The Clan MacDougall Series (144 page)

They had ridden across Scotland at breakneck speeds, rarely stopping, and never resting for more than an hour at a time. Donald worried over the fact that Nigel had not yet caught up with them.

“He can take care of himself,” Horace told him.

“What if they caught him?” Donald worried, growing more apprehensive as the hours passed.

“Then you should pray they cut his tongue out before he had the chance to tell them where we’re going.”

“He’s your brother for the sake of Christ!” Donald shouted as they rode fast, heading for Firth. “Do you not care for anyone but yourself?”

Nora knew Donald’s question to be rhetorical. A complete stranger would be able to answer that question within moments of meeting Horace. His selfishness knew no end.

It was early morning when they reached the outskirts of Firth. Horace brought them to a stop and pulled Nora from her horse.

“Do you remember the last time I brought you to Firth?” he asked as he bound her hands with rope.

How could she forget when she had scars on her wrists to remind her? Humiliation set in, no matter how hard she tried to stop it. He was going to drag her through Firth again. This time he would probably declare to all within earshot that Nora was a bigamist, a whore who had married another man, a Scot no less, while still married to Horace. What terrified her most was the belief that he would take her back to the cottage and throw her in the cellar again. This time she knew she would not make it out alive. He would leave her there to die. Nigel would not be there to drop down bread or water.

Nora truly did not care what the people of Firth thought of her. She knew the truth.

“Had you been a better wife to me Nora, I wouldn’t have to punish you so harshly,” Horace said pulling on the rope. It rubbed against her existing scars, sending raw sensations up to her neck.

“Had you been a better husband, I could have been a better wife,” Nora shot back.

The back of his hand hit hard across her cheek, but she remained on her feet. Her mouth began to bleed from where her teeth cut into her cheek. She spat on the ground, her steely resolve returning full force.

It didn’t matter anymore what she said or did, she was helpless to stop him. She decided to finally tell him what she thought of him. “You are a selfish, perverted man, Horace Crawford, and I know there is a special place in hell for you.”

Horace yanked on the rope again before climbing back onto his horse. “Aye, but you’ll get there before me.”

She could see the fury in his eyes and knew her death was inevitable.

As he pulled her along the road to Firth, she could only think of John, Elise and Wee William. She prayed that William would continue to raise the children, that he would not send them back to England. If anything had happened to him, she prayed that Aishlinn and Duncan would keep her brother and sister. Aishlinn was her friend and she would know what to do with John and Elise. It did make her feel better knowing that Aishlinn would care for them, that she would not let anything happen to them.

She fell and scraped her knees and hands as Horace hurried her along. He yanked her to her feet, looking pleased with her inability to keep up. Nora wished she could wipe that hateful sneer from his lips.

Donald said nothing, his face filled with anger as he rode behind Nora. Part of her wished that Horace would just kill her and be done with it. But nay, he would have to humiliate her first. That was where he gained his pleasure, in the suffering and degradation of others.

They were halfway to Firth when Horace called out to Donald. “Ride ahead and tell the sheriff I have an adulteress and a whore of a wife I wish to punish.”

Donald mumbled something indiscernible as he kicked his horse into a full run. Nora hoped his horse would toss him and break his neck before he made his way to the village.

Nora fell several more times before they reached the center of Firth. They passed vendors and villagers, people Nora had known most of her life. Not one lifted a finger to help. Had they been Highlanders or MacDougalls, Nora knew many of them would have intervened. Either they were too afraid of Horace or they simply did not care what was happening to her. She never missed Scotland as much as she did as she walked by these people.

Donald seemed both irritated and disgusted as he waited with the sheriff outside his office. Apparently the sheriff had not missed too many meals, and if he by chance were to miss one, he could have feasted off the bits of food that clung to his dirty tunic. Short, squat and grubby, he held a leg of mutton in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other.

The sheriff appeared perplexed as he watched Horace pull Nora toward him. When she was but a few steps away from Donald and the sheriff, Horace yanked her off her feet with a strong pull of the rope. Obviously the sheriff was unmoved by Horace’s mistreatment of Nora for his only response was to take a bite of mutton as he watched the spectacle taking place before him.

Nora fell forward, the dirt and tiny rocks digging into her knees and knuckles. Her wrists burned and her hands were swollen from the tight bond of the rope. She was covered with dirt, grime, sweat, and vomit and imagined she must look like a wild animal.

A small crowd of villagers had begun to form around them. Not much excitement ever happened in this small village. A man dragging his wife through the street brought forth a good deal of curiosity.

“What the bloody hell are you doin’ Horace Crawford?” the sheriff asked.

“I want my wife punished. She’s an adulteress and a bigamist. She ran off weeks ago and married a filthy Scot.”

The sheriff looked at Nora. “Is that true?”

Nora pushed herself to her feet and held her head high. “Nay, it isn’t.” She began to argue that their marriage had been annulled—at least by Scottish standards, but Horace yanked on the rope again. This time however, Nora was better prepared. She planted her feet firmly and with what little strength she had left, she pulled back on the rope. Her actions inflamed Horace and he pulled again, this time with more effort and anger. She fell face first in the dirt.

“She’s a liar as well. Donald can vouch that I speak the truth.”

The sheriff turned to Donald who leaned against the doorway of the sheriff’s office with his arms folded across his chest. Donald’s disgusted expression was easily read.

“Well?” the sheriff asked.

Donald answered with a shrug of his shoulders, as if he didn’t give a damn about anything.

Nora assumed Donald’s silence was his way of avoiding outright lying to the sheriff. His reticence proved Nora’s opinion correct. Donald was just as much a coward as Horace. Though she had not expected him to come to her defense, his silence still irked her. Silently, she wished them all to go to the devil.

