Elizabeth also reacted without thinking. For a few moments, her guard had been down, but with men behind her, beside her, she’d remained nervous. Her senses did not register the reason for Stephen’s abrupt attack but only knew that once again a man was threatening her.
She panicked. Not just a small uproar, but Elizabeth let out a scream that startled the already nervous horses. And she didn’t stop with one scream, but she began clawing and kicking like a caged wild animal.
Stephen, stunned by her reaction, tried to catch her shoulders. “Elizabeth,” he shouted into her terrified face.
Miles had been struck on the shoulder and back by falling stones, knocking him to his knees. The moment he heard Elizabeth’s screams he went to her.
“Goddamn you!” he bellowed at his brother. “I told you not to touch her.” With a hard push he shoved Stephen away, tried to catch Elizabeth.
“Quiet!” he commanded.
Elizabeth was still in a frenzy, scratching Miles, trying to tear away from him.
He caught her shoulders, gave her a sharp shake. “Elizabeth,” he said patiently, loudly. “You are safe. Do you hear me? Safe.” It took another shake before she turned eyes to his—eyes such as Miles had never seen before, frightened, terrified, helpless eyes. For a moment they looked at each other and Miles used all his strength of character to will her into peacefulness. “You are safe now, my love. You’ll always be safe with me.”
Her body began trembling and he pulled her into his arms, held her close to him, stroked her hair. When he glanced at Stephen standing near them, he said, “Leave a horse. We’ll follow later.”
Elizabeth was hardly aware of the funeral-quiet procession passing them. Her fear had made her weak and all she could do was lean against Miles for support, while he stroked her cheek, her neck, her arm. After many minutes, she pulled away from him.
“I have made an ass of myself,” she said with such despair that Miles smiled at her.
“Stephen didn’t understand when I told him not to touch you. I’m sure he thought it was mere jealousy.”
“You are not jealous?” she asked, pulling away, trying to change the subject.
“Perhaps. But your fears are more important than my jealousy.”
“My fears, as you call them, are none of your concern.” She succeeded in pulling completely away from him.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was pleading, very low. “Don’t keep all this inside you. I’ve told you I’m a good listener. Talk to me. Tell me what has made you so afraid.”
She caught the rock wall with her hands behind her. The solid mass felt good, gave her a feeling of reality. “Why have you sent the others away?”
A flicker of anger crossed his eyes. “So I’d have no witnesses when I ravished you. Why else?” When he saw that she wasn’t sure he was being sarcastic, he threw up his hands in despair. “Come on, let’s go to Larenston.” He grabbed her arm much too hard. “You know what you need, Elizabeth? You need someone to make love to you, to show you that your fear is much worse than the reality.”
“I’ve had many volunteers for the task,” she hissed at him.
“From what I’ve seen, you’ve known only rapists—not lovers.”
With that, he practically tossed her into the saddle and mounted behind her.
Chapter 8
ELIZABETH PUT HER HAND TO HER FOREHEAD AND OPENED her eyes slowly. The big room where she lay upon the bed was empty, dark. It had been many hours since she and Miles had ridden into the fortress of Clan MacArran. It was an ancient place, set on the edge of a cliff like some giant eagle using its talons to hold on. Some woman who looked as old as the castle handed Elizabeth a hot drink laced with herbs, and when the woman’s back was turned, Elizabeth dumped the drink into the rushes behind a bench. Elizabeth had a knowledge of herbs and she had a good guess as to what the drink contained.
The gnarled little woman, whom Bronwyn called Morag, watched Elizabeth with sharp eyes and after a few moments Elizabeth feigned sleepiness and lay upon the bed
“She needs the rest,” Bronwyn said over her. “I’ve never seen anyone go insane quite as she did when Stephen pulled her from under the falling rocks. It was as if demons had suddenly entered her body.”
Morag gave a little snort. “Ye fought Stephen long and hard when ye first met him.”
“It wasn’t the same,” Bronwyn insisted. “Miles calmed her but only after a long time of shaking her. Did you know she broke Sir Guy’s toes?”
