Ruthless (4 page)

"Aye. Me cock's ready to crow again," one man
said, leering at her. His breath wheezed from his throat when her
foot landed a blow to his ballocks.

She near bit the ear off a surly, stinking
lout trying to pin her arms to her side. Another darted close to
slip a rope over her head. He tightened the loop until the need to
breathe forced her to grab it. She used all her strength to keep it
from strangling her.

Still, she fought on with her feet. After
what seemed an eternity, the man holding the rope spoke.

"I be tired. Let's take her to the castle.
Ridin' will rest us." He snorted a laugh. "Runnin' will tire the
witch out."

He pulled her over to his horse and mounted.
As he signaled his horse to a trot, she craned her neck to look
back at the still figure on the ground. Tears blinded her as she
ran. If she fell, she did not doubt he'd pull her along the rough
forest path all the way to Kinbrace Castle.

o0o

"How many times over the years have we
crossed this spot, Feradoch?" Magnus looked over at his blood
brother who flashed him a wide grin.

"The tally stands at thirty and four, one
coming and one going for each of seventeen years."

"Aye. After ye spend this fortnight at
Kinbrace, 'twill be the last of our yearly month together. Next
spring, ye'll return here for good and I will go to Clibrick.
Graemme will be pleased."

"Your brother is far too soft. I can still
hear his snivels when we pledged."

"Soft?" Magnus chuckled. "Graemme was five
years old at the time. Eight days past, he near beat ye with the
war hammer. Had ye not thrown dirt in his eyes, ye would have
needed to forfeit yer shield for the sennight."

"He'll learn to keep his eyes darting from
face to hands. He won't make the same mistake again."

Though Magnus had been gone all these years,
Graemme still greeted him with as much gusto as he had the time he
returned for his first fortnight visit. Magnus wondered why Graemme
had never formed a brotherly affection for Feradoch.

'Twas strange. Feradoch was pleasant company.
A good warrior. A number of lasses at Clibrick frequented his bed.
At Kinbrace, he had a leman he'd sworn he first took when he was
twelve years old. He'd offered Magnus her services while he was
gone, but Magnus had the feeling had he availed himself of the
offer, his blood brother would have resented it.

He spotted the towers of the castle beside
Loch Badenloch and settled the Norse helmet more firmly on his
head, knowing Olaf would scowl if he did not. Over the years, he
had determined his own father was too soft. Though the Morgan motto
was
With a Strong Hand
, he preferred
Either Peace or
War
of the Gunn's.

He had oft learned the truth of it. Whenever
an outlying clan had a dispute, Olaf took Magnus to squelch them
into obedience. He enjoyed a good fight. The day he heard his
reputation in the Highlands had earned him the name Magnus the
Ruthless, he'd shrugged.

They spurred their horses into a gallop,
racing to be first to enter the barbican. Side-by-side over the
wooden drawbridge the horses' hooves pounded so loud Magnus
couldn't hear his own laughter as he burst ahead into the dirt of
the front bailey.

After waves of welcome, the guards atop the
battlements turned eager faces toward the ground in front of the
stables. He saw why when he and Feradoch slowed their mounts to a
walk.

"Have they naught else to do than gawk at a
simple fight?"

Magnus cocked his head. Chief Olaf was as
oblivious of their entrance as the men crowded around five men who
were fighting. Not amongst themselves, but with a lone opponent.
Curious about the uneven bout, they edged their horses closer.

To his surprise, it was no warrior but a
woman the men were trying to force to the ground. By the looks of
her, she was not just
any
woman. She was tall. Beautiful.
And as wild a woman as he had ever seen. Strange-colored hair,
neither light nor dark but streaked with both, fell around her face
as she crouched. Her hands gripped a rope tied around her neck.
Blood splotched large areas of her worn clothing. From the way she
moved, it wasn't from her own veins. Men cheered when the warrior
holding the end of the rope yanked her off balance.

Muriele fell to her knees in the dirt but
sprang upright and kicked out with hard blows to the soft belly of
whoever ventured too close. With agility and strength, she kept the
louts from finding a knife strapped to her thigh.

Her eyes scanned the area around her,
spotting the two men who rode into view. They swept their horses
heads to shove men aside until they were on the front line.

