Highland Vixen Page 9

  “Where in the fuck were ye?” Marcus demanded.

  The two MacPherson retainers offered him a half shrug. “We pulled back to give ye and the lass a bit of privacy.”

  “Seeing as ye are wed and the young English miss is no’ old enough to be noticing what ye two might have been about,” Skene finished up.

  If he hadn’t been so furious, Marcus would have laughed. Fate was a damned bitch, laughing at his expense while watching him dance to her tune. His skull felt like it had been split but his vision was fine, so he was going to live. But the way Skene started to turn purple because he was holding his breath to keep from laughing warned Marcus that he might prefer death.

  “Helen was taken,” he was forced to admit.

  “Someone”—there was a choking sound—“snuck up…on…ye?”

  Marcus grabbed a handful of Skene’s jerkin and hauled him close. “That would no’ have happened if ye had left camp where I told ye to make it.”

  Skene was still trying to hold back his amusement, making little snorting sounds like a pig wallowing in mud.

  “Here now.” Finley interrupted him with a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. Marcus turned a deadly look on his man. Finley held up a strip of plaid and a parchment that had been stuck into a tree trunk with a dagger.

  “The McTavish,” Marcus snarled.

  “They’ll no’ harm the lass,” Finley said, trying to reassure him. “It’s just a bit of ransom they are after.”

  “I know what the game is,” Marcus shot back.

  Oh, indeed, he knew it well. Had played it more than a time or two. This time was different. He felt his temper straining against his self-control, which almost never happened to him. He was a man who lived by his ability to make decisions without allowing his emotions to override his logic. A War Chief with a lack of self-discipline was one who would get his men killed out of folly, instead of making sure the fight was worth the blood it might cost to claim victory.

  And tonight, he was furious.

  Over a woman.

  Admitting that only made him grind his teeth more. As soon as he got his hands on Helen, he would make sure the woman was just as twisted by what he made her feel as he was by her effect on him. He had no idea how that might come to pass, but he knew one thing for certain.

  There was not going to be any annulment.

  “Let’s go get me wife.”

  As Marcus started up the slope, he passed several of his men who were there in the darkness. Most of them failed to control their grins, which tempted him to smash more than one of them in the jaw.

  Well, he’d save his rage for whichever McTavish bastard had put his hands on Helen. In fact, he was going to enjoy hearing her tell him what she thought about him fighting over her again.

  Because it would give him the chance to kiss her quiet again. And that was another thing he was sure of.

  There was going to be a lot of kissing.

  * * *

  She still had her dagger.

  Helen dismissed the throbbing in her head and ordered herself to focus on gaining her freedom. Not that a dagger was going to be of much use inside a fortified castle. It might be handy for cutting the rope binding her wrists, but a huge stone tower was looming ahead of them and she was surrounded by McTavish retainers. Ones that were all enjoying having her in their midst.

  “Awake at last?”

  The man holding her in front of him on a horse had felt her rouse.

  “Ye have made an error in taking me,” Helen warned.

  The large chest she was being held against rumbled. “I do nae think so, lass. Ye were kind enough to supply me with all the information I needed there on the riverbank. I heard ye clear as a church bell.”

  “If that is so,” she answered, trying not to allow her voice to tighten as they moved closer and closer to that tower, “ye should have heard that I am no one of any importance.”

  “I heard ye are wed to Marcus MacPherson. That makes ye valuable—and in more than coin.”

  She stiffened because they were close enough for the men on the walls of the castle to begin ringing the bells. That told her she was riding with Laird McTavish’s son; Rolfe was his name. The men she was riding amidst answered the bells by raising their voices in a cheer. The man holding her tightened his grip on her.

  “Easy now, lady,” he said. “Ye know the game we play. No one will harm ye, and I wager yer bridegroom will be along in short order to ransom ye.”

