Seduced by the Laird (Conquered Brides Series Book 2) (21 page)

They moved out, their footfalls silent on the grassy summer forest floor. Gregor must have walked at least two miles in every direction before his time was up, but he’d not found anything. Not heard anything. Couldn’t smell anything. Not even the smallest hint of a campfire. Didn’t even see the faintest glow of a candlestick.

Once more The Saint had vanished with the love of Gregor’s life.

Begrudgingly, he made his way back to camp, punching a tree as he arrived. The bark cut into his skin, and it released only a minor amount of his anger.

Fingall approached. “We’ll find her, my laird.”

“Swear to me, Fingall. Swear to me that ye’ll protect her.”

“I swear to protect her with my life this day and all days forward, just as I always have.”

Gregor lay on the bare ground, a plaid rolled up behind his head. He’d not slept in two days. And though his mind raced with every possibility, his body was exhausted. His knuckles throbbed. But if he didn’t sleep now, likely he’d be off his game in the morning, and he couldn’t risk it. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into a dead sleep.

A sleep that was not dreamless…

They were at Castle Buchanan. Outside, the rain pelted with fury against the castle walls. But inside could have been a sweet, summer day. Two dozen candles burned in their chamber. Kirstin was dancing around, legs kicking up to touch her knees, singing him a song she’d learned in the village of a lost lover.

“She came to him in the morning, dressed in fairy white. A song she sang, of love and glory amongst warrior’s might…”

Gregor reached for her. “Come here, my love, I will show ye my warrior’s might.”

Her head tilted back and she laughed, picking up the hem of her breezy chemise and sashayed forward. She grabbed up a bunch of grapes and sat on his lap, feeding him a globe of succulent fruit. Her body was warm, supple and fit so perfectly against him.

“Ye need not show me your warrior’s might.” She kissed his brow, his nose, his lips, sharing in the juice of the grape. “For I have seen it many times.”

Turning serious, he said, “I will protect ye always.”

She popped a grape into her mouth. “I know ye will.”

Gregor kissed her deeply, tasting sweetness, hoping to show her with his lips just how much he loved her. He stood up, lifting her in his arms and twirling her about. He kicked up the same jig she’d been doing, bouncing around while she squealed in his embrace.

“My god, ye are beautiful,” he whispered.

She touched his cheek, gazing with such affection into his eyes that his heart lurched behind his ribs. “So are ye.”

He loved her so damned much. If only he could find the courage to say the words. To tell her…

Gregor bolted upright, momentarily unaware of his surroundings and then the world came crashing back down around him.

Kirstin was still in the clutches of a madman.

Chapter Twenty-Two

For the past three days, Owen had become more and more irate, grumbling and murmuring and treating her roughly. At night, he’d taken to tying her to a tree and gagging her when they made camp, and then he would leave for hours on end, only to return with more curses spilling from his vile mouth.

Whatever sense of the Lord he’d had in him before had dissipated greatly, leaving nothing but a demon obsessed.

When she tried to ask him what had turned his mood, if only to get him to speak, perhaps to calm his fury, he only gnashed his teeth. And she had one good idea of what—or whom—it might be.

Gregor had to be on their tail. And he had to have many men with him, else Owen would have tried to take him out of the equation.

Luckily, she was right between her two saviors. If she could reach even one of them before Owen decided it was time to kill her. She hoped she could delay him or escape before that time came. Hope that soon she would be saved—either by her people at Scorrybreac, or by Gregor.

Gregor had to have found out where they were headed. To Skye, but most likely, he only knew to search for her at Nèamh, and not Scorrybreac.

Owen charged her, stabbing his dagger into the tree above her head, glowering down at her. Would this be the moment he put his threats into action? Spilled her blood. But then he backed away.

With all her might she called out to Gregor with her mind. Praying that some miracle of Fate would allow him to hear her.

He was close. She could sense it in her heart, not only in the increasing bad temper of her captor.

Once more they left their makeshift camp before dawn, traveling at high speeds. They rode through the day, racing toward the shallowest, southern part of Loch Ness and making their way across on horseback rather than securing passage on the ferry.

Owen wanted no one to see them. To remember them.

When they needed provisions, he tied her up, disappeared and returned with a satchel full. Never too much, but never too little.

