Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (30 page)

“I will take my chances.
Without siege weapons, your threats are empty,” Yvette countered, refusing to give ground. “You and your men can set up camp outside the castle walls. It matters naught. We have food and water to withstand the duration of your belligerent posturing. My husband and his men will return soon enough.”

“Your husband?”
Sir Galen shot her deprecating glance. “You are naught but a Highlander’s leman.”

“I am handfasted to the laird of Clan MacKinnon,” Yvette
declared calmly.

“An ancient pagan custom that entitles you to a few paltry rights under Scottish
law for a period of one year,” the knight retorted. “Not as legally binding as a betrothal contract or vows exchanged before a priest.”

As he spoke,
Galen stepped toward her, trespassing onto Yvette’s side of the guard room. To her dismay, the man needed no weapons to intimidate, his sheer size alone sufficient to the task, the knight as tall and broad as Iain.

“Need I remind you that your so-called
husband
lied to you about the forfeiture of the ransom?” the knight goaded. “Furthermore, dissatisfied with the two thousand pounds he originally demanded, he hoped to profit even more. And at your expense.”

“Thus far, you have offered no proof that
—”

Sir Galen
raised a gloved hand to forestall Yvette’s counter-argument. “These Scotsmen are shilling wise. Can you honestly say that the laird of Clan MacKinnon would willingly part with so much coin without having devised a scheme to reap an even larger recompense?”

Although it pained her
greatly, Yvette knew that a thrifty Scotsman like Iain would be adverse to part with so great a sum. Especially since he’d gone to such great lengths to obtain it in the first place.

A thought that caused her resolve to weaken ever so slightly.

“When MacKinnon saw how swiftly your father responded to the ransom demands, the wily laird sought to demand an even greater amount. Verily I speak, lady. Moreover, I have the proof writ in the laird’s own hand.” From beneath his surcoat, Sir Galen removed a folded sheet of parchment.

Long
moments passed before Yvette finally summoned the courage to reach for the proffered evidence. When she did, her breath caught in her throat as she scanned the parchment’s more damning particulars.

‘ . . . and
I do hereby refuse to accept payment of the two thousand pounds, the terms of the ransom having been revised. Not until an additional remuneration in the amount of one thousand pounds is paid forthwith shall the Lady Yvette Beauchamp be released to your custody.’

Finished reading the missive, Yvette brusquely refolded the
parchment and returned it to Sir Galen.

Staggered by
the contents of the communiqué, she grappled to piece together the disjointed bits of evidence. But try as she might, she couldn’t assemble the pieces into a cogent whole.

It was
beyond dispute that Iain had demanded more money from her father. An additional one thousand pounds, to be precise. A princely sum that would buy many armaments for King Robert’s army.

However
, there was still one piece of evidence that Sir Galen had not taken into account.

Shooting the knight an accusing glare, she said,
“Why would Iain insist on the handfast ceremony if he intended to ransom me for more money?”

“You are a noblewoman. He is laird of his clan.
These Scottish Highlanders place honor above all else. Mayhap he thought the pagan rite would allow him to bed you whilst still maintaining his honor,” Sir Galen replied smoothly, clearly unperturbed by the pesky detail. “But I would have you know this, lady: Iain MacKinnon exchanged this handfast vow, well aware that it was naught but a tenuous bond easily broken when it suited his purpose.”

Again, Yvette could not dispute
the knight’s logic.

How
could I have been so blind? And so abysmally foolish.

Humiliated, Yvette
belatedly realized that she’d turned into the one thing she’d sworn all along she’d never become: Iain MacKinnon’s whore.

Once again a man ha
s used me like a trade good to be bartered in the public market place.
Naught but chattel.

Refusing
to let the heartache consume her – there would be time enough later to wallow in the pain – Yvette blinked away the telltale tears. Even though Iain had betrayed her, she was still the lady of Castle Maoil. And as the lady of the castle, she had one last act left to perform, the welfare of Clan MacKinnon her responsibility. Regardless of Iain’s duplicity.

Head held high
, Yvette leveled Galen with an unblinking stare. “Do I have your word that you will not now, nor any time in the future, return to Castle Maoil and exact your revenge?”

Sir
Galen returned her stare, Yvette unable to discern so much as a hint of deceit in his gray eyes.

“Y
ea, lady. I give you my word.”

“So m
ay it be,” she murmured. Then, knowing that she would have no further need of a weapon, she set the butcher knife on a nearby table.

Having secured t
he safety of the good people of Castle Maoil, there was nothing else for her to do save for the one thing she dreaded most; and that was to leave the misty isle.

Heartsick, Yvette let
Sir Galen de Ogilvy take her by the arm and lead her to the door.

“The devil take ye, Sibbald MacDougall!”

Iain’s bloodcurdling bellow rent the air as he suddenly sprang from the leafy bower where he and his men had been hiding. Charging forward, he held a sword in one hand and a battle ax in the other. Directly behind him, his kinsmen rushed forth, each screaming a savage battle cry.

Retribution will be sweet,
Iain avowed.