  “Ye would lose that bet,” Helen hissed. “If ye were listening, ye should have heard clearly that our union is unconsummated. That is because the marriage was a necessary thing to prevent evil being done. I brought no dowry, so Marcus will likely thank ye for taking me off his hands.”

  They rode right under the portcullis, chilling her blood. Was it her fate to be imprisoned in every fortification in Scotland? Fate was a cruel mistress for certain. People were spilling out of the two main towers to see why the men were cheering. Women pointed at her while children tugged on their mothers’ skirts, begging to be told what was happening. It chafed Helen’s pride to notice the glee with which her plight was being explained.

  The horse stopped as a retainer took its bridle. Another man came around and reached up to help Helen down. Her captor gave her a push, so there was no choice in the matter. She slipped down the side of the horse in a tangle of skirts and would have ended up on her backside if the retainer hadn’t caught her by her upper arms.

  There was a swish and flash of motion as the man responsible for her newest incarceration dismounted. Helen caught a glimpse of his thighs before the pleats of his kilt settled into place just above his knees. He was huge, just like Marcus, and every bit as suited to the rough Highlands. Yet he was younger, just becoming a man. His body might be grown, but there was still a hint of youth in his eyes that marked him as less experienced than Marcus.

  “I’m Rolfe McTavish, and ye are me guest.” He spread his arms in mock courtesy.

  Helen smiled sweetly at him and fluttered her eyelashes. He burst out laughing, a good number of his men joining him.

  “What ye are is a fool,” she informed him when he’d sobered. “I will bring ye naught.”

  Rolfe’s eyes were green, like a spring meadow. At that moment they were glittering with enjoyment. “Mistress, ye have already brought me something that no amount of silver can buy.” He hooked his hands into his belt, looking down at her from his greater height as his men pressed in to hear what was being said. “I took Marcus MacPherson, War Chief of the MacPhersons, by surprise!”

  There was a moment of shocked silence before the entire yard erupted into hysteria. Rolfe leaned back and roared with mirth.

  Helen had no idea why she chose to act. Only that ever since she’d wed Marcus, holding back her impulses had become impossible. One moment Rolfe was chuckling like a marauding Viking, straining her temper to the breaking point, and the next she was planting her foot right in his balls. Helen picked up her knee high enough so she could send her foot smashing toward his unprotected groin. She felt his balls depress beneath the sole of her boot and watched the way the man stiffened before he landed on his ass while sucking in his breath and fighting to keep his eyes from rolling up into his head.

  “And now, I’ve taken ye by surprise,” she informed him. “Trust me, Rolfe McTavish, I am more trouble than ye need.”

  * * *

  “Riders ahead.”

  Marcus had already heard the soft sound of approaching horses. He gave Skene a single nod and his men left the road, moving up into the trees. They pulled up the section of their plaids draped over their shoulders to help conceal them, most of them reaching down to run soothing hands along their mounts’ necks to keep the horses quiet.

  “MacPherson plaid,” Finley called from his post farther ahead of them all.

  There wa
s a collective sigh of relief as they came back to the main road. The only set of eyes that remained wide was Katherine’s. At least the girl sat on a horse well enough and kept her mouth shut. She was watching everything with the wonder that only a stranger could experience.

  Marcus listened to the sound of the horses coming closer. He could see them now. A solid fifty men, and they were all riding hard. His brother, Bhaic, spotted him and lifted his hand to slow the pace of the men with him. Bhaic swept his eyes over them all, lingering for a moment on Katherine, his expression turning grim.

  “That bastard had his way with ye?” It wasn’t really a question. Bhaic was furious and only trying to keep his anger in check because of the way Katherine was watching them. “Bloody bleeding Christ, she’s barely weaned.”

  “And no’ me wife,” Marcus told his brother. “How did ye know of Morton’s plan?”

  “Lyel and Kam nearly killed their horses riding back to tell me yer plight,” Bhaic informed him. “They said Morton’s men clamped ye in irons for refusing to wed.”

