The Love Slave (2 page)

“ ’Tis a laddie’s name,” the midwife said, shocked.

“She should hae been a lad,” Sorcha MacDuff replied stonily. “ ’Tis the price she must pay for disappointing me.” Then she grunted as a final pain swept over her and she birthed the placenta.

Shaking her head, the midwife placed Regan MacDuff in the second cradle waiting by the little fire. Then she turned back to attend to her mistress. She had hardly finished this final task when the door to the room burst open with a bang. Several armed men strode boldly in, having pushed their way past the feeble and frightened MacDuff clansmen guarding the keep.
The midwife shrieked, recognizing the green Ferguson plaid wrapped about the intruders. She cowered by her mistress.

A tall, hard-eyed man grasped the terrified woman by the arm, and gazing fiercely down into her face, demanded, “Where are the bairns?” The midwife was speechless with fear, but Alasdair Ferguson followed her gaze to the two cradles by the fire. “
Kill them!
” he ordered his men fiercely. “I’ll hae nae more MacDuffs threatening my lands.”

Naked, and still bloodied, the new mother struggled to arise from the birthing table, her hands reaching out to grasp at the MacFhearghuis’s dagger. Without even looking at her, he slapped her hands away. “Bastard!” she shrieked at him.

“
They are lasses, my lord!
” the midwife finally managed to gasp in defense of the helpless babies. “Lasses canna harm ye!”

“
Lasses? Both bairns?
” His look was incredulous. Then his eyes swung to the naked woman on the birthing table. “So,” he said mockingly, “Torcull MacDuff could only get lasses on ye, Sorcha. I’d hae gie ye sons, and yet will, my hot-eyed bitch. Ye should hae wed wi’ me instead of MacDuff.”

“Is three wives not enough for ye, MacFhearghuis?” she demanded scornfully. “I wed wi’ the man I loved. Though ye hae killed him, I dinna regret my decision.” She made no effort to cover herself before him, or before his men, who were wise enough not to stare.

“I could kill yer bairns, Sorcha MacDuff,” he said coldly, his eyes narrowing to contemplate her. Even naked and bloody with the efforts of her childbirth, she was still a handsome woman to be desired, and desire her he did. She had refused to marry him almost two years ago this very month, choosing his enemy instead. Torcull the Fair, the MacDuff had been called. He was a tall young man with shining gold hair and an easy smile. Well, thought the MacFhearghuis, he would not be so handsome now that the worms were feasting on him; and his widow would regret her previous actions toward the laird of Killieloch. To protect her bairns she would do exactly what he wanted her to do. Her maternal instincts would far outweigh her pride and her outrage when he made her his leman. He had once sworn to her that she would suffer for refusing him and
choosing the MacDuff instead. Now he would have her, and he would dispose of her as he saw fit.

Alasdair Ferguson released his iron grip on the midwife’s arm, shoving her toward the cradles. “Unwrap both bairns,” he said. “I would see for myself if ye both speak the truth. Unwrap them, and lay them on their mam’s belly so I may see them together. Quickly, old crone! I hae nae any more time to waste this day.”

The midwife scurried to do his bidding, unwrapping the protective covering from each of the babies and laying them atop their mother’s now shivering body. “There they be, my lord,” she quavered. “Two wee lassies as ye can plainly see.”

The laird of Killieloch stared down at the infants. With a single finger he gently examined each one’s genitals, seeking for a tiny manhood, but there was none. Both were lasses, without a doubt. He grinned briefly, pleased, and then an idea came to him. “Which of them is the firstborn?” he demanded.

“This one,” the midwife said, pointing. “Her name is Gruoch.”

“How can ye tell?” he asked her. “They seem to be identical in both features and form to me. How can ye separate them, old woman?”

“The firstborn has clear, bright blue eyes, my lord,” the midwife said. “Look and see. The secondborn’s eyes, though blue now, hint of possibly another hue to come in time. Nae the firstborn. Her eyes are wi’out a doubt blue. Can ye nae see it?”

He peered down at the children. “Aye,” he said impatiently, although he really could see no difference between the twin girls. “Wrap them up and put them back in their cradles.” He turned to the woman lying on the birthing table. She was pale, but defiant. “I’ll spare yer bairns, Sorcha MacDuff. The old woman is right. Lasses are nae a danger to me and mine. But I’ll hae yer firstborn, Gruoch, for my heir, Ian. The feud between our clans is now settled, for the lands in dispute between us will be Ferguson lands wi’ this match.”

Sorcha glared at him. She knew she had no choice in the matter. He would have her precious Gruoch for his lout of a son, whatever she said. In that moment Sorcha MacDuff hated
Alasdair Ferguson with every fiber of her being, but she would have to accept his terms. She was a clever woman, and despite her ire she could see the good side to the situation. The stronger Fergusons would consider the lands of Ben MacDui theirs from the moment the betrothal agreement was signed and sealed. They would aid the weaker MacDuff clansmen to defend those lands. Gruoch would grow up in peace and safety. And I will have my leisure in which to consider my revenge upon the Fergusons of Killieloch, she thought craftily. They had killed her Torcull. Now they were annexing his lands. They would pay dearly for their treachery one day.

“What if Gruoch dies? Children are fragile,” She said practically.

