When a Laird Loves a Lady (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 1) (4 page)

“Perhaps,” Iain said, wondering for
the first time what sort of woman Marion de Lacy had been. Having met her cold
father, he suspected she was a quiet sort that started at her own shadow. Or
maybe she leaped to her own death to avoid marrying Froste. Either way, he felt
sorry for her.

Without a cloak, the cold night air cut through
Marion’s gown and chilled her to the bone. As she shifted from foot to foot—as
much from impatience to leave Newcastle as from the cold—Marion wrapped her
arms around her middle and watched warily as Neil bickered with the captain of
the birlinn. It seemed the man had changed his mind about leaving tonight as
the air felt damp, and he thought a storm was brewing. Yet, while a storm may
be coming at sea, she’d chance the voyage rather than stay so close, where she
could easily be dragged back to her father if her deceit was discovered.

“Ye listen to me,” Neil shouted at
the captain. The Scot had obviously lost his temper, and Marion had lost hers,
as well. She was finished with waiting around for Neil to solve the problem.
She could solve her own problems. This needed the soft touch of a woman, or
money at the very least. She strode toward them, not caring that Neil had
commanded she stay put. She was done with men commanding her. As she neared
Neil and the captain, both men turned to look at her.

She straightened her spine,
preparing for battle. It was dark and quiet on Pilgrim Street. She’d seen no
sign of anyone other than the guard that had let her into Newcastle, yet her
nerves tingled as if something bad was coming—or more like someone was coming
to get her. Surely it was her imagination, but the feeling was there all the
same, stirring the sense of urgency she felt to stormy proportions.

“Gentlemen,” she said in a sweet voice.

Neil raised his red eyebrows as a
scowl turned down his lips.

The captain was less subtle. “What
do ye want?” he demanded, in a tone that told her what he thought of a woman
interrupting.

She looked the captain straight in
his dark, narrowed eyes. “I will pay you more to depart tonight.”

A greedy grin lit the captain’s
face. “How much?”

Marion opened the bag of coins
Angus had left for her and withdrew eight of them. She dropped them one by one
into the captain’s outstretched hand. Each time a coin clinked against another,
her gut clenched tighter. She was giving away the only money she had.

The captain nodded. “We’ll leave
directly. Let’s go down to the birlinn. It won’t take long to—”

Marion frowned as the captain’s
speech came to an abrupt halt. He looked past her, his eyes searching the
darkness. Her heart suddenly shuddered, as the ground beneath her feet vibrated
with the familiar sensation of horses approaching. Without thought, she
withdrew the dagger Angus had given her, even as she saw Neil unsheathe his
sword.

She turned to face the direction
the captain was looking. At first, she saw nothing, only shadows dancing, but
then the flickering of torches appeared as dots in the distance.

“Let’s go!”
she
demanded,
unreasonable fear racing through her veins. It could not be someone coming for
her. It was impossible. Her plan had been solid. And yet… She tugged on Neil’s
arm. “Please. Let’s go down to the birlinn.”

Neil nodded as the sound of
galloping horses grew louder. She turned, nearly slamming into the captain, who
stood motionless. “Lead the way,”
she ordered
.

His eyes narrowed on Neil and then
on her. “Why are you acting so fearful? As if you’ve done something wrong. Your
husband”—he motioned to Neil—“told me you wanted to leave tonight to get back
home to your dying father. But seems to me like you’re running from something.
I don’t want trouble. I have a wife and children to see to.”

“Here.” She thrust the bag of coins
at him as the sound of men’s voices filled the night. Their laughter floated
toward
her. She peeked over her shoulder, her breath catching as she counted five men
approaching, their cloaks billowing behind them in the wind. If they had
surcoats on, she could not make them out. She swiveled around to the captain.
She didn’t have time to convince him with just words. “Take all my money. I vow
to you I’ve done nothing wrong.”

He took the money, and as he did,
he grabbed her wrist and pulled her near. She whipped her dagger toward his
throat as he pointed one at hers, the coins he’d been holding clattering to the
ground. They stood, each with a weapon at the other’s throat. Marion’s blood
pounded in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Neil creeping
toward them.

The captain tightened his grip on
her wrist, increasing the pressure tenfold, and she winced in pain. He didn’t
take his eyes from her as he spoke to Neil. “I would not try it, if I were you.
You might wound me before I can wound your wife. You might not. All I want to
do is verify that you are telling the truth. If you are, then we will be on our
way.”

Directly behind her, Marion heard
the neighing of horses as the hoofbeats slowed. The voices of the men died, and
she caught another glimpse of Neil, whose gaze moved from her to the captain to
the men.

“What have we here?” a cruel voice
demanded.

Marion’s knees went weak. She would
know that voice anywhere.

The hiss of swords being unsheathed
pierced the air. No! She refused to simply go willingly.

“You!” Froste bellowed. “Let the
woman go and come here.”

Relief rushed through Marion as the
captain released her. The second he did, she cut her eyes at Neil. He caught
her gaze and nodded in understanding as she looked from him to the stairs that
led down to the water. The birlinn they were to take was somewhere below them,
and their only chance was to reach it.

