Chapter Eighteen #3
I could feel the hopeless pleading in my eyes as the minister rushed on, falsely assuming an end to this ceremony would mean an end to the violence. “Give me your consent, lass,” he urged. “You must give your consent before the marriage can be blessed by our Heavenly Father.”
“Roses, nay,” growled Wilkie, his words dipped in pain.
“Give it!” yelled Ogilvie, his face fairly purpled from his ire. Then, to Mumford: “Again!”
The whip lashed into Wilkie’s raw skin, the sound cutting into me, breaking my heart and bloodying my soul. Oddly, the other of the hooded guards who flanked Mumford gasped and fumbled slightly. I wondered if they were newly appointed; they seemed to be having trouble stomaching the torture.
“Don’t do it, Roses,” Wilkie groaned. “Do not do it. I can take a thousand more lashes.”
In answer, Mumford thrashed him again. The hiss of the whip as it cut him echoed throughout the room.
Wilkie made no sound. He just closed his eyes as his strung-out body tensed and bled.
It was too much.
Without being aware of my own actions, my body hunched. My fists balled, and I drew them to my face to block out the light and the scene. I wailed quietly and fell to my knees.
I felt Ogilvie’s hand grasp my arm and pull strongly. “Get up and give your consent!” he spat. “Or I’ll kill him now.”
He pulled me to my feet, and I composed myself enough to look Ogilvie in the eyes.
The eyes of the man who had prowled around me for many years, infusing my life with fear and dread and worthlessness.
As I had once before, under the hungry, almost triumphant gloat of him, I made a decision.
And the decision gave me strength even as I knew it doomed me in this life, and Wilkie, too.
“I will never give my consent to you,” I said. “Kill him and I’ll die along with him, but not before I take your life with my own. You will not win. I will be Wilkie Mackenzie’s wife, or no one’s.”
A ripple of disbelief fluttered crossed Ogilvie’s expression, quickly followed by all-out rage.
“Bitch!” he seethed, and he slapped me hard across the face.
It pained me and stunned me, but I did not fall.
I lifted my head to glare at him, and a few white stars flitted across my vision.
I hated him with a ferocity that astonished me, even before he confessed a shocking truth.
“You deserve a life of suffering and servitude,” he said.
“Your father fought me, aye, threatening me with death if I ever pursued you, the insolent fool. It was my sword that cut him down on the battlefield. Your mother called to him, even in death, as I took her as my own. Know that before you die.” His head turned to the executioner. “Lash him until his life bleeds away.”
The minister was murmuring frantic, quiet prayers.
For a very brief moment, my eyes met Wilkie’s, and I would remember the color of them and the sureness of their love as long as my short life would allow.
I would have lunged at Ogilvie then, as useless as my attack may have been, attempting to find his knife, or to pain him or maim him in any way I could. But the two hooded guards who flanked the torturer in that moment revealed their faces.
Ritchie. And Ronan.
My friends, who had taught me to fight, who’d given me men’s clothing to wear, to hide myself from the leering watch of Laird Ogilvie. And Ritchie, who’d allowed me to escape from the advancing search party.
They seemed taller than I remembered them and more imposing.
It was Ronan who thrust his sword into the chest of Mumford, felling him instantly, while Ritchie spoke.
“This has all been most informative, Laird Ogilvie. I do believe our allegiance has flipped. Our apologies, Mumford,” he said to the executioner, who was now on his knees, clutching at the sword that stuck out of his chest. Ritchie looked at me.
“Roses, daughter of King William. Mackenzie. Our apologies to you, as well. We were resolute in our loyalty to Ogilvie, but enough is enough. I regret we did not stop this before the first blow was struck. Ogilvie promised us land and wealth, but ’tis not worth it. ”
“Ritchie,” I gasped, my shock giving way to hope. “Ronan.”
Ritchie continued, “Treason is punishable by death, of course, and we have now most certainly condemned ourselves. I hope we can redeem ourselves by offering to secure your freedom. And if you find yourselves in need of two more warriors in your ranks at Ossian Lochs, I fear we are most definitely in search of a new appointment.”
And Ronan was cutting the ties of Wilkie’s bound wrists and ankles with a knife.
Ogilvie’s outrage had transformed into fear—and determination. He held my arm. I tried to shrug him off, but he clutched it more tightly, dragging me along with him as he attempted a getaway.
But Wilkie was free.
And he was upon Ogilvie before the beast could even draw his sword. Wilkie seemed to have forgotten about his injuries. He had but one thing on his mind: using the only weapons left to him—his bare hands—to kill Laird Ogilvie.