Kilts and Daggers (16 page)

“Nay, he's nae all right. He's dead, and ye will be too if ye donna shut your mouth, ye English cunt.”

Fear and anger knotted inside her. She breathed in quick, shallow gasps as her mind swirled. Fagan had been struck over the head—the same as Kat had fallen and hit her head. Fagan was only injured. He needed to be patched up and most certainly required stitches, but he was not dead. It would take far more than some paid assassin and a bump on the head to send Fagan Murray to his maker. The steely captain would not fall so easily. But when she didn't hear any sound from him, panic was rioting within her. She clenched her hand until her nails entered her palm. Hot tears trickled down her cheeks, and she bit her lip to control her sobs.

Heaven
help
her.

What if the man was telling the truth? Fagan's last memory of her was one of pure disgust. A cold knot formed in her stomach. Their relationship could not end like this. It couldn't. She was a lady, and he was a Highland captain. Didn't he know that she had to fight him? It was in her blood. She was English.

How could she have openly admitted that a secret part of her wanted to be with him, desired to be his wife? How could she have been expected to give in so easily and tell the man she loved him? The truth was that she didn't give a damn if he was a lowly captain, but she had to respect her father's wishes and set an example for Elizabeth and Kat. After all, that's why she became betrothed to Daniel in the first place.

When An Diobhail moved forward, she cringed, knowing the animal stepped near Fagan's body. The mere thought tore her apart. Any moment now she had to wake up from this nightmare. Dire thoughts continued to stab away at her, and this time she could no longer help herself. A sob escaped her. She'd had to watch Fagan Murray get pummeled over the head and buckle to the ground before she could admit that she loved him. How could she be so foolish? How could she realize her feelings so late? And now she was made to endure a cruel punishment as the mercenaries forced her to ride Fagan's mount, the last piece of anything she had left of him.

“Please…I beg you not to leave the captain on the path. If he is truly… He deserves to be buried,” she cried out. “You can't leave him like this! You can't! I won't leave him!”

One of the men chuckled. “Och, donna worry your bonny head about it. He isnae on the path. I threw him in a ditch.”

When the other men laughed in response, Grace wept aloud. She didn't care who heard her. She couldn't wait for the opportunity to place her dagger straight into their blackened hearts.

She knew they followed the path for some time by the sound of hooves pounding the dirt, but when the horses veered off into the trees, she lost all sense of direction. All she could hear were the snaps of branches and twigs rustling beneath… Wait a moment. Was that the sound of the sea in the distance? She tried to pay close attention.

A breeze picked up and she could smell the salt air. Where were they taking her? They rode at least another few hundred yards and stopped. Someone pulled her roughly off the saddle and she was unsteady on her feet. A hand wrapped around the fleshy part of her arm with a grip of steel.

“You're hurting me.”

“'Tis the least of your worries. Hurry up.” She stumbled along beside the man and could barely keep up.
“Feuch nach tuit thu. Gabh air do shocair.”

Grace stopped, shaking off his arm. She spoke between clenched teeth. “If you want me to understand what you're saying, you're going to have to stop speaking Gaelic. Perhaps if you take this bag off my head and I could see where I'm—”

“Watch your step and shut your mouth, wench.”

“I am a lady, you—”

She didn't finish her words because pain shot up her arm. When she fell to her knees in agony, the ground was hard beneath her. The man lifted her to her feet and then tossed her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing at all. He carried her for what felt like an eternity and continued speaking to the other men in Gaelic. She no longer felt the warmth of the sun on her back, and the air changed to cool and damp. They made their way toward what sounded like a rattling chain. The squeak of a metal door opened, and Grace was placed back down on her feet. Her wrists were unbound and the sack was pulled off her head.

Torchlight blinded her. She squinted, needing time to adjust to the light. When a firm hand shoved her into a darkened nook and the door slammed behind her, she quickly realized she didn't need time to adapt.

