The Scotsman (36 page)

Her voice was muffled against his sherte. “I am not certain ’tis flattering to be regarded so, but I do know that I have blossomed since meeting you.” She shifted so that her head tilted back, and looked into his eyes. Her hand came up to touch his face, fingers light against the scar that curved along his cheekbone. “You are everything I should fear, yet I do not. With you, I feel whole. Rare. None other has ever made me feel this way, or ever will.”

Intense yearning swept over him, and he longed to tell her how he felt, longed to take her into his arms and say they would never be apart, but he could not. It would be cruel, and it would be wrong. So he just held her and said nothing, his arms around her as if he would never let her go. The serenity of the forest enveloped them in the soft sound of wind through the treetops and the quiet murmur of birds. Nearby a small burn trickled through the ravine that cut a path through fern and moss, and the light tinkling of water was sweet serenade as he held her and wished for what would never be.

Shadows lengthened and grew dark, yet they remained
in the fragrant bower together, clasped in each other’s embrace, cushioned by the spongy layer of moss that grew in the small hollow beneath the oak and vines. Seated with his back against the trunk of the tree, he held her to him in contentment and gratitude for this brief moment of solace. God knew, there was little enough of it in his world.

He must have dozed. No other reason would there be for his lack of attention when the distant muted shouts finally penetrated to jerk him to alarm. Shoving Catherine aside, he leaped to his feet, cursing beneath his breath at his folly. He knew better than to relax his vigilance for even a moment, yet he had allowed himself to be distracted by the sweet softness of the maid and his own powerful urges.

Shaking her, he hissed, “Stay here. Dress yourself, and hide beneath the vines. Do not move until I come for you.”

Blinking sleepily, her hand clutched him in the dense blackness where no light penetrated. “Alex—what is wrong?”

“Remember your oath to me.” He hugged her fiercely, then shoved her into the tangled web of thick vines and yellow flowers and grabbed his sword. “Stay hidden, as you promised me.”

Without waiting to see that she obeyed, he spun around and left, moving toward the source of the din that was now discernible in chilling clarity. Swords met swords with brittle clashes, and men shouted in the familiar language of savage battle. There was no time for regrets, no time for misgivings, only the rushing surge of blood and battle fever that carried him into the fray.

It became quickly apparent that they were outnumbered and taken by surprise, but still they fought, not giving quarter, not relenting, for to do so would be to die.
The English overpowered them, scattering men and horses into the inky depths of the wood. A few escaped, following John Elliot. Alex saw them flee as he fought viciously, thrusting and parrying with his sword like a man possessed, filled with anger and anguish that he had not been ready for their attack.

But finally they were beaten back, the pitiful remnants of his men bloodied and few, panting in the fitful light of campfires. Alex stood with his gory sword in hand, knowing they were surrounded and beaten, cursing himself for it.

One of the English came forward, grinning a little in the feeble light. “Aye, ye do not look so brave now, Scots bastard!”

Alex did not move or reply, but stood numbly when his sword was taken from him and his arms bound behind him with rough rope. The leader beckoned, and he was dragged to him to stand in the light of a rekindled fire. Flames danced and grew higher, and Alex tensed as he saw the metal rod laid upon a small stone to heat.

Noting his glance, the man grinned. “ ’Tis a small persuasion should it be needed. Where is the maid?”

Alex did not blink, but it came to him in a bitter rush of hatred that Warfield was behind this ambush. “What maid do you mean?”

“Do not play the fool, Fraser. I know who you are, and you must know who sent me after you. We wouldst take the maid back, though why his lordship wants her after she has been tainted by Scots scum is beyond my ken.” He reached up to sweep off his metal helmet, then turned back to Alex with a light shrug when he remained silent. “It makes no difference to me if you tell us now or after we have applied the iron, but ’twill be easier on you if you yield her up. We will have her anyway, and return her in much the same shape as we find her.” His laugh
was nasty. “A little more used, perhaps, but that should not matter to a woman who has lain with Scots.”

Any inclination he may have had to put Catherine into her father’s hands instantly faded. Not through this man. He prayed that she would not listen to him this time, that she would not throw herself on the mercy of the English as he had bade her do.

“If I had the lady,” he said after a moment, watching as a man knelt by the fire to turn the metal rod in the flames until it glowed bright red, “I would give her to you. I do not.”

“You lie. We know you have her, for we saw her only two days past in your company. Where is she?”

The last was said with soft menace, and Alex swallowed hard as the metal rod was drawn from the flames and held up. The end of it radiated heat. He looked back at the leader.

“I do not know. She escaped into the woods yesterday, and we could not find her.”

His he was not believed, as he had known it would not be. The leader laughed softly, and ripped open Alex’s sherte to bare his chest. “Fool.”

Tensing, he kept his eyes on the leader as the other man approached with the hot iron. Fear coiled in his belly, sickening and weakening, and he wanted to open his mouth and blurt the truth. But he did not. Not even when the searing pain of the iron across his taut muscles arched his body and he clenched his teeth to keep from giving them the satisfaction of crying out. Twice the brutal iron scored his chest, and he did not yield.

Panting, he watched with crawling dread as the iron was placed into the flames again to reheat. His tormentor reached out to grasp him by the hair and jerk back his head.

“Where is the maid of Warfield?”

His guts tightened, instinctively reacting to the menace in the demand. His hands twisted against the ropes tightly binding his wrists, and he shook his head as he wished he were somewhere—anywhere—else.

“The maid is gone, I told you.”

His voice sounded hoarse and all wrong, and the world around him was perceived only through a haze of pain; his men dead on the ground, English moving about in black silhouette against the light of fires, laughter and boasting of victory … but above it all, the knowledge that he could not yield up Catherine to these men.

