Page 11 of The Laird’s Wicked Game (Highland Scandal #2)

MAKENNA CURSED.

AN instant later, she moved. Not away from her assailant but toward him. She drove her elbow into his gut and arched backward, attempting to smack him in the face with the back of her head. Unfortunately, though, the knave was standing on the step above her, which gave him an advantage.

All the same, the whoosh of the air escaping his lungs, as she winded him, was satisfying. Her surge of victory didn’t last long though before he grabbed hold of her hair and yanked her head back.

Fire lanced across Makenna’s scalp, even as fury slammed into her.

She’d felt safe back at Meggernie. Although some of the men were mouthy or flirtatious, none would have dared lay a hand on the clan-chief’s daughter. But they weren’t in her family’s castle now, and this warrior wasn’t like any of those she’d learned to fight with.

Tormod MacDougall was dangerous; she’d known that from the moment she’d seen him try to throttle another man in the barmkin on the day she arrived here. But, foolishly, she’d thought she could both learn from him and keep the man at bay. Kylie had warned her to watch herself around him, but she shrugged off her sister’s concerns.

I should have listened to her.

She hadn’t met a man yet whom she feared—but underneath the anger that surged through her veins, anxiety now flared.

She’d driven her elbow into Tormod’s stomach hard enough to bring most men to their knees, but the bastard still gripped her breast, his fingers digging in painfully.

It was clear exactly what he wanted—and he’d take it by force.

Panic bubbled up then. She’d always thought she’d be the last woman to be cornered by a randy man, or raped. This couldn’t be happening.

But it was, and she had to get away.

She stepped up, the heel of her boot crushing his foot, and arched back once more. This time, the back of her head smacked into his nose.

Tormod cursed, stopped groping her breast, and ripped open her laced vest instead.

The devil was lithe in build, but he was deceptively, and formidably, strong. He pressed the length of his body against her then, his arousal grinding into her backside. “Feel that, lass,” he growled. “Ye’re going to enjoy having it plow ye. ”

Fury washed over Makenna in a hot tide. If the bastard tried putting his rod anywhere near her, she’d cut it off. Snarling a curse of her own, she deliberately let her body sag. The move caught him off-guard, and she lurched forward. Using the distraction she’d created to her advantage, she reached down and whipped out the thin blade she always carried in her boot.

Tormod didn’t know it was there—but he was about to find out.

Not hesitating—even as his brutal fingers tore open the lèine beneath her vest and kneaded her breast cruelly—she drove the blade into his arm.

The warrior roared. And this time, he did release her.

Heedless of the steep stairs or the fact her lèine and vest were ripped open, her breasts exposed, Makenna fled down the steps.

“Bitch!” Tormod snarled, his voice echoing against stone. “Ye shall pay for that.”

Panting, Makenna whipped around, pulling her lèine closed with her left hand, while she raised her knife with her right.

The warrior was right behind her, yet he halted at the sight of the blade glinting in the light of the cresset burning on the wall beside them. Blood coated his arm, for she’d cut through his leather wrist bracer, and feral rage glinted in his ice-blue eyes.

But Makenna was ready for him now. He wouldn’t catch her unawares again.

“Another step, and it won’t be yer arm I stab,” she said coldly. “But yer cods.”

“Do ye have anything to say in yer defense?”

Rae glared at the bloodied, defiant warrior who stood—flanked by Jack and one of the Guard—in his solar. In his opinion, there was nothing Tormod could say to defend what he’d done, but since he’d already heard Makenna’s version of the facts, he’d give this cur his ear as well.

Tormod’s lip curled. “I don’t know what that harpy told ye, but it’s all lies. She was willing.”

“Ye attacked her in a stairwell and tried to rip off her clothing,” Rae replied, biting out each word now. “It doesn’t sound like a willing woman to me.”

“Ye know what lasses can be like … all keen one moment and skittish the next,” Tormod replied, ignoring the gimlet stare Jack was giving him. “We were enjoying ourselves when she turned into a hellcat. She just—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Rae cut him off, out of patience now.

He’d seen Makenna a short while earlier, her face streaked with tears, clutching the shreds of her clothing to her breasts as she ran up the stairs inside the broch. He’d just exited his solar and had been the first person to find her. Just as well, for she’d been in a state.

Tormod’s expression shuttered, even if anger shadowed his gaze. He didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

Aye, the man was a problem. But now he’d be dealt with.

“Ye shall spend the night in the oubliette … and then I shall take the whip to yer back in the barmkin at first light tomorrow,” Rae informed the warrior coldly. “After that, ye will leave Dounarwyse on foot … without a horse, yer weapons, or any belongings.” He paused then, letting his words sink in. “And ye shall never return here. ”

A nerve ticked in Tormod’s cheek. “Ye should think twice before dishing out such punishment, Maclean,” he said softly. “I’m not a man lightly crossed.”

