Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (11 page)

Terror-stricken, Yvette bit her lower lip
.

Blood
– warm and coppery tasting – immediately spurted into her mouth. And though she managed to stifle the scream, she couldn’t silence the mournful wail that rose up from the pit of her stomach as she watched the ensuing clash of men, swords, and axes.

Only moments before
Diarmid had quietly assured her that no harm would come to her . . . just before he rushed headlong into a screaming mêlée of hoarse-throated men and clanking swords.

To her utter horror, i
n the course of only a few heartbeats, the dew-dampened meadow had become a blood-drenched battlefield. As she frantically perused the horde of dueling men, she tried to catch sight of Iain.

Because he
was the only man without a kilt, she found him soon enough. Although with his broad-shouldered height and distinctive mane of black hair, he readily stood out in the throng of mostly red and blond-headed men.

Just then,
Iain bellowed a blood-curdling stream of Gaelic.

Her heart in her throat, Yvette watched, transfixed, as he lunged and thrust, skewering his ill-fated oppon
ent on the end of his claymore. Lifting a booted foot, he placed it on the dead man’s chest, pulling his weapon free with a mighty heave. His thin nostrils flaring, he then pulled his battle ax from his belt and threw himself upon another hapless foe.

Even though she was innocent in the ways of warfare, Yvette knew that
the blood lust was upon him. As it was upon all the Highlanders.

In the next instant, h
earing the high-pitched whistle of an airborne arrow, Yvette unthinkingly fell to her knees. Wrapping her arms around the massive stone in front of her, she smashed her cheek against its smooth, cold surface. Seized with a sudden religious fervor, she incoherently prayed for deliverance as one,
two, three!
arrows struck the ground mere inches from where she knelt.

Had she still been standing, she more than likely would
have been struck.

As she offered
her heartfelt gratitude to the heavenly host, two shaggy-haired Scotsmen suddenly came hurtling toward her in a blur of plaid and sun-bronzed muscles. Clutching her throat, Yvette watched their blood-stained swords slash through the air with deadly intent. One of battling men, whom she belatedly recognized as Robbie MacKinney, snatched a dirk out of his boot with his left hand. Then, in one fluid, perversely graceful motion, he jabbed it into the other man’s underbelly. Eviscerated, his opponent slumped to the ground, blood gurgling from his open mouth, his last dying breath catching on a serrated wheeze.

Joyfully screaming, Robbie yanked his dirk from the dead man’s belly and raised it to the sky, pelting Yvette’s cheek with drops of warm blood as he turned and ran back to the center of the stone circle.

Sickened by the gruesome slaying, Yvette shoved herself to her feet.

I must
escape from this hellish nightmare. Now! This instant!

She knew that t
here were horses tethered on the far side of the meadow. If she could get to them, she could flee. Where she rode to, it mattered naught; as long as it was far removed from the inhumane carnage.

Her mind made up, Yvette
turned on her booted heel.

Which is when she was knocked to the ground by a heavy, imprisoning weight.

Screaming, her arms and legs flailing, she frantically tried to dislodge the man who straddled her backside.

With a deep-throated chortle,
Yvette’s assailant grabbed her by the shoulder and roughly flipped her onto her back.

Sitting astride her hips,
the brute wrapped a blood-smeared hand around her throat, easily pinning her to the ground. Still laughing, he inclined his head toward Yvette’s face, his fetid breath causing her stomach to queasily roil.

“Get off
of me!” she screamed, pounding her fists against the man’s chest.

“Go ahead and fight me,”
the fiend rasped, curling his narrow lips over a row of black, rotting stubs. “The wilder the ride, the faster I’ll get to where I want to go.”

“Where ye’re going is straight to hell,” a
deep voice ominously bellowed. “And I’m sending ye there!”

Peering
over her attacker’s shoulder, Yvette caught sight of Iain, his claymore raised above his head.

As he craned his
neck, her assailant’s pig-like eyes widened with unadulterated fear. “Christ’s mercy! Dinna kill me!” he shrieked, scrambling off Yvette as he tried to scurry away.

“Ye should no’ have touched my woman,” Iain snarled, swinging his arms
downward with a merciless vigor.

Unable to watch, Yvette turned her head, reflexively slapping her hands over her ears to muffle the
pitiless scream that ensued. Again, she felt the warm splatter of blood upon her face.

Rolling to her side, she began to heave,
suddenly seized with a violent nausea.

Iain slid a
strong arm around her waist, hoisting her onto her knees to hold her steady as she hurled the meager contents of her stomach onto the blood-soaked ground. Treating her as he would a sick child, he gently pulled her hair out of her face, bunching it in his fist.

“Did the bastard hurt ye?” he asked
once the violent heaving had finally ceased.