He gave her enough food to keep the edge of hunger just at bay, but not enough for her to regain her strength completely. She was grateful that on one of his raids, he did bring her an ointment for her arms, and clean linens. She refused his help in administering the ointment, and instead cleaned her arms with whisky, though it burned and he balked at seeing his drink wasted. She didn’t care how he felt about it. There was no way she was going to allow herself to lose an arm because the fool had not allowed her to properly care for herself. The cuts and scrapes had scabbed and were healing well enough. They itched something fierce whenever she tried to fall asleep, which only told her they were well on their way to being healed completely.

The sun was high in the sky, and she guessed the time to be around noon or a little after. They’d ridden up yet another rise, and Owen had stopped to let his horse rest a moment and give her a chance to relieve herself. She guessed they might have been traveling a week or so.

“See there?” he asked, pointing in the distance beyond the tops of the fir trees.

“The castle?” Looming up below and surrounded by water was Eilean Donan Castle. Her square tower jutted into the clouds.

So many memories she had of that place. So many lovely memories.

“Aye.” Owen did not say more, instead ripped a piece of jerky from his satchel and began to chew on it as she imagined a wildcat would tear into the flesh of a rabbit.

“What about it?” she goaded, trying to get a sense of his thoughts.

They’d not talked much over the last few days, as every time she opened her mouth, he usually either stuffed a gag inside, or smacked her. For the sake of survival, she’d kept quiet, wanting to keep healing in the places she’d already been injured and to gather her strength. She was fairly certain now that the pain had dulled considerably that she’d only bruised her rib on the pommel and not broken one.

“Loch Alsh is just beyond the castle. And Skye, a boat ride away.”

Perhaps this was her chance. The time she should try to escape, even if it killed her. Once they made it to Skye, and he was on his way to Scorrybreac, he’d likely dispose of her as he’d threatened.

“How will ye get a boat without being seen?” she asked. “Ye didna want to ride the ferry at Loch Ness. Are we going to ride as south as we can to ford across?” Was there even such a point?

“I’m going to steal a boat,” he boasted, grabbing another piece of jerky and not offering her one.

There wouldn’t be a boat big enough to steal that his horse could fit on. “And your mount?”

“I will tether him to our boat and he can swim across.”

Kirstin swallowed down her fear. If the horse could swim no longer… If he grew tired… And he was tethered to the boat and he started to sink, they’d sink, too. This was a death trap. In her mind it was settled. She had to escape. Soon. While he was getting the boat.

“We’ll rest here until dark, and then I will steal a boat. We will go, when no one can see us.”

Owen started to undress, and Kirstin’s heart thudded loudly, and she was afraid he could smell her fear. Was now going to be the time that he raped her? That he made good on the hundred threats he’d shouted at her since he’d first abducted her?

She averted her eyes, not willing to look at his naked body. But he didn’t come near her. Instead he pulled on other clothes. A linen shirt, a plaid, a belt. He was dressing like a Highlander, and not like Warrior of God. He must have stolen the clothes.

He opened up his satchel and then tossed a worn gown her way, the fabric falling at her feet.

“Change,” he ordered.

She jutted her chin forward. “Untie me.”

Owen narrowed his eyes as he trudged forward. “Try to escape and I’ll gut ye.”

She believed him. He was crazed enough the past few days that he might simply do it before they even crossed. How many times could he have killed her? Three dozen at least. She’d offered him little to no information regarding Scorrybreac. Why would he keep her alive?

With the
sgian dubh
from his sock, Owen sawed at the rope around her wrists.

When the cord gave way, she rubbed at her sore skin.

“Turn around, please,” she asked.

“Nay.”

He would watch her. Fine. She wasn’t going to look at him. Kirstin stood quickly. She’d rush through this, not give him a chance to savor whatever it was he was looking for. She turned her back, then realized with her back turned she couldn’t see anything he was doing. He could pounce on her. Zounds, but if she spun back around he might take it as an invitation—and she was
certainly not
going to invite him to do anything. She couldn’t wait to be rid of this man.

Back to him it is.

Keeping her ears keen to his every movement, she worked at the ties of her habit, and divested it as quickly as she could, keeping her chemise in place. Then she bent, picked up the other gown and yanked it over her head, yanking it over her hips. It was a little snug in nearly all areas, tight around her shoulders, the bandages on her forearms, her breasts, waist and hips. It was probably a good inch too short. But it would have to do.

