Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (18 page)

Opening the wardrobe once more, she grabbed up weapons she’d not felt the need to put on since she was in the games. A
sgian dubh
strapped at each ankle. She tied on her wrist bracers, each with their own blade fastened to the inside of her arms. Securing her long dagger at her waist, she felt suitably armed to leave her chamber and to defend herself should she come into contact with Beatrice—or any of the council, though at this time of night she suspected the three wastrels of their group would have already left.

She blew out her candle and tiptoed to the door. If anyone was waiting outside, they’d probably have already noted a sliver of light below her doorway, but just in case they hadn’t, she wanted them surprised.

Pressing her ear to the wood paneling, she listened. There were no sounds in the corridor. Not even the hush of someone’s breath.

Where were her guards?

A shadow of dread clutched her gut. Where
were
her guards?

Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She turned from the door to look out the thin arrow-slit window to see if there was anything out of place in the courtyard. She was somewhat surprised to see that at some point in the night a slight snow had fallen leaving a thin carpet of white covering the ground. The mild storm had passed now, though. The moon shone bright in the inky-black sky. Hundreds of tiny stars surrounded it, as though the Moon Queen summoned her subjects forth.

The light was good enough to shine into the courtyard and lower bailey. Three horsemen walked along the southern wall. The councilmen. A fourth man—not on horseback—rushed behind them. A groom?

He stepped out of the shadows long enough for Ceana to see that it was Leonard. He was almost as bad as Beatrice, bribing Victor’s groom to poison them. Though Victor himself had probably been promised something from the council, else he wouldn’t have given permission for his groom to enter into such an exchange.

Well, she supposed, that wasn’t necessarily true. The groom could just be a bad seed anyway. Perhaps trying to help out his master in hopes of gaining something.

Ceana had seen too much at this point to discount any single motivating factor.

The three horsemen stopped, and Leonard ran in front of them, his arms waving as he spoke. She wished she could hear. Wished their vile, traitorous words could whisper on the breeze. But not even a sound reached her other than the howling of the wind.

The three horsemen were bundled up for the weather, but Leonard was not.

One of the council members jumped from his horse and grabbed Leonard by his shirt. The other two shifted on their horses. Leonard grappled his assailant’s hands, obviously trying to disengage him, but it wasn’t working.

A second councilman dismounted from his horse and approached Leonard from behind. He reached inside his sleeve and Ceana could see clearly in the moonlight that the man had pulled out a dagger. Without hesitating, he approached Leonard from behind and sank his blade deep into the right side of his back, just beneath where she thought his ribs might be. A killing strike. If the councilman had hit his mark, Leonard would die within a few minutes.

Ceana’s hands came to her throat in shock. A brutal attack. A cowardly and vicious attack.

Whether it was because they had a thirst for blood, or because they didn’t want to take a chance that Leonard lived, the councilman who had stabbed him pierced him once more on the other side, and the man who stood in front of him also took out a dagger, slicing Leonard’s neck from ear to ear. Dark blood spurted over the attacking councilman’s face from the wound and he jumped back, cursing and wiping at his cheeks.

If the gore oozing from the wounds below his ribcage had not been enough to kill Leonard, the spurting, bright red blood from his neck was a definite sign he was fatally wounded. At least he would not have long to bleed out.

She half expected the third rider to climb from his mount with a weapon but he stayed seated.

They wiped their bloody daggers on Leonard’s clothes and shoved him maliciously to the snowy ground where he lay very still.

The men climbed back onto their horses and looked around for any witnesses, she presumed, and then they continued their journey to the gate.

Leonard lay in a pool of blood that glinted maroon in the moonlight.

Ceana watched with interest, anger and horror as the three councilmen approached the gate. No regard, nor remorse, for their fallen comrade. A thick pouch was handed to the guards, and then the doors were opened.

She sucked in a deep, shocked breath at what she’d seen.

The gatekeepers were traitors.

Chapter Nineteen

DEATH is not a pretty thing.

And I should know.

I am dying.

I lay on the ground, cold, wet, my life’s essence dripping from my body
.

I had not thought to die today, though I’ve known for a long time that death was coming for me. I can feel his greedy, ice-like fingers raking over my spine. He stalked my dreams and followed me down darkened pathways.

He has been inside me for years, counting down the days until he could take me.

Aye, I have been expecting death for so very long, but I did not expect it to be today.

I am confused. I cannot breathe. But, I do not feel the pain of not being able to breathe. Nor do I feel the pain at my gushing wounds.

I am slipping away.

And not for any reason other than I hoped to stop the three from leaving. To stop them from bringing a war to Sìtheil that I do not think they can win.

The Bastard’s brother’s groom admitted to me, before he was thrown from the land, that the earl would not back a coup. That the earl was secretly proud of this new prince. Whatever army they expected to come to them from Argyll would come—but only to fight against the council. But before I could tell them, before I could warn them, they killed me.

Perhaps they deserve the fate they will gain. For had I not served equally with them for so many years? Had I not once also been a chief of this land?

