Wee William's Woman, Book Three of the Clan MacDougall Series (2 page)

The leader stood with two of his men not far from the entrance of the cottage. They waited patiently, keeping a close eye on the barn as well as the cottage. Everything seemed to be going as planned. But the leader of the band of retrievers would not breathe a sigh of relief until they were far away from these God-forsaken English lands. The longer he remained on English soil, the dirtier he felt and the more anxious to return to his homeland he became.

He wished he could break down the door of the cottage and slit the throats of the three bastards inside. His chief had shot that idea down, but not before thinking on it for a long moment. The chief had admitted nothing would have brought him greater pleasure than knowing the bastards would not live to see the light of another day. But he could not allow his men to take the chance of being found and taken to the gallows.

Nay, their mission was simple and if all went well, no blood would be shed this night. In a matter of days, should the weather hold, the treasures would be returned and the men handsomely rewarded for their efforts.

Uneasiness began to creep under the leader’s skin. The men in the barn were taking too long. Concern began to well in his belly. If the treasures weren’t where they should be, he’d have no problem then in busting down the door to the cottage and killing the men inside. He shuddered when he thought of returning empty handed. ’Twas a possibility he did not enjoy. He swore under his breath he’d tear this farm apart until he found what he had come for.

God’s teeth! What was taking them so long? He exchanged a look of concern with the two men who sat on horses beside him. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.

After what seemed like hours, his men appeared from the barn and looked across the yard. They held up empty hands as they shrugged their shoulders. Damnation! This was not good, not good at all. He let out a heavy sigh and hung his head.

’Twasn’t exactly how he had planned it, but at least now he had the opportunity to bash in the skulls of the three men inside the cottage. The idea of giving those sons of whores their due brought a pleasant tingling sensation to his belly. The night would not be wasted after all.

One

T
hey called him Wee William.

But nothing about the giant man could be considered
wee.
Not his massive height or his arms and legs the size of tree trunks. Not his broad massive chest or his hands that were the size of buckets. And
especially
not his heart nor his honor.

As he sat atop his horse this cold winter night, he thought about the mission he and his eight men were undertaking. They were here to retrieve the treasures left behind by a beautiful young lass who not long ago had captured each of their hearts. Her simple treasures were hidden away on this small farm and he’d not leave without them.

The thought of running his dirk across the throats of the whoresons who inhabited the tiny cottage brought a smile to his face. He’d either bring back the treasures or the bastards’ heads in baskets. Either way, he’d not leave this God-forsaken country empty handed.

It was to have been an easy mission, but nothing about it had been easy since they left Castle Gregor more than a sennight ago.  They’d been plagued with a lame horse, a blizzard of near biblical proportions, and a bout of a stomach ailment that was almost as fierce as the blizzard. To say the least, the giant’s patience had worn thin, and the eight men who travelled with him were growing just as impatient.

Now the two men he’d sent into the barn to retrieve the treasures were quietly walking toward him empty handed. Their footfalls were barely perceptible on the soft, powdery snow. As they approached, Wee William straightened himself in his saddle and cast a frustrated look to the two men who sat atop horses on either side of him. Eager smiles formed on their lips, which brought one to his own.

Now the Highlanders had the opportunity to make right the appalling wrongs that had been done to Aishlinn McEwan. They were just as eager as their leader to seek vengeance on the three men who’d cut off her braid more than two years past. The bastards had made her life a living hell.

Before he could form his next thought, the door to the cottage slowly opened. Yellow candlelight spilled out onto the soft winter snow and a half-asleep young man stood in the doorway, scratching his stomach and yawning. Terror filled the young man’s eyes the moment he caught sight of the Highlanders that filled the yard before him. He dropped the candle and heard the flame sizzle in the snow before its light extinguished.

The two men on foot approached the young man with such stealth and speed that he’d no time to react. The young Englishman gasped as the two large Highlanders pressed their swords against his chest. Silently, they backed him into the cottage until his spine pressed against the wall.

Wee William and his men quickly dismounted to follow the others inside. He paused at the threshold and cursed the low doorway. He hated small cottages with low ceilings for ’twas impossible for him to stand completely upright in one.

The warriors inside gave a quick survey of their surroundings. They took note of a man asleep on a pallet in front of the low burning fire, while another slept on the only bed. The room smelled of smoke, bad ale and sweat.

With a frustrated sigh and a shake of his head, Wee William entered the cottage, albeit at an odd angle. His scowl was enough to make the bones of anyone with a half a dose of common sense rattle with fear.

Wee William drew in a quiet breath as he crossed the room in two steps to stand at the foot of the bed. At his barely measurable nod, one of the highlanders kicked at the sleeping figure on the floor, then bent and pulled him to his feet. Simultaneously, Wee William grabbed the man in the bed and hoisted him up by the collar of his nightshirt, pulling him to his knees.

“What the bloody hell?” the man, startled from his sleep, began to curse. While the other two brothers shook with fear and remained mute, this one, the one that Wee William held, let loose with a slew of curses, demanding the Highlanders explain their presence.

The eldest, Wee William thought with a shake of his head.
 
The one whose throat I look forward to slicing through the most.

As Wee William began to hand the eldest brother over to his man Rowan, he felt a resistance and heard an odd noise. On closer inspection, he saw that a rope tied to the eldest brother’s ankle snaked across the bed toward the corner of the room.

With a smile, Rowan grabbed the angry eldest brother by the back of his shirt, twisted his arm behind his back and ordered him to remain still and silent.

