Page 32 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Peyton quickened his pace as he cleared the woods near Fellscarp. A fruitless night of searching had not brought him closer to the band of men who had been riding around his land. He was eager to get home to his wife, rest as much as he could, given Cecily’s delicious demands on his body, and gather more men to ride out again.

As he approached the house, Peyton’s breath caught. A large group had gathered at the shoreline just before the causeway. The main gates to Fellscarp at the other end were shut. He pulled his horse to a halt.

‘What devilry is this?’ cried MacDougall, coming up beside him. ‘Those are Eaden’s men. I see him and many of our clansmen from all over.’

Black Eaden strutted around as if he owned the place, cheerfully shaking hands with Strachan clansmen and patting them on the back.

‘I see Selby and Bertha too. Why has half of Fellscarp come out for that bastard?’ continued MacDougall.

‘There is only one way to find out,’ said Peyton, kicking his horse forward.

‘Stop. It is a trap!’ cried MacDougall.

Peyton galloped down the slope and straight into the crowd. Folk parted to let him through lest they get trampled. He threw himself off his horse and marched up to Eaden. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

Eaden gave him a smug, lazy smile and shouted, ‘It is a new beginning for Clan Strachan.’ He spoke to the crowd more than Peyton.

‘Get off my land.’

‘Your land? Not for much longer.’

‘Not this again, Eaden. Go while you still have your head,’ snarled Peyton.

Eaden ignored him. ‘I have summoned you here today to bear witness.’ He held out his arms like Christ on the cross. ‘Clan Strachan, have you not suffered enough privation with Peyton Strachan as your laird? Have your homes not been raided, your women menaced and abused?’

‘Bye you, most likely,’ shouted one stout fellow in the crowd.

‘Not by me, I swear,’ said Eaden, hand on heart, a picture of mock sincerity. ‘By this man’s weakness.’ He pointed at Peyton, and muttering rippled through the crowd. What had Eaden promised to lure them out for this spectacle?

‘You are a liar and a thief,’ shouted MacDougall.

Berth pushed forward and shouted, ‘Do you think you can do better, Eaden Strachan? You are nought but a drunk, a criminal and a fondler of women.’

‘Nought wrong with fondling women unless you are a monk,’ he cried, drawing a ripple of laughter from the onlookers. ‘But good folk of Fellscarp, let me show you that I am the man to lead Clan Strachan. You need a strong leader, not a weakling who cowers behind his walls while your lives fall to ruins. And Peyton Strachan is the fondler of women here, not I. He keeps a whore for his pleasure and beds her every night while your farms burn.’

‘I keep no whore. She is my wife,’ shouted Peyton in a fury.

A gasp rippled through the onlookers, and Bertha rushed up to Peyton. ‘She’s gone, Laird,’ she said, but not quietly enough.

‘See, he cannot even control his own woman,’ shouted Eaden. ‘Soon, she will be a widow. I challenge you, Peyton Ruari Strachan, to fight for the leadership of Clan Strachan.’

His world spun. He took hold of Bertha. ‘Cecily gone? Where?’

‘She rode out yesterday in a fury. She took Selby’s horse right off him.’

Had Cecily run away? Had she left him? Peyton’s heart clenched tight in his chest. He had to find her, but first, he would have to deal with Eaden.

‘Leave now, Eaden,’ snarled Peyton, drawing his sword.

‘I think not. I challenge you to a fight to the death, the old way – fists, not swords. Whichever of us is still standing is the winner. The loser will be put in the ground this day. Do you accept my challenge, or are you a coward?’

‘You’d best hope I end you, Eaden, for if you still live at the end of this fight, I will bury you alive.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Eaden. He took hold of Peyton’s hand, thrust a pendant into it and hissed, ‘Think of Lowri.’

Peyton stared at the pendant, a simple trinket of silver with a thistle at its centre. His mother had pressed it into Lowri’s hands on her deathbed. It was all they had left of her, and his sister never took it off.

MacDougall rushed up to them, trying to tear them apart. ‘Let us put an end to this madness now. Talk it out.’

Eaden smiled. ‘Aye, let us talk.’

***

Cecily’s limbs were so stiff from crouching against the wall that she could barely move them. The wind had risen, rustling the treetops, and it was getting lighter on the horizon. The two men had huddled before the fire and stayed awake all night. Poor Lowri had to make do with a blanket thrown about her shoulders, and scant comfort that would have been.

Cecily had curled into a ball and tucked in her skirts, but it had been a torturous night. The damp had seeped up her clothes, and the smell of mildew from the wall clung to her hair. Her stomach gave a low rumble, and she held her breath, sure that the men would hear. But the wind covered the noise.

‘I need to do my ablutions,’ said one of the men, moving off. His boots crunched on the frost-bitten grass.