This was not the death I envisioned. I am old. I am weak. But I was once a warrior.

Once stronger than any other.

I had a dream last night. A dream I was walking in a cloud of white that was suddenly streaked with red. Was that a foretelling of what was to happen here today?

The three will not be blamed for my death. Those at the gate will accuse an innocent. ’Tis the way of things…

But…

I am too tired to think on it anymore. My time has run out.

“COME, love, I must get you out of here. They want you for themselves.”

Ulric stared up from his place on the rush mat where he’d been for what felt like days. His mouth was dry, eyes gritty, and his wrist was covered in blood from trying to yank free of his bonds. He’d even broken his little finger in an effort to squeeze through. But the iron was too tight.

“Where will you take me?” he asked, trying to push up on his elbow. His entire body was still sore and he was so tired, despite having had food and drink and not being put back into the maiden.

“Hush. No questions.” She held a cup to his lips and he drank greedily.

She patted him condescendingly on the head, and then unlocked the shackle at his wrist.

He was weak. But he wanted to take her down. At least give it a try. Her punishment could be no worse than anything she’d already given him.

Ulric reached for her, hoping to make it seem like he only wanted to embrace her. At the last second he planned to grab her by the throat. However, his plan did not go as expected. When he tried to grasp her, he remembered his broken finger and ended up crying out in pain.

“Oh, my poor darling. What have we here?” Beatrice examined his broken finger, her face growing as dark as the bruising along his knuckles. Her voice was accusing when she said, “Broken, is it?”

His breath caught and fear wormed its way through his limbs. He nodded mutely, terrified, and hating that terror with a passion. Hating her.

But then her face softened and her lips curled into some semblance of a smile. The way she grinned, he thought she might almost care. But that was not possible. This was another trick—he knew it!

“How?” she asked in her honeyed voice.

He shrugged, still unable to breathe.

She cupped his cheek, leaning closer. “Come now, you can answer me.”

Aye, he could, but it would only make her angry, but perhaps just now she wasn’t as cross as he’d thought. He decided to nuzzle against her in hopes of enticing her the way she liked, but that was the wrong move. She shoved him away, her lips in a snarl.

“We need to make them equal. Cannot have just one,” she said, in the super-sweet singsong voice that belied her cruel expression.

Beatrice grabbed his uninjured little finger and wrenched it in the wrong direction. Pain shot up his arm with a resounding crack.

The bitch had broken it!

Ulric howled in pain. Tears filled his eyes.

“There, there,” she cooed, patting him. “Now get up!”

Mayhap he wouldn’t get up. Mayhap he’d stay lying on this seedy floor forever. At least here he had a chance of being found. If he let her take him from the castle, then there was no telling what she’d do with him. Throw him in a loch to drown…

That thought brought back swift and violent memories of being tossed into stunningly cold water. Of holding his breath until his lungs nearly burst. Waiting and waiting for someone to come save him, but that person had never come. And then he’d been unable to hold his breath any longer. He’d dragged the cold, strangling water into his lungs.

He’d drowned before today. But when? He couldn’t remember.

And this cunt had been the one to pull him from the water. The one to take him from death only to make him live in such pain.

Beatrice yanked on his arms, spitting mean words. Her eyes were wide and mad, and her hair fell down in wiry ringlets from her typically severe knot. There was a fresh cut on her neck that looked to be from a blade.

“Who cut you?” he asked, ignoring that she’d not been able to move him from his spot on the rush mat.

That made Beatrice pause, her hands slipping a little on his.

“The Bitch cut me.”

“The bitch? Who?”

“That is her name—Bitch.”

That, too, sounded familiar to him. What an odd name. And not a very nice one. He instantly didn’t like it. A sourness filled his belly. Where had he heard that name before? A face flashed in his mind. The first since he’d woken in Beatrice’s lair. A beautiful face with red locks floating around her head. Who was she? His mother? Sister? Wife? He couldn’t remember, but he knew he cared about her.

Unexpectedly, Ulric no longer wanted to stay here. Somehow, he knew if Beatrice took him from this wretched chamber, he’d have a chance to escape. Her wits were not fully about her. Beatrice was full of anger, vengeance. She’d need to feed that raging side of herself, and that was when he’d strike.

Ulric summoned all the power he could and pushed to stand. He wavered on his feet, but oddly enough Beatrice steadied him instead of letting him fall to the ground like she’d done in the past.

Staring down at his body, he took in the lacerations, the puncture wounds, the welts and bruises. He’d been through hell in here. While he’d first thought her to be his angel, he no longer did. She was a demon.

Perhaps the reason he’d been taken by her was fate. Mayhap the gods had wanted him to destroy her.

“Will you allow me to dress?” he asked, keeping his head down.

Beatrice laughed. “Why of course. ’Tis cold enough outside to freeze your ballocks off.”

“Much gratitude, my lady.”

Beatrice let go of him and walked to the chest where she kept so many things. She unlocked it and opened it, pulling out clothes he recognized as his own. They were clean and pressed.

“My clothes,” he said.

