Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Tearloch MacPherson dared not trust his eyes. A goddess with dark red hair fairly leaned out her window to watch the fighting. Her deep colored gown made her appear an Angel of Death come to collect souls while she intently watched the foray below her.
God’s teeth, let this be my prize.
Eager to know the color of her eyes, he glanced around to assess his own danger, freed a bow from one of the bodies at his feet and an arrow from a quiver spilled upon the ground. He shot a safe distance from the window’s opening yet close enough to gain her notice.
Struan Gowry had just vowed to see the woman dead before he let Tearloch have her.
And just in case one of Gowry’s few loyal followers thought to fulfill the dead man’s vow, he didn’t want her dangling in full view tempting them to do so.
He warned her back inside and bit his lip to keep from grinning, pleased that she seemed to realize her folly.
Perhaps she could think to protect herself until he could get to her.
For her further safety, he whistled to Duncan. At 46 the man was surprisingly fit and could climb a wall like a cat climbed a tree. Tearloch gestured toward the window. Duncan nodded, then quickly moved beneath it.
Tearloch was tiring of the battle. Those who came forward to challenge him were quick to admit they had no love for Gowry.
Once they believed the bastard was dead, they were more than willing to surrender their swords.
Luckily, clouting these men both saved their honor and gave Tearloch the feel of a good hall fight.
However, with none of them resisting, it was quickly losing appeal.
He took but a moment to assure himself the boy was safe, then cursed the dead coward.
“If the man is not yet in Hell, the queue must be long this day.”
The lad spared him a broad smile, which Tearloch was careful not to return.
A glare and a slight shake of his head sent the boy back into feigning dead.
He neither wanted the child nipping at his heels, nor declaring Tearloch’s mercy to the multitude.
As the king’s champion, he had his reputation to maintain.
From just inside the window, Kenna heard the warrior whistle, and his men moved toward the fort walls en masse. If she hoped to escape their notice, she’d have to move quickly.
For a few moments, she had been free of her bridegroom, and now the small army threatened to take that freedom away. How convenient it would be if they all came inside the hall so she could climb down the wall and sneak out the window without their notice?
Fia would be a problem, however. She’d never get the girl through the window without clouting her, and she couldn’t very well carry her down the wall either. The image of Fia waking in mid-flight, vomiting down the back of Kenna’s gown made the decision simple. She would find another way to escape.
The dark warrior would not let anyone harm her.
Not after the smile he gave her—the grin of a boy who had just found something he thought was lost, not the leer of a man.
And not after witnessing his mercy to the child and the others.
No, she was in little danger, from him at least, but heaven forefend he should pack her up and return her to Aunt Agatha.
“Stop that cowerin’ this instant, Fia, and help me block the door. I need a bit of time to think.”
Her maid responded immediately to the command, obviously grateful to no longer be left to her own thoughts. The two pushed trunks in front of the thick wooden door, then piled smaller ones on top.
They had run out of things with which to build the barrier, and together they began pulling on the bed. It was a huge nest for a huge man and they couldn’t budge it. In unison, they gave up and leaned against it to rest.
Between labored breaths, Kenna insisted, “You must promise to do something for me.”
“Anythin’, milady.”
“You must return to Carlisle Folly and tell Aunt Agatha I’m dead.”
“Nay!”
“Aye, Fia, you must. If you care a bit for me, you will do as I bid. Tell her you saw a man cut m’ throat.
Have Peter dig a false grave. Tell her I fought back and was killed.
” Kenna could feel her blood rise at the prospect of never setting eyes on her aunt again.
“That’s it. I fought back. They slit m’ throat.
” She grinned. “And don’t forget, I was verra brave. ”
Instead of smiling, the younger girl shivered so intensely that her tremors swept down her long hair in waves.
A loud clang rang through the chamber, and it took Kenna a moment to discover the source. A twisted iron hook, the size of a small basket, had attached itself to the inside of the window, and the rope leading from it began to jerk.
Someone was climbing up.
She flew to the window to dislodge the contraption.
However, the man’s weight secured it to the ledge, leaving her no choice but to search the room for some type of weapon.
Panic allowed her to see nothing. Not even a candlestick.
Forcing deep calming breaths into her lungs she looked again.
But there was only one thing in the room that she wagered might give a man pause.
An agile devil was walking up the side of the keep as easily as if the wall were level ground.
