Chapter 4
Thomas took his time heading home.
It almost felt embarrassing to come home so early. Tabitha would comment on it soon enough,—nothing got past her sharp eyes.
Was something wrong with him? Was he ill?
Don’t be a fool. Ye are just tired. Tired, that’s it. So, what if ye don’t feel like bedding every woman ye come across? Tabitha’s right,—if ye get one with child, and she kicks up a fuss, ye might find yourself with a Lady MacPherson, after all.
He immediately thought of Astrid. She was beautiful, of course, and just the right amount of interested, but there was something about her. A little too eager, perhaps?
Maybe it wasn’t just him she was interested in, but the empty throne next to his on his dais.
He shivered. He didn’t even use that wretched throne very often. The people didn’t want to see their laird looming above them like some narcissistic English king.
The blocky shape of the Keep loomed into view, and Thomas sped up.
He’d ordered the gates locked early, since there were rumors of bandits roaming the hills.
He would get in through a side door, which was mostly unknown and kept guarded at all times in case of emergencies.
He knew his decision to close the gates early wasn’t popular, but he stuck by it.
Plus, wolf packs were coming closer and closer to the Keep.
There wasn’t enough food in the hills for them right now, which didn’t help the rumors of a famine.
He hunched over his horse’s neck, lost in thoughts about his problems, current, past, and future.
Next to the Keep walls, the stone was cold and damp, casting a long, dark shadow. Thomas’s skin crawled as if he were being watched, but of course, he could see nothing in the shadows. He rounded the corner and spotted the door on the side of the wall.
It was open.
He froze. He slid down from his horse’s back and peered through the doorway. There was no sign of anyone in the courtyard. There was no sign of the guard, either.
He hesitated, glancing around. What if the guard had run off into the forest to answer the call of nature?
A faint rabbit track led from the door into the forest, which stood only twenty feet or so from the side of the Keep wall. The trees parted a little as if to let the path inside, and the depths of the forest were dark and gloomy.
Thomas could hear nothing but the rustle of the wind in the foliage, the chitter of insects, and the occasional hoot of a hunting owl.
He was about to step inside and lock the gate after him—the sentry shouldn’t have left it unguarded, so spending a night outside the walls was a better punishment than whatever the captain of the guard would think up for him if he found out—when he heard something.
He paused, his ears straining.
There was a clatter and rustle in the forest as if twigs were breaking and leaves were being crunched underfoot.
Then, he heard it. A distinct cry immediately muffled. Human, certainly. Female, too.
Thomas didn’t think. He raced towards the dark treeline, his hand flying automatically to his dagger’s hilt. He cursed himself for not bringing a more adequate weapon.
He dived into the trees, branches slapping him in the face. The path was narrow, and the undergrowth pressed in on all sides. Without warning, the trees swept back, forming a neat little clearing conveniently illuminated by the moon.
He skidded to a halt, taking in the scene before him.
Two figures were struggling in the moonlight, a man and a woman. A dark lantern lay at the woman’s feet beside a basket full of some greenery.
The man stood behind the woman, one arm clamped around her waist, holding her close to him, the other hand pressed over her mouth. She was struggling, trying her best to break free, but he was too strong. His face was pressed into the side of her neck, and as Thomas watched, he spoke.
“Stop struggling, ye wee wench,” the man gritted out. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, eh?”
“What are ye doing?” Thomas’s voice rang out, his fists clenching at his sides.
The man jumped out of his skin, automatically releasing the woman. She hurled herself away from him, landing in a heap near the edge of the clearing. The man stared at Thomas, squinting in the dark. He was trying to see who had interrupted him, Thomas realized.
“Get lost,” the man snapped. “This is none of yer concern.”
“If ye are assaulting an innocent woman, I think it is.”
The man spat. “She’s no innocent woman. Ye ought to see how she teases me every day. She’s been asking for this since—”
He was interrupted by Thomas launching himself across the clearing, his fist connecting neatly with the man’s face.
Crack.
The man crumpled like a rag doll, making a feeble effort to defend himself.
Thomas punched him again and again, a red mist sizzling behind his eyes.
There was a metallic scratch, and the lantern flared into life, filling the clearing with soft, buttery light, not at all appropriate for the situation.
