Page 4 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Peyton pulled hard on his reins to twist the horse’s head around. Its hooves crashed into the ground, missing the lass’s head by mere inches. She flinched and curled into herself.

He was about to leap off his horse to check on her when a man rushed onto the path.

With a scowl in Peyton’s direction, he grabbed the lass by the hair, tearing back her head. She fell to the ground at his feet, clutching at his hand and whimpering in pain.

‘Be quiet, bitch,’ he yelled.

He was English. Why would he be out on Crichton Moor alone? His kind usually travelled in packs. The man was young and well-built. His cheek was oozing blood onto his fine jacket.

‘Help me, please,’ cried the lass, pleading at Peyton. It was clear she was terrified.

‘Hush your mouth,’ shouted the man again, tugging at her hair and making her howl.

‘No. Let me go. Stop. I beg you,’ cried the lass.

Peyton rode his horse right up to them. ‘You need to let her go,’ he said quietly.

‘Be on your way,’ said the young man, his voice dripping with malice. ‘Nothing to see here, my friend.’

‘I am no friend to you or any Englishman. Let the lass go,’ said Peyton, slipping off his horse and putting his hand on his belt near his knife. He tried not to be distracted by the lass’s sobbing as he locked eyes with the man.

His gaze was vicious and held no fear. ‘I have no quarrel with you, Scot,’ he said.

‘Aye, you do, for you are hurting that lass,’ said Peyton.

‘If I am, what is it to you? This girl has disrespected me and needs to be punished. So mind your own business, and I will mind mine.’

‘And what is your business with her?’ said Peyton quietly. ‘Why did you make her bleed?’

‘Why do you think? Blood on a man’s hands increases the pleasure of coupling tenfold, I always say. If you let me take her back into the bushes, you can take your turn when I’m finished. There’s no one about to stop us. How about that? Look at her. She’s prettier than any you’ll ever get, my friend, and I’ll even hold her down if you like.’

‘Again, I am not your friend. Take your hands off the lass or lose them,’ said Peyton, drawing his knife.

‘She’s just a common slut trying to up her price. Why trouble yourself?’ sneered the young man.

‘Because I don’t much like you.’ Peyton spat at his feet.

The man thrust the lass aside and growled, ‘Ignorant cur. Don’t you know who I am? I can slit you open like a pig.’

Peyton planted his feet and braced. ‘Then what are you waiting for? Are you afraid, Englishman?’

‘My father will have your entrails pulled out of your mouth for crossing me, filthy Scots dog,’ he spat, and then he charged at Peyton full pelt.

Peyton leapt back as a knife missed his throat by an inch. The man swung at him in a frenzy. He was quick and ferocious, but enraged, so Peyton dodged his clumsy swipes. He had been in enough knife fights to know how to hang back and take his chance.

Frustrated that Peyton remained out of reach, the young man charged impulsively. Peyton ducked, then surged upwards, grabbing him and throwing him onto the ground. His knife clattered away, but the young man was strong. He grabbed onto Peyton’s arm and began to aim Peyton’s knife towards his throat. A silent deadlock ensued for a moment, both men staring into each other’s eyes as the knife quivered between them. Peyton summoned all his strength and twisted the knife downwards. The blade plunged into the side of the other man’s neck. Blood gushed over Peyton’s hand, hot, lots of it.

A shriek tore the air behind him, and he turned to see the lass screaming at the top of her lungs. ‘No, no, no!’

Peyton’s knife came out of the man’s neck with a wet, sucking sound. He leapt off the man, leaving him thrashing on the ground in a widening pool of blood, feet kicking at the mud.

‘Curse you to hell,’ gurgled the man, his mouth an evil gape of teeth reddened with blood. His hands clawed uselessly at the wound.

Father Luggan came running down the path. ‘Peyton, what in the name of all that is holy?’ he shouted. ‘I heard screaming.’

It hadn’t stopped, for the lass was still shrieking. Peyton could not think straight with it ringing in his ears.

‘Oh good heavens,’ cried the priest when he spied the man on the ground.

‘He came at me when I tried to stop him hurting this lass.’ Peyton rushed over to her. ‘Stop. It’s alright now.’

‘Get away from me,’ she howled, clutching her arms about her.

