Highland Hellion Read online

  “Wake up, witch!”

  There was a clang as someone hit the bars over the small window. Now that there was light, she could see the mold blackening the walls of the cell. It was no more than four feet by four feet, and she had to stand to see out the window because the cell was mostly below ground.

  No wonder it was as cold as ice.

  Tyree was peering down at her, fresh stitches running along his jaw where she’d sliced him. His eyes narrowed as he noticed where her attention was. “I brought ye a good stake. Sturdy and strong enough to last long past yer last breath.” He smiled at her. “I’m going to make sure the lads set it deep, so when ye burn, it will hold fast and keep ye there for the flames to lick. We’ll keep the fire low enough to ensure ye are alive for a good long time.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face, and he laughed at her horror. A moment later, she saw his knee as he pushed up and went back to the yard.

  Do not look.

  Katherine wanted to deny her captors the entertainment of her fear, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from moving toward the window. She had to lift her chin so she could peer out, and when she did, she felt as if her heart had stopped.

  But Fate was not so merciful.

  No, as she took in the sight of the Gordons digging a hold for the stake, she felt her heart begin pounding hard and fast, as though her body was trying to force her to keep living. She turned around, looking at the cell, frantic for any means of escape. Suddenly, the bitter cold was banished from her limbs as she sought the strength to survive.

  All she faced were stone walls. She could see the places around the bars in the window where others had tried to scratch their way to freedom. With only the bars, she heard every sound of the pyre going up. Just as Colum wanted.

  Well, she had to think hard and not abandon hope. Marcus had allowed her to train, and she would be more than a frightened female.

  She would.

  * * *

  Colum peered at Rolfe, but didn’t speak until one of his men brought him a mug of ale. He drew off a long sip that left foam in his beard before he cleared his throat loudly enough for the kitchen maids to hear.

  “Aye, I have the offer,” Colum exclaimed. “What I do nae have is a son.”

  Bitterness was thick in the old man’s tone. He drew off another sip before slamming the mug down on the table in front of him.

  “May the MacPhersons rot in hell for taking me Lye Rob.” Colum’s eyes brightened. “I’ll be paying them back for the loss. Ye’re in time to see it, McTavish. I’ve been handed the means to even the score.”

  “If ye are speaking of that stake yer men are putting up in the yard,” Rolfe said clearly, “I want no part of it. Especially since ye’re telling me the woman is no’ a witch, only a MacPherson who had the poor luck to be brought to ye.”

  Colum’s face twisted in rage. “She was wearing men’s clothing and…using a dagger like a man. What is that if not the doing of Satan?”

  “Spirit,” Rolfe declared. “I think I’d like a look at her.”

  “Ye can watch her burn,” the old laird snapped before going back to his drink.

  “I meant what I said,” Rolfe replied. “I’ll not have any part of it. The McTavish name will not be associated with any witch burning where there has been no trial.”

  “She cut one of me men.”

  “More than one lass keeps a dagger in case of men who try to do them harm,” Rolfe explained. “I assure ye, me sister does, and I’m the one who showed her how to use it. That is no’ witchcraft. It’s good sense.”

  “Aye.” Diocail Gordon surprised Rolfe by adding to the conversation. “One man’s pride should no’ be a deciding factor. Tyree should learn to drink less when he’s planning on riding out.”

  There was a roar from the retainer. Tyree stomped forward, a few of his friends closing ranks behind him to make their support clear. He faced off with Diocail, leaving no doubt that the clan was headed for a split when Colum died. The strongest contenders for the lairdship were gathering.

  “No one wants ye here,” Tyree informed Diocail. “Go back to the north where ye belong.”

  “My father was Colum’s brother,” Diocail declared loudly. “I am a Gordon.”

  “Yer mother took ye away,” Tyree declared. “Ye have no’ served this clan.”

  “And ye call burning a lass a service?” Diocail asked quietly. “Only to yer pride, man. I’m wise enough to know it will start more trouble than the Gordons need. Ye are a fool to dismiss such facts.”

  Tyree snarled and lunged at Diocail. For all his quiet demeanor, Diocail moved quickly. He dove and dipped and came up with Tyree locked in a choke hold.

  “Enough!” Colum roared.

  Diocail hesitated for a long moment before turning Tyree lose. The retainer gasped, rage flickering in his eyes.

  “I’ll write yer father,” Colum informed Rolfe. “And ye can take the message and be on yer way before I get on with Gordon business.”

  There was a crack of thunder so loud it nearly shook the walls. A moment later, rain started to pelt the windows of the castle. The women ran to close the shutters as hail started to come down. A frigid wind gusted through the open doors of the hall, blowing the tapestries. It was bone-numbing, with more than one woman lifting her hand to cross herself.

  Colum visibly shivered. For a moment, he looked frailer than before, his joints locking up as he tried to stand but fell weakly back into his chair. And still, the gleam of hatred burned in his eyes. Rolfe offered him a nod before he turned and left.

  If the lass was going to live, he’d have to find another way to free her.