For a moment she thought he might be her dark warrior, but the man had silver hair near his eyes.
Looking calmly at Kenna, he carefully closed the distance.
He surely never imagined such a fate as having a chamber pot full of warm spew raining down into his sweaty face.
As an afterthought, the pot followed.
For a moment, Kenna thought she might have lost her wager.
The man clung tenaciously to the dripping rope and glared up at her.
Then to her relief, he began a slow descent, all the time keeping a wary eye on her face above him, his mouth pinched in displeasure and defense against her noxious weapon.
“Well, it may not have scared him, but it did the deed.”
When the disgusted man had his feet back on the ground, he flicked his wrist and the metal hook detached itself, flew past Kenna, and returned to its master like a faithful pet.
She took heart. In the past hour of her life, she had nearly become a bride, nearly a widow, and soon she might be killed. All three had seemed likely, but none had yet transpired, so she took heart.
Laughter like she’d never known bubbled through her.
Perhaps she was giddy to still be free of her aunt. After years of wishing, followed by years of resignation, she had been shocked three days ago when Agatha informed Kenna she was to be wed.
She had hoped her new husband might aid her in seeking revenge for her brother’s death, only to have that hope shattered at the first glimpse of Laird Gowry.
His eyes had held that same flame of menace as Agatha’s, proving the older woman had found a perverse way to maintain the hell in which Kenna had lived.
But no more.
Her maid now clutched the bedpost like a mast on a stormy sea. The misery on the girl’s face stated clearly that she was in dire need of another pot.
“Fia, if they get inside, I’ll not let them touch you. Better still, if you are threatened, just empty your belly on them. It seems to work well enough.”
Another glance at the massive bed gave Kenna a chilling thought. “They must not think I am the Lady Gowry,” she hissed as she ripped at her lovely gown.
“No, milady! What are ye thinking?”
“I mustn’t look like the lady of the keep! If these men came to wipe out The Gowry, they may wish to wipe out his seed as well. They mustn’t believe I might carry such a scourge.”
“We must find me simpler clothes!”
Together they ransacked the trunks, weakening the barrier against the door.
After no success, Kenna stood before the last chest and muttered a prayer.
She wiped an arm across the lid to clear it of candle stubs and a basin that shattered when it hit the floor.
She threw the lid open and there, on the top, lay a pale tunic and bliaut of virgin wool, just as she’d worn for twenty years.
Agatha’s idea, she was sure. Would Gowry have forced her to wear them? To deny her life of any frivolity? Her cruel aunt must be laughing to herself, imagining the look on Kenna’s face when she first gazed upon the things.
At the image of Agatha’s twisted touch reaching all the way to Gowry land, Kenna was grateful the man had not been kind, nor lucky in battle.
Once she caught sight of Agatha’s jest, she wouldn’t have been able to stay with even a generous man, living within reach of her aunt.
A day’s ride was apparently not distant enough.
The mafors, a small square of delicate fabric to pin to her hair, would match the white. She had no choice but to wear it as well if she wished to appear an untouched bride.
There were no slippers; she’d keep her new soft boots along with her blue shift. At least she could treasure the memory of the Clarks’ beautiful blue gifts next to her skin.
The lid fell shut and a single boom rocked the floor beneath her. The great hall had been breached. Screams, increasing in volume, announced the progression of the enemy through the wooden structure.
Fia whimpered, her stare frozen on the door, and for an instant, Kenna wondered why she herself wasn’t screaming and jumping about. Then she realized her heart was doing it for her—like a newly caged animal it was throwing itself against her ribs.
All is well. He won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me.
“Help me with the tunic. And Fia, you must promise to tell them I am dead. Promise me, Fia!” Kenna commanded roughly, though she squeezed her maid’s hands gently in her own.
“I promise, Milady,” Fia helped her finish dressing with hands that shook like heather in the wind.
The screams from women inside the hall chilled Kenna’s blood, but the men’s voices, nearing the chamber door, froze Kenna’s heart mid-flight. She hoped she at least appeared composed.
While Fia pinned the square of cloth into place on her head, Kenna told herself that whoever her new enemy, he would be preferable to the monstrous Gowry.
Just after her maid had moved to her side, presenting the enemy with an army of two, the chamber door burst open. Trunks slipped across the floor like blocks of ice. And what greeted Kenna almost made her wish she had the Viking warlord back.