Highland Conqueror (11 page)

“’Ware, Martin,” Harold said in a cold, hard voice. “You presume too much upon our long association. I am but one small boy away from being the earl of Drumwich.”

“Fine,
my lord
.” Martin was too miserable and weary to fear Harold’s anger. “Keep the bitch alive to play with, if you must, although I do not understand the why of it.”

“Because she has scorned me once too often,” Harold nearly shouted, “and I mean to humble her. I will make her my wife to secure my claim to Drumwich and fatten my purse, and then I mean to make her pay for every
nay
she gave me. I will destroy that pride of hers. I will use her body in every way a man can use a woman until she is bent with shame. Aye, I might e’en let you have a taste or two. I will make her bleed for each and every indignity she has caused me with this flight into these wretched lands.”

Thinking of the things Harold had done to women in the past, Martin could almost pity Lady Jolene. “And if she has taken Cameron as her lover or more?”

“She will pay for that as well.” Harold glared at the rain. “I know they are close, Martin. I swear I can almost hear them breathing. Howbeit, it now grows too dark. Where are my men?”

“Since you rode far ahead of them, I suspect most of them are still near the bottom of the hill trying to convince the Scots to lead them o’er this trail. Considering how long it has been since we left them behind, many of them have probably taken shelter.” Martin peered through the gloom. “Ah, I misjudged them. They are just a few feet back, but they cling to the rocks as we do.”

“If you cannot e’en see our own men behind us, then ’tis time to give up the chase. I doubt we shall have another chance like this so I best begin to think of ways to get at her behind the walls of Cameron’s keep.”

“Why not when they are at Scarglas?”

“If the chance arises, I will surely take it, but I doubt it will. Those Scots said the MacFingals have been surrounded by enemies for years and ne’er been beaten or had their walls breached. They did not say the same of—of—” Harold cursed, “whatever that redheaded fool calls his keep. I need to finish this and return to Drumwich ere those puling kinsmen of mine catch wind of what I am doing. They might actually find the backbone to try and find Jolene and Reynard.”

“Do we watch for the Camerons at Scarglas?”

“Aye, for they are sure to go there. The boy was taken on ahead and they will seek
to shelter him from this rain. We will linger near at hand to try to catch them as they leave there. Now, let us get off this cursed rock.”

Sigimor listened closely to the men carefully making their way back down the trail. Despite having heard more than two men coming up the trail, he had briefly hoped Martin had been right to think he and Harold were alone. He had readied himself to slip outside and kill them, only to have to cast aside that plan. Although he was still tempted to take the chance that he could end Harold’s threat on these rain-soaked rocks, he could not risk it. He felt sure he could have taken down Harold and Martin, and probably a few others, but there was no guarentee that Harold’s men would flee if the man was killed. The plan carried too great a risk of his getting killed or injured and leaving Jolene unprotected.

He ached to kill Harold, however, and knew the urge would not fade simply because the man was now out of reach again. The plans Harold had for Jolene made Sigimor’s blood run cold and he wanted to end all chance that the man might get his hands on her. Just the thought of that man touching Jolene made Sigimor’s innards clench with fury, a fury that had become nearly blinding as he listened to Harold speak of all he wanted to make her suffer. For the first time in his life, he contemplated killing a man coldly, and in a way that would inflict the most pain. He probably ought to be concerned about such a feeling and his utter lack of remorse for it, but he was not.

When the sounds of the men’s retreat had completely faded, Sigimor made his way to the rear of the cave. Jolene was still asleep and he was glad she had not heard any of Harold’s sickening plans for her. She was still so innocent in many ways. He did not want that tainted by the sort of filth Harold had spouted. She had enough to fear and worry about already.

He sat down and slumped against the wall, his gaze fixed upon Jolene’s face. She looked rather childlike when sleeping, much younger than her three-and-twenty years. She was also beautiful, far too beautiful for a rough man like him. Too rich of blood for a minor laird such as himself and, he suspected, too rich of purse. He was sure it was only Peter’s willingness to allow her some choice in who she married that had kept her a maid for so long.

It was too late to turn back now. He may have reached too high, but, now that she was his, he had no intention of letting her go. She was his mate in so many ways, from her wit to her passion. The way she burned so hot for him was a wonder he doubted he would ever become accustomed to. The times he had bedded down with a woman had not been completely cold unions where only he had gained satisfaction, but they were all pallid, easily forgotten interludes compared to what he shared with Jolene. He had never had a woman respond to his kiss or his touch as she did and he was determined to hold on to that pleasure.