One man wore a beautiful silver helmet
decorated with gold. When he lifted it off, he revealed hair and
eyes as black as a raven framing a face as harsh as granite.

Shivers prickled through her. 'Twas Magnus
the Ruthless. The foster son who was harsher than the hated Olaf.
She had seen him in action at Blackbriar. The other man was
bareheaded. The breeze lifted long pale hair to fly about the face
of an angel. 'Twas the true son of Chief Olaf, fostered to the
Morgans.

Her opponents laughed with delight when the
top of her ragged kirtle slipped off her right shoulder. The breeze
on her naked breast shamed her. She ground her teeth together. Her
breast would have to stay bare. 'Twould be fatal to drop the rope
to cover her flesh.

She was more than tired. The memory of her
mother kept hate roaring through her veins, giving her strength.
She kicked out at a fat lout's tarse bobbing above his blood
stained, hairy ballocks. He went down, clutching his sex and
howling like a gutted boar.

"Lucifer's scum! Come near again and I'll cut
yer tarse off," she yelled at him.

The black-haired devil rode his horse between
her and the men.

"Hold! Have ye men no balls? What sport is
fighting a tethered woman, five to one?" Magnus' harsh voice rang
out over the noise of the cheering men.

"But she be the witch's lass what lives in
the forest," one man called out.

"If yer quibble be with the witch, why dinna
ye take it out on her?"

"Did that. Was right good sport. But her
blood spilled too easily." He stopped to take a deep breath. "This
one be hardier."

Magnus frowned and looked around at the men.
"Since ye have already rid yerselves of breeches, I see ye dinna
have a hearty set of balls betwixt any of ye. Ye are down to four
men now. Drop the tether. 'Tis more sporting."

For one brief moment, he stared into
Muriele's eyes. She caught her breath. In his, she saw a flash of
puzzlement as he scanned her body.

Magnus pointed his sword at the leader. "Drop
the rope else I'll drop it for ye. 'Tis no way for a man to
fight."

The moment she felt the rope slacken, she
grabbed and yanked it back to her. Magnus backed his horse to where
he had been. She snapped the rope, lashing it like a whip. When it
hit bare buttocks, the men leaped out of the way. Finally, she
opened an area open enough she could reach beneath her skirt. In a
heartbeat, she had her knife. At every opportunity, she lashed out
at the men then quickly looped the rope over her shoulder.

"Ack!" Whenever a man tried to grab it,
Magnus shouted and pointed his small sword.

Muriele nicked more than one man's hand or
arm when he drew too close, but she was exhausted. She gasped for
air, her breathing ragged. Her arms ached and a stitch in her side
caused her to limp. Her feet were raw and bleeding from her long
run. She tried to ignore them.

She screamed. Someone had stolen behind her
and kicked her behind the knees. She toppled onto her stomach.
Strong, beefy hands gripped her wrist and wrenched the knife
away.

Cold air spread over her lower limbs as a man
threw her skirts up over her head, baring her naked buttocks.
Others grabbed her ankles and forced her legs apart.

She shrieked, loud and shrill.

Fury at being a helpless woman sent all
fright away.

Magnus frowned as the men called shouts of
encouragement to the swinish louts who had gone too far. 'Twas one
thing for a man to claim a woman he captured. But all of them? And
by the stirring of his blood, he knew she was not just
any
woman but one who would not easily be broken to a man's hands.

Disgust filled him looking at the filthy man
who stepped between her beautiful legs, his cock bobbing and so
engorged it wept.

"Get yer pox'd hands off her. Now!"

The men ignored his bellow. When the man
knelt and tried to position himself, the flat of Magnus's short
sword landed across his hairy buttocks. The lout yelped and fell
forward atop the struggling woman.

A filthy hand landed in the dirt beside the
woman's face. As fast as a feral cat, her teeth locked around the
beefy wrist. The man screamed. Blood smeared aside her mouth where
her teeth punctured his skin. Magnus grabbed the man's shoulders
and hauled him off her back.

"Open yer mouth, woman!"

Her jaws strained even harder.

Magnus reached beneath her chin. He dug a
thumb on one side of her jaw, his fingers on the other and
squeezed.

Harder.

Finally, her mouth opened. The man pulled
away, cursing and holding his injured wrist.

