A Promise of Love (35 page)

She would be free, but at what cost? And what had she given up to attain it?

In this stark and harsh land of savage beauty, she’d known unquestioning joy. Its people had gifted her with memories to last a lifetime. Sophie had given her affection and love from the first moment she held out her hand. She’d kept her grip unfailingly tight and reassuring until the moment of her death. From Meggie, who seemed to embody the spirit of Scotland - strong, resilient, accepting what life gave her, never fighting it, but overcoming just the same - Judith had been granted an earthy wisdom.And from Alisdair, she'd learned acceptance, courage, hope.

Too much to give up, too much to lose. She did not think she could survive this.

Not even having nobility as a cloak to draw around her added to Judith’s misery. She did not feel innocent enough to be noble, nor clean enough. Yet, somewhere, beneath the pain of this, it was enough to know she had made the right choice. The only choice. The knowledge did not make the journey easier, nor make her wish each clopping step Molly took to end it, to speed her swaybacked mount back to Tynan, rush up the steps and beg for Alisdair's forgiveness.

Yet, she could not change the past. And it was the past which held danger for the future. She was no enchanted princess, no faierie queen, despite the sorcery of the past few months. A spell had been cast upon her, had it not, then just as quickly taken away.

Her blue eyes would now be only blue, not the color of midnight, as Alisdair had once whispered to her. They would no longer have the power to sparkle, or to rage, or to open wide with wonder. Her hair would revert to simple brown, devoid of the gold and red highlights he said he loved so much. Her legs would only be legs and not marble columns he had once claimed, laughing and nibbling at her knees. She raised her hands and looked at them objectively, seeing not aristocratic looking fingers, as he had said, but only chapped and red hands. She remembered the actions of these hands, as she cupped them close to her face, breathing deeply, as if she could still smell the scent of him on her palms. Judith opened them wide, remembering how they had traced a path on his back, how they had gently cradled his manhood, how they had smoothed down his black hair, or playfully tweaked his nose. She remembered holding his hand, as they had laughed like children, running through the woods bordering Tynan. From this moment on, they would only be hands.

And life would only be existence, as it had been before.

Hours passed, their mounts were kept to the center of the road, the clopping cadence of the horses’ hooves became both a lulling sound and a signal of safety. Darkness added danger even to a road well traveled.

Malcolm's self-deprecatory curse was enough to tell Judith that something was wrong. She glanced to her right and that's when she saw them, their blood red uniforms turned black by the faint moonlight. She and Malcolm had both been so singularly involved in their own thoughts that neither had noticed the patrol until it was almost on top of them.

Bennett’s smirk was glowingly evident even in the darkness, as was the dull gleam of the saber extracted from its sheath with a hiss of metal against metal. Five mounted men followed him, each of their faces bearing the same feral, expectant look. Their hunting party had found prey. Judith wondered if they were the same men who had raped Meggie, or did Bennett change companions as easily as he did coats? Were there that many amoral English soldiers billeted in Scotland?

The dread she’d lived with for years, which had been noticeably absent in Alisdair's care, was summoned from some dark part of her mind. It rose, like bile, to lodge in her throat as Bennett cantered forward, easily halting her sway backed mare. Molly seemed to sag in relief at his gesture.

It was the strangest thing, Judith thought, that she should feel so calm right at this moment. She was not fear she felt, but certainty. A knowledge she held to the core of her like the conviction that the sun would rise in the morning. There was danger here, possibly death, certainly the promise of pain. Yet, the horror she’d lived with all those years was gone. No longer would she live her days waiting for Bennett to visit his atrocities upon her. No longer would she live in the sickly miasma of fear at the thought of him touching her. Whatever happened from this moment on in her life, whatever outcome this night brought, it would never be as bad as what she’d already experienced.

Leaving Alisdair had left her empty, a husk of flesh from which the spirit had departed. She had given up everything that was dear to her because of Bennett’s abuse. Love, safety, sanctuary, a feeling of being able to come to grips with her past, a promise of being able to forge a better future - all these things she had sacrificed because of his perversion, his cruelty, and to keep safe the one person she loved. She would no longer cower. What was it Meggie had said?
I've lost too much to lose myself, I'm all I've got left.
Judith had lost Alisdair, a promise of tomorrow, a hint of joy, days of wonder. She had lost the possibility of forgiveness, the promise of love.

The fear Bennett induced no longer had its ominous power - she had nothing left to lose.

"Dear Judith," he said, his voice tinged with mockery, "we meet again."

She did not speak, simply looked into his shadow cloaked face with all of the contempt and disgust she had always kept carefully masked. She despised him with a loathing that she had otherwise reserved for Anthony, for unlike the other drunken molesters, Bennett had enjoyed her struggles and her screams. He feasted on them the way a bird of prey would, the meal so much more delicious if the victim still lived.

With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, Bennett beckoned the rest of his entourage closer. As they reined in, Judith could see from their glassy eyes and slightly askew uniforms that this was no ordinary patrol. Not with the smell of spirits wafting from them and a leering look from even the youngest of the five, a boy barely past his first shave.

Malcolm slitted his eyes and looked at the leader. No, this wasn't good. An English patrol was one thing, damn their Sassenach hides. A drunken English patrol, with their leader making insulting noises towards the laird's lady, now that was something else.

Malcolm edged his horse closer to Judith, slid his dirk alongside the edge of her boot. Aye, it was all well and good for Sophie to wish peace in the Highlands, but there were just some things that a man had to keep for... well, sentimental reasons.

Judith felt Malcolm's hand and did not veer her gaze from Bennett.

"Is there a reason you've stopped us, Bennett, or have you lost your way?" Her scornful tone was due to two things - she desperately wanted to prevent Bennett from realizing exactly what Malcolm was doing, and secondly, she no longer cared if Bennett realized the depth of her antipathy. Alisdair was safe from him now.