For the better part of the day t
hey’d been tracking the MacDougall. With the sunlight now quickly fading, Iain had decided to launch a surprise attack rather than wait until dawn. Because Sibbald and his cutthroat mongrels had stopped to make camp for the night, he’d deemed it a good time to attack.

As
Iain quickly scanned the pitched battle, he paid scant heed to the bevy of men who hoarsely screamed as they savagely thrust and viciously hacked at one another. Ignoring the ear-piercing din, he searched for his red-headed prey.

As if preordained, t
heir gazes clashed across the ferocious mêlée, Sibbald MacDougall throwing Iain a challenging sneer.

Knowing the contest had been a long time in the making, both m
en charged toward one another.

Suddenly, in his peripheral vision, Iain caught sight of a MacDougall clansmen co
ming at him with raised sword. Not breaking his stride, he hurled his battle ax at the attacker’s chest. An agonized scream ensued. Without looking, Iain knew that he’d hit his mark. Since there was no time to retrieve his ax, Iain gripped his sword in both hands.

In the next instant, he m
et Sibbald’s forward thrust, the force of the powerful swing vibrating the length of both his arms.

Again,
Sibbald’s sword came at him in a graceful arc, the blade making a slight whistling sound as it cleaved the air. Iain purposefully let his sword slide off Sibbald’s blade. Then, in a move he’d practiced a thousand times, he threw his weight onto the other foot, shifted, and came at Sibbald from the other side, his blade slicing deep into the muscled flesh of his enemy’s lower back.

“
That
is for taking me away from my woman,” Iain grunted.

Sibbald’s eyes widened in stunned disb
elief as he dropped his sword.

Merciless, Iain pulled his blade free and, holding the hilt in both hands, rammed it straight int
o Sibbald’s chest. “And
this
is for killing Hamish MacKinney at the auld standing stones! May ye rot in hell!”

Sibbald slumped to the ground, Iain’s blade still imbedded in his body.

Feeling no remorse, Iain observed Sibbald MacDougall in his death throes. He knew such men lie in an unquiet grave, peaceful slumber forever wrested from them, their sins following them into eternity.

As if proving
that very point, Sibbald’s lips curved in a demonic, blood-stained smile. “Beware the fiery cross,” he hissed, his voice barely audible. “’Tisn’t always what it seems.”

“What in bloody hell are ye jabbering about?”

“Yer woman no longer waits for ye. But fear no’ . . . I’ll be in hell awaiting yer arrival,” his foe whispered just before he went deathly still.

Iain stared at the dead Sibbald MacDougall in stunned disbelief as
the horrifying realization suddenly dawned on him.

Ach, Christ!
The fiery cross had been naught but a ruse.

“Love too hot and
fierce, burneth soon to waste,” Iain slurred drunkenly as he stared at the fire that blazed in the great hall’s massive hearth.

Casting Iain a disgusted sideways glance, Diarmid po
ured himself a dram of whisky. “God save me from drunken Scotsmen,” he muttered. “Look at ye, man. Ye ought to be ashamed of yerself.”

Iain readily acknowledged that he
ought
to be ashamed. Sprawled in his carved chair, his two wolfhounds at his feet and a flagon of whisky set before him, he made the perfect inebriate. He needed only a buxom wench on his lap to complete the dissolute picture.

I
once had a buxom wench
.

In fact, he wed the lady.
For a year and a day. Or so he thought. Until the wench departed for more enticing climes.

Damn Yvette!
Iain silently cursed, banging his fist upon the table. Damn her for being the siren that lured him to the rocks.

A
nd damn me for still wanting her.

Holding his goblet aloft,
he boomed, “The lady doth beguile my heart. I know not why. But I will desire her 'til I die.”

“Then what the bloody hell are ye doing sitting here making fooli
sh rhymes?” his cousin groused. “Why aren’t ye giving chase?”

Iain had declined to give chase for the simple reason that
when he returned to Castle Maoil, and had been apprised that Yvette
willingly
departed with that whoreson Galen de Ogilvy, it was as if his still beating heart had been ripped from his chest.

A type of pain that he was all too familiar with.

For three interminably long years he’d suffered a quiet loneliness . . . until Yvette came into his life. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, he’d begun to take notice of things – the color of the sky, the warm breeze blowing across a mountain glen, the sweetness of a honey-drenched cake. Before Yvette came to Castle Maoil, he’d been like a mummer, pretending to enjoy, to see, to taste.

Now he was alone again.

The devil take her!

Her handfast vow
to him had been naught but empty words. Proving that Yvette was no different than her lying, treacherous father.

Reaching
for the flagon of whiskey, Iain splashed a plentiful amount into his goblet; the only means by which he could obliterate the pain. Or, barring that, at least make it bearable.

“Is i
t true what they’re saying, that ye refused to take Lyndhurst’s gold?”

At hearing
Diarmid’s query, Iain felt a flush of warm blood stain his cheeks; a flush that had nothing to do with the whisky he’d just imbibed.

“Aye, ’tis true,” he confessed, s
till ashamed of what he’d done. “And damn my soul to hell for no’ avenging Kenneth’s death when I had the chance.”