The torch disappeared with the men and so did her sight.

Grace stumbled blindly into the darkness. She held out her arms in front of her and couldn't even see her hands when she waved them mere inches from her face. Shuffling her way across the gritty floor, she reached a wall and rubbed her fingers over the cool stone. She had to be in some type of cave. Of course she was. The bloody mercenaries had housed her in the cliffs near the sea.

She sat down with her back pressed against the wall. Pensively, she looked out into the darkness, as if she had anywhere else to gaze at the moment. Fagan's name echoed in the black stillness of her mind. The dreaded nightmare played over and over, creating an unbearable pain in her head. Even now, she swore she could feel the blade at her throat as she was forced to watch Fagan fall to the ground lifeless—not that she knew for certain he was.

Girding herself with resolve, she decided that until she saw his body, she refused to acknowledge that he was dead. She had to believe he was all right because if she didn't, she'd lose her own will to survive. And she wouldn't give in so easily without a fight, especially to the bloody Scots.

Grace drew a deep breath and forced herself to settle down. She forbade herself to tremble. After all, she was the one who had plagued Ravenna about learning spy craft. More to the point, Grace was a Walsingham. She only wished the actual spy in the family would've instructed her instead of evading her questions. Now she was left with no words of wisdom and forced to follow her own instincts, something that past experience told her could be dangerous.

Although these big brutes had caused her pain, they hadn't made any attempt to kill her—yet. That meant they needed her alive because they wanted something. But what could she possibly possess that these men would want? Until she knew the answer, she'd keep her ears open. Unfortunately, her eyes were wide open, but she couldn't see a darned thing.

She sat on the stone floor of her prison for hours. When she felt as if the walls were closing in on her, she pulled herself to her feet and held out her arms in front of her. She took small steps until she reached the metal door. Running her fingers over the frame, she discovered the door was made of wood and had metal bars at eye level.

“Is anyone there?” When no one responded, she called out again. “Can anyone hear me?”

Grace could barely make out a faint flickering light in the distance, but she didn't think she had imagined it. As she waited behind the first barricade that stood between her and her freedom, the unsavory Scots being the second obstacle, the light grew brighter as the flame reflected from the passage wall. When one of the men approached the door, the torch he held not only illuminated the cavern but also confirmed that she was being held in a small nook in the cliffs.

His black eyes impaled her. “What do ye want?”

She recognized the Scottish cur as the one who had struck Fagan, and it took a tremendous amount of restraint not to reach through the bars and strangle the bastard with her bare hands. She swore she'd have her revenge, but she couldn't afford to make careless mistakes. “I want to speak to the man in charge.”

“I'm in charge.”

She couldn't help but smirk. “Now I know that isn't true. I demand to speak to your captain.”

“Watch your tone, ye English wench. He'll speak to ye when he's good and ready.”

“Then perhaps you can give him a message for me.” When the vagrant didn't respond, she added, “Please tell your captain that unless he intends on starving me to death or leaving me here to rot in this cold, dark cave by catching the ague, I need food, water, blankets, and a candle.” The man turned his back on her, and she called after him. “Can you at least leave the…” He was gone. “Torch.”

Grace leaned her back against the door and slid to the ground with a huff. She brushed her hands over her face and smoothed her hair. Once her thoughts strayed from plotting the demise of Fagan's assailant, she tried to think of a way in which to use her dagger and make her escape. Perhaps she'd take the captain hostage, the same as he had done while holding a blade to her throat. She was thankful that she had some wits remaining because she was able to recognize that her idea was absurd. The man was a mountain and she was a valley in comparison.

The bolt slid, and Grace stood. The door swung open, and the same vile man returned. He placed the lit torch in a crack in the wall outside the door and handed her a tankard of water. Then, casting her a scornful look, he tossed some blankets to the ground with indifference. A small piece of bread fell onto the gritty floor and rolled into the corner.

“How kind of you,” she said dryly.

