Wee William's Woman, Book Three of the Clan MacDougall Series (54 page)

It was not peace that Gillon sought, but war.

The only question Bree had was
why.

Why did Gillon want war when peace was within reach? Her only conclusion was that he was evil incarnate and insane. That combination could prove deadly if one wasn’t careful.

Although she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep, her instincts told her to remain as alert and vigilant as possible. Not only did her own life depend on it, so did the lives of countless others. Knowing that others could die if she were not careful gave Bree a sense of determination and will.

As she fought to remain awake, she thought of her mother and father. Bree sent a silent promise to them on the night breeze. She would die before she let any harm come to her family or those that she loved. Making that solemn promise to herself somehow made her feel closer to her father than she thought possible. Suddenly, she realized what her father had meant and mayhap how he had felt on those occasions he had made similar promises.

To fight to your own death was not an empty promise lightly made. They were not words spoken to gain attention or to appear bigger or stronger. They were words spoken from the heart.

Bree knew with out a doubt that her father would look for her. Nothing would stop him from finding her. Certainly they had realized by now that she was missing. She felt better believing that her father would find her, one way or another.

Twenty-Eight

B
ree’s resolve and strength had faded, replaced by exhaustion. Gillon had refused to stop and continued to push them southward. As the hours wore on, it began to be too much work to keep her eyes open or her instincts on full alert. She finally succumbed and rested her head against the neck of her horse.

Hours had passed by before Gillon finally brought them to a stop. Bree was rousted from sleep by someone yanking her from her horse. She hadn’t had time to react before she fell on her rump with a thud. She cursed under her breath as she tried to stand.

“Be careful with the wench, ye fool!” Gillon laughed from atop his horse. “That be me future wife yer treatin’ so unkindly.”

Bree was not as amused as Gillon and was quite tempted to remove the sgian dubh from her boot and send it hurling straight at his heart. But her hands were still bound and her fingers shook from lack of food and sleep. She did not want to risk missing for they might then think to search her for more weapons.

She struggled to her feet, dusted the dirt from her dress with her hands and looked at her surroundings while she stretched her weary bones. She had no idea if they were on Bowie lands yet but did not dare make an inquiry.

Gillon came to stand directly behind her and he placed his hands on either side of her waist. Bree tamped down the revulsion that came with his touch, but could not steady her breathing.

“The men are makin’ us a tent to rest in fer the night,” he whispered in her ear.

There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him but did not put them to voice. She doubted he would take it kindly if she were to knee him in the groin and warn him to keep his filthy hands off her. Bree was no fool.

“But I doubt we’ll get much rest,” Gillon said as he pressed a kiss against her neck.

The grogginess and longing for sleep left her immediately. The hair on her neck stood at full attention as her stomach tightened. She knew full well what his intentions were and she’d have no part in it. She’d cut off his man parts before she allowed them anywhere near her person.

Gillon left her to stand alone next to her horse, with her hands still bound and fear slowly creeping in.

Please, da, she prayed quietly, please get here soon.

Nora’s plan to kill Horace had failed miserably. He had searched her before he set her atop the horse and had found her sgian dubh. Without it she knew she was defenseless but she was not without hope. In her heart she knew that William would eventually come for her. Hopefully, this time he would kill Horace, even if Angus ordered him not to. That was, if he ever came for her.

The further they rode away from Dunshire, the more Nora doubted a timely rescue. As the hours turned into days, she began to believe no one would come for her. Mayhap they believed she had left voluntarily or worse yet, William was injured or killed while trying to save Bree. The thought of William dying left her feeling as though someone had reached into her chest and grabbed her heart with his fist, squeezing it until it barely beat. It made her ill and on more than one occasion she retched from atop her mount. Horace would not even allow her the decency of water to clean her mouth or face.

Though she had been angry with William, she had not wished him any harm to come to him. She still loved him, no matter if there was a possibility that she was still married to Horace. As far as she was concerned, Wee William was her husband and she would love him to her dying day. That day might arrive sooner than she wanted if no one came for her.

They had ridden across Scotland at breakneck speeds, rarely stopping, and never resting for more than an hour at a time. Donald worried over the fact that Nigel had not yet caught up with them.

“He can take care of himself,” Horace told him.

“What if they caught him?” Donald worried, growing more apprehensive as the hours passed.

“Then you should pray they cut his tongue out before he had the chance to tell them where we’re going.”

“He’s your brother for the sake of Christ!” Donald shouted as they rode fast, heading for Firth. “Do you not care for anyone but yourself?”

Nora knew Donald’s question to be rhetorical. A complete stranger would be able to answer that question within moments of meeting Horace. His selfishness knew no end.

It was early morning when they reached the outskirts of Firth. Horace brought them to a stop and pulled Nora from her horse.

“Do you remember the last time I brought you to Firth?” he asked as he bound her hands with rope.

