Page 56 of Cottage in the Mist (Time After Time #3)

A large wooden door stood partially open.

She shifted slightly so that she could better see the room beyond.

A great room possibly. She could see tables.

And what looked to be a large group of men.

There were platters of meat and pitchers of ale.

Conversation rang out, punctuated with bursts of laughter.

At least someone was having a good time.

Gritting her teeth against the pain in her head and using the stone wall for leverage, she managed to push to her feet, the room spinning with the effort.

She stood for a moment breathing in and out until the whirling subsided.

Inching along the wall, using it to maintain her balance, she made her way over to the door and cautiously peered outside.

She’d been right; it was a great hall. The floor was littered with reeds and rushes and other things she’d just as soon not identify.

Torchlight barely illuminated the giant room.

The small windows were all shuttered for warmth or protection—or both.

A great fireplace dominated the room, half of a tree trunk burning inside the yawning cavity.

And like the room she’d awakened in, this one smelled of dirty bodies.

The sights and smells served as a rude reminder that she was far from the world of modern conveniences.

Seemed people here couldn’t even be bothered to find a bathroom.

Unless she missed her guess, this had to be Dunbrae.

She shivered, forgetting about creature comforts.

Frazier had said he’d take her to Malcolm.

And it appeared he’d succeeded. Fortunately, they’d not bothered with a guard.

But then again, maybe they hadn’t needed to.

The room she was standing in held only the one door.

And the only escape from the great hall appeared to be a large door in the opposite wall, that and an adjacent staircase going up.

Still, she couldn’t just stand here waiting to be discovered.

If the only way out was across the great hall, then she’d just have to figure out a way to get there.

She scanned the men in the room. They were sitting in clusters.

Most of them armed. And all of them eating and drinking.

Twenty, maybe thirty altogether. Not exactly great odds.

Moving amongst the men were several women.

Like the men, they seemed to be in a jovial mood, refilling a glass here or a platter there.

She watched as a man pulled a woman holding a platter down for a bawdy kiss and a pinch on the rear.

The woman offered no resistance, but she soon pulled free and moved on to serve another, a smile on her lips.

Lily fought a wave of dizziness, pressing her hands against the cool stone wall until the vertigo passed.

Her head was pounding, but she knew she hadn’t the luxury of waiting until she felt more stable.

Frazier would come for her sooner rather than later.

She scanned the room for her captor, relieved to see no sign of him.

Nor was there anyone sitting at the main dais.

Surely if Malcolm Macgillivray were present he’d be holding court at the table befitting his position as laird.

Which meant that just maybe, if she was lucky, she could make her way around the edge of the room to the doorway.

It was a long shot, but it beat the heck out of staying here and meekly awaiting her fate.

Removing her plaid from her shoulders, she wrapped it around her waist, fashioning it into a long skirt, using the broach to secure it in place.

Then she reached up and pulled the ribbon from her hair, shaking it free of its braid.

With her dark curls hanging around her face and shoulders, her hair would effectively screen her face as long as she kept her head down.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, she stepped into the great room, grabbing a pitcher from the nearest table. Hopefully they’d mistake her for a serving girl. At least long enough to get her through the door and out of the room.

She strode forward, head tipped toward the floor, heart hammering. She’d made it about halfway when suddenly a thick arm snaked around her waist. “Ach, and what have we here?” a deep voice asked, pulling her to an abrupt halt.

She risked a glance from beneath the veil of her hair. Whoever he was, he was huge. With a crooked scar that bisected his face, his hair was oily and he smelled so rank her stomach recoiled in rebellion again.

His lips parted in a feral smile, yellowed teeth bright against his dark beard. “Aren’t ye a bonny lass? I’ve no’ seen you afore. I’m thinking the laird has been hiding you away.”

He had no idea.

She gave him what she hoped was a careless shrug, and lifted her pitcher as she tried to pull herself free.

But the man was having none of it. “Ah, come on then, lassie, give us a kiss.” He pulled her closer and she fought the urge to gag.

It was hard to stay under the radar when one threw up all over a man.