‘You can piss here, Armstrong,’ shouted his companion.

‘I need more privacy.’

‘What for? Are you taking yourself in hand? Has the lass’s bonnie face got you roused?’

‘No, for that witch has been giving me the evil eye, and besides, I’d have no cock to play with if Eaden thought I’d touched her.’ His voice faded as he moved into the trees.

The other man leant over and put his face in Lowri’s. He stroked her hair. ‘Still, you are bonnie enough. Maybe Eaden will give us the leftovers, eh.’

Lowri drew back her head and butted him right in the nose. He fell back onto the ground with a howl, clutching his face. When he got to his knees, blood gushed between his fingers.

Now was her chance, but could she do it? Cecily clutched a rough piece of stone in her fingers and stood up. It was heavy. Her legs were weak as she took a few steps into the open. The man had not heard her come up behind him.

‘You broke my nose, you bitch!’ he screamed, staring down at the blood in his hands.

Cecily met Lowri’s gaze, planted her feet and raised the rock.

‘Do it,’ mouthed Lowri.

Could she do it - crack his skull like an eggshell?

Lowri gave a silent scream. ‘Now!’

Cecily thought of Peyton and brought the rock down hard. It hit the man with a sickening crunch, and a tremor went from his skull right up her arm. He fell forward, and she fell upon him. Taking the rock in two hands, she brought it down on his head again and again until he did not move.

Cecily fell sideways. Her face was wet, and when she tried to get up, the woods whirled around her in a spinning green haze. There was a whistling sound in her ears, and then a voice broke through. ‘Untie me. Get his musket.’

Lowri was shuffling towards her on her bottom. They must have tied her legs together in the night. ‘Hurry. The other one is coming back,’ she cried.

A snapping noise came from the trees. Lowri’s eyes were wide with panic. ‘Get the musket. He’s coming.’

Cecily could not see it. She rolled the man over. His sightless eyes stared at the sky, making her retch. She fumbled in his belt for the musket and tore it free. It was heavy and ungainly, but she managed to point it at the man running out of the trees.

He aimed his musket at them. ‘Put it down, bitch, or I will shoot you dead,’ he yelled.

‘Shoot him,’ screamed Lowri.

Rowenna had once tried to teach her to shoot, but Cecily was not a good pupil. ‘Relax your arm and breathe,’ she had said. ‘If you are tense, you will miss. Stand sideways to make yourself less vulnerable to your opponent returning fire. Fix your eye on your target and blot out everything else.’

Her sister’s words flooded back as the man walked towards them, never taking his eyes off her face. Her hand shook violently under the musket’s weight.

‘Shoot him. He will kill us. Do it,’ hissed Lowri.

Cecily squeezed the trigger. A flash of smoke stung her eyes, and the recall sent her backwards, landing on the grass with a thud. She glanced at the man. He was still upright, staring down at his chest as a crimson stain spread from just below his breastbone. He looked at her, shocked, then fell sideways into the dirt.

The world spun around her, but Cecily got to her feet on unsteady legs. She felt dream-like, her head a muddle.

Lowri’s command cut through. ‘Cut me free,’ she said.

The man at her feet had a knife in his belt, so Cecily tore it free. ‘I never killed a man before, and now, I’ve killed two,’ she said as she sawed at the rope binding Lowri’s hands. It was so hard. Sweat beaded her forehead, and she didn’t feel right.

Lowri tore the remnants of rope from her hands and freed her feet. She shook Cecily hard enough to make her teeth rattle. ‘Gather yourself. You did what you had to do. You did well, Cecily. Where did you learn to shoot like that?’

‘My brother, Bran, tried to teach me, but I could not do it properly. He mocked me and said I would never learn, so I practised hard. I was determined to be an excellent shot just to prove him wrong.’

‘Well, lucky for us, that musket was loaded.’ Lowri glanced at the man on the floor, his head gaping red. ‘But I suppose you could have beaten him to death with the musket if you had to.’

Cecily put her knuckle to her mouth and dry retched. ‘I watched him load it last night while your head was lolling. I was crouched behind that wall over there.’

Lowri blanched. ‘So you heard…’

‘Everything. I stayed close, waiting for a chance to help you.’

Lowri stared at the corpse at her feet. ‘God, Cecily, I didn’t think you had it in you.’

‘Well, it seems I do. Oh, Lowri, it was awful.’

‘It was well done, Cecily, and you saved my life, but we cannot tarry. We have to get back to Fellscarp. Peyton is in danger. Get the horses.’

‘You get them,’ said Cecily, rummaging in the dead man’s belt and braies.

‘What are you doing, picking his pockets?’

‘I know how to fire a musket, and I know how to load one, too. That shot could have been heard for miles around, and men could come running. So you’d better hurry with those bloody horses while I find shot and powder.’