A Promise of Love (6 page)

He had a scent about him not redolent of the sick room, like Peter reeking of camphor, or of blood and sweat, like Anthony. His was of a clean, crisp scent, like pine and the outdoors. His black hair was thick, as shiny as a raven’s wing, not blond or thinning. He was taller and broader than both her husbands, his shoulders strained the seams of his worn white shirt, his thighs pressed against the fabric of his trousers too well, leaving nothing to the imagination.

His face was marked by strong, decisive features, twin lines bracketed his jaw as if leading the way to a full, squared off bottom lip. Sun or wind, or life itself, had carved faint lines around his eyes, but instead of detracting from his appearance, they only added depth and substance to that face. He used his eyes like weapons, a direct amber stare from the MacLeod was like an invasion of the soul. And when he smiled and those white, even teeth flashed in that strong, tanned face, a flutter of fear spiraled in her belly.

Sophie felt the barely hidden currents between Judith and her grandson and smiled.

"Malcolm," she said to her clansman who was obviously, and loudly, enjoying his meal, "would you mind leaving us alone, please?"

Malcolm looked to the MacLeod, who barely nodded, then at Judith, who only concentrated on her bowl. Finally, he glanced again at Sophie, who smiled softly at him. He filled his bowl once more before leaving the kitchen, to Judith's repugnance and the MacLeod's amusement.

Sophie had thought all day about what she would say. Age and wisdom had given her the will, her courage had been fortified by the knowledge that time, itself, was slipping from her grasp. These days, Sophie could remember her childhood on her father's estate in France with more clarity than she could the hour before. Such ability amused her, proving her finally old in the way her ancient, wrinkled grandmother had been old. Strange, but there were times she didn't feel elderly at all. Inside, she felt like a young girl, except for possessing the memories of a well lived, well loved life.

Oh, Gerald, it would not be long, would it? It did not strike her as strange that she prayed to him more often than the God of her youth. She had loved him so, this proud, vital man who had become her husband, her heart. But, ah, not without a struggle.

There were things to do before she could be with him again, things she must accomplish, duties she must discharge, not the least was her grandson's happiness. What a stubborn man he was. Almost as stubborn as his grandfather. Sophie sighed, but the sound was accompanied by the wisp of a smile. Aye, as loving too, she thought, remembering.

Judith reminded Sophie too much of herself. She, too, had come reluctantly to Scotland, many years ago. And she, too, had fought again the union planned for her without her consent. The Agincourt family in France had long ties with the MacLeod's, and Sophie’s marriage helped ensure the continuation of that relationship. Yet, despite her initial unwillingness, this land of fierce Scots had become a land of beauty for her, the initial loneliness she’d felt had shifted to become a deep and abiding love.

If she could, she would grant such an opportunity to these young people.

Sophie folded her hands upon the top of her cane. That they waited for her words was evident, that each waited with their own dread was also clear. Judith’s head was bowed over her bowl, but Sophie did not need to see her face to know that her eyes would be dark and filled with emotion. Nor did she need to decipher the fixed and tensile strength of her grandson’s jaw. Such stubborn people, each in their own way.

"I will give you three months, children,” she said, a soft smile softening the edge of her words, “to see if you do not truly suit. At the end of that time, if you do not feel that you can make a life together, then I will evaluate my words in the courtyard. It is quite possible that I made a mistake, and did not say anything binding when Malcolm asked it of me." She looked at Alisdair as she spoke.

At question was the intent of their declaration in the courtyard. A couple must wish to be married to each other for such an bond to be recognized. Yet, by his actions today, by introducing Judith as the laird’s wife throughout the clan, Malcolm had made Alisdair’s willingness perfectly clear, a declaration as binding as wedding lines. They were considered wed by the clan and by their own customs.

There was silence while each evaluated her words. When Judith spoke, her words echoed Alisdair’s thoughts, a coincidence which did not dull the edge of his irritation.

"I could save you the time," Judith said softly, "I know we will not suit."

Alisdair nodded in complete accord.

"If you do not at least try, then my memory is without fault, child."

"Granmere, as much as I would wish an end to this farce, I do not ask you to lie."

"Alisdair, it is my fondest wish to see you settled before I die. Life is too short to spend it in regret or pain. I would do anything to bring about your peace, even if it means forgetting a few details." She smiled fondly at her grandson. He reminded her so much of her own beloved Gerald.

"Never doubt one thing, my dear," she said addressing Judith, "if you doubt all other things in life. This land breeds a fierce people. Stubborn, loyal to a fault, believing in causes the rest of the world would sooner disavow. My grandson is the epitome of all that is good about this land. You could do worse for a husband."

Perhaps it might be said that he could do better for a wife, Judith thought, looking down at the table before her, intent upon her inner thoughts and not the unpalatable bowl of watery soup. She glanced up only once at the frail woman who wore such determination on her features, and caught a glimpse of the strange flush upon the MacLeod's face. If she did not know better, she would have thought the MacLeod embarrassed by his grandmother's fulsome praise. Embarrassed, indeed.

"If, at the end of this time," Sophie continued, as if she had not seen the look Judith directed towards Alisdair, "you do not feel content here, then you are free to go. Although there is little in the way of actual coin, there is my jewelry. It would enable you to live for some time."

"I could not do that," Judith protested.

"Nor will I allow you to," Alisdair said curtly. In the last two years, despite the hardships, near starvation, and deprivation they had all suffered, he had not touched his grandmother's jewelry.

