Highland Brides 03 - On Bended Knee (31 page)

Seana turned to face him and blinked, staring at his ruddy face, a seed of an idea germinating…

Aye… but mayhap there was something she could do. Mayhap the women here could accomplish something these men could not.

Angus’ thick white brows drew together. “By the bloody stone, what did I say?”

Seana’s heart began to pound with hope. She leapt up from the stone she was seated upon and exclaimed excitedly, “I have an idea! Och, God! I know what to do!” And she might have even jumped up and down with joy, save that for an instant, her declaration was met with stony silence and even disapproval. The expressions of the men were at best bewildered.

Dougal MacLean was the first to speak. “Sit down, lass.” He waved her down, dismissing her. “Let the men settle—”

“But…” Seana couldn’t do it alone. She needed help. They must at least let her speak!

She met Meghan’s gaze, pleading

Meghan’s husband, too.

“Hush, Father!” Alison MacLean said suddenly, standing. Her hands went to her hips. “Let Seana speak!”

Meghan Brodie stepped forward, then, her expression hopeful. “Aye,” she demanded, “let her speak!”

“Aye!” came an outcry from the rest of the women. One by one they stood, defying their men. A mumble of protest answered them, but Seana suddenly felt hope.

“Go on… tell us,” Iain MacKinnon beseeched her.

Seana’s heart beat frantically within her breast. She peered up at Iain MacKinnon, thankful for his support, and then at Page and smiled. Page smiled back at her.

Encouraged, Seana told them her plan. “But I would need help,” she begged everyone.

Silence was her answer.

Her gaze met Meghan’s once more… then Alison… and Page…

“I will do it!” Meghan declared, and without hesitation. “And my husband has the supplies!”

“Me too!” Alison agreed, stepping forward.

“It’s a verra good plan, Seana,” Page said, reaching out to touch Meghan’s soiled dress. “Though he would know me… I will help however I may.”

Seana smiled. “Thank you,” she said. And turned to the gathering for any more volunteers.

“I will help too,” said a woman, stepping forward from the back.

“And me!” exclaimed another.

“And I will!” said another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Seana clutched at her breast, grateful for the first time for all of Colin’s women. She couldn’t help herself. She chuckled with joy and then shouted with glee, “Let us go to Meghan’s, then!”

One by one, the women moved toward Meghan, some abandoning fathers and others their brothers, and even a few their sons and husbands, as well. All of them ignoring protests and doomsaying, resolved in their desire to help.

Seana shook her head, marveling at the numbers that stepped forward, young and old alike.

Her hands went to her burning cheeks. “Ye rotten rogue!” she said of Colin beneath her breath, but she smiled as she said it…

Colin awoke with a headache.

Sassenach bastards.

They hadn’t needed to hit him. He hadn’t intended to run. He tried to work his hands and legs free of his bindings but his effort was in vain.

Hell, at least he was still alive.

And this way, at least, there would be time enough to try to figure out how to free himself… or time to contemplate his imminent death.

He grimaced over that thought, and tried to roll over, groaning with the effort. His entire body ached, and he thought it was because they’d bound him and tossed him into a corner of this fat lord’s tent without the least concern for his comfort. His limbs were twisted into the most ungodly positions, and there was no telling how long he’d slept that way… or what hour it was now…

He’d yet to meet FitzSimon, or if he had, he sure as hell didn’t recall the momentous event. Judging by the meager light in the tent, it was night still… or mayhap again…

He peered under the tent… night…

Christ, how long had he slept?

He lay there, trying to gain his bearings… thinking about Seana…

He wanted her to be happy—hoped she would be very happy with Broc.

The faint sound of the reed reached his ears and he closed his eyes, thinking he’d only imagined it… thinking it was some memory come back to haunt him… the first time he had met Seana again… the night of Meghan’s wedding… the music had been just as lively… but then, it had been a celebration.

There was hardly a reason for celebration tonight.

Or mayhap there was.

If it was true, as they said, that he had broken so many hearts… mayhap all the women he’d known were now celebrating his death.

But he wasn’t dead yet.

Colin groaned at the thought, hardly pleased with the life he’d led.

Och, but he wanted to be a father. He wanted to come home to Seana and have her meet him with kisses and…
uisge,
blah! Did she know how to make anything else? He grimaced at the thought of drinking even a dram of her spirits. The stuff was rotten enough to kill a man. And if he didn’t die while drinking it, he would surely wish he had the next morn.