White-hot fire washed over Rae. The urge to draw the dirk at his hip and slice Tormod across the throat pulsed in his chest. With difficulty, he leashed the murderous impulse and growled, “Neither am I.”

The whip lashed across the warrior’s naked back, and Kylie flinched. An instant later, a bloody line appeared upon Tormod MacDougall’s pale skin.

Drawing back his arm, jaw set, the laird let the whip loose once more.

MacDougall grunted this time.

At Kylie’s side, Lyle made a sound in the back of his throat, and without thinking, Kylie reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. It was a bold move, and not one she felt overly comfortable making. Yet the lad surprised her by moving close and wrapping his arms around her legs.

Kylie’s throat constricted.

Curse ye, Maclean … why do yer sons have to watch this?

Ailean stood to her right, his body rigid as he viewed the punishment. Kylie restrained herself from reaching out and putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder though. Ailean was two years Lyle’s elder, and likely wouldn’t take kindly to being fussed over .

The chieftain of Dounarwyse had made it clear that every resident of this broch would observe Tormod MacDougall’s punishment, and banishment. It was a warning, that rape—attempted or otherwise—wouldn’t be tolerated.

Nonetheless, with every lash of the whip, muffled gasps escaped the watching crowd.

Kylie’s gaze shifted to where her sister stood silently to Ailean’s left. Makenna had folded her arms across her chest as she looked on. Her face appeared hewn from stone this morning, every line of her body tense.

The whip lashed once more. A crisscross pattern of bloody welts now covered MacDougall’s back. The man clung to a pole in the center of the barmkin, a guttural sound ripping from his throat with each cut of the bullwhip.

Bile surged up, stinging the back of Kylie’s throat. She could understand why her sister might want to witness MacDougall’s punishment, but she had no wish to view such violence.

She’d witnessed floggings before—for both her father and late husband had dealt out justice in their keeps—but the sight of it had always turned her stomach. She started to sweat then, nausea rolling over her once more.

If this continued, she’d be sick.

Mercifully, Maclean ceased the whipping then. Breathing hard, he lowered his arm and stepped back.

An uneasy silence followed the flogging. Many of those gathered around the perimeter of the barmkin shifted uneasily, their gazes downcast now.

Heedless to their reactions, the laird nodded brusquely to the guards who’d been looking on. They untied MacDougall and started dragging him across the barmkin toward the gates .

However, halfway there, the disgraced warrior surprised everyone by digging his toes into the cobbles. He then half turned, his gaze seizing upon where Makenna stood next to Kylie. His pale eyes sliced into her. “It isn’t over between us, lass,” he rasped, his voice carrying over the silent barmkin. “Ye shall see me again.”

Makenna didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

“Enough,” Maclean snarled. “Get him out of here.”

And with that, the guards hauled the warrior away, across the barmkin and under the archway that led out of the fortress. There, they unceremoniously dumped him on the other side of the lowered drawbridge. He was still in clear view of all, and as Kylie looked on, MacDougall slowly, and painfully, pushed himself up onto all fours before staggering to his feet. The man was barefoot and clad only in a pair of braies. A freshly scabbed cut was visible on his right forearm. She’d heard he spent a rough night without food or drink in the oubliette—Dounarwyse’s dank ‘bottle dungeon’, which could only be accessed by a trap door—and he now was leaving the broch with nothing, not even a pair of boots.

“Tormod MacDougall is hereby banished from Dounarwyse.” The laird’s gruff voice echoed through the morning air, drawing everyone’s attention once more. “And if he ever returns, his life will be forfeit.”

Another brittle silence followed this proclamation. The faces of those gathered around the edges of the barmkin, all of whom had witnessed the warrior’s punishment, were set in grim lines. Kylie wagered that few of them were sad to see MacDougall go. However, the flogging had put them all on edge. It was a reminder that although their laird was a fair-minded man, he was capable of brutality too .

Across the yard from where the sisters stood, Tara held both her daughters close—her youngest slung across her front, the eldest perched on her hip. Her face was strained. Like Kylie, she hadn’t wished to subject the bairns to such a sight. Arabella started to weep softly before Tara whispered soothing words. Then, casting the laird a look of censure, she retreated inside the guardhouse with her daughters.

It was time for Kylie to go back indoors as well. She was just about to murmur something to her charges—although neither of them would be in the mood to study plants this morning—when Maclean crossed to them, his long legs eating up the ground.

A moment later, he was standing before Kylie and his sons.

“We could all do with getting out of the broch for a while,” he announced gruffly, his gaze sweeping over Lyle and Ailean before it rested upon Kylie’s face. “I was going to leave it to later in the week … but let’s take that ride up to Dùn da Ghaoithe.”