“Please, sir, I’ve others to serve.” She sounded ridiculous, but it was that or bean the bastard with her pitcher, which most likely would only raise his ire and draw unwanted attention. She be damned if she’d let him touch her any more than he already had.

“Dinna be coy with me,” he growled. “Yer only purpose for being here is to please us. I heard it from the laird himself.”

For a moment, she thought he knew who she was, and then with horror she realized he thought she was a whore.

His big hands tightened on her waist, jerking her to him.

If she wanted to be free, she’d have to give the man a kiss.

Holding her breath, she gave him a peck and then tried to pull away again, but he was having none of it, his beady eyes filling with undisguised lust. “I’ll wager ye can do a wee bit better than that.

” His hand slid lower, his fingers kneading her bottom, pressing her against his erection.

She struggled, lifting the pitcher, thinking only of making him stop. But as if he’d read her mind, he reached up and plucked it away, tossing it onto the table. Then he pushed her against the wall beneath an alcove, shadows swallowing them from view.

She fought him openly now, but he was twice as big as she was and every bit as determined.

His putrid breath assaulted her as he leaned closer, holding her captive with his body, his hands pushing up her makeshift skirt.

His fingers reached the brooch holding it closed and he froze, looking down at the small salient cat.

“Mother o’ God,” the man growled. “Yer no’ one of the laird’s women. Yer the Comyn. The one that Frazier brought.”

She thought for a moment that he was going to push her aside, and even though she didn’t relish the idea of losing her freedom, captivity seemed better than what this man was offering. But she’d misinterpreted his reaction. Instead of pushing her away, he grabbed her more forcefully.

“I’ve a mind to show ye what we think of yer kind. But first I’ll bury myself so deep, I’ll tear you apart.” He shoved her over onto a table, ripping at her plaid.

Bile filled her throat, fear turning to panic.

He was going to rape her. Right here in front of all these people.

And no one was going to do anything to stop him.

Enraged, she struck out at him, kicking and biting and struggling for all she was worth.

But he was a big man, and he straddled her, holding her firmly in place.

“Now then, I’ll show you what a real man feels like.”

Tears gathered and she closed her eyes.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Tormond? Get your hands off the wench. She’s no’ for you.”

The man released her with a curse. “Mayhap when you’ve finished with her I’ll have a go.” With a last lascivious glance at her, he turned his back and walked away.

Lily sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes as her gaze collided with the man who’d rescued her.

Not exactly a savior—more likely a trade of one devil for another.

Although not as big as the man who’d attacked her, he was tall, and relatively clean.

But it was his eyes that gave away his identity, their cool icy blue currently devoid of any emotion as he assessed her.

Despite her disheveled state, she stuck out her chin. “Malcolm Macgillivray, I assume.” Behind him Frazier stood, eyes bulging, looking very much like the toad he truly was.

Malcolm dipped his head. “At your service, my lady. I understand felicitations are in order.”

She frowned, certain that she’d heard his voice before, but unable to place where or how.

“Your marriage,” he prompted, a flash of anger lighting his eyes. “My nephew is a lucky man.”

“Right. Lucky,” she responded, her own anger coming to the fore. “I find that rich coming from you. First you kill his father, then you take his home. And now his wife. What, may I ask, has my husband ever done to you to deserve all of this?”

His lips curled into a sneer. “He had the misfortune to be born to the wrong father.”

“But the right mother?” She knew she should watch her mouth, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. If possible, Frazier’s eyes had gone even wider. She pulled her focus back to Malcolm. “The one who had the audacity to choose your brother over you?”

His hand flashed out, striking her before she had time to realize what he was about. She lurched backward, the edge of the table saving her from a fall. “You’ve the tongue of a shrew.”

“And you’ve the manners of a swine,” she retorted, wiping away the blood that trickled from her mouth.

His gaze slid slowly from her head to her toes, lingering on her hips and breasts. “Believe me when I say that it will be a pleasure to bring you to heel,” Malcolm said, his sneer bordering on lechery now. “But first I need to deal with your husband. And what better bait than his lady love?”