Page 7 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Cecily woke with a start and a little shriek. For a moment, she thought she’d had a dream until the cold, miserable room came into focus. It was no dream. It was a nightmare. It all came flooding back – Edmund’s cruelty, her rough rescuer holding out a bloody hand, that woman who had been so harsh last night.

The fire had gone out, and the wind still howled. She had no idea what time of day it was, but light was coming in the shutters. How could she have slept at all?

She dreaded the old woman coming back, for she had been horrid and had said nought but that her name was Bertha, and then ignored all Cecily’s pleas for help. All she had done was forcibly strip her before the fire, then wordlessly scrub and scrape at her sore body to clean her up. The bruises all over it had given the woman pause.

Oh, it all came back now. That mortifying conversation.

‘I heard what happened to you,’ said Bertha. ‘Running away with a man who promised marriage, wasn’t it? I am sorry to ask, lass, but did the man who attacked you take your honour, my dear?’

‘What do you mean?’

Bertha had frowned. ‘Did he place himself inside you, lass.’

‘Place himself?' said Cecily. Why was the old fool talking in riddles?

The woman, Bertha, rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, I see I must speak plainly. Did the fellow push his member between your legs?’

‘Good heavens, no. Why would he do that?’

The woman raised her eyebrows and then briskly continued rubbing a wet rag over Cecily’s face to clean off the dirt.

‘I had nothing to do with his…his member. We were not married, you see. Why are you talking in this dirty way?’

‘Tis not for me to say,’ she muttered. ‘That is a talk for you and your mother, and good luck to her.’ The woman snorted back a laugh.

‘My mother is dead,’ said Cecily, and then there had been pity in the woman’s eyes. She did not scrub as hard after that.

‘Eat, lass,’ she’d said later, offering a platter of food - cheese, some black bread, and a few hazelnuts.

‘I think I will be sick if I do.’

‘Nibble on some bread and take some ale to fortify yourself, for it sounds to me like you have had quite the ordeal, and you being so innocent and after that man...’ Bertha trailed off, then said more briskly, ‘You must fill your belly or my laird will be cross.’

‘So that brute Peyton is a laird? He does not look like one, all beaten up like that.’

The woman stiffened. ‘He may be rough around the edges, but you’ll find no more honourable man in all the Marches. Now I’ve left a clean shift to sleep in and a dress for the morning. You cannot put your old things back on,’ she added, holding up Cecily’s torn dress with a look of disgust.

With that, Bertha had swept out, with Cecily calling after her in a fury, ‘If he was so bloody honourable, that Peyton fellow would not be locking me up like a dog.’

But her complaining had done no good, so here she was, waking after a horrible night with just a few snatched hours of sleep. Trying to battle a wave of homesickness, Cecily swept out of bed and tried the door. Still locked. She pressed an ear against the stout oak and listened. Nothing, save that blasted wind.

She picked up the dress Bertha had left her. It was dark blue silk and rather finely made, with swirls of pleated flowers down the front and extravagant bows. The sleeves were frothy with delicate lace. It was finer than anything she had ever owned, even her best yellow dress that Edmund had tried to tear off her. Cecily shuddered, then quickly wriggled into the blue dress.

The more barriers she had between her flesh and that awful Peyton fellow, the better. Even now, the remembered brush of his fingers on her skin as he fastened his jacket around her body made her cheeks flame. Cecily sighed and let some of the tension coiled in her breast slowly unwind. The dress was a little tight across the bust, and she was overflowing it a little in parts, but now, more respectably clothed, she felt as though she had some armour, some defence against these awful people.

What would Rowenna do in such strife? She smiled. Her sister would probably have run Peyton through, stolen his horse and ridden back to Fallstairs. Cecily’s smile faded. Her sister would never have fallen for Edmund’s pretty lies in the first place, nor would she have abandoned her family and duty to run away.

From below came clattering, shouts and doors banging as her prison came alive. Cecily rushed to the small window and pulled open the shutters. The world was white. Huge snowdrifts swathed the yard and frosted the roofs of several outbuildings. Her eye was drawn to the source of some colourful cursing. Down below, a dark beast of a man was dismounting a splendid dapple grey horse. He pounded on the door. Another criminal, like her captor, no doubt. He disappeared from view, and Cecily was left staring out at a vast expanse of grey-green water and snow-capped hills. Where the hell was she? Had she been taken to an island? Her muddled head could not make sense of it.

Cold, hard reality set in. She was a long way from her sister’s protection, so she had to get out of this pickle on her own wits. Maybe if she was contrite and flattered that great oaf, Peyton, he would set her free. Her father always said she was bonnie enough to charm the birds from the trees if she set her mind to it. Aye. That was some kind of plan. Cecily sat back on the bed, smoothed her skirts and prepared to be charming to Laird Peyton.