It was not pride. Pride had died when he harnessed himself in front of a plow. Pride had died when he'd broken up furniture for firewood, deep in the winter when the snows were too thick and the winds too fierce and howling to venture from Tynan's walls. Pride had died when he had returned home to Tynan, sick with grief and despair, only to stare in horror at the assembled scarecrows who were his clan. And the remnants of that pride, frail wisps that they were, had died an ignominious death when he scrabbled in the earth, finding long forgotten potato mounds, unearthing food, any food, for his starving people. No, it was not pride, but a curious sort of sentiment, out of place for this time perhaps, but still powerful. There was little they had left that belonged to the past. They had been stripped of their heritage and forbidden their culture. All that was accessible to them were memories and a few trinkets. Sophie's jewelry may have purchased temporary comfort, but their loss would have been greater than what they bought. The brooches, the necklaces she hid away, a few bracelets of gold, and the sparkling gems which had never been mounted were gifts from his grandfather. Although she would not have begrudged selling them, Alisdair had seen the way she occasionally took them from their safekeeping and traced the line of each one, silent tears falling down her cheeks. He would not touch his grandmother's memories. Nor would he let this Englishwoman leave with them.

"We all do what we must, children, at the time,” Sophie said, her stubbornness, if he’d realized it, the match of her grandson’s. “My jewels are mine to do with as I will. Besides, have you forgotten something? Your parting is not a fait accompli. I will be the arbiter here. If I feel you have not honestly tried, then you remain wed.

"Child," she said, glancing at Judith, "We do not live in ordinary times and it is not as if you were a maiden. If you were, this agreement between us would not be possible. You have been wed before. Therefore, a few months with Alisdair will neither enhance your reputation nor destroy it. Do you understand?"

"I think you are hinting at warmer relations, Granmere,” Alisdair interrupted, “but such a thing will not happen." He had no desire to compound the complexities of his life by welcoming this English woman to his bed.

Judith forced herself not to look up from the scarred oak boards of the table.

"But you will try, won't you, to get along? You will try," Sophie admonished them, "Because if you don't, be prepared to spend the rest of your lives together."

It was a sobering enough thought to make Judith look at the MacLeod full faced. It was such a frightening thought that he stared back at the Englishwoman without scowling.

A spark has often kindled a big fire, Sophie thought, and smiled.

CHAPTER 6

Something was hurting.

Her eyes would not open. No, that was not right. Judith tried to blink again, fighting against the heaviness of her lids. She reached to press her hand against her eyes, to free herself from the cloth, only then realizing that her hands were tied. Bound together over her head so tightly that her arms ached with the discomfort. She pulled on them, but all she accomplished by that futile gesture did was to tighten the rope which bit into her wrists. Terror washed through her like a fountain of fear, bathing every pore in sour smelling sweat.

She let out a startled scream when a voice spoke near her ear. "Ah," it said, in a low, almost considerate tone, as a hand reached out and covered her mouth, "you are awake. Good. I would hate to think that you would be missing this next part."

"Please," she pleaded, her words muffled by the pressure of that hand.

"And rob us of our fun?" Another low chuckle. "I think not." The hand was replaced by lips that were too hot and too wet and she almost gagged at the insertion of a tongue into her mouth. He tasted of brandy and tobacco. The revulsion she felt was enough to clamp her teeth firmly against that intrusion.

He recoiled immediately, his gasp of pain her only reward for momentary courage. That, and the vicious blow strong enough to knock her head to the side. She screamed then, as loudly and as strongly as she could. It was the only thing she had left, the only defense. But they only laughed at her screams, as if the sound of her terror excited them, wolves amused by the plaintive sound of fear.

The blanket was stripped from her body; the cool rush of air chilled her sweating skin. She kicked out with legs that were free of bindings, but her thrashing movements only encouraged masculine laughter, they did not stop the stroking hand which obscenely and leisurely explored her body. Nor did her struggles impede the invading fingers, which cruelly poked and probed. Her hips bucked up from the mattress at the pain from those thrusting fingers, but that movement only seemed to foster ribald comments from those in the room.

The mattress sagged with one man’s weight. His legs brushed her own, the rough hair upon them scraping against her skin. Judith lunged upwards again, as if to dislodge him. A muffled groan followed by an oath indicated that she had managed to inflict some pain on her assailant.

"Stretch her legs out, Anthony, and fasten her ankles to the bedposts."

She did not make it easy for them. Yet, even her strength, born of terror and underlaid with rage, was not enough in the end. The manacles fastened around her ankles were red with blood before she collapsed against the mattress. Still, she did not meekly acquiesce to their plans for her.

As she squirmed in abhorrence at the touch of the hands and lips which explored her body at will, arching her torso from side to side in the only movement allowed her, laughter was interspersed by coarse encouragement.

"By God, she loves it!" one voice shouted.

"Your bitch needs taming, Anthony!"

As if in punishment for her defiance, her breasts were tightly squeezed by brutal fingers. She moaned in pain, but that slight sound seemed to encourage her assailant, who bit her nipples cruelly in a parody of pleasure. Yet, even that pain was easily forgotten in the agony that followed.

Thrusting fingers were replaced by his male member, as it ruthlessly invaded her, tearing the walls of her dry passage, lubricating his rape with her own blood. Her assailant's grunt of pleasure accompanied her own muffled screams.

Nor did it stop there.

His release found, the first one left, only to be replaced by another. Still another took his place, marking her body with a series of vicious bites and sucking marks, driving into her until agony was just a mild word compared to the writhing torment that was her body.

Her mind was not occupied in this battle for survival, it sat outside of her body, watching with dumbstruck eyes as she was made victim. Wet warmth seeped from between her legs and she knew that she was bleeding freely. With each thrust, some part of her soul was injured along with her body.