Page 22 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

The man rode unhurriedly through the drizzle towards Moor Cottage. Its thatched roof was old and heavy with mould. The door was hanging off its hinges, and inside, there was no comfort beyond a rickety table dotted with rat droppings, two chairs and an old bed. The wind whistled through the gap in the door frame, but she was impervious to the chill as she paced, slapping her riding whip against her palm. Her zeal for vengeance kept her warm.

He entered hesitantly. God, he was so weak and dull. His face was unremarkable in every way - scrawny, ill-bred, sallow, lacking any virtue. You could spend hours in his company, but days later, you could not recall his face. She smiled. Being beneath one’s notice was a good quality for a spy.

She would never escape notice, for she was beautiful. Eyes followed her wherever she went. Beauty was her greatest gift, and she wielded it with great skill. It didn’t hurt that she had a keen mind, too, one that juggled plots and schemes effortlessly.

‘You are late,’ she snapped as the fool gave a clumsy bow.

‘A thousand pardons, Lady. The roads are treacherous.’

‘As is keeping me waiting. What news of my enemies?’

‘Strachan leaves himself exposed. He is constantly challenged by men who would replace him, and the more livestock he loses, the more his clansmen think he is a weak man, not fit to lead. I have stirred up his tenants to bring a steady stream of complaints. They plague him day and night. If it was summer, I could send men to fire his crops, but it is not the season for it.’

‘Do not prattle about things you cannot do. Tell me what damage you have done to his fortunes with the coin I paid you.’

The fool’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed nervously. ‘Lady, I beg forgiveness. Fellscarp does not have much in the way of riches, and one cannot steal from beggars.’

Her hands fisted with bitterness. ‘Fellscarp was once grand and prosperous, and now I have to watch its decay. Make no mistake. It was glorious once, and it can be again.’

‘I could hasten the end,’ said the man. ‘It would be the work of a moment to take Strachan’s life on a dark path one night.’

‘So, finally, you show some imagination. But, no. Too quick and painless. I want that worm to suffer inside as I have suffered. I want his soul to empty as he slowly loses everything he holds nearest and dearest. I want to shrivel every scrap of manhood that mongrel has.’

‘He is fond of his sister,’ offered the man.

‘Aye, perhaps I could send someone to seduce her.’ She laughed. ‘That would break his heart, for sure.’

‘Aye, Mistress.’

‘Not you, of course. You are hardly likely to turn a lass’s head. But some other young blood could do it.’

The man reddened. ‘You could try, but she is a wild bitch, and comes and goes when she pleases. She seems to have nothing to do with men other than the rough louts she keeps company with. And she has not been heard of for weeks. But that other slut might be easy pickings.’

‘What slut?’

The man stood up straighter, emboldened by knowing something she did not. How pitiful he was, like a cat laying a mouse at its master’s feet, as he said, ‘Strachan has taken a mistress. A great beauty, or so they say. Her name is Connie, and she was once some rich man’s mistress in the Highlands.’

‘Then why is she bedding down with a filthy lowborn like Peyton?’

He shrugged. ‘We all fall from grace eventually, and some women like opening their legs for an animal if there’s coin in it,’ he said. His throat worked as he realised what he had said.

The snivelling wretch had just kicked her in her pride, for had she not fallen from grace? Had she not lost her chivalrous, handsome brother Robert, who she loved more than life, her home at Fellscarp, her position and wealth? Her degradation had sent her begging on her knees to men she despised – bumbling fools or cold-handed, cruel men who revolted her.

She kept the wound from showing on her face. It was a rare talent when she had the urge to press her thumbs to the man’s eyes for his insolence, feel her fingernails sink into his eyeballs until they ran red. But it never paid to show folk what you really thought of them, and when she was done with her spy, he could be despatched easily enough.

The man made a pathetic attempt to placate her as she skewered him with a glare. ‘The Warden, Lady. Can he not help in your cause to right the wrong done to you?’

‘He is much occupied clearing out the nest of rats that is the West March.’

‘Strachan’s cousin could be of use to us. Is he not some kind of kin to you? Can you not call on him for aid? He could undermine Strachan well enough and speed his end.’

‘That criminal is no kin to me! Black Eaden is a mindless brute, and I would as soon lie with the pigs in the midden as ask for his help. Once she had said it aloud, the shame of it was fresh again, like a scab pulled from a wound – rough hands, whisky breath, animalistic grunting. Was there no end to how far she had to degrade herself to win back her place?

‘Perhaps it takes a mindless brute to bring down a mindless brute, Lady.’

She favoured him with her most dazzling smile. ‘Can you do something for me?’ she said.

‘Anything, Lady.’

‘Allow me to do the thinking and confine yourself to obeying my orders. You are a donkey, a beast of burden, not a prize stallion. You would do well to remember that.’

The man blinked rapidly and coloured. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘But, Lady, if it is not my place to murder Strachan, then what am I to do?’

‘Oh, you will get blood on your hands, just not his. It is time to tighten the thumbscrews on Peyton Ruari Strachan, and I know just how to do it. Now get out of my sight and don’t return until you have tried harder.’

The drizzle soon turned to rain, falling in sheets as the day wore on. She waited patiently, lost in a daze of her thoughts, just staring, until the sound of hooves brought her to alertness again.

She went to the door of the cottage and watched the beast dismount. Now, there was a man who attracted notice, much like the Devil clip-clopping into church on cloven hooves in the middle of mass. He was a giant lumbering bear, swaggering and coarse. If she wanted to keep him on her side, she would have to brace herself, grit her teeth and endure his rutting attentions.

But then, she’d had worse.