Chapter 35
Elspeth dug her fingers into Falin’s mane and urged him to stand still. The stallion’s ears pricked forward, his hooves restive. Blades flashing, tartans swirling, the combatants circled each other, looking for weakness. When Falin snorted, the people standing near them gave way. His reputation as a horse with a wicked temper, whom no one could ride, preceded him.
Several people made the sign against Evil. Of course, a witch could ride the devil’s horse, they seemed to say. But in truth, they had more to fear from Falin’s sharp hooves than any malevolent spirit.
Even though she was a good distance away, since Elspeth was on the stallion’s back, she saw every stroke and parry of the fight. She almost wished she could not. Lachlan’s blade whistled over Rob’s ducked head, missing him by a hair’s breadth. For the life of her, she couldn’t look away.
At first, the populace cheered for their laird, but as the fight wore on, boiling in tight circles, the people quieted. The only sound was the clang of steel on steel and grunts of exertion from Rob and Lachlan. They were strong men, seasoned warriors and canny in the way of the blade. Lachlan had a stone of weight on Rob, but Rob was younger by several years.
It didn’t seem to matter. They both fought like men possessed. Three lives hung in the balance. Theirs and hers.
Elspeth couldn’t swallow for the lump in her throat. She struggled for each breath, not realizing she was holding it as Rob’s blade sang.
“Ye have no heir,” Lachlan said between gasping breaths. “Once I kill ye, I’ll take your lands before your people have time enough to rally in their own defense.”
“No one has ever taken Caisteal Dubh,” Rob said between clenched teeth. He leaped to avoid a blow that would have taken his legs off at the knees.
“No one’s ever known for sure if there was a secret entrance, but there must be one. I dinna believe Elspeth flew over your walls,” Lachlan said, feinting right and then swinging around to strike from the left. Rob barely had time to meet his blade. “She’ll tell me where it is.”
“I willna,” she whispered, not wanting to distract Rob. That’s what Lachlan was trying to do with his gasping words.
Rob parried Lachlan’s shoulder-jarring blow and answered with one of his own.
“Elspeth wouldn’t tell to save her own neck, but I hold her parents, ye ken.” Lachlan leered at him with an evil grin. “Think ye she’ll keep silent while I take them apart once ye’re gone?”
Rob roared and rained a hailstorm of blows, which Lachlan managed to parry while giving ground. Then in one sickening moment, Drummond caught the tip of his blade in the hilt of Rob’s and twisted Rob’s sword from his hand.
The claymore flipped end over end, landing directly in front of Elspeth and Falin, point buried in the crack between two cobbles. The stallion reared, but Elspeth kept her seat and managed to quiet him after a few quick turns and kicks.
When Falin settled, Elspeth saw that Rob was unarmed, on his knees far enough from his lost sword that a single lunge would not bring him close enough to snatch it. Lachlan circled, toying with him. He bloodied him in half-a-dozen places. The crowd urged their laird to finish his enemy.
“Oh, God!” she prayed. “Not like this.” Then Elspeth lifted her voice. “Stop, for the love of Christ, I beg ye! I waive my right to wager de battel! Ye dinna need to kill him. I’ll return to the stake of my own free will.”
“In good time, my dear,” Lachlan said. “In good time. But first, we’ll settle the question of your guilt once and for all.”
He lifted his sword in preparation for the strike that would take Rob’s head from his body. But as the blow fell, Rob dropped and rolled toward his sword. In one smooth motion, he drew the claymore from the cobbles and drove the blade between Lachlan’s ribs clear to the hilt.
A collective gasp ringed the bailey. The crowd watched in stunned silence.
For a moment, the two men were locked in a death embrace, Lachlan clutching at Rob, Rob gripping Lachlan’s sword wrist like a hound at a boar’s throat. He gave the claymore a twist. Drummond’s sword clattered to the cobbles. Rob yanked out his blade. A spurt of red spewed out like a fountain as Lachlan sank to rise no more.
Rob squared his shoulders and walked over to kneel before the judge. “Father, ye have a verdict.”
“By dint of trial by combat,” the judge said in a quavering voice of disbelief, “Elspeth Stewart is found innocent of witchcraft. She is free to go.”