Depleted of energy,
Yvette flaccidly hung over his arm. “N-no,” she stammered before gulping a breath of fresh air. At that moment she would have traded her soul to the devil for a tankard of cool spring water.

Straightening to his full height, Iain urged Yvette to stand upright.

“Is it over?” she asked, belatedly realizing that the screaming din of battle had been replaced with the pain-wracked sobs of the dying.

“Aye, ’tis over. Although that devil Sibbald managed to escape into the pine grove with wha’ few men he has left.” As he spoke, Iain slung an a
rm around Yvette’s shoulders. “Lean against me,” he ordered. “Unless ye need me to carry ye.”

Demoralized enough, she shook her head
and said, “That won’t be necessary.”

As Iain
led her toward the center of the stone circle, Yvette, horrified by the carnage that was spread before them, experienced another wave of nausea.

“
How can an all-loving God permit his earthly children to commit such hate-filled atrocities?” she wondered aloud, heartsick.

“I dinna know,” Iain quietly murmured
. “I only know that if I hadna killed them, they would have killed me and mine.”

Not wanting to dwell on the fact that he
’d killed a man to save her life, and that he did so because she belonged to him, Yvette inanely murmured, “You forgot to wear your breastplate.”

“I didna have time to
—” Iain inhaled sharply as his head suddenly swung toward the cluster of green and brown kilts that had congregated in front of a large gray standing stone.

“Sweet Jesu,” Yvette whispered when she caught sight of the red-bearded Hamish
MacKinney propped against the ancient stone, his lifeless blue eyes staring heavenward.

Directly b
ehind Hamish, the gray stone was smeared with three bold slashes of blood. A ghoulishly macabre rune.

There was a notice
able silence as Iain approached the group. Coming to a halt in front of Robbie MacKinney, he placed a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. No longer the joyful warrior, the red-haired youth was the very embodiment of grief as tears, mixed with blood, rolled down his face.

His
head penitently bowed, Iain went down on bent knee in front of his slain kinsman. “Hamish MacKinney, ye were a fierce warrior, an honorable man, and a loyal friend. I will tend to yer family as if they were my own. And I shall hold yer memory in my heart until—” Iain’s deep voice, thickened with grief, suddenly fell silent.

Overhead
, the vault of brooding gray clouds that hung heavy in the morning sky intensified the melancholia that hovered over the band of desolate warriors.

Using his claymore for support, Iain
slowly staggered to his feet. When Yvette caught sight of his bleak expression, she fought the urge to wrap her arms around him, to give what solace she could. Only two days prior she’d been convinced that Iain MacKinnon was incapable of grief, or pity, or love.

This day
, he’d proved her wrong on all three counts.

“Tie Hamish to his horse,” Iain said
wearily. “He would no’ wish to be buried here with so many MacDougalls sharing his grave. We’ll take him home with us, to lay him to rest amongst those who knew and loved him.”

At hearing
Iain’s addendum, Yvette suffered a sorrowful pang, acutely aware that she was not included in that tight-knit, cosseted group.

“
Eilean a’ Cheo
.”

At h
earing the burred baritone, Yvette turned toward Iain who stood beside her on the prow of the galley. Having boarded the vessel a short time ago, they were now sailing across the narrow expanse of waterway that separated mainland Scotland from Skye.

“The
misty isle,” Iain translated, his warm breath gently caressing her face as he spoke.

Yvette cast her gaze upon the mist
-enshrouded promontory on the opposite shoreline. Gray, massive, and rock-encrusted, the island appeared to have been thrust from the bottom of the sea in one mighty cataclysmic upheaval.

“A very accurate description,” she
told him, surprised that a man she considered little more than a barbarian would entertain, let alone utter, so poetic a thought.

Admittedly relieved that they were at journey’s end,
Yvette gave no resistance when Iain placed his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side. As he did, a gusty breeze plastered Yvette’s mud-splattered, blood-stained green kirtle to her bosom and thighs, while it lifted and swirled her tresses into a veritable beehive of tangled brown hair. Because the chill westerly wind prevented the use of sails, oarsmen, enlisted from the small fishing village on the mainland, were slowly rowing the galley toward the isle.

“Mayhap it should be called the windy isle?” she
mused.

The
remark garnered a deep-throated chuckle, Iain’s mirth a rare sight, indeed. Especially given the bleak mood that had infected him since Hamish MacKinney’s death at the standing stones four days prior.

“
I think the rocky isle a more apt description,” Iain said, smiling fondly as he stared at the rugged formation that loomed in front of them; atop which the MacKinnon stronghold, Castle Maoil, was visible in the mist.

Yvette
didn’t need to be a soothsayer to know that Iain MacKinnon was immensely proud of his castle on the mount. Personally, she thought the wind-blown isle much like its master – rugged and remote.
Lonely, even.