  * * *

  The Gordons took full advantage of their laird’s frailty and the storm that kept them inside. Drink flowed freely, and before long, the retainers clustered around Colum were drunk. Rolfe only played at drinking. It was a game a wise man perfected early in life if he didn’t want to wake up in a ditch with an empty sporran and no boots.

  “It seems to me…” Tyree said, “that the witch shouldn’t die a virgin.”

  There were snickers in response.

  “I think I should give her a taste of a real man,” he continued.

  Rolfe knew enough of the man to know he wasn’t going to stop, and there was no one willing to interfere. It was clear the majority of the clan was hanging back, waiting to see whether Tyree or Diocail would eventually be laird.

  Rolfe looked at the fading light and exchanged a look with Adwin. His captain nodded and left.

  “Finally leaving, McTavish?” Tyree asked. “It was only a bit of rain.”

  “We’re going,” Rolfe declared. “I’m tired of waiting on yer laird’s letter.”

  “Piss off,” Tyree declared. “Keep yer sister.”

  Rolfe turned and left. His men fell into step beside him as he waited in the lengthening shadows of the passageways. Gordon Castle was an older fortification that clearly hadn’t seen much in the way of improvements in the last two decades. Bits of rubble lined the walls, and the stench was strong from the men urinating on them instead of using the jakes. More than one clan still clung to medieval ways, but Rolfe was grateful the McTavishes didn’t.

  Today, though, the conditions of the Gordon clan would be to his advantage. The retainers were lax and allowed to do as they pleased. For the moment, that meant a great number of them were drinking in the hall with Tyree.

  The staff seemed accustomed to such evenings, because the older women had ushered all the younger females to places unknown hours ago. That left the passageways empty and the wind still howling through them through broken shutters that should have been repaired. But with no one insisting that the men put in a full day, many of them didn’t.

  There was a burst of laughter from the hall, and Rolfe recalled himself to his purpose. He sent half his me
n toward the stables to saddle the horses. The rest stayed with him as he made his way to where the cells were. In the semidarkness, he had to slow down, because water was pouring in through the windows, making the floor muddy.

  * * *

  She was freezing.

  Katherine laughed at the twist of fate. How very perverse to be saved from burning by an ice storm. The wind came through the window in frigid blasts, the hail hitting her no matter where she moved. There was an added cruelty to the place: whoever had built it had made it face north, toward the coldest weather.

  Mud and water and debris from the yard came down the wall, filling the room until she was shin-deep in freezing muck. Time crept along, losing its meaning because she couldn’t tell what time of day it was with the clouds so dark. Outside, the stake was in place, but all work had stopped as the hail came down with fury.

  She found herself looking at the door, willing it to open. When it did, she stared at it in disbelief. Clearly she’d gone mad, and that was disappointing, because she should have liked to believe she was strong enough to last more than one day before insanity claimed her.

  Yet it had, because as the door opened, she blinked, seeing Rolfe McTavish before her.

  She shied away from the thought, wanting to cling to sanity, to life. He lifted his hand, beckoning to her.

  “Come with me, lass.”

  His voice was soft now, enticing. It was so tempting.

  “Tyree will be coming next, and what he plans is not pleasant.”

  It was Tyree’s name that cut through to her. She jerked and blinked, and Rolfe was still there. She was still so cold it hurt, which made her realize she was not awash in the fold of insanity.

  The insane did not feel pain.

  But she did. So much of it that she clamped her jaw shut to keep from moaning. It was true agony, but Rolfe was waving her forward and she leaped toward him, slipping right through the door before he moved, without a care for how improper it was to brush against his body.

  Freedom from the cell was the only thing that mattered.

  “Hold up, lass.”

  Rolfe was right behind her. He reached out to cup her shoulder and she wrenched free, stumbling along the passageway as her heart pounded with the need to escape. There was no other thought in her mind, and her blood was roaring in her ears now.

  He jerked her back, pulling her into the shadows as he listened for any approaching footsteps.

  “Easy now,” he offered in a low voice.

  His body was hard and warm. It broke through the strange bubble surrounding her mind, allowing her to think. The impulse to run was still strong, but she clamped her jaw tight and forced herself to stand in place as she listened.

  The Gordon stronghold was as close to hell as she had ever been.

  She turned and looked at the man behind her. She’d wondered if she’d imagined how big he was, but her head didn’t quite reach his shoulders. The night was new, and the moon hidden behind the clouds made him seem even more a creature of shadows than the previous times she’d encountered him.

  She wondered what he looked like in the light of day.

  A hoot and a round of laughter sent a bolt of dread straight through her, for she recognized Tyree’s voice. He was coming down the passageway, heading for the door of her cell.

  “Witch,” he declared as he pulled the bar up. “I’ve come to make yer last night a memorable one!”

  He was laughing, but the laugh died as he looked into the cell. “Bloody—”

  The shadows shifted, and Tyree was suddenly slumping onto the floor with a splat as he hit the mud and muck. His companions had a similar fate. Rolfe’s hand had tightened on her, keeping her in place.

  Diocail Gordon locked gazes with Rolfe for a long moment before he looked ahead of him and walked on as though they were not there.

  “Go.” Rolfe pushed her forward, breaking her thoughts as she once more focused on the task of escaping.