“Ye’ve two daughters, and if Ian should perish of some childish complaint, I’ve half a dozen sons to take his place. If both yer lasses die, however, these lands are forfeit to me and mine. But ye need nae fear, Sorcha MacDuff, yer lasses face nae danger from me. It is better to be united by our blood than by conquest, I think. It will ensure a real peace between our peoples. Then I can turn my attentions to yer Robertson relations,” he mocked her.

“What of my other lass?” Sorcha asked him. “She must have a respectable portion for a dowry, for she’ll want a husband one day.”

“She goes to the Church,” the MacFhearghuis answered firmly. “I will hae nae other clan laying claim to these lands through the other wee wench. But she’ll nae go until Gruoch and Ian are properly wedded, and bedded, Sorcha MacDuff. If, God forfend, we lose the firstborn, we’ll hae the secondborn in reserve.” Then seeing her shiver, Alasdair Ferguson took his own plaid and put it over her. “I’ll fetch the priest and hae him make all the arrangements. Ye’ll be informed when all is in readiness. Ye and yer lassies are now under my protection, Sorcha MacDuff. Ye nae fear any longer.” So saying, he turned, and signaling to his men to follow him, the MacFhearghuis departed.

As the door slammed behind him, Sorcha struggled to climb from the birthing table. Stumbling across the room, she tore the
dark green and blue plaid with its narrow red and white stripes from her body and flung it into the fire. “Fetch me water, old woman!” she snarled at the midwife. “I would wash the Ferguson stench from my person!”

The midwife scuttled to obey her mistress, quickly bringing a basin of warm water from the kettle over the fire, along with a clean rag. “Here ye be,” she said, a little afraid of the look on the lady’s face.

Sorcha MacDuff scrubbed at her body almost violently. Dark thoughts swirled about in her head. She was not certain yet how she would revenge herself upon the Fergusons and their ilk; but she would do it! The MacFhearghuis had foolishly given her all the time she would need to effect her plan, whatever it was to be. In his great arrogance he had decided that all was settled, but it would not be settled between them until she had taken her vengeance for Torcull’s death and the robbery of his lands. No Ferguson would ever hold sway over Ben MacDui. She would let them protect her, and protect her bairns, but in the end she would find a way to triumph over Alasdair Ferguson and his clan. Suddenly a wave of weakness swept over her, and she staggered slightly.

“Lady, ye should be in yer bed,” the midwife said, coming to her aid. “Ye’ll need all yer strength if yer to nurse both those sweet bairns. They’ll be hungry soon enough, I’m thinking.”

“I cannot nurse them both,” Sorcha said. “Find someone to nurse Regan. She can take the lass to her cottage as soon as possible.” The new mother climbed into her bed. A bed empty of a husband now, she considered bitterly, yanking the fox robe over herself.

The midwife pursed her lips in condemnation. “There is nae reason ye canna nurse both yer bairns, lady,” she said sternly. “Yer a strapping lass, and I can see the milk is already rising in yer breasts. There’s more than enough for two.”

“My milk is for Gruoch only, old witch,” Sorcha snapped irritably. “Find a wet nurse for the other.” Then she turned her face to the wall.

Shaking her head with disapproval, the midwife moved to the
cradles to look down on the two infants, who slumbered peacefully now, unaware of the fates they faced: one to be a bride for the Fergusons, the MacDuffs of Ben MacDui’s bitterest enemies, and the other little lass for the Church, whether she would or no. The heiress, and the abbess, the midwife thought wryly with a soft chuckle. Then she slipped from the room quietly, closing the door silently behind her.

Part I
S
COTLAND
A.D. 943

Cha
p
ter 1

T
he little hall at Ben MacDui was blue with smoke, for the chimney drew poorly. Sorcha MacDuff, seated at the high board, gazed down upon her numerous offspring tumbling about the room. Six little bastards, and a seventh in her fertile womb. Five were boys, the fourth born a girl. She felt nothing for them. They were Fergusons. Her mother love, at least that which she possessed, was for Gruoch MacDuff, her firstborn. For Gruoch’s twin, Regan, she allowed a small bit of affection. Regan had grown to be much like her father, Torcull, of sainted memory. The girl had his daring, and was brave to the point of foolishness. Sorcha could not help but admire her secondborn twin.

In the spring after her MacDuff daughters had been born, Alasdair Ferguson had returned to Ben MacDui. The betrothal contracts, drawn up by the Fergusons, had been signed then in the presence of a priest. They could have said anything and Sorcha would have known no different for she could neither read nor write. The priest told her that Gruoch would be Ian Ferguson’s wife as soon as her womanly flow began. Regan would then go to a convent on the west coast of Scotland to devote her life to God. The matter settled, the MacFhearghuis dismissed the cleric and raped the widow MacDuff, keeping her locked with him in her bedchamber for three days while he had his way with her. Nine months later she birthed him a son.

In the years that followed, Alasdair Ferguson visited his leman on a regular basis, as her growing family attested to, but he would not marry her, nor would she have had him if he had asked. Three times Sorcha MacDuff had gone in secret to the
old witch woman in the glen, paid an exorbitant fee, drunk a disgusting potion, and aborted her violator’s offspring. When he learned of her deeds, he had sought out the witch, hung her from a tree, burned her cottage, then returned to Ben MacDui and beaten Sorcha MacDuff so badly she’d been unable to arise from her bed for a week. After that she bore his bastards without complaint, but she could not love them.
They were Fergusons
.