Well, it didn’t matter. He didn’t care if she didn’t know how to cook. He loved her anyhow.

The sound of the reed grew stronger… and merrier, and Colin drew his brows together as he considered it. Voices accompanied it… female voices… and revelry…

What the hell were they doing? Having a bloody festival in truth? Christ, Colin, thought. He’d known MacKinnon wasn’t going to barter with FitzSimon, but he wasn’t even dead yet!

In frustration, he tried his bindings once more, but in vain. He couldn’t even loosen them. He slammed his head back against the ground, cursing beneath his breath.

FitzSimon cocked his head as he listened. “What the devil is that?”

Women, laughter, and music assailed the otherwise peaceful night. Tonight, unlike the night before, the skies were clear, affording them a perfect view… but there was no sight of women as yet. Their revelry carried upon the night air, their music sweet but jubilant.

“I don’t know, my lord.”

“Go and see, then, you idiot!” FitzSimon demanded.

His man bounded to his feet at once, abandoning his meal.

FitzSimon nodded at another man, as he took a hearty bite of his mostly charred hare. “Go with him,” he ordered.

The man froze in the middle of his own bite. “Aye, my lord,” he said, and set down his fare. He rose and hurried to do his lord’s bidding.

“Damned Scots!” FitzSimon railed. “A man cannot even eat in peace!”

“Should we feed the prisoner?” another of his men asked.

“Hell no!” FitzSimon replied. “He’ll either be back with his brother soon enough and he’ll fill his belly then, or he’ll be dead and have no need. ’Tis as simple as that!”

“True, my lord,” agreed the man, and returned to his plate, resolving to mind his own affairs, lest he end up having to sacrifice his own meal.

FitzSimon smiled as he ripped off another bite of his meat. Respect was what it was all about.

The two men he’d sent to investigate returned quickly, swaggering, grins on their faces.

“’Tis only a bunch of women, my lord.”

FitzSimon’s face screwed. “Women? Doing what?”

The man shook his head and shrugged. “Dancing.”

“And how they are dancing!” exclaimed the other, with a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Mayhap they are camp followers?” suggested the man who had inquired about feeding the prisoner.

“Are ye sure ’tis only women?” FitzSimon expression was puzzled. No self-respecting man would send a woman to fight his battles. He hardly took MacKinnon for a coward.

Their merrymaking remained at a respectful distance, or he might have grown suspicious…

He tossed his meat down and rose, curiosity getting the better of him. All his men rose with him.

“No, no, no, no!” he railed at them. “We can’t all bloody go!” He nodded at the man who had offered to feed the prisoner. “You stay,” he commanded, and motioned for the others to follow.

It was easy enough to follow the sound, but the sight of them swirling about in their sheer gowns was hardly what FitzSimon had expected. Lithe sweet bodies danced to the reed under the light of the moon…

It was as ethereal a sight as any he’d ever seen, and for an instant… he thought he had died and gone to heaven.

Or hell.

He watched dancing around the ancient stones.

Seana danced for Colin’s life.

She danced though she didn’t know how.

Somehow, with the beautiful music and the dresses Meghan had provided, she felt beautiful for the first time in her life.

She knew they were watching now. There were men positioned in the trees, watching from the woods, unseen by anyone, save by the women who danced in this field. Their signal had come minutes before, and Seana had begun her dance in earnest then.

They had decided upon this field, because FitzSimon’s camp was near.

Hopeful that her plan would work, she and Meghan and Alison and the others danced about her
uisge
barrels, as though in some pagan ritual to the spirits of the drink. They were a flurry of gossamer silk together, flying about in a dance that seemed as old as these stones surrounding them.

Two of the girls began, as they’d planned, to remove each other’s veils, and Seana knew this would be the moment. If FitzSimon’s men were going to reveal themselves now would be the time.

But what if they did not?

What would they do?

Cameron had said there were merely seven or eight of them—no match for their greater numbers, and yet they must be lured away from their camp in order for her plan to work. And worse, what if they should suspect and kill Colin at once?

Seana couldn’t let herself think of that. She couldn’t bear to lose him so soon after losing her da—couldn’t bear to lose him at all.

Nay, they must not fail!

“What the devil are they doing?” FitzSimon whispered.

“I don’t know, my lord.”

“It looks like some sort of pagan ritual,” one of his men suggested.

“Aye, it does,” FitzSimon agreed. “Bloody savages.”