Yet when the iron was drawn across his shrinking flesh and the agony blazed a trail over his belly, he feared he would tell all and bit down on his lip until blood ran warm down his jaw and neck to mingle with the raw wounds on his chest. He could stand it. He had to. But he had not thought his life would end like this, with the ignominy of torture making of him a cringing, writhing creature instead of a man.

No, no … ah, Lord have mercy on me and release me
.…

It became a fervent prayer, held tight behind lips pressed closed as his body moved involuntarily away from the licking tongue of the hot iron. Through the blur of torment, he heard one of the men say that the Scot would not tell them. His chief tormentor laughed harshly.

“He will confess her whereabouts. Once I do this….”

To his horror, Alex felt the edge of his plaid lifted and the cool night air whisk over his bare thighs and groin, and he knew what was intended. With a cruel smile, the leader grabbed him hard and held him in his palm,
squeezing until the world dimmed around him. Just behind him loomed the red-hot iron, waiting.

“Now, me hearty, you will tell us what we want to know, by God.”

Lord have mercy … Christ have mercy … I will tell … I will tell all
.…

Huddled amid the tangle of vines and flowers beneath the oak, Catherine waited. The noise had long since ceased. Yet Alex did not come for her. Terrified, more for him than for herself, she crouched in the dark that clothed her like sable velvet and prayed. If he did not come, what should she do? He had told her to remain there until he came for her, and if he did not, she was to throw herself on the mercy of her countrymen.

Yet she debated. It was impossible that he might be defeated. Alex was strong, invincible, a mighty warrior with a stout heart. He would not be vanquished.

As the night wore on and she remained hidden and miserable in what was becoming a prison of fragrant flowers and soft moss, Catherine knew she could no longer delay the inevitable. If nothing else, she must see for herself the results of the terrible noise she had heard, the shouts and screams and dying cries of men.

Rising to her feet, she stood on trembling legs for a moment as the blood rushed back into veins and muscles
too long cramped. She brushed away leaves from the blue velvet nap of the gown Alex had given her as a replacement for her own, then tied the cloak more tightly around her throat. The cloak pin was lost, tumbled among the upthrust tree roots and vines when she had unfastened it earlier. Pulling the hood over her head, she moved toward the camp she had left behind what seemed an eternity before.

She had not gone far when out of the dark thicket a man suddenly loomed to grab her by the arm. Swallowing a terrified squeak of alarm, she immediately brushed aside his hand and said in her haughtiest tone, “Release me, knave! I will not be handled.”

Though she expected him to grab her again, he did not, but peered at her in the dark shadows. “What is your name, milady?”

“Lady Catherine of Warfield. I demand to see your commander at once.”

He laughed softly, and grinned at her in the gloom. “Aye, milady, and he will be most glad to see you. Come with me.”

Her fear heightened with every step, for the man was English and therefore the outcome of the battle could not be good. Yet she held her head high and forced confidence into her step as she moved with him through the night, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.

A group of men stood by a blazing fire, their backs to her as they clustered in a tight circle. She glanced at them, then away as a familiar voice cried out.

“Catherine! Ah, God, kitten, is it you?”

Blinking, she turned toward the man approaching her, disbelief rising in her as Nicholas strode across the battle-littered ground to sweep her against him. He pressed her face tightly into his chest, and his voice was rough with emotion.

“Ah, sweet kitten, I thought never to see you again. Are you well? Unharmed? How did you free yourself?”

Confused by his appearance, and most of all consumed with terror for Alex, she pulled away from him. “I am most well, Nicky, but what are you doing here? Where is Alex?”

“It has taken me longer than it should have, for I only just arrived, but I was finally able to get here. Fraser is being … questioned, but now that you are here safe and alive, there is no more need for that. He can meet the fate I have longed to—”

“Nay!” Her fierce, agonized cry rose high into the air and turned heads toward them. “Where is he? God help you if you have harmed him, for I will see your blood spilled for it!”

Nicholas stared down at her in white-lipped fury. His blue eyes were almost black with rage and disgust. “So you still have not come to your senses. I had thought by now you would see the kind of man he is.”

“Yea, I see it well, which is why I ask for him. Where is he, Nicholas?”

He did not reply, but there was no need as her glance swept past him to the group of men by the fire and she saw a familiar plaid. The blood rushed from her face to pool in her stomach, and she thought she would be sick as she saw the evidence of what had been done to Alex in the crimson and black streaks across his bare chest. Unconscious, he sagged in the tight grip of two men holding him up, and as her gaze lowered and she saw the plaid awry over his thighs, a new horror gripped her and she cried out with anguish.

Nicholas grabbed her arm and leaned close to hiss in her ear, “One word of betrayal before my men and so help me God he will die before another word passes your lips.”

She believed him. Instantly, she hushed, but quivered so badly he had to hold her up. Softly, she said, “Release him.”

“Nay, sweet sister, I will not do that even for you.”

“Nicky….” The broken plea stilled on her lips as his fingers tightened painfully around her arm. Summoning a strength she did not know she possessed, she looked up at her beloved brother, a man she thought she knew, and said with quiet promise, “If you do not cease this torment of him, I will tell one and all that I lay in his arms with a willing heart and naked body, and I will shout from the rooftops of every town from Berwick to London that I love Sir Alex Fraser with every fiber of my being. How will your pride bear that?”

It was evident from his taut features that he would not bear it well, and he confirmed it with a short jerk of his head. “His torment will cease for now, but you cannot alter his fate, Catherine. Do not try.”