“Turn around, woman,” Froste
commanded.

Marion swallowed the fear rising in
her throat. If she turned around, he’d know for certain it was her, and even if
she did escape, she knew he’d come after her. They had to chance it.

Now,
she
mouthed to Neil before she took off in blind desperation. Shouts broke out
behind her, but she reached the stairs, nearly tumbling down them in her haste.
When her feet hit the bottom step, she turned to ask Neil which way it was to
the birlinn. The question died on her lips. She was alone, and above her,
Neil’s scream of agony filled the night.

Marion’s heart pounded in terror,
knowing she had to go back and help him. She could not leave him to Froste’s
mercy, for the man had none, but maybe, just possibly, he’d grant it this once,
as a wedding present to her. She’d only taken two steps up when Froste himself
loomed at the top of the stairs, his angular face lit by the torch he held. He
stared down at her for a long time before he closed the distance between them
and
jerked
her to his chest. His hand went to her chin in a painful, iron grip. He turned
her face to the left and the right before yanking it back toward his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Marion,” he offered in
pitiless voice. “I’m
simply
surprised to
see you have risen from the dead. I’ve just come from your father’s and he had
informed me that you had drowned. What have you to say for yourself?”

Marion tried to beat back the panic
rising in her chest. If Neil had not been captured, she’d try to stab Froste
and flee, yet she had to think of Angus’s cousin. “I was taken,” she said,
tears of fright coming to her eyes. “That man up there, the Scot, was going to
bring me home to Father.”

A smirk came to Froste’s lips.
“Odd. The captain claims you were trying to flee England with the Scot. Come,
let us cut out the man’s tongue for disparaging you.”

Froste eyed the dagger she still
clutched in her hand. “Sheathe your weapon, my dear. I’d hate for you to cut
yourself trying to use it.”

With little choice at the moment
but to obey and fearful if she didn’t he’d take the blade from her, she
sheathed it as he dragged her up the stairs. When they reached the top,
she
gasped
at the sight of Neil swaying on his feet, clutching the left side of his head.
Blood streamed from beneath his fingers. He saw her and paled further. “I’m
sorry, lass,” he murmured, right before he fell to his knees and then face
forward onto the ground.

She moved to go to him but was
pulled swiftly backward into Froste. “Leave him,” he ordered.

“What did you do?”
she
cried out
.

“I cut off the man’s ear. He’s a
thief, and that is the consequence. He was trying to steal from me.”

“What do you think he was trying to
steal from you?” she demanded, her fury making her spit the words.

“Why, you, of course. You are
mine.”

She stared at Neil’s still form and
prayed the man was alive. “He was trying to help me!”

“Yes,” Froste bit out. “Escape
England.”

“No, I told you—”

“Ah, yes,” Froste interrupted as he
spun her around to face him. “You claim the captain is lying. Well, then
forgive me for my error,” he offered in a cold tone as he gripped her by the
arm and dragged her over to the captain, who stood silently looking fearful.

“What are you going to do?” she
demanded, digging in her heels uselessly.

Froste stared at her, indifferent.
“The captain is a liar, so I’ll cut out his tongue.”

“No!” she shouted at the same time
the captain did, but Froste didn’t listen, and with a sharp nod, she found
herself being taken by two knights. Each gripped her by an arm.

Froste grabbed the captain by the
throat and lifted his dagger to the whimpering man’s face. “Open your mouth.”

“No!” Marion cried again,
struggling to be released to no avail. She could not let him cut out the man’s
tongue, even though the truth would seal her fate. “I lied. The captain is
telling the truth.”

Froste turned toward her as he
flicked a hand at the captain. “Out of my sight.”

Marion watched with a sinking
feeling as the captain, all too readily, abandoned her. Froste stepped toward
her, gesturing to the knights to release her. He moved closer, towering over
her, and tangled his hands in her hair.

“I’m going to have to punish you,
Marion.”

After locating King Edward’s man and delivering the
news of Marion de Lacy’s death, Iain and Rory Mac made their way out of the
friary and then mounted their horses to ride north to Pilgrim Street. Silence
lay thick as a highland fog over Newcastle at this late hour, and each time
their horses’ hooves struck the stone street, the sound seemed deafening.
Though inns crowded both sides of the streets, all had their doors shut and
most were dark, the tenants abed for the night. It made no difference, though.
They were headed to the northwest in the direction of yet another friary. There
was a priest there by name of Father Thomas, who was an old friend of the
MacLeod clan, and he had offered to bed them down for the night on their return
trip to Scotland. Iain only wanted a few hours of sleep before departing.

The sound of neighing horses
reached his ears over the clopping of his horse Olaf’s hooves, followed
forthwith by the hum of voices. Low voices. Male voices. As they neared the end
of Pilgrim Street, torches lit the night near the gate. A group of four men
seemed to have formed a semicircle. As Iain and Rory Mac drew closer to the
group, he caught a glimpse of one of the men’s surcoats—burgundy and gold with
a gold snake on the front—Froste’s personal arms that he and his followers
wore. Iain had seen the man fight in tournaments, so he knew the coat of arms.