No sooner did the errant notion pop into
her head than Yvette severely chastised herself for entertaining such foolishness.

How
can a man surrounded by kith and kin possibly be lonely?

It made her
wonder if she’d been lonely for so many years that she now imagined everyone else shared in her misery. Even a cold-hearted and brutish Highlander.

As the vessel approached the rocky escarpment,
Yvette’s heartbeat quickened. On the headland there was a white-bearded man and young boy who awaited their arrival, holding the reins of half a dozen horses to replace the mounts that had been left behind on the opposite shore. Since there was no beach or harbor to dock the small galley, she wondered how they would make their way to shore.

To her surprise,
it was not in the way she imagined.

Unceremoniously
lifting her over his shoulder, Iain nimbly scissored his long legs over the side of the boat. Then, jumping into the water below, he boldly strode through the surf, seemingly immune to the cold water lapping about his calves.

When they reached the escarpment, Iain, shouting in
Gaelic, handed Yvette to the old man who stood above them on the rocky ledge. For several precarious seconds she dangled in mid-air, the wind immodestly lifting her mantle and skirts above her knees.

“By God,
that’s what I call a homecoming!” Iain exclaimed, unabashedly staring at Yvette’s stocking-clad legs.

The moment
that her feet touched the ground, Yvette, mortified, tightly pulled her mantle around her body, hoping to prevent another embarrassing mishap. From the avid stares that she received from the oarsmen, as well as Iain’s four kinsmen, apparently they’d all caught a glimpse of her lower limbs.

Once
the Highlanders had mounted their horses, Yvette’s discomfiture intensified, forced to cling to Iain’s backside as they began the treacherous climb to Castle Maoil. To her further chagrin, the fierce winds exposed almost the whole of Iain’s legs, the man clearly unconcerned that she could see his naked limbs, the muscular thighs a testament to his years of training as a warrior.

If
he wore hose like a civilized man, I would be spared the sight of his heathen nakedness
, she thought disagreeably.

Chiding herself
in the next instant for being so irritable – she had, after all, grown more or less accustomed to seeing men’s bare legs during the six days of her captivity – Yvette suspected her annoyance was due to a sudden bout of nervousness. Despite the fact that Iain was in high spirits, she was unsure of the fate that awaited her at the top of the hill. Other than the ill-fated incident that first morning in the hovel, Iain had made no attempt to bed her. While she was grateful for the reprieve, she also suspected the armistice would soon end.

T
hat the laird physically desired her, there was no doubt in her mind. She’d felt the proof of that desire insistently pressing against her buttocks each of the last six nights. And though apprehensive about what would happen come nightfall, Yvette was also inexplicably curious, unable to forget the exquisite pleasure she’d experienced when Iain had suckled her nipple through her chemise. In fact, several times over the last few days, she’d found herself staring at his smooth, masculine lips as she’d imagined what it would feel like to have his mouth on her bare breast.

Because Iain
had on a few rare occasions shown a more tender side, she now wondered if he would play sweet with her body, caressing and fondling as he taught her the game of love.

Or will he simply pull up my skirts, yank his kilt aside, and be done with it?

Although she fully expected the latter, she secretly hoped for the former. Granted, she didn’t like the idea of being Iain MacKinnon’s hostage, or his chattel, or his whore. But she was admittedly curious to discover if she would enjoy being his lover.

“The MacKinnon approaches!” Diarmid loudly bellowed, his mount in the lead position at the head of the line.

Hearing the stentorian announcement, Yvette anxiously peered over Iain’s shoulder, her breath catching in her throat as they headed toward the gatehouse. After six days of grueling travel, their sojourn had finally come to an end.

No sooner did Diarmid
make the announcement than winch chains creaked and squealed as the porter raised the portcullis and four heavily armed guards opened the iron-banded oak gates. As they clattered across the wood-planked bridge, Yvette gnawed on her lower lip, overcome with a heady mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

Iain twisted slightly in the saddle, glancing over his shoulder a
t her. “We’re at the top of the mount so ye dinna have to hold on so tightly.”

Yvette’s
cheeks instantly flushed with heated color, unaware that she’d tightened her arms around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” she murmur
ed, loosening her hold on him. “I’m just a little ner—”

Her remarks were drowned out by the cheers of welcome that greeted them as they trotted through the ga
tehouse and entered the bailey. Craning her neck, she saw at least a dozen grinning men atop the battlements, all swinging deadly-looking swords as they jubilantly shouted in their native tongue.

Swinging a long leg over the horse’s head, Iain shouted
back at them as he dismounted. Whatever he said caused the plaid-swathed men to laugh uproariously. Harboring a niggling suspicion that she was the butt of his joke, Yvette was on the verge of asking Iain what was so amusing when he suddenly placed his hands on her waist and swung her to the ground.

