Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Back at Gowry Hall…
Kenna suppressed a grumble when placed unceremoniously on a horse. With not a moment to center herself in the saddle, she and the band of twenty-odd warriors rode briskly away from Gowry Hall.
She had hoped they would ride off without her if she dawdled long enough.
In fact, the giant had not noticed when she’d stopped following him through Gowry’s courtyard, and she was about to wander casually out the postern gate when she was spun around by one arm and hefted over the shoulder of her laird and master.
Now, she traveled in the center of the company with the youngest of the knights at the lead on a grand black destrier.
He was a bonny young man. Uncontainable energy shined from his blue eyes and spilled out into his blond curly hair.
His warhorse was the embodiment of the same spirit, tossing its dark mane and stepping high, and the pair made for an entertaining ride.
The oldest of the men brought up the rear on a smaller, leaner courser.
The horse suited him. He still dripped from a hasty bath made necessary by his earlier meeting with Kenna’s chamber pot.
She wondered if it was his duty to ride behind them, or if he was sparing everyone the smell that still clung to him.
She had avoided eye contact with the man but had noted the subtle strands of silver shooting out from his temples and burrowing into his sable hair.
A combination of small scars and faint creases disguised any youth that could be found on his face.
This one ignored her in turn, though the other men seemed curious enough.
She caught many of them slanting looks her way, but never him.
He hates me.
The giant drove a wagon far behind. Likely there was not a horse bred large enough to handle his weight.
Earlier, from her position on the warrior’s shoulder she had a peek of the collection of armor the big man hauled, along with his miniature battering ram, before she noticed the frown on the titan’s face.
Even bobbing upside down, she could not have mistaken the long black line of his brows that made clear his disappointment in her.
She had not protested her rough handling, hoping her acceptance made some amends for trying to escape, even if she regretted nothing. However, now that she sat upright, her ribs ached in unison with the violent trotting of her mount.
But for the lead and rear, the party rode four abreast, except when the road narrowed and they were forced to ride by twos or threes.
There was at least one rider on each side of her horse even in the tightest spaces, and she marveled at how smoothly the soldiers changed position.
Having never seen such a group before, it would not surprise her if their horses could speak.
Out here in the world, finally, anything seemed possible.
The conquerors must have been unimpressed with Gowry’s keep. She noticed no bundles of plunder, and only one extra horse tied to the back of the armor wagon. But perhaps their motive had been revenge.
Gowry had seemed the kind of man to commit any manner of atrocity by the look of him, so these men were likely just a few of many enemies.
However, the idea that there had been no better point to the bloody madness made her sick at the waste of life, especially if she had been the only one who had benefited from the attack.
For the first time that day, she asked herself what she dared not ask aloud. Had these men only come for her?
She imagined the wives and families of those who had died in the bailey below her, and she felt their blood on her hands. Glancing at her lap, she saw no marks of red but wiped her palms on her skirts just the same. If she didn’t think about something else quickly, she might cry, or worse, be sick.
It could not be. The king knew nothing of her. Why would he have sent this wee army to capture Kenna Carlisle?
Her mind reeled. Agatha Carlisle, despite being married to a staunch supporter of King Duncan, was kith and kin to the Macbeths.
After Angus Carlisle’s death years ago, Agatha was vociferous in her support of the previous king.
Every tapestry, every raised glass in Kenna’s home honored His Majesty, Macbeth.
Could that be the reason she now rode toward Malcolm III, Duncan’s son?
Malcolm who had ripped his father’s crown from Macbeth’s lifeless body but a year ago?
Was the new king as bad as the old, searching out and murdering any who might oppose him?
She took a deep breath and tried to calm. If they intended to kill her, she would be dead by now, would she not? If they had already killed Agatha…
Kenna searched her heart but found no remorse for the loss of such a woman.
The inhabitants of Carlisle Folly—of the entire glen—would be better served without the oppressive presence of Agatha Carlisle.
There would be men allowed inside for the first time since Angus had died.
There would be dancing in the hall, likely in celebrations.
She would have liked to see that.
If she wished to know what King Malcolm wanted with her, she would have to cooperate and be patient, but she had no intention of doing so. She would not be meeting her king anytime soon. She would remain docile for a wee while, but then break away at the first chance.
She had her own bit of murder to carry out.
Her laird and master rode somewhere behind her now, and she wished he would clear his throat or speak so she could tell how close he was.
Feeling that vibration in her bones again would be a mere bonus.
As soon as they put a little distance between themselves and Gowry Keep, where Fia would be carrying out her own deceptions, Kenna would fight for her freedom.
Agatha was her only remaining family in this world, and if Fia kept her promise, or if King Malcolm had Agatha executed, all her unhappy ties in this world would be severed. She would truly be free.
Free! Loosed! Like this breeze against her face. Like a horse finally free of its tethers.
It took all her control to keep from spurring her mount into a full gallop.
She would have to veer away from her escorts to get any speed at all from the poor beast. But she must wait a wee bit longer.
And soon, she would hunt down Leith MacPherson.
She prayed he still lived so she could remind him of her vow—a promise of retribution she made when she was eight.
Kenna had dreamt of killing the man like other lasses dreamt of their future husbands.
There was no conscience involved. It was something that needed to be done.
She had sworn upon the soul of her dead brother that she would see the man killed for tearing the siblings apart.
To her, keeping that vow was a duty more necessary to her than all those Christian virtues combined.
She had waited eighteen years for the chance to go hunting.
Eighteen years of frustration while her hope of escaping Carlisle Folly rose and flagged in a continuous cycle.
Certainly, she could have turned to prayer to hasten her liberation, but she would never acknowledge a god who had allowed Sander to die.
No, it wasn’t God who had kept her from giving up. It was hatred.
Now she found herself seated on a strange horse, heading out into the world of Leith MacPherson, attributing the fluttering in her stomach to excitement, not fear.
Straightening her shoulders, Kenna leaned forward over her mount, eager to be about her own business, when she heard her laird and master bark from close behind.
“Dinna even think it, my lady!”