Accommodating as a whore, the crowd roared its approval. They’d come for a spectacle, and by God, they got one. It didn’t matter one whit that it wasn’t the one they’d expected.
Rob stood. “Lachlan Drummond died without an heir. Release Lord Stewart. He and I will meet with the leaders of the Clan Drummond to help ye choose a new laird.”
The cheers that greeted this proved Lachlan Drummond’s passing would not be mourned overmuch.
Then Rob walked toward Elspeth, the crowd scrambling out of his way like sheep giving a wolf a wide berth. He held a hand up to Elspeth.
“And as laird of the Clan MacLaren, I’m choosing a new lady.” His eyes shone with love. “If she’ll have me.”
“With all my heart.” She accepted his hand as he helped her dismount. He swung her into an embrace and deep kiss.
The fickle crowd roared with as much enjoyment over this display as they had for the combat that led to the death of their laird.
***
Later that evening, Rob and Elspeth were reunited with her parents, and they feasted in Lachlan Drummond’s hall with Osgar Drummond, the good man named to succeed him. Osgar’s first act was to expel Father Kester, Mrs. Beaton, and the other false witnesses from his keep. Rob and Elspeth’s father admonished them never to show their faces on MacLaren or Stewart land again either, lest the lairds be in a less merciful mood.
As the evening wore down and wine flowed freely, the old serving woman, Normina, leaned to whisper in Rob’s ear.
“I ken where she lies, my lord.”
Rob’s head turned sharply toward the woman, but his hand gripped Elspeth’s more tightly.
“Yer lady wife,” Normina said. “A kindly lady, she was. If ye wish, I can show ye where she rests.”
“Go, Rob,” Elspeth whispered. “Ye should go.”
He brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “If ye come with me.”
They said their good nights to their host and donned heavy cloaks to follow Normina into the night.
They slipped out of the castle by a small gate and tramped toward a copse of trees. Snow-kissed air washed down from the surrounding peaks, but there was a break in the clouds, and the moon shone on their path with silver light.
Normina led them to a massive fir. Protected from bitter winds by the giant tree, a cairn of granite stones lay in the leeward side. Frost glittered on the mound, bedecking Fiona MacLaren’s grave with pinpoints of light.
“She deserved better, my lord,” Normina said softly. “So I tend her resting place. In the spring, I’ll plant heather and holly, so even once I’m gone, she’ll still have flowers.”
Rob nodded his thanks as Normina withdrew, his heart too full for words, his gut all a-jumble. If Fiona was there, she’d be able to tell him what he was feeling.
“I’ll leave ye for a bit,” Elspeth said softly and started to pull her hand from his.
“No, stay. I want ye here,” he said. “’Tis fitting. Fiona was the first woman I ever loved.” He turned to Elspeth and cupped her cheek. Her hazel eyes sparkled up at him. “Ye are the last. And I’ll love ye, Elspeth Stewart, with my whole heart till I’m dust. Longer, if such things be.”
He lowered his mouth to kiss her, savoring her sweetness mixed with the salt of a tear. He thought it was hers but couldn’t be sure. The last hint of madness sizzled out of him. He was no longer driven, no longer tormented. He felt only peace and love and longing for more of Elspeth Stewart. She was the woman who filled his heart. Filled his bed. And, God willing, would fill his hall with rosy-cheeked bairns.
And from that place, where only love bides, Fiona MacLaren looked on and smiled.
Here’s a sneak peek at
Lord of Fire and Ice
by Connie Mason with Mia Marlowe
Katla wished Brandr wouldn’t keep turning those deep, amber eyes on her. They made it hard for her to think.
“I’m not sure what you’re fit for,” she said, willing herself not to betray how his hard body affected her. The son of Ulf had the frame of a warrior, honed to lean fitness. His muscles stood out beneath smooth skin marred by only a few battle scars.
Katla’s bed had been cold for three years. She didn’t miss having a husband countermand her decisions, but she sorely missed the feel of a man’s body. Brandr Ulfson made her remember that longing in exquisite detail.
She set her mouth in a tight line. It was a man’s world. A woman had to be strong when dealing with a male, even one wearing the iron collar of a thrall, lest he run roughshod over her.
“Have you any skills besides wenching and drinking?”
