Authors: Mageela Troche
“That is a waste of time. We must prepare to battle the Chattan.” Quinlan glanced at Hurley for support.
“Do not remind me of my duties, Quinlan.” He tightened his hold on her.
“You’re having doubts about using her,” Hurley added. He stopped Quinlan’s retort with a hand on the arm.
“She doesn’t have to be harmed in the process.” He looked at Ronan. “You have something to add.”
Ronan hesitated. “You see Ailsa. But she is married and happy now.”
That was the one act of selfishness his father concocted that benefitted her. Ailsa found her happiness with an unlikely man, Black Duncan, yet Alec hadn’t liked it when his father schemed a marriage alliance with Laird MacLean then betrayed both clans—Cameron and MacLean.
“You think to save her from wedding that Chattan bastard. MacKintosh will wed her to the chieftain and Ullieam would run to the altar for the chance.”
“And the English will come for her. Her riches are something her Sassenach king will not allow to leave his lands, especially as the barons revolt against him.”
“Either way they will come.” There was no way to avoid a pitch battle.
“Her sister plans to wed her off, English or not.”
“Wed? My sister?” She propped up straight. “I shall wed no man,” Portia added, her Gaelic as perfect as if she were reared in the bosom of these mountainous lands.
Ronan sputtered. Hurley chuckled. Quinlan glared.
“How do you speak Gaelic?”
A wicked smile graced her face. She beamed so widely that her eyes became mere slits in her face. Portia shook her head but her need to gloat got the better of her. “My sister is Scottish. Her mother wed my father after the death of the Earl. Marriage to a Scot had always been planned so she was taught Gaelic and my mother figured both of us should learn the tongue.”
Alec smiled, one filled with pride. This woman had secrets. Alec’s interest piqued and he yearned to learn them all. He should learn none of them.
“You must be wrong. Matilda would not wed me to someone. She’s protecting me.”
“What do you need protecting from?”
“You.”
* * * *
In the near distance, Alec spotted the oak tree rising from the knoll, the marker of the Clan MacAulay land. Feet away, Castle Fasland rose on the mound overlooking the Gare Loch. The salt air blended among the plant life. Fishermen brought in the daily catch. Portia needed a rest and he needed information.
When Alec became laird, the clan gifted him with a calp. The best cattle now fattened on Cameron land. Chief MacAulay sought favor from the Camerons. When he accepted, Alec knew, according to custom, that the two clans had ties.
“Once inside, do not speak.”
She whipped her head toward him. “Afraid I may beg for assistance?”
“Nay. You’re English. People don’t like English. You can’t mind your own business.”
“You speak of our two nation’s relationship. Your king is married to Henry’s daughter.”
“Your Sassenach king schemed to get his bejeweled hand on Scotland. We understand Scotland is perfection and England is England.” Hurley lifted a shoulder as if he pitied the King of England.
“Even now, your nobles war against him. He should control his own lands. We don’t need him.” Quinlan snorted.
“Does your father war against the king?”
She cut her gaze to Ronan. “De Monfort along with the barons are demanding concessions from the king. England is in turmoil.”
“That is why you were able to leave your homeland?”
Alec cut to the truth.
“Aye, my father fights with de Monfort even now. It was safer for me to be in Scotland without the rebellion, I wouldn’t be here.” She’d be dead.
How long, though, before she was back in danger?
“Since you’ve stolen me away from a holy place, it seems you can’t mind your own as well.”
“You have a very wicked tongue as I’ve learned.”
He expected a retort since he spoke the truth. Instead, she raised her chin, appearing the haughty lady she was. Ladies like her vexed him with their ways that held more in common with his father’s way of life than his own. Yet Portia entertained him, dared him to search deeper than he had with anyone before.
“Now keep the wicked thing in your mouth.”
“Don’t worry about my—as you call it—wicked tongue.”
“I wager you couldn’t remain silent during the visit.” He tightened his hold as she twisted around. Her hand slid up his bare thigh as she held on to him.
“A wager?” Her womanly pitch raised a few notches with excitement. She no longer wallowed in self-pity. Her eyes widened, revealing a white spark in the depths of the blue. Her ample bosom captured his attention. “I accept. What are the terms?”