Dressed, she turned back around, her face void of emotion, gaze toward his feet.

“Take off your hood.”

She unpinned the hood from her hair and then tugged out the ribbon holding her hair in a plait and combed through her locks with her fingers, until she felt she’d sufficiently gotten rid of the tangles. She re-plaited it and tied the ribbon at the end.

“I can see why Gregor and John are infatuated with ye.” Owen’s voice had taken on a husky tone.

Kirstin ignored him.

“Ye are a vision.” He stepped closer, lowered his head, and she was afraid he’d repeat that bruising kiss he’d given her days before against the boulder.

“I am a nun. To violate me is to violate God’s daughter,” she spoke to the air beside him.

Owen grunted, and grabbed hold of her elbows, pinching. “I am God’s soldier. If I think it necessary to feel the lushness of your body around my cock, then I will see it done. Besides, we both know ye aren’t pure. Moreover, God might will me to meet out your punishment.”

She swallowed hard, refusing to say another word. But if he tried to rape her, she would not be meek. She’d scratch his eyes out, manage to steal his dagger and stab him to death. And then she’d beg forgiveness for her sins. She’d gotten good at that.

Owen shoved her down, and she fell to her knees, catching herself with her hands before her head hit the ground. He dropped behind her, pressed his erection against her buttocks, but did not grapple with her skirts. Even still she clawed her way forward and away from him. He let her go, chuckling in that evil, vile way he had.

“Ye see? If I wanted to, I could have ye,” he said.

She wondered if that was all he wanted, the threat of raping her hanging over her head.

He grabbed her discarded habit and hood and added it the pile of his own clothes.

“Dig.”

She rolled over onto her bottom, staring up at him. “What?”

“Dig a fucking hole.”

Kirstin swallowed, grateful that instead of being raped, she was just digging. But, oh, heavens, why was she digging? Was he making her dig her own grave? Dressing her in common clothes so when her body was discovered no one would be the wiser as to who she was?

Kirstin shook her head.

Owen backhanded her so hard, she fell to the side, lip stinging, blood metallic on her tongue.

“Dig.”

She grabbed a stick and jabbed it into the earth. Repeatedly. Pretending it was his face, his chest, his groin. She mentally killed him over and over again.

She used her hands to scoop the loosened earth, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Wanting to rush him and jab the stick for real into his flesh.

She dug for what felt like hours until finally he told her that was enough.

He dumped their clothes in the hole.

“Cover it up,” he ordered, then turned his back poking around in the satchel again.

So it was not her grave. Relief rushed through her, making her hands shake more than they had already.

This was her chance to leave another clue, she grabbed for her hood, planning on tossing it behind a tree, when the man whirled back around.

“Dinna even think of leaving one of your damned breadcrumbs. The bastards have been on our arses for days. And it’s all your fault.” The last words, he bent and screamed into her face.

Kirstin reeled back from his anger. The man was going mad. She had to escape before they reached their destination. Because the more she thought on it, the more she realized, he had no use for her. Especially if he’d made her change into normal clothes. Dressed as a nun, she could have gotten them entry into Scorrybreac as two church missionaries. Dressed as common folk, there was no reason for the gates to be opened to them.

She finished burying the clothes, stuffing a sharpened rock up her sleeve that she’d found, and then sat in silence, watching him pace and mutter to himself until the sun came down.

As it started to set, he pulled out the familiar length of rope and tied her tightly to the tree, then stuffed the rag into her mouth.

“Dinna make a sound. I’ll return after I have the boat.” He slunk into the woods, the sounds of his footsteps echoing in time with her heartbeat and soaring hope.

Well, she didn’t plan to be there when he returned.

She would cut through this rope and make a run toward Eilean Donan, hoping that someone in the village would take pity on her, remember her, and keep her safe.

Kirstin worked to get the sharp stone from her sleeve and when she finally had it, she closed her eyes and murmured prayers as she gently sawed at the rope, nearly dropping the stone thrice. One tendril of the rope sprung free and she blew out a breath, giving her stiff fingers only a moment to recoup, then she sawed again until the next twine snapped, and then the next. She worked tirelessly, intent on getting loose and at long last, the final bit of her bindings snapped free.

“Thank the saints,” she muttered, pressing her hands together and looking up at the darkened sky, willing the blood to return to her appendages. “I will pray more later. But right now, I must escape.”