“And I heard the two of ye quarreled,” Morag snapped.
Bronwyn straightened defensively. “She dares to defend Roger Chatworth to me. After what he has done—”
“He’s her brother!” Morag spat. “Ye would expect her to be loyal yet ye seem to think she should see your way at once. Bronwyn, there is more than one way of things in the world.” She bent and spread a large blue and green plaid over Elizabeth’s quiet form. “Let’s leave her in peace. A messenger has come from Stephen’s eldest brother.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bronwyn said, angry at being treated as a child and more angry because she deserved the treatment.
Elizabeth lay perfectly still after the door had closed, listening for anyone’s breathing. Sometimes men had pretended they’d left a room but in truth they were actually only hiding in dark corners. When she was sure she was alone, she turned over and cautiously opened her eyes. She was indeed alone.
She sprang from the bed and went to the window. It was just growing dark outside, the moonlight beginning to silver the steep walls of the gray stone castle. Now was the time to escape, now before a routine was set, before all the MacArrans were informed she was a prisoner.
As she watched, on the ground below, four men walked past, their bodies sheathed in plaids. With a smile, Elizabeth began to form a plan. A quick, silent search of the room revealed a chest of men’s clothes. She pulled up the silk skirt of her gown, tied it about her waist, then pulled on a voluminous men’s shirt and slipped into heavy wool socks. For just a second, she looked down at her knees, blinked at the idea of appearing in public so very bare—nude almost. There were no shoes so she had to make do with her own soft shoes, her toes tightly jammed with the added bulk of the socks. Rolling the plaid about her so it formed a short skirt and could be tossed across a shoulder took several attempts, and she was sure she still didn’t have it right when she tied a belt about her waist. It was much too long to buckle.
With her breath held, she cautiously opened the door, praying that as yet no guard had been posted outside her door. Her luck held and she slipped through a narrow opening and out into the dim hall. She’d memorized the way out of the castle when Miles had led her to the room and now, as she paused to get her bearings, she listened for sounds.
Far away, to her left and below, she could hear voices. Slowly, melting into the wall, she glided down the stairs toward the main exit. Just as she was moving past the room where people were gathered, she heard the name Chatworth. She glanced toward the door to the outside but at the same time she wanted information. With no more noise than a shadow, she moved to where she could hear.
Stephen was speaking. “Damn both of you, Miles!” Anger permeated his voice. “Gavin has no more sense than you do. The two of you are helping Chatworth accomplish what he wants. He’s coming close to destroying our family.”
Miles remained silent.
Bronwyn put her hand on Miles’s arm. “Please release her. Lady Elizabeth can return to England with an armed guard and when Gavin hears she’s released, he’ll let Roger Chatworth go.”
Still Miles did not speak.
“Goddamn you!” Stephen bellowed. “Answer us!”
Miles’s eyes ignited. “I will not release Elizabeth. What Gavin does with Roger Chatworth is my brother’s business. Elizabeth is mine.”
“If you weren’t my brother—” Stephen began.
“If I weren’t your brother, what I did would have no effect on you.” Miles was quite
calm, only his eyes showing his anger.
Stephen threw up his hands in despair. “You talk to him,” he said to Bronwyn. “None of my brothers has any sense at all.”
Bronwyn planted herself before her husband. “Once you fought Roger Chatworth for what you believed to be yours. Now Miles is doing exactly the same thing and yet you rage at him.”
“It was different then,” Stephen said sullenly. “You were given to me by the king.”
“And Elizabeth was given to me!” Miles interjected with great passion. “Bronwyn, am I welcome here? If not I and my men will leave—with Lady Elizabeth.”
“You know you are welcome,” Bronwyn said softly. “Unless Chatworth is prepared for war, he’ll not attack the MacArrans.” She turned to Stephen. “And as for Gavin holding Chatworth prisoner, I’m glad for it. Do you forget what Chatworth did to your sister Mary or that he held me prisoner for a month?”