“Very well.” Mirth thickened in his throat. “You remain silent and—”
“You release me.” She clapped her hands together in anticipation.
He thought about it.
Letting her go, never.
“Very well. If I win, I get answers from you.”
Her eyes lifted to the sky, debating the risks. Her lips moved as she listed the reasons to deny him. “Aye, I accept.”
Alec kicked his heels to speed up his horse and rode around the artisan’s cart brimming with tools and goods. No one spared a glance but for a boy, his face smeared with dirt and his feet bare and a sling shot dangling in his hand. Back at Fenwick Castle, there had been boys such as him, mischievous and curious about the visitors. She craned her neck to watch him, unable to take her eyes from him. He stuck out his tongue and she knew help would not be found on these lands. So, she stuck out her wicked tongue.
The man halted the horse and as he had before, he yanked her from the saddle without a word. A skinny man, long as he was thin, greeted Alec with cuffs to the back to fell a mighty oak. His burr was thick and though she spoke his native tongue, Portia cocked her ear to catch one word she’d understand.
Greetings exchanged, Portia hovered near Alec. The laird cut curious glances at her but Alec said nothing. His visage was calm and waited for the man to end his curiosity.
Quinlan and Hurley flanked her side. Their arms brushed against her while Ronan planted himself in the rear. Alec moved in front of her so her world consisted of Alec’s broad back. As he swaggered forward, Portia watched the play of his muscles.
With that view, she entered the castle without knocking in to one of the men. She heard more than saw. Dogs barking, carts wheeling, shouts of women and men then a silence as the castle doors closed behind her. She looked up at the ceiling to see dust hanging from the beams.
“Would the lass like to clean up?”
Portia nodded, relishing the thought of cleaning the dirt from her, as Alec said, “Nay.”
She pinched him on his lower back, barely grabbing more than hard muscle, and hurting her fingers. The laird offered seats at the table. Alec put his hand on her shoulder, pushing her in the chair before he settled next to her. Quinlan sat beside her. His shoulder bumped against her. She scooted over only for him to do the same. She gave up, remained pressed between the two. A servant came in, bearing bread and wine. She stared openly at Portia as she set the food down then swiftly slipped away.
“MacKintosh has been spotted.”
Portia’s ears perked up at the Gaelic form of her brother-in-law’s name. He was near as was her chance to escape and get back to the safety of her sister’s home. She bowed her head to hide the thrill coursing through her as plans raced through her mind. Somehow she had to get away from Quinlan and Alec’s side, out of this place and somehow to the location where MacKintosh's men were.
“It seems an English lady has been snatched from under his control.” He peeked at Portia.
“Their numbers?” Alec sounded mildly interested.
“About twenty…skirting the land. Patrol searched for them last night but they departed.”
“Unlikely,” Hurley said. “Lying in wait. They know of your ties to Cameron.”
The laird nodded, shaking the limp skin of his thin face. “The ship awaits you. I put more men on guard.”
“Good. Any other news?”
“Just the English crossing through.”
“The English,” Portia said with a burr that seemed to ring from the highlands.
The men shared an amused look. Alec’s face remained stoic. Beneath the table, he grabbed her thigh and squeezed. She stiffened, preparing for pain. It never came. He soothed the sliver of flesh with a stroke. Even through the fabric, she felt the caress. His thumb caressed the underside of her hand. His roughened fingers bumped over the lines of her palm. The spot heated. The rest of her hand lost feeling and stifled the growing tremors.
“English are always around. It’s of no concern.”
“They were truly English?” Her strong voice lost its power becoming a trembling, hallow imitation of her own.
“Aye, my lady.”
Portia leaned forward on the table. “Did you see the banner?” She stressed each word, praying for another answer.
The laird leaned back in his seat. “One of my men reported a blue rampart lion on a white field.”
Baron de Mowbray. His men were here…coming for her…to her last place of refuge. The king must have made his decision. When her husband sided against the king, she knew the danger both faced. A vassal didn’t go against his lord king. Stephen’s death was a victory for Henry since men followed him, respecting his honor and sense of justice and truth. And having Arthur now lead the de Mowbray knights, which added to Henry’s numbers, bolstering his chance of quelling the rebellion.