“I’m a fighter by trade.” His mouth turned up in a lazy, sensual smile. “Obviously drinking isn’t one of my strengths. At least, not when someone taints the mead. But don’t discount wenching. I know how to please a woman. My bed skills are yours for the asking.”
Her cheeks flushed with irritation that he’d divined the direction of her thoughts. Why shouldn’t a widow enjoy a bed slave so long as she kept herself from bearing?
She gave herself a slight shake. This new thrall was nothing but the son of Ulf. She had to keep thinking of him as such.
“I accepted you as my thrall to exact revenge for my husband’s death,” she snapped. She’d sworn to avenge Osvald and this was her first chance to make good on her vow. She’d humble him so abjectly his name would become a byword throughout the North, a warning to all men who fell into the hands of a vengeful woman. “Keep your lewd suggestions to yourself.”
Brandr Ulfson eyed her with boldness so she felt obliged to return the favor. Usually, a bald head made her look away. Only freemen let their hair and beards grow long. But by shearing Brandr’s locks, her brothers had accentuated his strong, even features. A man had to be breathtakingly handsome to still be so appealing after he’d endured the shame of being shorn.
She knelt beside him and stretched out her hand to run a palm over his head, down his neck, and around his firm jawline. In a few days, he’d be prickly with new hair growth—fine blond hair judging from the pale curls licking his brown nipples—but for now, the bare skin on his head and face was begging to be touched.
She straightened her spine.
“Letting you demonstrate your bed skills doesn’t sound like revenge,” she said. “It sounds like you’re trying to trick me into pleasuring a thrall.”
“If we shared a bed, it would be about your pleasure.” His amber eyes darkened to sable. “Not mine.”
“So bedding me wouldn’t please you?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m sure it would please me. Very much. But my aim would be your delight.”
Her breath caught and she couldn’t move. He gave her a thorough look, starting with her mouth, lingering at her breasts, which tingled under his direct gaze, and traveling down her loins and limbs.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Katla. And you’ve missed a man’s touch.”
“I haven’t missed yours,” she snapped. “And you will address me as ‘mistress’ or ‘my lady.’ You may not use my name, thrall.”
She turned and rummaged through her clothes trunk for the oldest, coarsest tunic she could find. She hoped it would be big enough to fit him, but for now, she’d be satisfied with draping the undyed fabric across his groin.
“Varangians are supposed to value honor above all,” she said. “Before I loose your bonds, will you swear upon your honor to obey me and not to run away?”
“I won’t run. Your brothers took me by guile and womanish potions, but they took me. As long as your commands do not conflict with my honor, I so swear to obey you,” he said. “May Thor strike me blind if I do not.”
“If the god doesn’t, I will,” she promised as she cut the bindings on his wrists.
He worked the knot at his ankles as soon as his hands were free. Then he stood to pull the rough tunic over his head.
Katla took a step back from him. The tunic was snug across his broad chest and struck him mid-thigh, leaving his well-muscled legs exposed. At least his disturbing maleness was covered.
“Now what, princess?” He managed to make the title he gifted her with sound like a curse.
She had to show this man his place and quickly. “I saved you from the gelding knife this night. You will show your appreciation by kissing my foot.”
She lifted her nightshift to ankle height and presented one to him, toes pointed.
That should wipe the smug expression from his face.
He shrugged, bent over and grabbed her ankle. Then he yanked her upside down. Her bottom took a glancing blow on the floor before she found herself hanging precariously, her foot level with his mouth when he stood back upright.
It happened so quickly, surprise forced all the air from Katla’s lungs. Her nightshift billowed down to bunch at her armpits, exposing her to him. When she tried to kick free, he grasped her other ankle as well. Her fingertips splayed on the slate floor to steady herself.
She clamped her lips shut to keep from crying out. There were a dozen strong men snoring on the other side of the door. They’d all rush to her aid, but she’d die before she let anyone catch her in this undignified position.
He planted a wet kiss on her instep and then lowered her to the floor. She managed not to land on her head; her right shoulder took most of her weight before she rolled to lie flat on her back on the cold slate.
He glared down at her and bared his teeth in a wolf’s smile. “Want me to kiss anything else, princess?”