A Promise of Love (7 page)

But that was not enough for them. Her humiliation and shame were not what they wanted.They wanted more.

She did not fight as they unbound her feet, and turned her over. She was a body without will, a lump of flesh that screamed silently, nerve endings tortured, a receptacle of pain. Only when they violated her again, destroying her innocence totally, were they assuaged and spent.

Judith’s first waking thought was that she was alone, that the nightmare which had left her trembling and spent was only the stuff of memories. It was not real. Not anymore. Anthony was dead and his brother far away. She was safe in this burnt out castle. And that was the most fitting irony of all, wasn’t it? That her father had unwittingly sent her to a sanctuary.

And Sophie MacLeod had offered an incredible bargain.

That the Scots found it necessary to honor such a bizarre ritual as her courtyard marriage was odd in itself; honor not having been a commodity highly revered in her past experience. Her father thought it only a word used by weaklings, but then, he routinely cheated and lied if it meant reaping more profit. Nor had either of her previous husbands seemed overly endowed with what might be called character.

Judith sat on the edge of the sagging mattress, noted that her hands still trembled. The nightmare hadn’t come in months, but she was not unduly surprised it had visited her last night. This place summoned ghosts and memories, this desolate castle with its burnt walls and its constant smell of soot.

She stood, looking out the window and the view of dawn which beckoned. The scene itself was an oddity, so different from her first view of Tynan, so changed from somber night. It was as if nature had arranged a sampler for her taste, a teasing bit of topography to stir the eye. A gray angle of mountain sat far in the distance, its color dark mist topped by white, like foaming milk upon a slab of chocolate. Tall pines thrust from a promontory to her left to soar to the sky, their branches so thick, the covering so solid, it was as if the earth were bearded in green. The cliff fell to a sea which boiled up and crashed against huge boulders, then subsided into the gentle rock lined cove surrounding Tynan on three sides. The slash of color was brilliant on this fine morning in the Highlands. Deep cerulean blues from both the sky and the sea, emerald from the forests, white from the flecked waves and far off snows, gray from the shadowed mountains and deep waves.

Judith closed her eyes and sniffed. The tang of the air was so different from London; it did not come from emptied chamber pots, her neighbors' cooking, or the stench from the Thames. It was clean and crisp, a hint of ocean salt and recently turned earth. Nature's scent, not man's.

Three months was a relatively short time when her marriage to Anthony had lasted an interminable four years. Three months was nothing, really, especially if it promised safety and freedom at the end of it. Three months would carry her to autumn, when the roads should still be passable. But she wouldn’t go back to England. She would start a new life, begin again some place new and as fresh as this dawn morning.

Judith would have washed with cold water and enjoyed it, had she remembered to fill the ewer the night before. She'd been too eager to escape the kitchen table to concern herself with that chore. Now, she simply sighed, dressed in the same dress she had carefully removed last night, scraping her hair back into a serviceable bun. She squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath and opened the door leading to the hall.

And nearly collided with the object of her thoughts.

The MacLeod stopped, looked her over without comment, a sweeping inspection that carried with it neither derision nor approval. It was a totally expressionless examination, as if she'd not been there at all, and he studied the wall behind her.

Neither said a word, and yet a volume had been spoken.

She knew only too well what he thought of her. Men like the MacLeod were no strangers. Graced with aristocratic good looks, strength of body and firmness of resolve, they normally wanted only one thing from a woman. And usually experienced no difficulty obtaining it. Judith thanked the heavens that he didn’t seem to wish it from her. Yet, what if he changed his mind, and that look came into his eyes, and his stare focused on her chest? There seemed to be something magical about the size of her breasts which sucked the brains from even an intelligent man. Would he, too, make comments about her physical shape? Brush by her accidentally, liken her to a mare eager to be mounted?

Without a word, he was gone, down the curving staircase.

Moments later, she followed the route the MacLeod had taken, peering into the kitchen before she entered it. The room was empty, so Judith grabbed a grimy turnip for a solitary breakfast and sat upon one of the scarred wooden benches.

Would it be like this for three months? Her heart in her throat, her blood only pooling ice. How could she do it? How could she possibly do it? Three months stretched out in one minute increments. And yet, she had played that game before, hadn't she?

What other choice did she have?

She listed the alternatives in her mind the way a shop keeper would tally his profits, except the list was pitifully small and there was no joy at the sum. In the end, she had no other choice.