  “Aye, but I would have suffered that well enough,” Marcus said. “Do nae tell me ye would have been foolish enough to ride back into that man’s reach? Christ, man, after what he threatened ye with at yer wedding? The MacPhersons need ye.”

  “They need ye as well, and I know full well yer nature and the earl’s. Morton plans his traps well. Ye’re damned right I was riding for court to make sure the earl knew we will no’ be keeping silent while ye were being held,” Bhaic replied. He bit back the next thing he was going to say, making a clear effort to swallow his temper. “So if ye did nae wed her, how did ye come to have her with ye?”

  “Helen.”

  His brother waited for an explanation.

  “Christ and brimstone,” Marcus swore before he lifted his hand and ordered his men to dismount and water the horses. Bhaic did the same. Two of the men took their horses, leaving him facing his brother. Marcus told the tale, and to his credit, his brother clamped his lips together to keep from interrupting. By the time Marcus finished, Bhaic’s lips were a white line, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement while he coughed to cover his laugh.

  “I do nae need ye finding entertainment at me expense,” Marcus warned his sibling.

  Bhaic lifted an eyebrow. “Dearest Brother, there is no way ye are going to escape it. No’ after the way ye ordered yer men to dog me heels while I was trying me hand at impressing me wife!”

  He threw his head back and roared. Marcus had the urge to lunge at Bhaic and give him a good thrashing, but he muzzled that impulse because Helen was still out of his reach. He needed to keep his priorities straight.

  “If ye’re quite finished, could we get on with collecting me bride?”

  Bhaic leveled a smirk at him. “Bride, is it?”

  Marcus was fighting again to control his temper. “It is, and no’ a bloody word about it.”

  Bhaic lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But he choked on a new round of chuckles. “Now, me wife would, of that I am quite certain.”

  Marcus sent his brother a deadly look. Bhaic sobered, returning his attention to the matter that was most urgent. “Aye, aye. The McTavish. We’ll need Symon Grant for this.”

  “The devil ye say,” Marcus argued.

  Bhaic shook his head. “Better to have a strong witness. With the union unconsummated and not contracted, the McTavishes could obtain an annulment through their own priest on the grounds that Helen has been compromised by being inside their castle. All it would take is a midwife doing an inspection to confirm she’s a maiden still. They could keep her unless we make sure they realize they’re angering more than just the MacPhersons.”

  It was a hard truth, as Marcus well knew. He had faced such realities before, but this time it was different—and his brother noticed.

  “Ye want her back?”

  Marcus sent him a hard look. “Helen is me wife, and the only way the McTavishes are keeping her is if she’s me widow.”

  * * *

  “Finished hiding from me at last?”

  Considering her circumstances, tartly greeting Rolfe McTavish wasn’t the wisest choice Helen might have made. He raised one of his fair eyebrows at her while he came through the door of the chamber she’d been pacing for the better part of two days.

  Helen turned and propped her hands on her hips. The man’s lips twitched.

  “Ye’re Marcus MacPherson’s match, and that’s the truth,” he said.

  Helen rolled her eyes. “As if I care what ye think.”

  Rolfe leaned back against the door, but thought better of it and moved away so he’d have more space to maneuver if she made another attempt to wound him. Helen slowly smiled. “I do hope ye’ve had enough time to recover.”

  “Ye’re a vixen,” Rolfe remarked.

  There was a touch of admiration in his tone that didn’t please her at all. For all her bravado, she was very much the man’s prisoner. “Came here just to tell me what ye think I am? Ye should nae have wasted yer time. I care not for yer opinion at all.”

  He flattened his hand over his chest. “Ye wound me again.” His eyes glittered with enjoyment. “Vixen.”

  Helen offered him a bored look. At least she hoped that was what she managed. The truth was, she was very aware of her circumstances. That knowledge weighed on her shoulders, the uncertainty eating at her.

  “He hasn’t come,” she said. “I told ye he would consider himself well rid of me.”