‘Can you not come and calm her down so I can think?’ he snarled at Father Luggan.

The priest hurried over. ‘All will be well, my child,’ he said, approaching the lass with outstretched palms.

‘Do not touch me, you blackguard,’ she screamed. ‘I will see you in Hell if you do.’

Father Luggan retreated. ‘I think it best that I check on your opponent. He needs tending,’ he said. ‘You can deal with her.’

Peyton sighed and held out a hand. ‘There now. Calm yourself, lass. We mean you no harm. I am Peyton. What is your name?’

‘Ce…Cecily,’ she stammered, her chest jerking with trying to get her breath.

Peyton tried to calm the lass in case all her carrying on brought others to the bloody scene. ‘How did you find yourself here, lass?’

‘Find myself?’ she spat. She pushed herself upright on legs that wobbled like a newborn foal’s.

‘Why did that man hurt you? Is he your husband?’

‘Husband? Oh, God save me.’ Her face crumbled, and she began to utter hysterical, gulping sobs which threatened to choke her. ‘I did not find myself here. We have been meeting on the moor.’ She cast a glance at the young man bleeding into the mud and began rocking back and forth. ‘Oh God, what is to become of me? What have I done?’

‘Lass, look at me. What have you done?’

She met Peyton’s gaze, her eyes vivid in her dirty face. They were uncommonly lovely. ‘We were running away together. He said he wanted us to be together. Edmund said he loved me.’ Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving bright tracks.

‘Well, that didn’t look much like love to me, lass.’

She howled and sank to her knees in the mud.

Peyton rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, lass. You cannot stay there. Up you get. It will be alright.’

‘No, it won’t,’ she said, batting away his proffered hand. ‘I left my family because he said he would marry me and take me away. What am I to do now? I will have to marry some old lecher or…oh no, dear God…not Jasper Glendenning.’ Her hand came to her mouth.

‘What did you say?’ hissed Peyton, grabbing her arm and hauling her up.

‘Stop. You are hurting me,’ she cried.

‘Forgive me. Don’t cry. Can you not gather yourself? What is this about Jasper Glendenning?’

‘What does it matter? He won’t want me now. No one will. I am ruined. Don’t you see?’ She pointed at the Edmund fellow. ‘That whoreson, he…he put his hands on me where he should not. Oh, I shall die of the shame of it.’

‘No one ever died of shame or from having a man’s hands on them, lass. All will be well.’

‘No, it won’t.’ She looked about her in a blind panic. ‘I have to go home now. Take me home. Please. I beg you.’

‘And where is that?’

‘Fallstairs. Just the other side of the moor, to the north.’

‘Fallstairs? Are you a MacCreadie then?’ said Peyton.

Her eyes widened, and she put her hand to her mouth as if she had said something terrible. Then she bent double and vomited all over Peyton’s boots.

Could his day get any worse?

A heavy hand came down on his shoulder. ‘A word,’ said Father Luggan, his face grave.

‘Not now, Father. I have to calm this one down.’ Peyton held back the lass’s thick blonde hair as she retched, but nothing else came up.

‘Calming this poor soul might take some time, Peyton, which we do not have. The lass is terrified out of her wits. Let her be. We must speak about that young man well away from her ears to save her further distress.’

The desperate sobbing continued as Peyton walked some distance away and turned to Father Luggan. ‘Christ, what a foul day. Now I have a wailing banshee on my hands and vomit on my boots.’

‘What happened here?’

‘The lass rushed in front of my horse with that bastard in pursuit. She came out of nowhere and almost got trampled. I’ve always hated Crichton Moor. Nothing good ever happened here. I swear that evil stalks this place.’

‘Aye. Clothes torn open, red marks on her neck. I fear that young man’s business with the lass was just as evil. Do you think he forced himself on her?’

‘I do, and he was rough about it, judging by the state she is in. From what she said, she was expecting to elope and got a harsh lesson in the ways of the world.’

‘Aye, and in the lust of men,’ said Father Luggan, shaking his head.

Peyton glanced at the lass. She was shaking so hard he feared she might come apart at the seams. There was mud all over her, blood on her face and oozing from scrapes on her arms, her clothes were torn and filthy, and her bodice gaped open, revealing one breast almost to the nipple. Peyton turned away before he became as bad a lecher as the man he had just felled. He felt a stab of shame mingled with pity for her plight.