"I am an instrument of English justice, dear Judith."

"English justice? The two words do not seem to belong together, Bennett. English and justice." Her smile was cold, a mere upward slash of lips. "You are more likely an instrument of English lust." Malcolm thought her words an act of courage. Bennett reasoned she was bluffing, her ridicule nothing more than bravado. Judith knew them to be only words, simple words, incapable of measuring the depth of her loathing.

"Let's see what you say after a visit to the magistrate, my dear," he softly intoned, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Only at the beginning had she ever defied him; this rare show of courage added a growing thrill to this chase.

"What will your English magistrate say about the crime of rape, Bennett? Do you go without punishment?"

"If a few English soldiers were entertained by a lusty Scots wench, that is human nature, Judith. Surely not a punishable offense."

His indifference infuriated her; he had never had any thoughts for anyone other than himself.

“Is rape the only way a woman will willingly allow you to grow close?”

"You've grown brave, Judith. I admire your spirit; it will make the game so much more refreshing."

“And you’ve grown coward, Bennett, hiding behind your uniform.”

With his entourage milling around him, perhaps she should have been more cautious about her words. Yes, they had strength in numbers. Yes, there was only her, and one aged Scot who would have roared in protest at that appellation. Yet, Judith knew something they did not. She had absolutely no intention of repeating the past.

She would gladly die first.

Bennett waved his companions away, and only his coarse words to the group convinced them that he was adequate to handle one old man and one slightly used whore.

He had plans for Judith. Plans that did not require witnesses. And, if the old man had to die first - so be it. What was one more Scot? Bennett Henderson had no intention of letting his former sister-in-law leave Scotland alive.

He had relished his plans for so long now that he almost gloatingly took in every detail of her appearance, almost ghostly in the pale moonlight. She was prettier now than she had been in London, more fully fleshed. Would she feel the same? Would her satin skin still feel as good? Would her screams still excite him as they had before? He intended to find out and then once he had pleasured himself in her body one more time, he would kill her slowly. As slowly as his brother must have died, in as much agony.

Malcolm sidled up to Judith, his horse shouldering her mare aside. He had enough of this foolishness. If they were to be arrested, let Henderson try. If it was other sport he was after - again, let him try.

He peered at Judith through the shadows, at her pale face, the only part of her visible above her black dress. She turned, watched him wiggle his eyebrows at her and then motion down to her boot with a point of his angular nose.

She understood. A weapon would at least even the odds.

Bennett's saber sliced through the air, as if cutting away a portion of the night, surprising Judith almost as much as the sudden, fierce pain shocked Malcolm. He pressed his hand over the wound in his shoulder, staring at the Sassenach who had drawn first blood without warning. He spurred his horse around the mare, leaving Judith free to escape. But, she had no intention of leaving Malcolm.

An ungodly howl punctuated the silence as Malcolm launched himself at Bennett, screaming and shouting as his dirk slashed through the air with maniacal fervor. The battle cry of the MacLeod's had last been heard at Culloden, multiplied five hundred times, but the sound uttered by one old and angry man was enough to raise the hair on the back of Judith's neck.

Judith eased her hand down to the side of her boot, gripped the dagger with a suddenly sweaty hand. Its sharp edge cut into her skin, the dots of blood shining wet and black. She rubbed the side of her hand against her skirt.

Malcolm was no match for Bennett's youth, or the reach of the saber. Bennett slashed again and a long line of red appeared on the side of Malcolm's face. He roared, and leaned to the side, plunging his dirk wildly into the darkness. He was reaching to stab again when Bennett's saber flashed one more time, almost contemptuously cutting off the old man's ear, severing it from his head.

Judith did the only thing she could think of, reasoning in that split second of time left her that the stallion's pain was a small price to pay for Malcolm's survival and her freedom.

She grasped the dirk Malcolm had slipped her, closed her eyes tight, and with both hands, plunged it hilt deep into the rump of Bennett's horse. The stallion screamed in agony, pawed the air, and not even Bennett's centaur-like grace could control him. Bennett slid from the saddle with an unearthly elegance, rolling when he hit the ground and easily eluding Malcolm's thrown dagger.

He was not fast enough, however, to escape the killing hoofs of the pain maddened stallion. The horse reared, an unearthly silhouette against a moonlit night, a demon of fury and agony. Judith would be able to remember the sounds of that night for years to come - Bennett's screams and an animal's shrieking terror. Was it hours or only minutes until the frenzied horse finally raced, riderless, over the moor, spooked and wild-eyed by the scent of the blood spattered from his hooves to braided mane.

Malcolm dismounted heavily, looked down at the injured Englishman and then back up at Judith, still seated on her mare.

"Come here, Judith," he said, in a soft tone, unlike any she'd heard Malcolm use. He had to coax her twice more before she tremblingly obeyed, sliding from the sway backed mare and resting against her side for a moment until her legs stopped shaking and she could support her own weight.

He pulled her down by one arm until she nearly toppled on the Bennett’s inert body. His chest was crushed, the stallions' well shod hooves had done their work well. Malcolm raised Bennett's head. A bloody froth oozed from the corners of his mouth, his eyes were glazed.

"This mon had done ye grief, lass," Malcolm said gently, beckoning her closer with one bloody hand. "Ye need to help him die."

He held out his dagger, the handle coated with blood - his or Bennett’s? In the moonlight, the blood appeared shiny and black.

Judith took it, wiped the handle clean, held it tightly gripped in a trembling hand. How many times had she wanted to kill Bennett? How many times had she felt powerless, helpless, the victim? How many nights had she prayed for just such an opportunity, for just such a moment?