***

Peyton was weary to his bones, and it was a long, cold ride from Crichton Moor. Cecily MacCreadie’s heart-stopping eyes had got between him and sleep, and he had been up just before dawn to dispose of her lover’s corpse. Winter had turned the ground to stone, his horse had to high-step through the snow, and he had almost broken his back, digging a hole deep enough to keep the corpse from being scavenged by wolves and foxes. His hands ached with cold. Damn that MacCreadie lass and Edmund Harclaw to hell. He’d had no intention of harming anyone yesterday, and here he was, with blood on his hands and the direst peril facing his clan.

He had to do something about that lass, and he had to do it today. He clattered into Fellscarp’s yard to see a grey horse tethered at his door and snapping at a passing stable boy. His heart sank.

‘Where is he?’ Peyton called to Selby.

‘In the hall, warming his bones and frightening the servants. I’d not have let him pass until you returned, but he said he had dire news and threatened to skewer my belly if I did not.’

Peyton sighed and rushed inside, where the Devil’s spawn applied his charms to Merren, one of Fellscarp’s servants.

‘Sit in my lap, lass. I have a present for you.’ Eaden Strachan grabbed his crotch and shook it at Merren. She shrieked and ran out of range of his hands. ‘Come back with that ale, lass,’ he shouted at her.

He noticed Peyton and said with a smirk, ‘She’ll seek me out later.’

‘Leave her be. What dragged you out from under your rock in such foul weather, Eaden?’

‘I dragged myself out of a bed of sweet whores to bring you news.’

‘Which is?’

‘I am here to tell you that you may set down your burden of being a laird. I will take control of Clan Strachan.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘If you like.’

Peyton stared him down. Eaden always hated it when you didn’t rise to his provocation.

‘I hear you had a cockfight with Usher, and I see you got a good beating,’ Eaden sneered.

‘He looks worse. Next time, send someone with a brain in his skull to challenge me on your behalf.’

Eaden leant forward. ‘You cannot keep doing this, cousin. Eventually, there will be one challenger too many, and when more of the clan come over to my side, I will simply reach out and take Fellscarp.’

‘Get out of my hall.’

Eaden did not move. ‘I’ve other news to impart,’ he said smugly. ‘And I’ll not do it without ale.’ He beckoned Merren. ‘Come back with that jug and warm my cock, lass. ‘Tis a shrunken thing in this weather, but I am sure it will swell with some kindness.’ He winked at her.

‘Leave him, lass,’ said Peyton. ‘He can do without ale, for he’s nought but a filthy lecher.’

‘I do my best,’ said Eaden, placing his muddy boots on the table with a thud and a smile. ‘Is your sister still bonnie?’ he said.

‘Aye, as you are still ugly, and Lowri still hates you, by the way.’

‘Why. Did I break her little heart?’

‘I’ll break my fist on your face if you ever come near her again.’

‘Ah, the regrets of my youth. Are you still trying to turn her into a nun? A fool’s errand, for that lass has too much fire in her blood.’ Eaden leant over the table. ‘Why don’t I take her off your hands? I will be in need of a wife when I am Laird of Fellscarp, and she will do nicely.’

‘You’ll never be Laird Strachan.’

‘Why not. Many call you a usurper?’

‘My claim is as good as any. And I have Clan Strachan’s best interests at heart.’

He sneered. ‘Why? Because old Hew squirted his seed into your mother? ‘Tis but a rumour, put about by her to rise you up, Peyton. For all we know, he had my mother, too. She is certainly capable of it, the old bitch, and Hew was not too fussy when the fancy took him.’

‘I know who your sire was, Eaden. It was Satan under a full moon. Now state your business and get out.’

‘Alright, it is this. There is a foul stench in the air, blowing this way. I fear it comes from Sir Walder Moffat’s rotting bowels.’

‘What of him?’

‘He has taken to his bed with an ailment and is slowly puking and shitting his way to an early grave. That old bladder of wine was easy to control, was he not? If he does not leave his sick bed, what comes next will not be. I have already made myself agreeable to his successor.’

‘And who is that?’

‘As if I would tell you?’ said Eaden, all smugness.

Peyton kept his face impassive, but inside, he felt a small triumph. Eaden thought he was taunting him with inside knowledge of Sir Walder and his possible replacement, but he already knew the worst from Father Luggan. He thought of Edmund Harclaw’s body, now a feast for worms, and Peyton’s triumph soured.