‘I wonder how far it had gone before you stumbled upon her,’ said the priest. ‘The lass must have put up quite a fight, but it would have been worse had you not been here to save her. ‘Tis a bad business.’

‘Aye, but it could not be helped,’ said Peyton, staring at the lass. She looked away from his gaze over to the young man.

‘All will be well, lass,’ he called over the wind, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her.

‘No. Nothing is well. Nothing will ever be well again,’ she sobbed.

Father Luggan clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you meant to help, but it may be a terrible deed you have done today, Peyton.’

‘It was a fair fight. He is a raper. He got what he deserved.’

‘Was a raper. I’m afraid he has passed to God.’

‘Or the Devil, I hope.’

‘Aye, well, it was brave of you to save that lass’s virtue, and quite possibly her life, but you have put your own life in the gravest of danger, your clan too. That young man lying bloodied and torn over there is Edmund Harclaw, son of Sir Henry Harclaw.’

‘And who might he be?’

‘A big man in the King’s eyes, and ruthless, with it. There were rumours in Edinburgh when I was last there. They say the King is dissatisfied with the Warden.’

‘That is no surprise. Sir Walder Moffat is a lazy slug of a man.’

‘Aye, well, Sir Henry Harclaw was sent north to kick him up the backside or replace him, whichever works in the King’s favour. Of course, this could be idle gossip.’

‘And where did you hear it?’

‘In a certain tavern from a servant of Sir Walder’s who was not best fond of him. Folk have a way of telling priests what they will not tell others.’

Peyton walked over to the corpse. Edmund Harclaw’s eyes gazed blankly at the sky. ‘What else do you know of Sir Henry and his son?’

‘Not much. No one was keen to talk of Sir Henry. I believe he commands loyalty through fear. Those men are the worst kind. When I left Edinburgh, Sir Walder had taken to his bed with some malady or other, most probably, a surfeit of whisky and gluttony had overtaken him again. He is not keeping an eye on the Marches as he should. But that is not the point. You have just killed the son of a powerful man.’

‘Perhaps you are mistaken, Father? One arrogant young Englishman looks much like another.’

‘No. I wish I was. The servant pointed him out to me, and Edmund Harclaw was hard to miss. See that crescent scar on his forehead. I remember thinking that even the worst of scars could not diminish the beauty of that face. And look. He wears a ring bearing the Harclaw crest. His father has one the same.’

Peyton stared down at the corpse. The handsome face was slack in death, mouth gaping, eyes glazed and unblinking. All the young man’s power and privilege were wiped out.

‘Peyton, by killing Sir Henry’s son, you have put every soul in Fellscarp in jeopardy. Sir Henry will raze it to the ground if this ever comes out.’

‘Then what am I to do? That lass saw it all, and I told her my name. What if she talks? This Edmund Harclaw was her lover.’

‘If she mourns him, aye, she might talk. So you cannot let her go.’

‘I doubt she’ll mourn him, given what he did to her.’

‘Women are fickle.’ Father Luggan grabbed his forearm in a grip of iron. ‘Peyton, hear me. You cannot let her say anything. Many souls depend on her silence.’

Peyton took a step back from Father Luggan. ‘I cannot murder an innocent lass. She was the victim of this English dog.’

‘Good God, man. I am not suggesting that. But you cannot let her go home in that state. She knows your name. Her family will ask questions, and she will tell them what occurred. Take her to Fellscarp and keep her safe until you work out a plan.

Suddenly, the air was rent with shrieking again. The lass had risen to her feet and come over to them.

‘He’s dead.’ She pointed a finger at Peyton. ‘You killed him. Oh my God.’

Suddenly, strangling the lass with his bare hands seemed rather appealing. Instead, he said to Father Luggan, ‘You are right. Best I take her with me and find a way out of this mess. But you cannot come with me, Father.’

‘Why not? You cannot manage the lass on your own.’

‘I have done murder this day, and you must stay well clear of it. I am in this now, but not you, Father. Get on your horse and ride away as if the Devil himself is on your heels.’

Father Luggan would not go easily and insisted he must stay and help. Peyton glanced at the lass. How could something so delicate and vulnerable bring death down on his head and put everything he ever cared about in jeopardy?