Somehow he was going to have to bind her to his side in such a way that she would never even consider leaving him. The passion that flared between them was certainly one way, and he intended to work on those bonds whenever he could. Yet, if his sister spoke true, it was more than that which bound a woman to a man, more than the pleasures of the flesh no matter how sweet. According to Ilsa, a man could only truly bind a woman to him by winning her heart. Sigimor was not sure how one went about winning that organ. If conquering her heart required pretty words and the like, he was in trouble.

Pushing aside that puzzle when he saw that night was upon them, Sigimor gently shook Jolene awake. The way she smiled at him as she woke, and the soft look in her eyes, made him eager to join her beneath the blankets she was wrapped in. He quickly banished that urge by reminding himself of the need to get her far away from Harold.

“We have to leave here now, wife,” he said as he helped her untangle herself from the blankets and stand up.

“Did you find out where Harold is?” Jolene asked.

“Aye. For a wee while he was but feet from me.” He took the wineskin from his saddle and handed it to her.

Jolene took a deep drink of wine to calm herself, beating down a rising fear. Sigimor was too calm for there to be any immediate threat from Harold. She was glad she had slept through it all, however.

“He gave up?” she asked as she handed the wine back to him.

“Aye.” Sigimor took a quick drink then returned the wineskin to his saddle. “He and his men went back down the trail to seek shelter. The rain and the day’s ending defeated him.”

“Was that your plan?”

“More or less. That and keeping him too busy to go after Reynard.”

“It must be hard for a warrior like you to do naught but run from your enemy.”

Sigimor rather liked the sound of
a warrior like you
. It was good that she saw him as a fighter despite everything he had done since Drumwich. She obviously saw herself and Reynard as the reasons he acted as he did. They were, but many women would not so easily recognize that.

“Nay, it doesnae gall me. Aye, I would like a chance to fight, to end this game, but I am nay troubled by the tactics I have chosen. With the two traitorous Scots Harold has with him, the fight would be a wee bit uneven, aye? Fourteen or fifteen against six? Careful planning could win it for us, but, dinnae forget, my men arenae the hired swords that Harold’s are. They are my blood kin. Each time I face a battle, I must consider the fact that, at the end of it, I may have to bury a brother or a cousin. That not only makes me think hard about the worthiness of a battle, but carefully consider
all
my choices.”

“So, ’tis not just me and Reynard who hold you back?”

“Not completely, but my first thought is almost always where would I put ye whilst the battle rages? My second is to wonder what would happen should Harold win the fight. Tis why we race to Dubheidland, though, if I could find a way to reach the bastard and end his wretched life, I would do it.”

Jolene nodded in complete understanding. “I have thought the same. I want him dead and I have ne’er felt such a thing before. That he would make me feel that way only makes me hate him all the more. Now I not only want him dead, I want to spit upon his grave.”

Sigimor grinned as he handed her the reins to her horse and took up his own. “Tsk. Shocking. Is that what a proper English gentlewoman ought to be thinking?” he asked as he led her out of the cave, pleased to note that the rain had eased up a little.

“Nay,” she replied as she followed him in leading their mounts along the narrow, rain-slick path. “Proper English gentlewomen do not think fondly of kicking hulking great Scots off mountains, either.”

“Good thing, too. Without this hulking great Scot to lead ye, ’tis certain ye would
get lost.”

She really had no argument for that humiliating truth, so she asked, “Did you learn anything about Harold’s plans?”

Too much, Sigimor thought. “Enough to ken that he has learned of Scarglas as weel as Dubheidland. We will still rest a wee while at Scarglas. My kinsmen will then have themselves a wee bit of fun turning Harold round in circles whilst we flee to Dubheidland. If Harold is fool enough to face us there, ye will soon get your wish.”

“Which one?”

“The chance to spit upon his grave.”

“Jesu! She is English!”

Sensing that his wife was about to kick his uncle, Sigimor wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pinned her against his side. He could understand her annoyance. This response every time she spoke was getting tiresome. It was even more so when they had only just arrived at Scarglas and stood in the great hall in dripping-wet clothes. Sigimor glared at his brother and cousins who sat at the head table in the great hall grinning at him.