‘All you need to know is that you are long on pride and short on allies, cousin,’ continued Eaden in the face of his silence.

‘We are but distant cousins, Eaden, so do not try and claim some blood tie to me. That would be offensive.’

‘As you like. But you should hear me, all the same. The King tightens his grip and casts a baleful eye on the Marches. In these changing times, I fear the strongest man will take Fellscarp, not the worthiest. And you may have escaped with your life from that fight with the McColls that took our fair Robert Strachan, the heir to this rat heap, but that does not make you a laird. It merely makes you a survivor, a hanger-on.’

‘You may leave whenever you like, Eaden.’

‘I hear the Macaulays and you have fallen out,’ said Eaden, raising his eyebrows. One had a thick white scar through it, giving him an evil look. ‘Never much of an ally, old Griffin Macaulay. Step aside now, and I will reward you handsomely. Otherwise, I will wait until all your challengers have whittled you down to a stub of a man, and then I will just come in and take everything you have.’

‘If you are here bartering, you cannot be assured of your claim, Eaden. Take your stench out of my house.

They locked eyes, and Eaden stood up. He began to pace about the hall. He was well over six feet tall and built like a bull, but Peyton was not intimidated. The man was all bluster and villainy, but he did not have the grit to be a laird or the heart to be a leader of men. As usual, Eaden went for the low blow.

‘I can just take her, you know - Lowri. I can pluck her from the bosom of those clucking old hens in their abbey easily enough.’

‘Aye, but that would mean going into the East March, and they will have your head on a spike as soon as may be if you set foot there again. They have long memories, Eaden.

‘And short cocks, as I hear it.’ He guffawed loudly and suddenly leapt at Merren and grabbed a handful of her bottom. ‘Not much use to you, lass.’ She shrieked, dropped the ale jug and scuttled from the hall.’

‘Off she goes. Run little rabbit.’ Eaden shrugged his shoulders. ‘She’s not to my taste anyway. Too skinny. I like them with more spirit and some flesh to cushion a man.’

‘Leave while you still have your head, cousin,’ said Peyton wearily.

‘Oh, taking my head would not look good for you. That would mean more dead Strachans to explain away, and you already have Laird Hew’s death on your hands. Some say you poisoned the old bugger to take his place.’

‘Aye, you do love to gossip, don’t you? If you threaten me or come here again, I will end you, Eaden. That is a promise. You can never be laird of Clan Strachan. You are not suited to it. A laird cannot do just as he pleases.’

‘Aye, he can. That is the point of being a laird, which is why you will never be one. You have the courage of a lion and fight like a mad dog, but you never had the ruthless streak, did you, Peyton?’

As Peyton tried to contain his rage, Eaden Strachan strode from the hall as if he did not have a care in the world. The man would melt away into whatever hole he was hiding in and return when he was least wanted, like the pox. Peyton had only just managed to unclench his fists when Bertha bustled in.

‘Has that dog been sniffing after Merren? She’s all a’flutter.’

‘Aye. But no harm done.’

She huffed and crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom. ‘Not so much that lass you dragged here last night. Were you not concerned with her welfare?’

‘I’ve been busy,’ he snapped.

‘Doing what, I’ll not ask, for I do not want to know. I cleaned her up as best I could and managed to glean that she was not molested by that fiend. In fact, she seems ignorant of all matters of the flesh. Her mother is dead, and I don’t think anyone has had a talk to her about women’s business. She must be all of a score of years and yet still innocent. How can that be with her looks, for she’s as bonnie as any I’ve seen?'

‘I do not know, Bertha,’ said Peyton, overtaken by weariness.

‘Perhaps she is a little simple.’

‘Aye, perhaps.’

‘Well, she said you murdered her lover. Couldn’t shut her up about it. So what are you going to do with her? She’ll blab about it all over if you set her free.’

‘I will think of something.’

‘Well, you’d better, or we are all in a great deal of trouble,’ said Bertha, hurrying away. ‘And you can’t keep the poor wee lass locked up forever. Oh, and news came. Lowri has absconded from the abbey again.’

‘Christ’s teeth. I told them to keep her under lock and key.’

‘Well, she’s run off, God knows where. She’ll turn up here when she feels like it, no doubt.

‘Bloody women!’ hissed Peyton through his teeth. ‘Send men out to look for her. I will go and silence that harpy upstairs.’

Bertha gave him a hard look and a frown.

‘Not like that,’ he snapped. “I’ve done enough killing this past day.’

‘Why not use your charm instead?’ she sneered.

Boiling with frustration, Peyton stomped upstairs to deal with Cecily MacCreadie.