Elizabeth slipped away after hearing those words. They were going to find that she wasn’t the docile captive they assumed she would be.
Outside, a fog was rolling in from the sea and she smiled in secret thanks for the Lord’s help. Her first necessity was to get a horse because she could not walk out of Scotland. Standing still, she listened, stiffly intent, trying to ascertain where the stables were.
Elizabeth was quite good at stealing horses; she’d had a great deal of practice in her short lifetime. Horses were like children. They needed to be talked to quietly, simply, with no quick movements. There were two men at one end of the stables, laughing, talking in low tones about the latest women they’d bedded.
With great stealth, Elizabeth eased a bridled horse from the far end of the long stable. She pulled a saddle from the stall wall and waited until she was outside before saddling the animal. She thanked heaven for the relative noisiness of so many people living together on a few acres of land. A creaky cart went by; a man leading four horses tied the animals not far from the stables and two of the horses started nipping each other. As a consequence, three men began shouting and cracking whips. None of the people milling about even glanced at the slight figure in the shadows, a plaid covering the person’s head.
When Elizabeth mounted, she lazily followed the cart out the open gates of Larenston and, like the cart driver, raised her hand in silent greeting to the guards above her. The guards were there to keep people from entering; people leaving were of little interest to them.
The only way to reach the MacArran fortress was across a frighteningly narrow bit of land. Elizabeth’s already racing heart threatened to break her ribs. The cart in front of her was unusually narrow and, even so, its wheels rode just on the edges of the road—inches in either direction and the man, cart and horse would be over the side.
When she reached the end of the road, she breathed a sigh of relief for several reasons—the end of the treacherous path and, so far, no alarm had been sounded.
The cart driver looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. “Always glad when I come off that path. Are ye goin’ this way?”
Straight ahead was the easy way, through the crofters’ farms where people would see her and could give a search party directions. To the right was the cliff road, the one she and Miles had ridden on. To ride along the cliff at night…
“Nay!” she said in her huskiest voice to the cart driver. Obviously the man would want to talk if she rode with him. She pointed a plaid-covered arm toward the cliff.
“You young’uns!” The man chuckled. “Well, good luck to ye, lad. There’s plenty of moonlight, but watch yer step.” With that he clucked to his horse and drove away.
Elizabeth lost no time in contemplating her fear but urged her mare toward the black emptiness before her. At night the road looked worse than she remembered. Her horse fidgeted and after only a second’s hesitation, she dismounted and began to lead her.
“Damn Miles Montgomery!” she muttered. Why did he have to come to a savage place like this? If he were going to hold someone captive, he should have done it in civilized surroundings.
The howl of a wolf directly overhead made her stop muttering. Silhouetted atop the cliff were three wolves, heads low, watching her. The horse danced about and Elizabeth wrapped the reins around her wrist. As she moved, the wolves moved with her. Another one joined the pack.
It seemed to Elizabeth that she had traveled for miles but she couldn’t even see the end of the cliff road. For a moment, she leaned against the rock wall, tried to calm her racing heart.
The wolves, seeming to believe their victim was admitting defeat, growled collectively. The horse reared, tore the reins from Elizabeth’s hands. She made a leap for the horse, lost her footing and fell half over the edge of the cliff. The freed horse went tearing down the path.
She lay still for a moment, trying to regain her composure and to figure out how to free herself. Precariously, she clung to the edge of the cliff, one leg dangling with no support, her other foot straining to hold on. Her arms were hugging rock, her chin pressing downward. She moved her left arm, and as she did, rock crumbled from under her. With a gasp of terror she began to move her right leg to search for a foothold—but found none. Another bit of rock crumbled and she knew she had to do something.
Using every bit of strength in her arms, she tried to push herself up, inching her hips to the left. When her left knee caught on the solid rock road, she had to blink away tears of relief. Inch by slow inch, she moved her aching, bruised body back onto the road.