“Didnae ye tell them?” he demanded of them, not particular about who answered.

“Actually, nay,” replied Liam. “We have only just sat down. When we arrived, we were hurried off to bathe, put wee Reynard to bed, and all of that. Took a wee rest, too, although David stayed awake to watch for ye.”

“Weel, I am glad ye didnae allow your grievous concern o’er our fate to keep ye from having a much needed rest.” The way his kinsmen met his sarcasm with wide grins made Sigimor want to hit them, but he fixed his attention upon his scowling uncle instead. “Aye, my wife is English. She is a wee, black-haired Sassenach. A wet, cold, hungry Sassenach.”

“Aye, where has your sense of hospitality fled, Fingal?” scolded a small, fair-haired woman with stunningly beautiful violet eyes as she hurried to Jolene’s side and slipped her arm through hers. “Ewan, see to Sigimor ere he starts pounding on someone,” she called to a lean man with black hair who was as tall as Sigimor. “Come, m’lady. We shall tend to a bath for ye and some warm, dry clothes. It shouldnae take long and then we may all return here to have something to eat whilst my husband’s father beats ye senseless with questions. I am Lady Fiona MacEnroy MacFingal, or Cameron, if ye prefer. Laird Ewan’s wife.”

“I am Lady Jolene Gerard of Drumwich, m’lady,” Jolene responded as Fiona led her out of the great hall, then she grimaced and cast a quick, guilty look back toward Sigimor. Fortunately, he was busy arguing with the older MacFingal. “I mean I am Lady Jolene Gerard Cameron.”

“Wheesht, dinnae look so fretful. Nay matter how married one feels, it takes a while to recall that one’s name has changed.”

Jolene quickly felt at ease with Fiona who led her to a room where a bath was already being filled for her. Explaining that she had had everything at the ready for her and Sigimor’s arrival, Fiona helped Jolene undress. The moment Jolene sank into the hot water she began to feel better. She washed herself with the lavender-scented soap Fiona gave her as the woman saw to setting out some clean, dry clothes for her to wear. All the while Fiona talked about the strange history between the MacFingals and the Camerons, soon joined in that chore by an older woman named Mab.

“Here, Jolene, drink this,” Fiona said as she handed Jolene a tankard filled with something dark and aromatic.

Cautiously, Jolene accepted the drink and took a very small sip. To her surprise it was very pleasant and she finished it as Fiona and Mab stood by nodding in approval. “Was that some special physic?”

After setting aside the empty tankard Jolene had handed to her, Fiona helped her rinse the soap from her hair. “Aye. Mab and I arenae sure how it helps, but it does seem
to keep fevers and coughs away after one has suffered a chill and a wetting.” She held up a drying cloth. “How long have ye been married to Sigimor?”

“One night,” she replied and blushed when both women grinned.

“Weel, we willnae ply ye with questions here. Ye will have enough asked of ye once ye return to the great hall.”

Jolene found herself efficiently dried off, dressed, and her still-damp hair neatly braided in a very short time. Mab and Fiona took turns telling her about the many MacFingals as they worked. If their aim was to help her relax concerning the coming meeting, they were only partly successful. She still felt a little nervous as they escorted her back to the great hall.

Sigimor, his hair still damp from his own bath, was waiting for her at the door of the hall. Jolene was not sure how he managed it, but suddenly he was at her side, her hand in his as he led her to the lord’s table. She heard Mab and Fiona laugh softly before they hurried away to take their seats.

The moment Jolene and Sigimor sat down the questions started. Once she noticed that Sigimor had the admirable ability of being able to eat and answer questions at the same time without spitting food around, she left him to it and concentrated on eating her own meal. After the time she had spent with the Camerons, she was able to ignore the occasional lapses into arguments between Sigimor and his uncle. Lady Fiona and Mab had also warned her about the old laird’s tendency to argue with anyone about anything. Considering Sigimor’s apparent love of arguing, Jolene felt she would be able to enjoy a hearty meal before anyone decided to ask her a few questions.

