Highland Troth (Highland Talents Book 3) (29 page)

The sounds of battle filtered through the croft’s thick walls—swords clanging, men shouting, horses neighing in distress and anger.

“Ye’ll stay inside,” he repeated when they got back to the main level, “with the door barred, until ye hear me tell ye to open it. No’ before.”

The change in her expression, from calm to a stubborn frown, did not bode well. “I can fight. Ye ken I can.”

“Ye can be grabbed up and ridden off on a horse while the rest of us fight, too, ye ken. Best ye stay out of reach. I willna need the distraction of worrying about ye.”

She pursed her lips, but finally nodded. “Aye, I will. But I’ll find that other way out, just in case.”

Framing her face in both hands, Jamie kissed her sweet lips, then went to the door and listened intently before opening it. He would not let MacGregor’s men force their way in as he slipped out. “Bar it!” he growled as he faced the scene in the croft’s yard.

His men fought bravely, but were outnumbered. Jamie waded in and evened the odds a bit, but they were in trouble. And help for the Lathans was much farther away than more MacGregors.

He and Kyle fought back-to-back, fending off attacks and ensuring no MacGregor got behind the other. In moments, the other Lathans formed up the same way, and the momentum seemed to shift. They might not be able to leave, but MacGregor’s men could not get close enough to them to take them out of the fight. If they could hold out longer than their attackers, if they could wound a few sufficiently to keep them from fighting, even kill a few, they might yet get away.

Jamie was thankful for the long hours of training Donal MacNabb had required while arms master at the Aerie. The Lathans were strong and well-schooled in hand-to-hand combat. But so were the MacGregors. Uilleam and Malcolm were well matched, too. Malcolm’s men did their part against their clansmen. They were fighting a battle of attrition.

Then Jamie heard more hoofbeats approaching. In moments, MacGregor and more men rode into the clearing and dismounted. Before long, the Lathans and their allies were prisoners.

“Where is she?” MacGregor demanded, pacing back and forth in front of the prisoners his men had forced into a ragged line, swords at their backs.

No one answered.

“I’ll give ye one more chance. Where is she? In there?” MacGregor stopped before Jamie and gestured at the croft. “Did ye command her to lock herself in?”

Jamie met MacGregor’s stare with an icy one of his own. MacGregor whirled and marched to the door, tried it, then pounded on it with the hilt of his sword. “Caitrin! Open this door.”

The only sound was the wind whistling down the glen and the snort and stamp of an impatient horse. The breeze carried the stench of sweat and blood.

His gaze drifted slowly across the line of captives. “Let me give ye a reason, then, my lady” he said, raising his voice.

A chill ran down Jamie’s gullet, but he kept his expression impassive.

“If ye dinna open the door, I will kill one of these men. Who shall it be? Jamie Lathan?” MacGregor rested a shoulder against the stout door, arms crossed as he surveyed the prisoners. “Nay, I’ll reserve him for later, in case ye need more convincing. One of the other Lathans? Nay, they mean little to ye.” He tapped the door again. “Hear me, Caitrin. Shall I kill Uilleam Fletcher next? Yer friend Malcolm? One of the other MacGregors who sought to betray me with ye?”

Jamie’s lips tightened, but he kept his gaze on MacGregor rather than turn to regard the doomed men. He could well imagine they’d be watching, stone-faced, while MacGregor played with them, like a cat with a mouse.

“Last chance, Caitrin.”

When she didn’t respond, Jamie held his breath. On the one hand, she did as he had ordered, staying inside, for the moment, at least, safe. But if MacGregor meant to do as he threatened, he expected she’d also condemned her old friend, or her new one. MacGregor would not bother to harm someone she didn’t care about. Not yet.

MacGregor shrugged and walked slowly back to the prisoners, paused before Uilleam, whose grim expression did not change, then paced down the line to Malcolm, and tipped his head. “Aye, the traitor.” Before Jamie could react, MacGregor raised his dirk, then buried it to the hilt in Malcolm’s chest.

Without a sound, Malcolm dropped to his knees, eyes wide, jaw muscles bunched.

Jamie suspected he’d known his laird would go for him first, despite MacGregor’s prattle. What kind of courage did it take to face death that way, without a whimper of protest, in what he had to believe was a futile attempt to save a woman he barely knew?

MacGregor wrenched his dirk free, then jabbed it in Malcolm’s throat. He pulled it out as the body fell forward.