For an instant they stood but a hairbreadth apart, their gazes locked.

Aware that their every move was being keenly observed, Yvette made haste to take a backward step.

“My home,” Iain said
as he jutted his chin toward the stone keep.

Yvette could see at a glance that Castle Maoil was a simple, but soundly constructed fortification
, consisting of a three-story rectangular keep. Abutted to that was a smaller building through which the keep was entered. Situated nearby were the stables and two smaller buildings, no doubt used for domestic purposes and to house the men-at-arms. Unlike the extensive labyrinth of inner and outer baileys that her father had constructed at his stronghold, Castle Maoil boasted a single bailey enclosed by a curtain wall reinforced with four strategically placed stone towers. With its rough-hewn façade, it lacked the grandiose pretension of Lyndhurst’s fortress, or her late husband’s massive castle at Monmouth. Given Iain’s temperament, Yvette knew that his castle had not been built to impress. Instead, it had been built for one purpose – to safeguard the laird and his kinsmen.

“Come,” Iain ordered, taking
Yvette by the elbow as he led her toward the long row of stairs that led to the keep. “I long for a hot bath, a warm meal, and a soft bed.”

“As do I,” she
informed him, her body bruised and battered from the many ravages that she’d endured on the long trek across Scotland.

Iain smiled warmly at her.
“I am glad-hearted that we are in agreement as I feared I would have to force ye to my bed.”

Belatedly realizing what she
’d just agreed to, Yvette put a trembling hand to her throat. “I did not mean that . . . that I wish to share any of those things with . . . with you,” she clarified.

“
Whether ye want to share my bed or no’, ye have no say in the matter. I am the MacKinnon. Ye
will
do my bidding.”

Before she had a chance to
protest, a swarm of women and children eagerly rushed toward them, the air split asunder with cries of joy.

And cries of sorrow when
that same group saw the plaid wrapped body tied to the sixth horse.

With an anguished
wail, one of the women in the crowd fell to her knees and pounded her fist against her chest. Yvette knew without being told that the grief-stricken woman was Hamish MacKinney’s widow.

“News of death is never easy to bear,” Iain said
with a noticeable heaviness in his voice.

“No, it is not,”
Yvette concurred, her annoyance with him temporarily forgotten. “But we can take comfort in knowing the dead weep not.”

For several moments,
Iain wordlessly stared at her. In that charged instant, his blue eyes reflected a pathos that suggested he’d seen a great many deaths in his lifetime.

“I hope ye’re right,” he
said quietly before he led her up the stone staircase.

At the top of the steps, Iain opened the heavy wooden door, allowing
Yvette to cross the threshold before him.

Upon e
ntering the corridor, she blinked several times as her eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit interior. Even though there were torches angled outward from the cresset holders, not a single one had been lit, the only illumination a meager band of light from a half-shuttered window. The sight of which made Yvette think that a servant had started to open the window, only to abandon the task midway through.

“This way,” Iain said
as he led her down the corridor toward a large doorway.

Catching a quick glimpse of a silver crucifix,
she took note of a small chapel on the other side of the corridor. About to inquire if there was a priest in residence, the question went unasked, Yvette stunned into silence by the disreputable state of Iain MacKinnon’s great hall.

Musty, dank
and dirty, the room was not fit to house swine let alone the laird of the clan.

As she stood
in the entryway that led to the cavernous chamber, Yvette peered to-and-fro. “Do you not have a châtelaine? Your great hall resembles a pigsty,” she unthinkingly blurted, horrified to see a servant listlessly sweep filthy rushes across the stone floor.

“If ye have any complaints, ye must tak
e them to my sister Laoghaire. She’s the one who—”

Just then an Amazon of a wom
an shoved her way past Yvette. Feet planted wide, balled fists on her hips, she contentiously glared at Iain.

Yvette stood agog, uncertain which startled her
more: the woman’s wild mane of curly red hair; her blue-eyed beauty; her great height; or the fact that she wore tunic, a pair of trews, and had a sword strapped to her hip.

“Ach, Laoghai
re! I was just speaking of ye. D’ye not have a welcoming embrace for yer brother?” Iain said, smiling as he held his arms wide open.

Ignoring the overture
, the red-haired beauty shot Yvette a withering glance. “So
this
is the Sassenach responsible for Hamish’s death. Why did ye not kill her when ye had the chance? Why bring her into our home?”

Iain’s arms dropped to his side,
his smile instantly vanishing. “Lest ye forget, sister,
I
am the chief of Clan MacKinnon. I’ll bring the devil himself to Castle Maoil if it so pleases me.”