She subtly studied the MacFingals, noticing that many of them studied her as well. Lady Fiona was quite beautiful even with the faint scars upon her cheeks. Her husband Ewan was big, lean like Sigimor, and as dark as Sigimor was fair. In truth, when placed so close to their dark kinsmen, the Camerons looked almost too bright. Lord Ewan was quite handsome in a dark, rather harsh way, with no hint of softness upon his scarred face unless one caught him looking at his wife. A great many of the men in the great hall shared those looks, although some had slightly softer features and some had blue eyes. The old laird had certainly been a very busy fellow, she mused.

It was all a little overwhelming and Jolene feared she would find Dubheidland much the same. The fact that most of the men in the great hall were Sigimor’s cousins was a little difficult to grasp. Her family, on both her mother and father’s sides, was small and most of her relatives bred very few children and even fewer sons. Many of her countrymen would be green with the sin of envy if they saw how well the Camerons bred sons. Tall, strong sons who, she had little doubt, were probably all skilled warriors.

“And ye havenae yet killed this bastard? What ails ye, lad?”

Jolene was unable to ignore the insult the old laird gave Sigimor and frowned at him. “He was thinking of keeping me and Reynard alive and safe,” she snapped. “Tis what he vowed he would do. One can hardly pause to engage in a battle with a woman and child close at hand.”

“I dinnae see why not,” said Fingal.

She suspected he did, but was just being contrary. “Oh? Would you have him tuck us up in a tree or the like whilst he had this battle?”

“Ye are just as impertinent as this lass,” he said, jabbing a finger toward Fiona before turning back to Sigimor. “So, ye cannae just cut this bastard’s throat and be done
with it, then. But, did ye have to marry her to keep her safe?”

“It will certainly help,” Sigimor replied. “E’en the Sassenachs would frown on a mon stealing another mon’s wife. And, if he does get his hands on her again, he willnae be able to go through with all his plans, nay for a while, leastwise.”

“But, to wed a Sassenach.” Fingal shook his head. “Twill weaken our good Scot’s blood, lad.”

“I beg your pardon!” Jolene was getting very tired of the implication that Sigimor had committed some grave crime against his country and clan by marrying her. “I am the daughter and the sister of an earl. I hardly think Sigimor has lowered himself in the wedding of me.”

“An
English
earl.”

“Enough,” Ewan said quietly, but there was an impressive note of command in that one word. “She is Sigimor’s wife, thus one of our family now, and I will hear no more insults given her.”

“I wasnae insulting her,” protested Fingal.

“Ye were treading o’er some verra thin ice. I would prefer it if Sigimor didnae start feeling honor bound to kill ye, thus forcing me to fight him o’er it. If ye feel the need to rant against the English, go find the bastard who seeks to kill a wee lass and a bairn just so that he might claim what doesnae belong to him.” Ewan turned back to Sigimor. “Ye havenae asked us to join ye in this fight.”

“Nay,” replied Sigimor, “and I willnae. Aye, twould be verra fine indeed if we could all ride out to meet him, sword to sword, then kill him so that my wife can spit upon his grave.”

“Sigimor!” Jolene hissed in protest, embarrassed by the revelation of her unladylike sentiment.

Sigimor ignored her. “Howbeit, I decided twould be best to keep this fight between me and Harold. I have just cause for killing him, e’en more so now since he hunts my wife.”

“If ye have just cause, then, as your blood kin, so do we.”

“We cannae be sure the English would see it so. I had no time to study my enemy. I dinnae ken who his allies might be, if he truly has any, or how powerful they are. There could be an outcry when he dies here. If so, I must be the only one caught up in that tangle for I can claim several verra good reasons for killing the mon, ones e’en his allies will have difficulty arguing, e’en if they do have the king’s ear.”

“Ye fled England with an English lady and the heir to an earl’s seat, Sigimor. Then ye kill the mon who came after ye to retrieve them, a mon who claims a kinship with them. Are ye sure your
just causes
are weighty enough to ease the anger that might arise?”

Sigimor nodded. “I hold the missive Peter sent asking for my help, one that makes clear Peter’s fear of betrayal and his fear for his son. Harold threw me and my men into the dungeon, chained us, and was about to hang us despite the fact that we entered Drumwich with our swords sheathed and at the invitation of its laird. Jolene wasnae promised to anyone and is now my wife so I can certainly use Harold’s attempts to take her as justification for anything I do to the mon. If he follows us to Dubheidland and continues his threats, that, too, is cause enough to kill him.”

Ewan nodded. “Ye
have
thought this out weel.”