She glanced up at him sharply. “You remember?”

“I do not know how, but when you pulled them out, I knew they must be mine.”

Beatrice cocked her head and studied him. “Hmm,” was all she said, and then tossed him the garments. “Get dressed then.”

He caught the clothes, giving himself small praise for at least having reflexes that worked. One step closer to getting away from the hag. Just maybe, he was stronger than he thought.

He quickly pulled on the linen shirt, focusing on the way his muscles worked, and pleased that he no longer trembled. But Beatrice was watching him, assessing him with narrowed eyes. He pretended to stumble.
Accidently
dropped his plaid, then acted as though he could not remember how to pleat it. She laughed and called him an imbecile. Instead of seething at her insults, he was pleased. She was falling for his trickery. He kept up the ruse as he wrapped the plaid around his hips, fumbling with the belt. Once he was dressed he beamed a smile at her, one that said he hoped for praise, but she rolled her eyes.

“A man should be able to dress. Took you long enough. I suppose we know you are no man.”

Her words no longer had the power to hurt him. “Hose? Boots?” he asked.

“None,” she said with a dainty shrug that on another woman would be enticing, but on her was calculated. “It has only snowed a little.”

His face fell—and
that
he wasn’t pretending. Judging from how cold his chamber was, outside would be icy. No boots meant his feet would freeze. He supposed he should be grateful for clothes. At least she wasn’t dragging him naked from his confines out into the winter chill. He was a man. A warrior. Aye, a warrior. That meant he was a survivor.

Dressed, he already felt stronger. Muscles that had not been used were now alive.

Plus, he had one thing Beatrice did not—a burning desire to finish whatever someone had started when they’d pressed the blade to her neck.

MACRATH and Marrec waited patiently in the empty room across from Beatrice’s chamber. Again.

’Twas sometime after midnight. They’d heard her movements in there. She’d put up the bar on her door, so the only way to get through was to kick it in.

Knowing her bloodlust was high after encountering Ceana the evening before, they didn’t want to simply barge into her room where they couldn’t see what she was doing, or what weapons she had at her disposal. They were two warriors, but she was also a warrior—and a damned vicious one.

She had a few allies they’d not yet been able to ferret out, and once they took her in chains, those that had been on her side would slink away. They couldn’t allow that. No traitor could be left unexposed.

“Besides her secret chamber, is there a hidden escape?”

Marrec shrugged. “I do not know.”

“Damn.” Macrath raked his hands through his hair. “We’re going to have to kick the door in.”

“My laird!” The shriek echoed through the halls from below stairs.

Macrath and Marrec stared at each other for half a breath before they were through the door and running toward the sound of the calls.

When they reached the great hall, two guards from the gate tower held Mary, the first to come forth regarding Gowp, firmly by the arms. She was sobbing, her hair and clothes disheveled. Blood was smeared over the front of her gown.

“What is the meaning of this?” Macrath ordered. “John, Nigel, stand down.”

The two men let go of Mary but kept her very close between the two of them. Her lip quivered and she stared down at her gown, then back up at Macrath, eyes wild with fear. It looked as though she’d been wrenched out of her bed—where she should have been given the hour. Sleep still filled her eyes, though tears and fear were slowly pulling her awake.

Ceana was only two steps behind, her eyes narrowed on the guards when she said, “Aye, lads, tell us exactly why you’re holding Mary.”

The guards looked madder than the wolves in the forest. “This wench must be thrown in the dungeon at once,” said John.

Nigel added, “Caught her red-handed, we did.”

Macrath held up his hand. “We’ll decide who gets thrown into the dungeon. What, exactly, did you catch her doing?”

“She and the councilman, Lord Leonard, were engaged in a way less becoming of a woman claiming to be virtuous,” John started, with an exaggerated glare at Mary. “Then we see her pull out a knife. She murdered him in cold blood before we could get to him.”

“He still lies bleeding in the bailey,” Nigel said, hooking his free thumb over his shoulder.

Macrath stormed forward and gripped Nigel by his shirt, tugging him forward just so the man could feel his wrath. Nigel’s grip on Mary faltered and he looked stunned at Macrath’s sudden anger.

“You took the time to bring in Mary, a feat that could very well have been handled by one man, and left your councilman to bleed in the cold?”

From the surprised looks on John’s and Nigel’s faces, they’d not thought of that. What in bloody hell was going on? Macrath could smell a falsehood a mile away and these two reeked. They glanced at each other, seemingly at a loss for words.

Macrath shoved Nigel away. “Go and get him.”

“But, my laird, he is dead.”

“Then he must be buried, you fools. We cannot leave a man to bleed out in the middle of the bailey!” His last words were bellowed. Frustration pummeled through him.

Knowing Leonard was a traitor, that he’d paid Victor’s groom to kill Macrath and Ceana, he was tempted to leave the man’s corpse in the bailey for the crows to feast upon. At this rate, he’d likely missed the three councilmen who’d left, and any pertinent actions by Beatrice. Why did it feel like he always took three steps forward only to take five back?