He gave her a sinister grin and closed the door behind himself.

“Wait!” She rushed to the bars, trying not to spill the water. “What about the candle?”

The bloody cur had the nerve to smirk. “Be thankful the captain gave ye what he did. Now shut your mouth, wench!” He lifted the torch from the wall and once again disappeared into the dark passage.

She placed her back against the door and took a drink of water. The beastly man couldn't even leave her a candle. On second thought, perhaps it was best she couldn't see the room or the food for fear of what that entailed. When she finished what little she had for a meal, she covered herself with a blanket. She hadn't slept and knew she needed to stay sharp. She'd close her eyes if only for a moment.

* * *

Grace fell asleep in blackness and woke up to the same. The misery of her predicament still haunted her, and there was sourness in the pit of her stomach. When she realized she'd wallowed in despair long enough, she permitted her rebellious nature to surface. She'd been confined long enough. She wasn't certain, but this had to be a new day. And she was determined to get answers.

She made her way to the door and hesitated. When she didn't hear anything, she called out. “Hello! Is anyone there? Can you hear me?” When no one responded, she bellowed, rattling the bars on the door. Nothing or no one stirred, but she would continue to scream until someone came.

Several moments passed. Filled with disgust, she turned away from the door. She reached around on the gritty floor, somehow managing to wrap her fingers around her tankard. She'd get the bloody captain's attention one way or another. She banged the metal cup against the bars on the door, the sound reverberating throughout the cave. She pounded, screamed, kicked, and banged some more. Finally, a light appeared at the end of the passage and started moving toward her. As the light came closer, one very angry, scarred captain thundered toward her.

He held up the torch to the bars. “What the hell do ye want? Unless ye want me to come in there and beat ye for your insolence, shut the hell up.”

Grace stood to her full height, but her stance wasn't as daunting as she had hoped it would be. “Why do you hold me? Do you seek ransom?”

“Ransom? I assure ye that we are all verra well paid.”

“Please…” She glanced around her nook. “I'm not going anywhere. Tell me what you want. Perhaps I can help you.”

“Ye already have.”

“I don't understand.”

“I donna care. This is your last warning. Keep your mouth shut.”

She tried to speak in a calming tone. “I know you want something from me, because I'm still alive, but you can't keep me locked up in here without food or water. If you want me to stay hale, I'll need those things.” When she saw the steely look in his eyes, she added, “Please, captain. I'm sure you'll recover whatever it is you seek. I'm still your prisoner, locked within the stone walls. You're in command.”

He nodded in response and turned his back on her.

“And a candle.”

He took a few steps away from her before he muttered, “Shut your mouth, and I'll think about it.”

That conversation went better than she had anticipated. At least the man didn't harm her, and she'd be provided food and water. Now she just had to find out what these men were after. Tired of sitting forever in the dark, she stood by the door and waited for someone to return. What she wouldn't give to have light!

Being in the dark enclosure made Grace lose all sense of time, but once again, light was shining through the bars. The seedy captain opened the door and placed the torch in the stone wall. He entered with bread, cheese, and water in hand and gazed around her cell, his eyes resting on the blankets on the floor. When his expression wasn't as angry as before, she said a silent prayer of thanks that he finally recognized her conditions were far from acceptable. After he placed the food on her blanket and the jug of water on the floor, he took a frank and admiring look at her. She cast her eyes downward.

“Thank you for the food and water.”

“Take off your dress.”

Grace was too startled by his words to offer any kind of objection and was shocked when his eyes suddenly twinkled in amusement. She stared at him, tongue-tied. Her sister had given her fair warning that if Grace wanted to serve the Crown, she'd have to lie with men to obtain the information she was sent to retrieve—all for the sake of king and country. But there was no way, as long as Grace lived and breathed, that she would ever… She could not even begin to imagine that bloody Highlander's hands on her—or worse.

A shiver ran down her spine.

“Mayhap ye didnae hear me, eh? I said… Take. Off. Your. Dress.”