The sheriff harrumphed before taking another bite of his mutton. He stared at Nora as he wiped the grease onto the sleeve of his shirt. He studied her quietly for a moment before looking up at Horace.

“’Tis your right as her husband to have her punished for her misdeeds. How do you want to do it?”

The evil sneer that Nora had come to loathe resurfaced on Horace’s face. “The hole,” he said as he glared at Nora.

Nora could contain neither her shock nor her fear. A gasp passed through her lips and she suddenly felt nauseous all over again.

The hole was a deep, dark place that sat near the center of the village. It was a place where criminals, thieves and ne’er-do-wells were sometimes put as a means of punishment. A set of wooden planks covered the hole where the accused would be left in almost complete darkness. How long the guilty stayed was dependent upon the nature of the crime or the discretion of the sheriff. Seldom, if ever, did the sheriff show mercy.

“Horace, please,” Nora began to plead with him. She would have received more sympathy and compassion from a stone.

“You heard the sheriff. ’Tis my right as your husband to choose your punishment.” Horace pulled on the rope again and began to lead her toward the hole.

In England, criminals were afforded more rights than a wife. All a husband need do was accuse his wife of some offense. It mattered not if he told the truth or lied. A wife was considered to be the husband’s property, to do with as he pleased. No amount of begging or pleading would change the fact that the sheriff believed Nora to be Horace’s wife.

“I had our marriage annulled!” Nora cried out. Horace came to an abrupt halt.

The sheriff had finished his mutton and tossed the bone to the ground. People in the crowd began to murmur amongst themselves.

“When did you have that done?” he asked as he took a step toward her.

“Months ago,” Nora said anxiously as her chest heaved up and down.

The sheriff raised an eyebrow as if he was not sure he should believe her. “Who annulled it?”

“A priest,” Nora began. “Father Michael is his name.”

“I know of no priest by that name here,” the sheriff said.

“He is Father Michael of Dunshire,” Nora suddenly felt quite unsteady.

Horace interjected with a laugh. “A foul Scottish priest!”

The sheriff seemed to be mulling the facts over in his mind. A man in the crowd spoke up. “I do not think a Scottish priest can annul an English marriage.”

The sheriff turned to face the crowd as if their opinions had any merit to the situation at hand. “I think we should let the earl decide,” he told Horace before quickly adding. “He’s gone until the morrow. You can put her in the hole until he’s made his decision.”

Nora felt all hope disappear in the span of one heartbeat. The earl hated all Scots and anything associated with them. He would give no weight to Father Michael’s annulment, even if the church were to allow it. He would find Nora guilty simply because she had associated with a Scot.

Her feet felt as though they were cast in iron as Horace led her to the hole. Exhausted, nauseous, and terrified, she had no fight left to give. Her limbs felt as weighted down as her spirits as she reluctantly took the ladder down into the dark hole. Horace pulled the ladder up the moment her feet hit the dirt.

The last vision Nora saw before darkness completely enveloped her was Horace’s gleam of victory as he placed the last plank over the entrance.

N
ora had lost all track of time. The tiny rays of sunshine that had streamed into the hole earlier had disappeared, along with any hope she had that Wee William would come for her.

When she had first entered the hole, she felt along the wall and counted out her steps. She had dug a tiny hole in the dirt floor and slowly made her way around in the dark. Thirty-six steps later she had made her way back to her mark. It was as she figured it to be—a very small space.

She sat huddled against the cold dirty wall, shivering uncontrollably, thirsty, unsettled, and frightened. Horace knew all too well how much she hated the dark and he used that simple bit of knowledge to punish her. She supposed he was sitting in the inn right now, gloating over the fact that he had found her and brought her back for his idea of justice.

The only satisfaction she could take was the belief that his reputation would precede him and there would not be a woman within three hundred miles that would ever agree to be his wife. She felt as though she were saving innocent women from the same fate she had endured. Sacrificing her life would keep other women safe.

As much as she tried to sleep, her dreams were invaded with images of wolves, satyrs, and Horace’s laughing face. He taunted her, called her names, laughed at her fears and weaknesses. There were moments when she questioned her lucidity for it became difficult to separate reality from her dreams.

Her stomach, though devoid of any food or water, still wretched, sometimes violently. Knowing she would most likely be left to die in the hole did not mean she would die without holding on to some of her dignity. With her bare hands she had dug as far as she could and used that space to empty her bladder and to wretch in and tried to stay as far away from it as possible.

Between fits of sleep, she cried. Her heart ached for Wee William. She sent silent prayers up asking the good Lord to let Wee William know she had forgiven him. Aye, he had lied, but she realized now
why.
He had lied because he loved her. William had shown her nothing but kindness and adoration. He respected her, loved her unconditionally. To her core, she knew he would never do anything to hurt her, not intentionally anyway. Nay, he would have done anything he could to protect her.

She longed to feel his arms around her, to listen to his steady breathing as he slept, holding her tightly yet gently. Each morning when they woke to start their day, he oft said he did not want to let her go. William’s idea of holding on to her was so far removed from Horace’s.

Wee William wanted to hold on to her because he loved her, cherished her. Horace held as much value in Nora as he did his ox. In his mind there was no distinction between the two. He owned Nora and Benny and could do whatever he pleased with either.

She was grateful for the time she had spent with William. He had taught her what true love and adoration felt like. He allowed her to love him as much as he loved her. Their love and devotion to one another was something she could take into the afterlife with her, although it was only a few moments compared to the lifetime she wanted with him.