The guard’s good eye—the one that wasn’t swollen and bruised—widened in horror.
“Laird MacPherson!” he gasped, spitting blood down his chin. “I didn’t—didn’t know that it was ye, I didn’t—”
Thomas clenched his fist, noticing for the first time that it was splattered with blood. He deliberately lowered his fist, getting to his feet. “Get out of here,” he snarled. “Ye have not heard the last of this.”
The guard scrambled to his feet, limping away into the darkness. Thomas watched him go, straining his ears for the tell-tale metallic clang that would indicate that the guard, either out of foolishness or a fit of spite, had chosen to lock the gate behind him.
Nothing came. Satisfied, Thomas turned towards the woman, who was still sitting on the ground beside the now-lit lantern.
He sucked in a breath when he saw who it was.
“Emma!” he gasped, dropping to his knees beside her. He reached out automatically, and she shied away.
Thomas swallowed hard, curling his fingers into his palm and pointedly shuffling away.
Give her space.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
It was a somewhat redundant question. Emma’s hair was disheveled, short strands coming undone around her temples and ears as if someone had pulled on it. Her bodice was half-unlaced, revealing the curve of her breast.
Thomas resolutely did not look. He swallowed again, noticing red finger-marks on her neck and wrists, which would soon color to bruises.
“I came out to fetch more campion and thistle-row flowers,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “We ran out, and I meant to get some before. Delphine doesn’t usually let me go out so late, but I thought she’d be upset if we didn’t have some by the morning.”
“I think she’d be more upset to hear that ye were attacked,” Thomas said grimly.
He immediately wished he hadn’t because Emma hung her head as if ashamed.
“His name is Gregor,” she mumbled. “The guard, I mean. I pass him occasionally, and he often says things to me. If I’m alone, that is.
It makes me uncomfortable, the way he speaks.
Delphine said I ought to just ignore him, but it only seemed to make him angrier.
I shouldn’t have gone out when I saw it was him guarding this door.
I should have known that he’d follow me. If I’d only thought for a moment—”
“Don’t blame yourself for this,” Thomas interrupted. “None of this is your fault. And Gregor hasn’t heard the last of this, that’s for sure. I’m sorry, Emma.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Thomas longed to reach out and touch her but knew that would only make things worse.
The last thing the poor lass needed now was a man’s touch.
Emma scrubbed her face with her hands and scrambled to her feet. “I should go,” she mumbled, snatching up the basket. She picked up her skirts and ran, darting through the forest before Thomas could say a word.
He picked up the lantern and hurried after her, keeping a distance. As he stepped out of the forest, he saw her disappear inside the gate, racing across the courtyard. He followed, suddenly eager to make sure she made it back to her rooms.
Gregor could be hanging around nearby, waiting for revenge. He wasn’t at his post, at least, leaving Thomas to hastily lock the door after him.
Thomas followed Emma through the wide, empty hallways, her careless footsteps clattering loudly on the stone floor. He followed her until she reached the door to the Healer’s Chambers, unlocked it with shaking hands and let herself in.
Then, he could breathe, knowing that she was safe. For the first time, he glanced down at his hands properly, in the light, and sucked in a breath.
His knuckles were red-raw, his hands and the white cuffs of his shirt splattered with blood that wasn’t his. How many times had he punched Gregor, anyway?
His hands were shaking, too. He clenched them into fists, ignoring the sting across his knuckles.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first attack on one of the Keep women. Thomas did not tolerate them, but never had he found himself so irresistibly angry. He grabbed a passing guard, making the poor man squeak in surprise.
“Go and get Gregor, the man who was on sentry duty at the west forest entrance,” he growled.
The man blinked, wide-eyed. “Aye, Me Laird.”
“He attacked a woman. The healer’s apprentice. He is to be taken to the dungeons and imprisoned until I say otherwise. He’ll be punished.”
The guard nodded, pressing his lips together. “At once, Me Laird. The… the woman, is she hurt?”
“She’s safe, but no thanks to Gregor. Find him at once.”
“Aye, Me Laird.”
The man gave a quick, nervous bow and scurried away.
Thomas watched him go, turned purposefully around, lifting the lantern to light his way, and marched down the hallways. Not to his room—he’d never sleep now—but to the library.
As Thomas had expected, the library was not empty.