  “If Marcus were that great a fool, I would see it as my good fortune to take him unaware for a second time. Ye, madam, are worth keeping.”

  Helen lost her control over her emotions for a small moment, her eyes widening with horror before she looked away and gathered herself.

  “Ye care for him.”

  Helen shook her head. “Not a bit. I wed him to prevent the Earl of Morton doing harm to a young English girl.”

  “And still,” Rolfe replied softly, “I recall well what I heard the man saying to ye on that riverbank. He was intent on wooing ye.”

  “Perhaps,” Helen agreed. “However, now that I am gone, he can return home and take a bride who will bring the MacPhersons a fat dowry. A woman he’ll no’ have to pay suit to.”

  Rolfe raked her from head to toe. “He’ll have to search far and wide to find one who is yer equal.”

  “I have no dowry and no great name. The search will take him as far as his father’s study, where there is no doubt a stack of offers waiting. He is War Chief of the clan, and such a position would make a strong alliance for any clan in the Highlands.”

  “His brother wed for those things,” Rolfe continued. “Ye, madam, are the woman who will not shake in fear when he comes to share yer bed. The sons ye will birth to him will be worthy of their father’s name, and the daughters will be no one’s fools.”

  It was a tantalizing idea that beckoned with an allure she hadn’t anticipated. Happiness. How long had it been since she’d contemplated having a life full of something as grand as that?

  “Enough.” Helen pulled away from her musings. “Ye are simply attempting to soothe yer injured ego, looking for confidence where there is none, because Marcus MacPherson has no’ come to yer gates.”

  Rolfe was silent for a long moment, confirming she had hit a weak spot. She could see him weighing her words.

  “Ye might be correct.”

  Relief swept through her, granting her a much-needed rest from the worry that had been keeping her company in her confinement.

  “And as I told ye, madam, I would consider his blindness to yer worth to be the same as taking the man from behind again. If he does nae come for ye, I’ll keep ye for meself and the sons ye birth will be mine.”

  Her eyes widened, her temper straining once again. She reached out and grabbed the nearest item at hand, whic
h happened to be an earthenware bowl sitting on a table. She sent it hurling at his head, and only quick action on his part kept him from harm. The bowl made solid impact with the door, breaking with a loud sound that had Rolfe’s men wrenching the door open to defend their master.

  “Easy, lads,” Rolfe informed his men while he kept his attention on her. “Best get accustomed to her nature, as it seems we’re to have this vixen with us for a while longer. I was just expressing to her how much I find that idea to me liking.”

  “Toad!” Helen grabbed another dish and sent it to join the bowl. Rolfe was halfway through the door and ended up diving into one of his men to avoid being hit. They tumbled to the floor in a tangle of legs and kilt pleats, pleasing her greatly.

  But one of the retainers closed the door, and she heard the bar being lowered into place in the hallway beyond.

  It was a harsh sound. One that chilled her blood. She moved over to one of the windows and peered out as she had countless times before, only to notice that she was too far above the ground to survive leaving the chamber through any means but the door.

  They’d stripped the bed curtains from the bed when they brought her to the chamber, and it hadn’t taken her long to deduce why. It was a fine chamber, grander than anywhere she’d laid her head for many years, but she was left wondering what her fate might be. Another fortress to be confined in among those where she had been called a captive.

  Damn, but she hated Fate at the moment.

  And she wasn’t talking to God either. No, she needed her temper to cool before she unleashed any prayers that might be full of what she was really thinking.

  Which left her sitting in a chamber with absolutely nothing to do except wait upon the whim of men.

  Indeed, she wasn’t talking to God, and that was final.

  * * *

  “No time for that.”

  Willy Grant growled at his cousin as he pulled a giggling McTavish wench up and off his lap. He reached over and slapped her on her rump to get her moving. She snorted as she went.

  “Damn yer hide, Leif. What do ye mean by ruining me fun?”