Magnus narrowed his eyes in a cold stare at
the filthy men still trying to hold her legs. They released her and
backed away. With her face pinned to the dirt, he shifted his hand
to the base of her skull. He rose and hauled her off the ground as
easily as if he lifted a child. Her fists lashed out at the nearest
man, who scurried backward, his feet slipping on warm horse shite.
He landed with a splat. Chief Olaf barked with laughter.

"Stop fightin', lass, else I'll throw ye atop
him."

Magnus' harsh tone tinged with menace would
have made a burly man heed his words; only a daft person would dare
defy him.

Still, she struggled. Though she was tall for
a woman, he topped her by two hands. None too gently, he stalked
over to the nearest horse trough. As the crowd opened before him,
her dangling feet aimed backward kicks to his shins.

"I said stop!"

His nostrils flared and the muscles in his
jaw twitched with suppressed fury. Never had he encountered a woman
with such foolish disregard for an order.

He threw the lass into the trough. Water
erupted out wetting everyone who hadn't jumped away. Holding tight
to her neck, he kept her head submerged until her struggles
lessened. He pulled her up, shaking her like a wet dog. She gasped
for breath and lashed out again.

He couldn't believe she still dared to defy
him! It seemed to amuse Chief Olaf even more. Shame filled Magnus.
The woman was making a fool of him.

He gritted his teeth. His temper flamed.

"Do so again, lass, and I'll beat ye!"

One hand on the back of her head, the other
at her hips, he shoved her back beneath the water. Her thrashing
created even more waves until so much water had sloshed over the
sides a muddy puddle covered the ground.

Magnus was as wet as she was. The next time
he hauled her up, he stood her on her feet and scowled his
disapproval. The bedraggled lass coughed and spluttered then
finally caught her breath.

Looking into his wet face for the first time,
her eyes widened with fright as if she peered at Lucifer
himself.

As soon as Chief Olaf strode over to cuff
Magnus' shoulder in pride, everyone quieted. His voice boomed above
the noisy yard.

"Well, now. Magnus is the only man who can
control the wild witch's get. Not a scratch on him." He chuckled
and looked down at Magnus' legs. "Your shins might be a wee bit
sore."

"The fools should not have given her such a
long lead in the first place," Magnus muttered.

His hand went to her throat. She backed away
until her knees bumped against the wooden trough. He narrowed his
eyes in warning. If she didn't halt, she would have an even longer
dunking. She read him correctly. She stilled, one hand clutched her
torn clothing over her breast as water dripped off her hair, down
her nose and off her chin. No longer grimy, the soft beauty of her
face was startling.

With the wet cloth clinging to her body, she
was as willowy as ripe wheat swaying in the summer breeze. True, a
little thin around her face. But her shoulders, arms and legs had
muscle aplenty.

"She's yours." Olaf said, laughing. "If she
gives you more trouble, beat it out of her." He looked around at
the seething men she'd made fools of. "None of these weaklings
could even plow betwixt her legs."

"Taken." Magnus nodded acceptance of the
gift.

He knew if he had refused, Olaf would turn
her over to the warriors as a plaything. She was too fine a beauty
for such a short life. Once someone took hot water and soap to her,
she might serve him well.

Glaring at Olaf, she ignored Magnus' hand on
the rope around her neck.

Proudly lifting her chin high, she spoke in a
haughty voice.

"I am not yours to give to any man!"

A voice rang out to their right. As a woman
stepped around the corner of the stables, her words became stronger
with each footfall. 'Twas the spaewife Grunda, the seer of the
future and the healer they had brought from Blackbriar. She pointed
a gnarled finger at the crowd.

"Ye will rue this day. Lady Ragnhild appeared
to me on the rays of the sun. She told me what was done to her. She
wails she will have her revenge. If those who foully mistreated her
are not punished, she will come amongst ye in the darkest shape of
the moon. Yer cocks will fall limp. They will be covered with
weeping sores, as useless to a man as fingers without bones."

With eyes opened wide seeing something only
she
could, she threw back her head. As she raised her
hands to the heavens, an unseen wind began to whip her clothing
about her body while no one else's garments moved. She rocked back
and forth as if the great wind blew her off balance.