Rather than berate him for failing his duty, Diarmid slapped
Iain on the back. With a commiserating smile, he said, “Ach, man, ye’ve got it bad for her.”

“And ye didn’t?”

“In my case, no’ so much was at stake.”

“
Ye had to remind me, didn’t ye?” Iain groused as he turned his head and stared glumly at the blazing fire.

A lengthy silence ensued, neither man inclined to speak, each lost in his own private reverie of
the woman he’d desired and lost.

“I wonder what instrument measures the
distance between earth and hell,” Iain said a few minutes into the silence.

His cousin stared at him as though he’d just spoken in tongues
. Picking up the flagon, he said, “Just how much of this have ye imbibed?”

“Enough to know that heaven does no’ exist here on earth
, and that a damned astrolabe is naught but a worthless instrument,” he answered, the reply crafted on a renewed burst of anger. “’Tis
hell
that exists on this earthly plane. But ’tis one of our own making.”

“And
our own choosing,” Diarmid said pointedly. “Which is no doubt why ye’re sitting on your arse crying in your whisky. If Yvette Beauchamp was my woman, I’d ride the length of Scotland
and
England to find her.”

“Well, she’s not your bloody woman!” Iain bellowed, slamming the flat of his hand on the wooden table. “She’s
my
bloody woman.”

“
In case ye haven’t heard, she’s about to become the Earl of Angus’ bloody woman.”

“Which is
her choice,” Iain grunted.

“Because the lady made a choice, it doesna mean she made the
right
choice. Or that she made that choice for the right reasons,” Diarmid argued.

“’Tis no’ my concern anymore,” Iain
said with a shrug.

“
Has it occurred to you that mayhap the lady left because she loves you?”

“And mayhap she left because she knows the king’s whereabouts and cou
ldna wait to notify her English kinsmen.”

“And mayhap ye’re not
the laird I took ye to be,” Diarmid retorted with a challenging stare. “There’s not a deceptive bone in Yvette Beauchamp’s body. If the lady swore true to ye, then she has remained true.”

“Then why the bloody hell didna she
remain
at Castle Maoil?” Iain stubbornly argued, getting to the true crux of the matter. “Christ’s blood! She took leave of her own free will.’”

“
How do you know that she left of her own accord? Is it not possible that she was—” Diarmid stopped in midstream as Laoghaire suddenly stormed into the great hall.

Only too
familiar with her volatile moods, both men winced.

Striding to the high table, Laoghaire
wordlessly yanked Iain’s goblet out of his hand and hurled it across the room toward the hearth, the whisky igniting a veritable fireball when it came into contact with the burning flames.

Brusquely jutting her chin at Iain, she shouted,
“Get on ye feet, ye drunken lout! Yer saddled horse has just been brought from the stables.”

“The devil take ye!” Iain roared
. As he lunged to his feet, the carved chair tipped over backwards. “I’m no’ going anywhere. What’s more, I’ve had my fill of opinionated women.”

“Ye’ve no’ had yer fill of the Sassenach
and ye know it!”

“Leave be!”

“D’ye even ken why she left?” Laoghaire goaded.

“
As I understand it, she had a better marriage offer from the Earl of Angus,” Iain muttered irritably.

“No doubt, she
did. But I suspect that is no’ the reason why she left with that cur de Ogilvy,” Laoghaire retorted, clenching her teeth when she spoke the knight’s name. “There is a bounty on King Robert’s head; put there by that pustule Edward Longshanks. Mayhap Yvette feared that de Ogilvy would carry out his threat and lay siege to Castle Maoil. If the castle fell, she knew ’twould be the end of Scotland. De Ogilvy and his men would only have to wait within the curtain walls for the king to traipse through the main gate.”

“Mere speculation, sister.
Ye have no proof of the matter.”

“I know for a fact yer wife bravely faced that black-clad knave,”
Laoghaire informed him, Iain surprised to hear his sister come to Yvette’s defense. “I dinna know what de Ogilvy said to her once they were alone, but—”

“The two of them spoke privately?”
Iain interjected, having been unaware until that moment that Yvette had granted the knight a private audience.

“Aye.
And then she left with him without so much as going to her bed chamber to retrieve her fur-lined mantle. Or her jewels,” Laoghaire pointedly added. “I stood on the battlements and watched as she rode away in the back of their cart. And I tell ye, brother, she had upon her face a most dazed expression . . . as if her world had suddenly come to an end.”

“I didna know ye could be so fanciful,” Iain snickered, trying not to ruminate overly long on the forlorn imag
e his sister’s words conjured.

“God’s teeth
! Ye’re naught but an oaf!”

Without warning
, Laoghaire seized the flagon of whisky and threw it against the stone wall behind Iain’s head, the ceramic vessel shattering on impact and splashing whisky onto the back of his head.

Taller than most men, Laoghaire belligerently stood with her ba
lled fists braced on her hips. “Now that I have yer full attention: can ye tell me why Yvette would have left the castle with her feet unshod unless the choice was not of her own making?”