Jamie swore MacGregor would pay for what he’d done, not just to Caitrin, but for Malcolm’s life, and all the others he had harmed.

For a moment, MacGregor watched the blood drip from the point of the blade into the pool forming on the ground around Malcolm’s body, and then he went back to the door and drove the dirk into the wood.

“Hear that, my dear? That blade is dripping with the blood of a traitor. Likely, ye’ll get a few drops on the sole of yer boot as ye step outside. But if ye dinna come out now, there will be more blood. And it will come from men even closer to ye.” He paused and listened to the silence. “Uilleam is next, my dear. Then the Lathans, one by one, until yer Jamie remains. I’ll save my former clansmen for last, so I can take my time with them. I’ll kill yer lover slowly for ye, if ye make me wait that long. But first, I’ll kill Uilleam slowly, too. Perhaps Uilleam’s screams will change yer mind, since poor Malcolm’s brave, silent death failed to convince ye.”

Restrained by the armed men at his back and, for the moment, helpless, Jamie wanted to close his eyes to the scene, but he dared not expose any weakness to MacGregor. They were too vulnerable. Outnumbered. Disarmed. MacGregor’s mad ranting put everyone on edge, including his own men, judging by the looks they exchanged with each other.

It would take a madman to get them out of this.

Then Jamie heard the sound he dreaded. The sound of the bar being lifted from the door, the latch released. In a moment, the door swung inward and Caitrin appeared, backlit by the glow of the hearth behind her.

“Ah, there ye are, my dear. Come to join the party.”

“I’m here only to prevent more deaths,” Caitrin snapped.

She spoke bravely, Jamie thought, as her gaze fell on Malcolm’s body, though he could wish for less bravery and more sense from her. She was the prize MacGregor wanted. She should not have come out, but rather found the cousin’s exit and used it.

“Alasdair, how could ye?”

“’Tis my right as laird, to enforce my wishes. Ye’d best learn that here and now, milady.”

“To what purpose? I’ve told ye I willna marry ye.”

“Ye will do as ye are told. Ye’re coming back to MacGregor with me. Uilleam, too. I think his presence will be enough to keep ye biddable. These Lathans can tuck tail and run home. They’ve no’ been harmed, and they’ve naught to say about what goes on between MacGregor and Fletcher.”

“Will and I will go with them.”

The crack of MacGregor’s palm against Caitrin’s face startled a crow from a nearby tree. Cawing its distress, it headed skyward. Caitrin could do no such thing. But she stood up to MacGregor, glaring at him as her cheek reddened with the mark of his assault and the light of the sunrise.

Jamie wanted to feel pride in her defiance, but fear for her overrode every other emotion.

“Ye will do as ye are told.”

“Or ye’ll hit me again?”

MacGregor did just that, backhanding her and knocking her to her knees. Jamie and the other prisoners reacted as one, stepping forward, but a gesture from MacGregor had his men pulling them back against the swords they brandished.

Jamie swore. Since his sister’s mutilated body had been found, he had suppressed a bone-deep fury. He’d buried it so far beneath a facade of reason and amiability no one suspected such rage could be a part of him.

After all these years, he feared it was unreachable.

He needed it now.

Chapter Twenty

Caitrin had hoped the battle sounds she heard meant Jamie was winning. But MacGregor’s voice at the door had proved her wrong. Jamie and the others must be dead.
Jamie.
Dear God, how could she go on without him? She’d collapsed against the door, fighting not to scream her anguish and let MacGregor hear her. She’d choked on silent sobs and fought for breath. Nay, she could not let MacGregor have her. Jamie had told her to get away. It was his greatest wish, for her to be safe. He’d died to protect her. She would not give in. She’d forced herself to her feet and headed for the loft to find Rabbie’s secret way out.

Then MacGregor had threatened to kill them. Naming the men, one by one. They lived? Jamie, too? Her heart soared for a moment, but they were still in danger. MacGregor’s captives, subject to his whims, unless they could fight free again.

She’d held out hope until she’d heard the gasps that signaled Malcolm’s death. Dear Malcolm, who’d tried to save her. Tears filled her eyes. Then MacGregor had named the order in which he would kill the others, and she knew she could not let him do what he threatened. So she’d opened the door to the hell that awaited her. Her future. With MacGregor.