“There is one other thing to consider. Jolene’s kinsmen could always be called upon to speak out against Harold.”

“Aye,” agreed Jolene. “I have been hoping that, with Harold away from Drumwich, someone may have been able to go to them to tell them what has happened. None of them trust or like the man, but they all respected and liked my brother.”

“So, ye willnae be allowing us to kill any Sassenachs, aye?” asked Fingal.

“Not unless they try to kill a MacFingal,” replied Sigimor.

“Weel, I think we could come up with a way to make that happen yet nay put any of my lads in danger. Then, once swords are drawn, we can kill them.”

Sigimor stared at his uncle for a moment, then looked at Jolene. “Mayhap ye best go and sit by the fire or the like. My uncle wants to argue about killing Harold and there could be a few things said that ye willnae like.”

Having finished her meal, Jolene readily agreed. “You wish me downwind from the insults that will soon be heaped upon the English, I suppose.”

“Aye, wife. They could get fierce.”

She just rolled her eyes and made her way to the high-backed benches arranged before a massive fireplace at the far end of the great hall. To her relief Fiona quickly joined her there. If nothing else, it eased the appearance of her being sent to a corner like a naughty child.

“Fingal just loves a good, rousing argument,” Fiona said as she sat facing Jolene, “and Sigimor likes to oblige him.”

“He would. I have noticed that the Camerons do seem to enjoy arguing. Sigimor can be particularly contrary at times. I have not known him long, but I have felt the urge to beat him o’er the head at least a dozen times already.”

“Only a dozen times? He must be on his best behavior.” Fiona shared a brief laugh with Jolene, but then grew very serious. “His sister is married to my brother Diarmot. I have kenned Sigimor and his family for a few years now. He is a verra good mon.”

“Oh, aye, he is.”

“And ye love the fool, dinnae ye?”

Jolene was so startled by what Fiona said, she blurted out the truth. “Aye, I believe I might, but it might be better if I did not.”

“Why do ye say that?”

There was something about Fiona that made Jolene feel she could confide in the woman and, more important, trust her with those confidences. “I am English and ’tis increasingly clear that having an English wife is not something Sigimor will be praised for. I have only known him a few days, less than a sennight. Such a short acquaintance to risk a lifetime upon. Especially when that time has been fraught with danger, something I fear might well cause some confusion about what one might truly feel.”

“I didnae ken Ewan for verra long before I was certain he was right for me, that he was my mate. At the time, we both had enemies, but it didnae confuse me that much about all that I was feeling for my husband. Most people would have thought me utterly mad to choose him for he was seen as a hard, cold mon. Somehow, I just kenned, deep in my heart, that that was simply the face he showed the world. It took time for him to believe in me and for me to find that hidden mon.”

The message within Fiona’s tale was easy to read, but Jolene was not sure it really applied to her and Sigimor. “I do not think Sigimor hides all that much of himself,
although I do believe what he does hide is the very thing I want.”

Fiona nodded. “His heart. In matters of the heart, men can be such cowards, although I would ne’er use that word to their faces. I ken my brother Connor was and so was my husband. E’en my brother Diarmot to some extent. The men shielded their hearts, their softer feelings, as if they were sheltering the king’s treasure. Then again, to the women who love them, tis as rich a prize. Sigimor is akin to them in some ways, but I dinnae think the walls he has built are quite so high.”

“Probably not, but the real question is whether or not he will allow me to scale them. And yet, it might be best if I do not even try. Failure might be worse than not trying at all. He married me to keep me out of Harold’s grasp. Why are you shaking your head like that? You heard him say so himself.”

“I did and I dinnae doubt his word. What I dinnae believe is that it was the only reason.”

Jolene blushed. “Well, he did mention one other.”

“Passion, of course. A mon doesnae have to take a wife to find that.” Fiona smiled at the boy who brought them each a tankard of mulled cider and sipped at hers until she was certain he was out of hearing distance again. “As I said, a mon doesnae marry a lass just because he is lusting after her. He either finds himself some willing lass to ease the need or he seduces the one he really wants. And, if Sigimor didnae want ye as his wife, but still felt ye were in need of a husband to protect ye from Harold, he would have tried to have one of his brothers or cousins marry ye. Nay, he wanted ye for his wife. The hard part will be in trying to find out the
whys
he isnae telling ye.”