“Oh, I heard you just fine.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you think for one moment that I will permit you to touch me… I'd sooner die than have your hands on me.”

The man lifted his arm, smacking her hard across the face with the back of his hand. She saw stars and they weren't from the sky. The pain in her jaw almost knocked her unconscious, but she fought to remain coherent.

“I ne'er said my
hands
would be touching ye.”

She brought her fingers to her cheek. She knew what he meant and choked back a sob when she thought of Fagan. Let the bastard try and touch her again. She'd pull out her blade and cut off his manhood before he even realized he was no longer a man.

Heaven help her. She had to think. If she attempted to use her only weapon now and he took it, she'd lessen her chance of escape. She needed to wait for the perfect time and use the element of surprise. But if he forced her into something she was not willing to do, she'd be left with no choice.

“Did ye think I wouldnae want something in return for the food and water? I am nae that generous.”

Her temper flared, and she spoke between clenched teeth. “You can beat me until my very last breath, but I will never—”

He stepped around her, eyeing her as if she was his next meal. “And what makes ye think, ye English cunt, that I need your consent to take what is already mine? Ye are my prisoner, my lady. Kneel before me.”

When she stood her ground, refusing to budge, he pinched the top of her shoulder. Pain shot through her neck and shoulder, bringing her to her knees before him. He lifted his kilt, and his disgusting manhood jutted out in front of her eyes. Fagan was the only man she'd ever seen. And Fagan was twice the man in every sense of the word.

The captain leaned toward her. “Take me into your mou—”

Grace threw back her head and let out great peals of laughter. She needed to tread carefully. A few “ladies” at court had said that men compared the size of their manhood with one another. She hadn't been exactly sure what that meant at the time, but presently, this was the only idea that came to mind.

Stealing another quick glance at his man parts, she chuckled. “That's all you have to offer? I've seen a bigger cock on a newborn babe!”

He shifted his weight. “Stop laughing.”

Not only didn't she stop, but she continued, louder. She may have even pointed. “I cannot believe you threatened me with
that
.”

He dropped his kilt and covered himself, but was not soon enough. Stepping around her, he kicked the jug into the wall. Water spilled to the ground—her water. He took the food from the blanket, turned on his heel, and strode through the door. The lock jiggled, and he lifted the torch from the wall.

“Donna test me. There are other ways to make a lass heel.”

She'd gone and done it now. Even though she prevented the man from taking her body against her will—at least for now—she'd lost her supply of food and water. This was the first time Grace thought perhaps she'd been wrong all along in believing that she could master spy craft. Worse yet, she had a hard time admitting that maybe Ravenna was right.

* * *

Another Scottish dog dared to enter her private hell, placing food on her blanket and another jug of water on the floor. Dirt and filth matted his long, red hair and his tunic was torn. He wore a plaid of the same colors as the bloody captain, and she realized they were all made from the same cloth.

Grace dropped to her knees and didn't even wait to pour the water into a cup. She drank straight from the jug, and he chuckled. The cool liquid soothed her throat and she couldn't get enough.

“Do ye want me to bring ye more?”

“Yes, please.” She coughed and then gulped more water, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. She grabbed a chunk of bread and a piece of cheese. “And more food if you can spare it.”

“More food? I've ne'er seen a lass eat as much as a man.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn't neglect giving her food and water. How long has it been?”

“Two and a half days. And ye should try nae talking to the captain with such a sharp tongue. He did this to teach ye a lesson. Did ye learn it?”

She nodded.

“Good. I'll bring ye more food and water.” He closed the door behind him and left the torch in the wall outside the door. While she quenched her thirst and appetite, she felt drained, hollow, and lifeless. Her heart was aching for Fagan, and her stomach pained her from hunger. She hastily broke what was left of the bread and cheese in half, hiding the pieces within the folds of her blanket. She wouldn't risk losing anything that would aid in her survival again.