Chapter 27
The wooden bed frame scudded across the floor as Campbell heaved his body over the wench. She’d gasped at the weight of him— he was a stately man—but she’d deserved to feel his might, the little harlot.
Just as the Marquis of Montrose would feel his might.
He’d had a run of luck with his mad band of Highlanders and Irishmen, but now five hundred Covenanters camped at Inverness, blocking the road north like a cork stopping a bottle.
Graham’s Royalists were last seen in Lochaber, and there they would die.
Campbell would march, trapping the Royalists between his two Covenanter forces. Graham would be hemmed in like an animal, with the mountains blocking him from behind, their snow-covered peaks robbing him of any hope of escape.
Craning his head to take a bite of the wench’s neck, he plowed harder. He would crush Graham against his larger force as a ram battered a gate. Like that gate, Graham’s Royalists would splinter into a thousand pieces.
The woman whimpered beneath him, and Campbell heaved up to glare at her.
Her pitifully small breasts bobbed like peaches as he thrust into her.
And she didn’t even have the courage to meet his gaze.
He had a lesson to teach, though. Since Graham and his men had dogged him like a plague of bloody midges, he’d had to reassert his authority at Inveraray.
He’d caught this trollop with a smirk on her face, but his biting mouth had quickly wiped it away.
One more go-round and she’d think twice before smirking at his back ever again.
He doubted his body could peak again so soon, but strumpets like this one didn’t know the difference.
He would show her, and he would show them all. This time he wouldn’t send some trembling lordling into battle, nor would he send General Leslie. Campbell made it his particular purpose to crush those unwilling to bow to him. He’d start with this wench, but he’d end it with James Graham.