Caitrin stayed on her knees, trying to catch her breath against the throbbing ache in her jaw. MacGregor loomed over her, arm raised and hand open, ready to deliver another blow. She kept her eyes down, doing her best to avoid provoking him further.

When she opened the door, she’d been shocked to see the prisoners lined up before their guards, still alive. All but Malcolm. She couldn’t bear more than a glance at his body and the pool of blood around it. He had died because of her. Defending her. Despite the way MacGregor had treated her already, she had hoped he would not stoop to killing to gain her. He’d started a war, whether he knew it or not, one that would reach much further than the battle plans she’d seen.

But nay, he was crafty. His victim was his own man. None of the others could claim harm at his hand or by his order. He was right. The Lathans were free to leave. Jamie, too.

Would he go? Or would he try to fight free to save her?

She almost hoped he would go. She did not want any more deaths on her conscience. She’d rather spend the rest of her miserable life with Alasdair MacGregor than than watch Jamie die. She loved him enough to sacrifice her future for him—her life, too.

“I will do as ye say.” Through her lashes, she saw Jamie’s shoulder’s sag, even as Alasdair lowered his hand to assist her to her feet.

“Very good, my dear.”

“Once ye let these men go. Will, too.”

She saw this blow coming and braced against it, which made it worse. Before she knew what had happened, she found herself on the ground, ears ringing. But her hand had tangled in her skirt and she felt the hard length of the little
sgian dubh
Madeleine had tucked there. For protection, she’d whispered. Had she known Caitrin would need protection from her son? She pulled the blade free and swung it at MacGregor as he bent down to her, determined to connect, no matter where, just so long as it slowed him down. But he caught her arm before her blade went home. She managed only to slice his sleeve. He squeezed her wrist until she cried out in pain and dropped the knife. Then MacGregor hauled her up and tossed her into the croft house, shoving at the door behind them. It didn’t close completely, giving Caitrin a moment of hope Jamie would burst in soon. But MacGregor hit her again, and again. She heard Jamie’s voice, yelling at Alasdair to stop, and a dangerous rumble of voices and other noises, but the beating went on…and on.

“See what ye have done, my dear,” MacGregor hissed in her ringing ear. “The prisoners fight to free themselves so they can come to yer rescue.” MacGregor left her and wrenched his dirk from the door.

Caitrin caught a breath, then froze a he returned to her.

“While they play, I shall, too. I’d hoped to save this for a more…special…time, but now will have to do. I mark my women, ye ken, so they canna forget me.”

The tip of the dirk slipped inside her dress and cut the cloth from the inside. Caitrin flailed and fought, but MacGregor overpowered her easily as he set the dirk on the floor out of her reach. He jerked the fabric aside and pulled a smaller, thinner blade from somewhere on his person. With it, he cut the skin of her breast in short, sharp strokes she did not feel—yet.

“I love the needles of the Scotch pine,” MacGregor murmured as he worked. “’Tis the MacGregor plant symbol, of course, the one we wear into battle. Did ye enjoy our battle, Lady Fletcher? I did. Of course, scratched into a whore’s skin, the pine can be seen as so many other things. And I can add as many little branches and needles as she deserves.”

Sensation reached Caitrin’s fogged mind. Stinging, hot blood welling, running warm on her skin, the metallic scent irritating her nose. MacGregor’s monotone pronouncements, as if he, too, was in a trance.

“How many do ye deserve, my betrothed? Did ye give yerself to him, that Lathan?”

Caitrin fought the pain, knowing it was futile, praying for Alasdair to stop. For Jamie to stop him. She had no idea whether the Lathans were winning or being taken prisoner again. Or killed.
Jamie!
A whimper of his name escaped her, earning her another backhanded blow from MacGregor.

“Ye dare!”

Caitrin’s head reeled, but she managed a breath. At least when he hit her, he ceased cutting her.

“Ye utter his name? I’ve been easy on ye, putting my mark on yer breast. It usually goes much lower. Much lower, ye ken?”

He was pulling up her skirt, again!

“But ye called for yer lover, so ye deserve my worst. I’ll cut ye there, too. My men can keep them busy long enough for me to enjoy doing that.” He gripped her hip then forced her leg aside, opening her inner thigh to his blade. “I usually take them first, but I want to mark ye as mine, then I’ll take ye. I’ll enjoy it so much more with yer blood on my skin. ’Tis all I have left, since ye gave yer virgin’s blood to
him
.”