  It wasn’t hard. They emerged from the cells with the use of a narrow set of stone steps that led up into the courtyard where the stake was standing silently in the darkness. Katherine’s belly roiled, making her grateful the Gordons hadn’t fed her because she didn’t want to have to take the time to retch.

  She welcomed the cutting cold. With only her shirt on, it was bitter, and she decided she loved it because it meant she was still alive.

  “There, lass.”

  Rolfe pointed toward his men. They stood beside their horses, many of them swinging up into the saddles as they saw their laird coming. Katherine flexed her fingers, praying they wouldn’t fail her now. She was so close to freedom, something she hadn’t thought would be hers.

  She grasped the side of the saddle, pushing off the ground and using the muscles along her midsection to help pull her up. Rolfe didn’t seem to trust her strength, staying beside her and pushing her up with one big hand on her backside that sent a rush of heat across her cheeks.

  He was gone a moment later, appearing again on top of his horse. The animal was a full two hands taller than her own, and it danced as its master reached down to pat its neck. Rolfe looked forward, raising his fist into the air. His men reacted instantly, closing ranks around her and riding toward the gates.

  Katherine felt time slowing down again. She felt the connection of each hoof as it hit the ground and moved with the motion of the animal beneath her, leaning forward with the need to urge the horse faster. Yet their progress seemed slow, as though the space between her heartbeats was a small eternity where she was left to endure the torment of seeing the open gate while knowing the stake was behind her.

  And then they were through the gate. Relief rushed through her, leaving her sagging in the saddle.

  She couldn’t collapse now. She drew on the horror that had squeezed her tight during the day, pulling from it the strength she needed to taunt the specter of death and Colum’s vengeance. It was a sweet thing. A victory unlike any other.

  Of course, she hadn’t done it alone.

  Not that it mattered.

  In fact, she discovered she didn’t care a single bit for the circumstances of her deliverance. Life was sweet, and she preferred to revel in the knowledge that hers wasn’t going to be ending any time soon.

  The rest of it… Well, the devil could take the details.

  * * *

  “We need to rest the horses.”

  Rolfe pulled up several hours later. His men cheerfully slid from the backs of their mounts and lifted their kilts to relieve themselves. Katherine left her horse drinking from a stream and moved off a way to deal with her own business.

  But Rolfe was watching her when she started to return. He’d stopped and directed his attention enough away from her to afford her some measure of privacy, while making it impossible for her to move past him without being seen. Of course she needed to have words with the man. It was only decent, and having so recently tasted the manner of treatment she might be subjected to at the hands of men who held themselves to no standard of conduct, she was loath to lower her standards, even if all she longed for was to swing back up into the saddle and ride until she was back at MacPherson Castle.

  “I owe you my gratitude.” She spoke clearly, making sure she did not flinch in tone or posture.

  “Ye’re a bloody fool to have ventured out again in male clothing,” he cut back, turning to face her. He was on the high ground, making him appear even more hulking and imposing.

  Katherine set her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. “If I had not, you and your men would have been discovered, and would likely be dead now.” She maintained a respectful tone of voice, but that didn’t mean it was lacking in strength. She would not allow him to undermine her confidence.

  “Me men fight very well, lass.”

  “You were outnumbered more than two to one,” she reminded him.
“And the Gordons were looking for blood.”

  He was still for a moment and offered her a nod of agreement. Katherine returned it and started to move past him. He stepped into her path.

  “Who are ye?”

  It was a question, yet edged with the tone of a demand. She decided it was simply his way, for the man had a presence about him. Tyree thirsted for that kind of respect, but would never have it because the Gordon retainer didn’t understand that respect, true respect, was earned.

  Rolfe knew that fact, and he didn’t care for her silence.

  “Ye wear MacPherson colors, but ye are English.”

  “I am.”

  Rolfe was suddenly too large. She didn’t care for how aware of him she was. It was unseemly, and the timing was horrible. Fine, she would accept that she was a woman and perhaps prey to the feelings all females seemed to have trouble controlling, but not at the moment. Such things would simply have to wait.

  Her emotions paid her no heed.

  “Yer name, lass.” He’d crossed his arms over his chest. “Do nae make me ask again.”

  “Katherine.”

  She didn’t care for how quickly she answered, but chided herself for allowing her temper to rise. It was her name, and there was no reason to deny him such—unless she was simply being peevish. She owed him better than that for the service he’d provided her.

  Which stirred a memory.

  “Diocail let us go.”

  “Aye,” Rolfe agreed. “I was glad of it, too. I would no’ have enjoyed killing the man.”

  “Tyree would have been a different matter entirely.”

  Rolfe snorted at her words. “What the devil is Marcus MacPherson thinking to train ye like a lad?”

  She tried to go around him, but he stepped into her path again. “Do nae insult the man by denying it. No one wears MacPherson colors or rides a horse out of their gates without his knowing, and I’d say ye’ve been training for a good many years. Why does he allow ye in his training yard? There is no way he is ignorant of it.”

  A tingle went down her spine, one that was pure enjoyment. Words were easily spoken, but she’d impressed Rolfe with her skill. Something she’d earned.