“Black Richard!” the giant boomed in the Gaelic, “Light a candle!” His voice thundered through the small cottage and seemed to rattle the thatched roof.

Black Richard made his way to the mantle and lit a candle using the low embers from the fireplace. Glancing at his leader, he held the candle up to see what had captured the man’s attention.

The candle cast a sliver of light across the small bed and into the corner. He saw nothing but a small dark shadow. Wee William gave a hard tug on the rope, which was quickly followed by a loud gasp, a gulp, and a slender leg flying into the air before landing on the floor with a loud thump.

Bending one knee onto the bed, which groaned and squeaked its protestations of his massive girth, he reached one large hand into the corner. He groped around in the dark, finding what he believed was an arm and pulled.

Another frightened gasp was heard as a figure was pulled through the air and landed with a thump in the middle of the bed. Black Richard held the candle closer.

It was that moment, as the candlelight flickered across the very frightened face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, that was Wee William’s undoing.

The most beautiful, pale blue eyes—the color of moonlit snow when he thought of it—stared up at him. Actually ’twas only one eye, for the other was swollen shut. In the soft candlelight he could see a large, purple bruise surrounding her right eye, and another along her chin.

Long, soft tendrils of dark brown hair fell away from her face into a long braid that trailed across a very ample bosom. He could see the fear in her good eye. He could hear it in her breathing as her bosom rose and fell rapidly.

In that tiny moment of time, something began to happen to this giant’s heart. ’Twas a rather odd sensation, one he could not ever remember feeling. ’Twas a palpable sensation. It started in his chest before exploding to his fingers and toes. It caught him completely off balance and left him feeling discombobulated and confused.
 

Blended with that, was a tremendous amount of anger. He didn’t have to ask whom it was that left her beautiful face bruised and battered.

“Who are ye?” he finally managed to ask as he pulled his dagger from his belt. Her good eye grew wider as she sucked in a deep breath and held it. The giant shook his head and rolled his eyes in disgust. The fear he saw looking back at him intensified his anger toward the eldest brother. The anticipation of running a blade across his throat increased tenfold.

With a gentle hand that trembled ever so slightly, he lifted the young woman’s slender ankle and cut the rope. “Again, I ask ye lass, who ye are?”

She shook her head, still looking quite fearful. “I don’t speak the Gaelic,” she whispered.

He repeated his question a little louder and this time in English.

“She belongs to me!” the man to whom she’d been tied yelled from behind the giant. “Ye keep yer mouth shut!” He directed his order to the beautiful young woman.

Wee William spun, growled deep in his throat, and lifted the man up by his collar before throwing him across the room. He landed on the table where two warriors grabbed hold of his arms before he could slide onto the floor.

The giant scowled at him before looking back to the young woman. “Are ye his wife?” he asked, his voice deep and menacing. She nodded her head but said nothing.

“Did he do that to ye?” he asked, referring to her blackened eye and bruised face. He knew the answer and only asked it for confirmation’s sake. She answered with another affirmative nod of her head.

“You stupid whore! You keep your mouth shut or I’ll beat you again!” the idiot shouted, struggling against the two warriors.

In the blink of an eye, the men holding on to him, each withdrew his dirk and held it against the man’s throat. “Ye might want to reconsider that, Sassenach,” the warrior with the long blonde hair growled at him.

“She’s my wife! I have every right to beat her! So go back to the stinkin’ land from where you came, you bloody Scottish heathens!”

The swift hand of the blonde headed warrior swung out and landed on the Englishman’s nose. Blood spurted and began to run down his upper lip and across the side of his face.

“I hate the English,” the warrior told him as he pushed his arm across the fool’s chest. “Especially those that beat their women.”

“Ye utter another word, ye coward, and I’ll rip yer tongue out and feed it to ye through yer arse!” Wee William shouted angrily across his shoulder.
 

He looked back to the young woman as he sat down on the bed. Suddenly he felt the need to reach out and touch her face with his fingers, but immediately pushed the thought aside. Instead, he gently tugged at the hem of her shift to cover her bare legs. He heard her gasp the moment his hands touched the coarse fabric. Once he removed his hand, she lifted herself up by the elbows and scurried to the far side of the bed. She didn’t take her eyes off his as she grabbed the pillow and held it tightly to her chest, as if the pillow could act as a shield.

“Are ye fond of yer husband lass?” he asked in a low, gentle voice, unsure why he’d asked that particular question. A heartbeat later, she slowly shook her head no.

Wee William glanced around the room. The two brothers who had remained quiet during the ordeal were proving to be far smarter than their older brother. Though he’d never had the displeasure of meeting any of them in person, he knew well who each of them were. He’d heard enough stories over the past year to know not a one of them owned either a heart or ounce of compassion.

He turned back to the lass with the beautiful blue eyes and studied her for several moments. That odd and unsettling feeling was growing by leaps and bounds, and for the life of him, he didn’t know what to make of it.

“Does he beat ye often, lass?” he asked quietly. She nodded her head again. His stomach tightened when he saw tears begin to well in her eyes.
Damned bloody Sassenach.

“Would ye like to become a widow this night?” he could not have explained to anyone why he asked
that
particular question. He supposed it had something to do with the odd sensation that enveloped him. Or mayhap he simply hated men who beat their women. Or it could have been that beautiful face and that pale blue eye, filled with fear, staring up at him. Whatever the reasons, he found himself holding his breath while he waited for her to answer.

She swallowed hard, taking very little time to think on his question. Another nod and a whispered, “Aye,” was the answer he hadn’t realized he’d been hoping for until he heard her give it.