Chapter 33
CHAPTER 33
“Depends?” Damien echoed in a hoarse voice, his heart hammering in his chest.
“Aye,” Helena said, imitating him for a moment. “On whether I will continue to wake up alone.”
Damien gripped her elbows, staring into her face, which was somehow both arch and serious. All the blood in his body seemed to rush south, his manhood becoming hard enough to tent his kilt. Then, her lips curved up in a smile, and he growled, pulling her against him. He caught her laughter in his kiss and wrapped his arms around her.
Then, he pulled back and murmured, “I cannae wait for this bloody year to be over. Though, I confess, I may nae make it.”
Helena reached up and brushed his hair from his forehead, then ran her fingertips down his face into his beard. “Then perhaps, my love, we can find creative ways to pass the time.” Her eyes danced. “As we did the other night.”
Damien felt laughter bubbling up his throat, a lightness expanding in his chest, and he wanted to embrace her as much as he wanted to go down on his knees. To worship her with his mouth as she’d worshipped him.
“Aye?” he finally managed to get out.
Helena nodded. “Come to my bedchamber, Damien. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“We cannae stay up too late, lass,” he said with a laugh. “We have our wedding tomorrow.”
“Then we should go.”
Arm-in-arm, they turned back to the castle, walking a bit faster than usual.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle caught Damien’s attention. He slowed down and let go of Helena, glancing toward the front.
Orrick stood there, with a panting youth by his side.
“Oh,” Helena said. “Micah.”
“So it is,” Damien said. “Let me handle this.”
Helena nodded and caught his hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Then, she hurried off with a smile and vanished inside.
Meanwhile, Damien hurried over to Micah and Orrick. “What is it?”
“Yer lady’s stepbraither is in town,” Orrick said and nodded his head toward Micah. “The lad overhead his name and recognized it from a letter that Helena had him post the other day.”
“A letter? Wait, if he’s a guest, why is he nae here?”
“That’s the thing, Milaird,” Micah said nervously. “He doesnae want anyone to ken that he’s here. He was waitin’ for somethin’, he said.”
“Orrick,” Damien grunted. “Go fetch ‘im and get to the bottom of this.”
Orrick gave a sharp nod. “The good news is that all is well. Nae a whiff of a Viper.”
Damien nodded and then offered Micah a smile. “Nice work, lad. Ye may have saved the day tomorrow.”
Micah sagged in relief and offered him a wry smile. “Hope so.”
“D’ye ken what was in Lady Helena’s letter?” Damien asked, even as he felt a flicker of frustration and affection.
“Nay, only that she seemed determined and wanted it posted quickly.”
“She just cannae resist,” he murmured.
“Sir?”
“Nothin’,” Damien said and nodded toward the kitchen. “Go eat, lad.”
With that, he turned and strode back into the castle, meaning to get to the bottom of this business. His mind briefly flashed to Lord Lovell, wondering if the man knew what his stepson was up to. He did not think so, because Helena’s father had been silent and sulking, off in his corner. He would’ve been oozing with satisfaction if he was up to something.
Walking up to Helena’s door, Damien hesitated, wondering if perhaps they should wait until their wedding night to seek other pleasures besides consummation. He laid his hand on the door, knowing that he should wait, but then he thought of Helena on her knees, looking up at him.
He did not even knock. He stepped into her room, about to call her name, and then drew up short.
The room was empty.
His hand went to his blade as he stepped further into the room, his good eye flicking from the dark fireplace to the water pooling on the floor and dripping from the edge of a stone in a maddening lullaby. Next, his eye snagged on the overturned chair, the smashed vases, the crack in the window, and finally, the torn piece of silver fabric by his chamber door.
A door yawning open into darkness.
He stepped toward the door and stooped down to pick up the silver fabric, already knowing the softness and the heft of it. It felt warm. And his hand clenched around it.
“Nay,” he heard himself say, as though from a great distance. “ Nay. ”
Too late, he realized that he’d never shown Helena how to escape through the secret door. Never explained how to call for help.
Whirling around, Damien made to call her name when he spotted them. Catching a stray beam of moonlight, perfectly positioned on her desk, as though she’d just taken them off—her glasses.
Earlier, Damien thought that perhaps he was mistaken. Now, he knew that she was gone.
Throwing himself into his rooms, he roared his fury as he tucked away the torn piece of her dress next to his heart.