How could she forget when she had scars on her wrists to remind her? Humiliation set in, no matter how hard she tried to stop it. He was going to drag her through Firth again. This time he would probably declare to all within ear shot that Nora was a bigamist, a whore who had married another man, a Scot no less, while still married to Horace. What terrified her most was the belief that he would take her back to the cottage and throw her in the cellar again. This time she knew she would not make it out alive. He would leave her there to die. Nigel would not be there to drop down bread or water.

Nora truly did not care what the people of Firth thought of her. She knew the truth.

“Had you been a better wife to me Nora, I wouldn’t have to punish you so harshly,” Horace said pulled on the rope. It rubbed against her existing scars, sending raw sensations up to her neck.

“Had you been a better husband, I could have been a better wife,” Nora shot back.

The back of his hand hit hard across her cheek, but she remained on her feet. Her mouth began to bleed from where her teeth cut into her cheek. She spat on the ground, her steely resolve returning full force.

It didn’t matter anymore what she said or did, she was helpless to stop him. She decided to finally tell him what she thought of him. “You are a selfish, perverted man, Horace Crawford, and I know there is a special place in hell for you.”

Horace yanked on the rope again before climbing back onto his horse. “Aye, but you’ll get there before me.”

She could see the fury in his eyes and knew her death was inevitable.

As he pulled her along the road to Firth, she could only think of John, Elise and Wee William. She prayed that William would continue to raise the children, that he would not send them back to England. If anything had happened to him, she prayed that Aishlinn and Duncan would keep her brother and sister. Aishlinn was her friend and she would know what to do with John and Elise. It did make her feel better knowing that Aishlinn would care for them, that she would not let anything happen to them.
 

She fell and scraped her knees and hands as Horace hurried her along. He yanked her to her feet, looking pleased with her inability to keep up. Nora wished she could wipe that hateful sneer from his lips.

Donald said nothing, his face filled with anger as he rode behind Nora. Part of her wished that Horace would just kill her and be done with it. But nay, he would have to humiliate her first. That was where he gained his pleasure, in the suffering and degradation of others.

They were halfway to Firth when Horace called out to Donald. “Ride ahead and tell the sheriff I have an adulteress and a whore of a wife I wish to punish.”

Donald mumbled something indiscernible as he kicked his horse into a full run. Nora hoped his horse would toss him and break his neck before he made his way to the village.

Nora fell several more times before they reached the center of Firth. They passed vendors and villagers, people Nora had known most of her life. Not one lifted a finger to help. Had they been Highlanders or MacDougalls, Nora knew many of them would have intervened. Either they were too afraid of Horace or they simply did not care what was happening to her. She never missed Scotland as much as she did as she walked by these people.

Donald seemed both irritated and disgusted as he waited with the sheriff outside his office. Apparently the sheriff had not missed too many meals, and if he by chance were to miss one, he could have feasted off the bits of food that clung to his dirty tunic. Short, squat and grubby, he held a leg of mutton in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other.

The sheriff appeared perplexed as he watched Horace pull Nora toward him. When she was but a few steps away from Donald and the sheriff, Horace yanked her off her feet with a strong pull of the rope. Obviously the sheriff was unmoved by Horace’s mistreatment of Nora for his only response was to take a bite of mutton as he watched the spectacle taking place before him.

Nora fell forward, the dirt and tiny rocks digging into her knees and knuckles. Her wrists burned and her hands were swollen from the tight bond of the rope. She was covered with dirt, grime, sweat, and vomit and imagined she must look like a wild animal.

A small crowd of villagers had begun to form around them. Not much excitement ever happened in this small village. A man dragging his wife through the street brought forth a good deal of curiosity.

“What the bloody hell are you doin’ Horace Crawford?” the sheriff asked.

“I want my wife punished. She’s an adulteress and a bigamist. She ran off weeks ago and married a filthy Scot.”

The sheriff looked at Nora. “Is that true?”

Nora pushed herself to her feet and held her head high. “Nay, it isn’t.” She began to argue that their marriage had been annulled—at least by Scottish standards, but Horace yanked on the rope again. This time however, Nora was better prepared. She planted her feet firmly and with what little strength she had left, she pulled back on the rope. Her actions inflamed Horace and he pulled again, this time with more effort and anger. She fell face first in the dirt.

“She’s a liar as well. Donald can vouch that I speak the truth.”

The sheriff turned to Donald who leaned against the doorway of the sheriff’s office with his arms folded across his chest. Donald’s disgusted expression was easily read.

“Well?” the sheriff asked.

Donald answered with a shrug of his shoulders, as if he didn’t give a damn about anything.

Nora assumed Donald’s silence was his way of avoiding outright lying to the sheriff. His reticence proved Nora’s opinion correct. Donald was just as much a coward as Horace. Though she had not expected him to come to her defense, his silence still irked her. Silently, she wished them all to go to the devil.

The sheriff harrumphed before taking another bite of his mutton. He stared at Nora as he wiped the grease onto the sleeve of his shirt. He studied her quietly for a moment before looking up at Horace.

“’Tis your right as her husband to have her punished for her misdeeds. How do you want to do it?”

The evil sneer that Nora had come to loathe resurfaced on Horace’s face. “The hole,” he said as he glared at Nora.