On hands and knees she crawled to the safety of the rock wall and sat there, tears rolling down her cheeks, her chest heaving. Blood trickled down her arms and her raw knees burned.
Above her came a great cry of animals fighting. Pushing herself away from the wall, she saw an animal attacking the wolves. “That great dog of Bronwyn’s,” she gasped and closed her eyes in silent prayer for a moment.
She didn’t sit there long. Soon her disappearance would be discovered and she needed to be well ahead of her Montgomery enemies.
When she stood, she realized she was hurt worse than she thought. Her left leg was stiff, her ankle painful. When she wiped away the tears from her cheeks, her hand showed bloody in the moonlight. With raw palms, she began to feel her way along the road, not trusting her sight to guide her but needing the solid rock for direction.
The moon had set by the time she reached the end of the road, but instead of being frightening, the black open space was welcome to her. She pulled the plaid closer about her, ignored her weak legs and began walking.
When two pinpoints of light shone at her, chest height, she gasped, stopped, looked about for some weapon. For several moments she locked eyes with the animal, whatever it was, before it moved. The animal was almost touching her before she realized it was Bronwyn’s dog.
The dog cocked its head at her quizzically and Elizabeth wanted to cry with relief.
“You killed the wolves, didn’t you?” she said. “Good boy. Are you friendly?” Tentatively, she put out her hand, palm up, and was rewarded with a lick of the dog’s tongue. As she began stroking the animal’s big head, it nudged her hand, pushing her back toward the cliff road.
“No, boy,” she whispered. Her standing still was making her feel her cuts and bruises more. And it seemed like days since she’d slept. “I want to go this way, not back to Bronwyn.”
The dog gave a sharp yip at his mistress’s name.
“No!” she said firmly.
The dog watched her for a moment as if considering her words, then turned toward the forest ahead of them.
“Good boy.” She smiled. “Maybe you can lead me out of this place. Lead me to another clan that will return me to my brother for the reward he’ll pay.”
She walked behind the dog, but as she began to stumble, it stopped, nudging under her arm until she began to lean on it. “What’s your name, boy?” she whispered tiredly. “Is it George or Oliver or is it some Scots name I’ve never heard?”
The dog slowed its step even
more for her.
“How about Charlie?” she said. “I rather like the name Charlie.”
With that she collapsed in a heap beside the dog, asleep, or perhaps in a faint.
The dog nudged her, sniffed her, licked her bloody face, and when nothing made her rise he settled beside her and slept.
The sun was high overhead when Elizabeth woke and looked up at the massive, shaggy head of the dog. The animal’s eyes were questioning, as concerned about her as a human. There was an ugly cut covered with dried blood under one of the dog’s eyes.
“Get that from fighting the wolves?” She smiled up at the dog, scratching its ears. As she started to rise, her legs gave way under her and she clutched the dog. “It’s a good thing you’re strong, Charlie,” she said, using the dog’s back to brace herself.
When she was at last on her feet, she looked down at herself and groaned. Her skirt was half tied up, half hanging down to her ankles. Her left knee was cut, scraped, still oozing blood, while her right knee was merely raw. With determination, she tossed the plaid over her arms, not wanting to see the damage done to them. When she touched her hair she felt dried bits of blood so she moved her hand away.
“Can you find some water, Charlie?” she asked the dog. “Water?”
The dog took off instantly across the rocky landscape, returning when Elizabeth could follow only at a snail’s pace. The newly healed scabs had opened and there were warm trickles of blood on her body.
The dog led her to a small stream where she washed as best she could. When she met her liberators, she wanted to be as presentable as possible.
She and the dog walked for hours, staying close to the rocks and the few trees. Once they heard horses and instinctively Elizabeth hid, pulling the dog to her side. There was no way she could have held the big dog had it decided to leave her, but for the moment the animal seemed content to stay with her.
By sundown, what little strength she had left was gone, and it didn’t seem to matter when the dog began barking at something she couldn’t see. “No doubt it’s Miles or your mistress,” she said heavily and slid to the ground, closing her eyes.