“I will kill them all,” he snarled. “They will ken me wrath for touchin’ ye, me love.”
Charging toward his chest, he took out dirks and strapped them to his belt, then lifted his two blades and strapped them on, too.
There was a commotion in the hallway, and then guards burst in, with servants not far behind.
“Milaird,” cried one man. “What is amiss? What…?” He gazed around, then toward Helena’s door, paling. “Nay.”
“Aye,” Damien roared. “They’ve taken me bride.” He stormed across the room and caught the man by the front of his hauberk. “And if anything happens to her, nae one of ye will keep yer feckin’ useless heads.”
Ragged breaths tore from Helena, the world blurry without her glasses, and yet the ache from her arms being tied to a horse was all too sharp. The ride had felt endless, the gag in her mouth irritating, and the poor horse below her struggling to keep up with the men around them.
All their horses, though, seemed ill-fed and thin.
Not the man next to her, though. He rode with a smug expression on his face, his round figure all too familiar.
An angry huff escaped Helena when she met her stepbrother’s eyes. Bartholomew had been waiting in her rooms, rifling through her desk, and enraging her so that she did not think to run or scream for help. Instead, she’d marched in and demanded to know what he was up to. Why he was in her home without announcing himself.
And when he’d turned around with a smirk, his eyes flicking over her shoulder, she had no time to turn and run. No, her arms had been caught in an iron grip, while a man had laughed softly in her ear.
“He’s helpin’ me, lass, ye ken?” The grip had tightened until she cried out, and he turned her, grinning, while she reeled.
She saw the dark red hair, the cruel smile, and the pitiless eyes. A strange man who looked like Damien, but without his warmth or intelligence. Stunned, all she could do was stare, even as she screamed at herself to call for help.
“Milady, we havenae met, but I am the rightful Laird of Morighe.”
“ Lachlan ,” Helena had gasped and made to scream.
But he’d been too fast, snatching her glasses and striking her. Then, his men had pounced, tying her up and gagging her, while she struggled and fought, watching helplessly as Lachlan placed her glasses on her desk.
Her heart had seized at that, picturing Damien coming in and finding them.
The next moments were a panicked slip of time in her head, moving too fast and too slow. They’d dragged her outside, tied her to a horse, and then rode out through a back gate. There had been bodies in the snow, and a sob had risen in Helena’s chest. Those were her people, butchered by this monster on the eve of her wedding.
All around them, the night seemed too endless, too cold, and the stars that had smoldered now watched with aloof distance.
Helena squinted as the landscape changed and they suddenly rode onto a beach, with a sharp spit of rock carving itself into the ocean. She had no notion of where they’d gone. North, she thought.
But there, not far from the shore, was a large ship bobbing on the waves.
The waves slammed into the cliff and sprayed water into the air, and Helena could hear the ominous creaking of the wood from here.
Wait, this is…
At that moment, her horse stopped, and she would’ve fallen off if she wasn’t tied to it. Then, Lachlan’s men were swarming her, and Lachlan appeared, weaving through them. He pulled her down and smiled, then caught her chin in a hard grip.
“If ye promise nae to make too much of a fuss, I’ll take off yer gag.”
Helena narrowed her eyes, and the pirate laughed, then tore the gag off her face.
“This is the Shipmaw, of Reaper’s Point,” Helena gasped.
“Och, ye are clever,” Lachlan crooned. “Yer braither was right about that.”
“This is a deathtrap,” she hissed and pointed. “The cliffs and rocks made for deadly tides that change in a heartbeat. Do you know how many sailors and pirates have died here?” Her heart slammed in her chest as Lachlan dragged her forward.
Gwendolyn had explained it to her on that cozy and rainy afternoon, tracing an elegant finger up the coast and explaining the borders of Galeclere.
“You all are in terrible danger.”
“I told ‘im I dinnae like the look of those rocks,” Helena heard a man mutter, but Lachlan whirled around with a knife.
“And I told ye I would have yer tongue, Gulley. Shut up. She’s a woman. What the hell would she ken about seafarin’? Are ye pirates or pansies? Let’s go.”
“No, no,” Helena begged. “Bartholomew, please. This is madness. Father will never forgive you.”
“Ah, old chap,” Bartholomew said, speaking for the first time since he’d surprised her in her room.