As a favorite of court, Henry loved to grant favors for those few who did any act to please him. Even now, the de Mowbray knights could be in Scotland, searching for her, even sending a missive to the King of Scotland.
Around her, the men spoke. Their words were nothing more than buzzing like a thousand bees before the hive struck. Not that she cared. Hearing more about the dangers would only worsen her already heightened terror. Where could she hide? To think, she foolishly believed Cameron's land might provide her refuge yet after learning of the English presence, it was no longer a refuge for her. However, his reach only ventured so far when the baron had hands in to the farthest reaches of this island and the continent.
Portia jumped to her feet. Without hesitation, she fled down the great hall to the door alit by the torches overhead. A wailing screech blared around her. She shoved open the door and sucked in a deep breath as Alec blocked her escape. Two iron bands wrapped around her. She twisted. She scratched at the hold. The bands tightened.
“Portia. Portia. Portia!”
The voice slipped below her drowning fears. Still, her heart sped. Her chest burned. Spots danced before her eyes. Her stomach flipped upside down and the few oatcakes rose in her throat. Her legs kept moving forward, pushing her against Alec. She shoved against his chest, getting nowhere. With all her might, she shoved and shoved. She had been snagged, caught and with nowhere to run. She would die.
She clutched handfuls of his tunic. “Release me—I must—I cannot be here.” She spun away, contorting her back to squirm free from his hold.
He whirled her back in to his arms. “What are you afraid of?” He cupped her face and his thumb wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
A tear dropped from his fingertip. Tears…this hole in her shell broke. Nay, she couldn’t show her weakness. The last time she was in the baron’s clutches…she couldn’t return. She survived by sheer stubbornness and barely with her life. Not again, to be so abused. This time, she wouldn’t survive.
“I’ve always known what to do.”
“Which is?”
She shook her head repeatedly until her brain danced about in her head. She lacked the answer to that question and she needed to figure her next move desperately. He hugged her and rested his chin on her head. His heat and strength cocooned her. The terrors of the outside world hovered outside of his hold. Here, she felt safe and never wanted to leave. His strength and power gave her a chance. She didn’t know if she could depend upon her instinct. She had sworn she had a secure place with Stephen and never feared Arthur, but after the horror she suffered, she no longer trusted herself. Could she trust Alec? Would she be secure with him even though she was his captive? And if she could, what would she do with it?
“I know what to do.” He squeezed her for a brief moment.
“You do not know the evils I face. How can you know what to do?”
“You have no power or forces but I do. I know what to do.”
Portia believed him. Was Alec her captor or her savior?
* * * *
Castle of Faslane rose behind the riders. Hurley rode at the head and Ronan and Quinlan brought up the rear. Portia stared unseeing into Hurley’s back. She barely blinked, fitting since she hadn’t moved. Sure, he had won the wager as he knew he would but he couldn’t press her as they journeyed to the boats that would return them to Lochaber. Once back home, he’d learn all. The few facts he knew prompted more questions.
Portia possessed spirit and resilience yet he glimpsed her weakening. The prime state of her body, always prepared to flee or expecting a sword to come down upon her head, was slowly murdering her. Alec knew the danger sprang from greed, greed not for her but for her dowry and the power it granted.
A danger haunted her and from the blank terror, it was near enough to rip her heart from her chest. Upon his sister’s freedom, he swore he would not see such terrorizing fear in a woman again. Something must be done. He couldn’t allow another woman to be harmed in his care. He’d never feel such helplessness again.
She leaned against him in a frozen state. Even Quinlan worried for her, fixing his attention on her and scanning the vista for the phantom of danger hunting her.
Alec spotted the mast before reaching the shore. A boat cut into the rocky shore. The rest of this journey would be completed on water. Once back on safe land, he’d face the situation.
Alec drew up near the boat. He kept his eyes on the woods curving along the shore. Portia stayed by his side, never straying a step from him. Quinlan stood off to the side, turning green with a glimpse at the boat.