held her close as he ordered Leargan to set up his smaller tent. He then told Donald to lay out his rougher bedding of furs and blankets plus a change of clothes. He wanted the rest of his belongings left packed in the cart so that they could leave more swiftly come morning.

“I need a bath,” Avery said as Gillyanne and Anne hurried over to her side.

There was something in her tone of voice that told Cameron he should not refuse her request, but he hesitated. “I did not really wish to light any fires,” he began.

“I dinnae care if the water is naught but barely melted ice. I
need
a bath.”

“There is water near at hand,” Anne said. “A wee creek. Ye can bathe there. Me and Gilly will come along with ye.” When Avery nodded, Anne told Gillyanne, “Take her to the creek, lass. I will be right along with soap, drying cloths, and some clean clothes. Go on, now.” As soon as the two Murray women walked away, Anne looked at Cameron. “Was she raped?”

“Nay. She said he didnae rape her, and from what I saw of her, I believe her.” He grimaced and ran his hands through his hair. “She was naked, howbeit. She wanted to kill him, fought hard to go after him, so hard that Leargan had to knock her out. That seems to say that the mon did something to her. I am just nay sure what.”

“He made her afraid,” Anne said quietly, sighing.

“Aye, I am sure he did. That would make her so angry, e’en nearly desperate to kill him?”

“It would me.”

Cameron was too surprised to respond, and he just watched Anne walk away. A little concerned that Avery might still be desperate to cut Sir Charles’s throat, Cameron sent Wee Rob to make sure that she did not try to slip away. He returned to frowning in the direction the women had gone, puzzling over Anne’s words, until Leargan rejoined him.

“The women, Anne and wee Gilly, will set the lass right,” Leargan said; then he shook his head. “I have ne’er seen a lass so verra eager to spill a mon’s blood.”

“Anne says it was because DeVeau made Avery feel afraid,” Cameron said.

“Ah, aye, Avery wouldnae like that at all.”

“Oh? For all of her dark threats, Avery has ne’er e’en tried to kill me.”

“Weel, nay. She isnae afraid of you.”

“Many women have been afraid of me, and, in some ways, I threaten Avery and her clan.”

“Ye are a dark, brooding devil, true enough, and ye could afford to smile more often, but ye dinnae frighten Avery. Ne’er have as far as I can tell. Mayhap ye need to snarl a wee bit more.”

“Shut your mouth, Leargan,” Cameron said, almost genially.

“Mouth now shut. Weel, in a moment.”

“Leargan,” Cameron warned, frowning slightly when he saw the intent look upon his cousin’s face.

“I dinnae intend to taunt ye this time. It concerns Avery and what has happened to her. Ye can be a hard mon, cousin, but yon lassie is going to need ye to be…weel, softer.” Leargan cursed softly and dragged his fingers through his hair. “I am nay sure what I am trying to say, except dinnae expect that lass to be all better when the ladies have cleaned her up. She will need, weel, sympathy. For her to be so enraged, the mon had to have done something to her, and that something will probably be troubling her.”

“Her cousin Sorcha was raped,” Cameron said quietly. “Gillyanne’s elder sister.”

“Oh, hell’s fires. Weel, that explains some of it, doesnae it?”

“Aye, I think it might. Go away, Leargan,” Cameron said as he started to walk toward his tent. “I may not ken what to do to soothe a troubled lass, but I do ken that I cannae leave the lass alone.”

“Nay, of course not.”