He’d been keeping pace, wide-eyed, and she felt a fresh surge of hatred. Whatever he was about to say, Helena already knew that it would have nothing to do with her and would only serve his interests.
“We can simply finish this business here. I should go?—”
Lachlan shoved Helena at another pirate and whirled around, his blade now pointed at Bartholomew’s bobbing throat. “Ye cut me, Sir, by nae acceptin’ me invitation to come on me ship. Come aboard and get yer gold. Then, ye may leave.”
“Gold?” Helena snarled. “You have it from two houses, your mother’s and the Lovells. Why on earth do you need?—”
“Yer braither gambled it all away, pet,” Lachlan said as he stashed his blade and turned around. He caught her by the upper arm and dragged her down to the boat pulled up on the shore. “Nae a coin left in his coffers. And yer faither has apparently left his fortune to Morighe—and yer little sister.”
“Bloody unbelievable,” Bartholomew muttered. “After everything we’ve done. All the years of putting up with Lady Highbrow.”
The entire world seemed to spin.
“What?” Helena whispered.
“Aye, I do so appreciate a generous faither-in-law,” Lachlan said and then shoved her toward the boat. “We’ll make good use of his fortune. Don’t worry, pet.”
Helena’s heart was in her throat as she was forced into the boat, which was shoved out into the churning, choppy waters. She was thrown to and fro, the cold saltwater soaking her in seconds. Shivering, she stared up at the black, skeletal ship, now groaning from the tides.
I will not die here, she thought as she was forced up a ladder and onto a wide deck filled with leering, thin pirates.
Glancing around, she noticed that more than one was sprawled on the deck, sipping from bottles and glaring into the distance.
When was the last time they ate?
Unable to help it, she murmured, “When was the last time your men ate?”
Lachlan shot her an ugly, perplexed look, and a few of his men stirred. “Why, are ye offerin’ to cook, Highbrow?” he sneered at her. “I already heard of ye. Yer braither says that ye’re only good for books and actin’ better than everyone.”
“Did he now?” Helena glared back at her stepbrother, who was standing at the top of the ladder, red-faced and puffing. He winced. “Charming.”
“Nay, but I dinnae mind, pet. I am ever so grateful that yer Queen already picked a bride for me,” Lachlan said.
Helena’s fists clenched. Whirling back, she watched him saunter across the deck, followed by a graceless Bartholomew, who fell hard and caused the pirates to laugh.
“I will not marry you,” she hissed.
“Och, but ye will. Ye are promised to the rightful Laird of Morighe and Galeclere, lass. And that is me.” Lachlan bowed then, and there was a smattering of applause from his men. “I shall take over that castle, empty it of all the fools, drive off the fetid wastrels from the land, and keep those worth a damn.”
Helena drew herself up, shaking from head to toe. “You are not the rightful Laird of Morighe.”
Lachlan stared for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Och, but I am. Every day, I will revel in me triumph over me bastard cousin, for I will claim me title, me castle, and his pretty bride. Even in the grave, he’ll rot with fury and helplessness.”
“You will never win against him,” she gritted out. “Never.”
“Or perhaps,” Lachlan said, pacing forward, “I’ll keep him alive and locked away. On the edge of death. Where he might hear yer screams and never be able to get to ye. And ye can visit him when ye please me. Bring him a bit of sup.”
Helena’s chest rose and fell as hatred and fury coursed through her, along with terror. For she could see in his eyes that he meant every word. Lachlan would do such things. He would destroy everything good and prosperous about Morighe and Galeclere.
But she also saw the truth there.
“You know that you cannot defeat Damien,” she said. “That’s why you’ve run and tried these tricks. That’s why you kidnapped me.” Her heart soared in her chest, and she smiled at him. “You will not win.”
Her smile seemed to undo him, and he lashed out, striking her hard enough that she fell. Glaring up at him through her hair, her cheek stinging, she pushed herself up as his lip curled.
“We shall see,” he said. “Tie her up.”
“No,” Helena said and struggled as men yanked her to her feet.
They dragged her to a mast and lashed her there, while the ship heaved and rolled.
Lachlan sauntered over and smirked at her, then leaned against the side of the ship, staring at the shore.
“Now what?” she spat.
Lachlan gave her an amused look. “Now, pet?” He leaned forward and smirked into the darkness. “Now, we wait.”