Seated upon the bench in the kitchen, with only the scrabbling sounds of vermin accompanying her thoughts, Judith Cuthbertson Willoughby Henderson MacLeod reluctantly conceded that there was, after all, only one option open. As much as it frightened her, she would have to remain married to the MacLeod.

But only for a little while.

CHAPTER 7

"Come on, man, we've almost got it!" Alisdair MacLeod shouted at his ancient clansman.

The faltering Geddes was no match for the plow that stubbornly skidded along the weed choked ground. A few moments later, Alisdair dropped the leather straps wound around his shoulders and torso and wearily walked back to where Geddes stood, bent over with age and the shame of being unable to contribute to even this simple task. Alisdair, well aware of the state of the old man's pride, clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder as he thrust his worn boot at the metal flange, stomping and kicking at it until it found purchase in the stubborn soil. Grasping the wooden handles of the plow between two large, callused hands, he showed Geddes how to hold them firmly as his laird acted as their draft horse.

Alisdair disliked having his ancient clansman help in the rough work, but Geddes needed to feel useful. That, coupled with the fact that there was no one else to do this chore adequately subdued Alisdair’s conscience.

The English woman was still on his mind, damn her, despite the plowing to be done.

Alisdair could not recall one instance when he had frightened a woman.

When he was young, studying at the University, he’d no complaints. The girls, well, the girls of Edinburgh and Brussels had thought he was a fine enough companion for winter nights and summer dreaming. And Anne, she was the most gentle creature of all; he’d never disquieted poor dear Anne.

Even lately, when care and worry was ever present on his mind, he was gentle with the women of his clan. He’d never frightened them, not even Fiona, who might have benefited from a good scold.

Yet, he’d managed to scare the English woman, hadn’t he? She’d jumped when he’d seen her this morning, dropping the skirts clutched in her right hand, paling so much that he wondered if she were going to faint. A pulse at her neck had throbbed so violently he could count the beats and his physician’s mind had discerned it too rapid not to indicate distress.

For a moment this morning, when Ian’s door creaked open, his own heart had stilled. Instead of his golden haired brother, the English woman had stepped out, and then simply stopped, fear so much a part of her that he could almost smell it flooding the pores of her skin.

He looped the leather straps over his back, inserting his arms in holes designed for the haunches of a four legged animal. He was the MacLeod beast of burden, had been since Malcolm had taken their one horse south to England. That poor beast had earned a well deserved rest, being fattened up with that other skeleton of an animal the English woman had ridden north. He was surprised the emaciated creature had made it this far. Woman or beast? Aye, the woman could use some fattening up, too.

And gentling.

Alisdair bent against the resistance of heather choked soil, pulled until clods of earth flew from Geddes’ feet, unearthing one row, then another and another. The muscles of his back and shoulders flexed with the strain and ached in protest, but he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

Habit and strength of will made him ignore the pain in his shoulders and back. The discomfort of his body was a small price to pay next to that of his conscience if he did not work as hard as he could.

He had come too early to the title of laird; he would not compound the tragedy which had elevated him to that status by being a poor leader. Nor would he abdicate his responsibilities, either by selling his own clansmen into slavery as had been rumored of other chiefs, or by demanding rents from tacksmen who were living from day to day on the meager produce garnered from their hidden root crops.

“I’ve a stable you can muck out when you’re finished, brother.” The memory of his brother’s teasing words hung in the air.

It was ironic that after all the hell he had taken from Ian, it was, after all, his fancy education which had saved their lives. Not the education garnered at Edinburgh and on the continent, as he struggled to learn his profession of physician, but the training received, quite literally, at the feet of one of his professors. Dominic Starn was not only a famous biologist, but he had a peculiar leaning for root crops and an affinity for Scottish soil. Alisdair MacLeod often dug in the earth of his don's small yard in Edinburgh while being lectured on muscles, veins, ligaments and bone. He’d done the same here, at Tynan, to the mocking accompaniment of his brother’s amusement. Yet, it was those same turnips and cabbages and potatoes which had ultimately fed the clan, kept the old from dying too young and the young from dying before learning to live.

He and Anne had returned to Tynan after the calling of the clans to the doomed cause of the Bonnie Prince. They had left their home in Edinburgh and returned to the Highlands because he was a MacLeod, not because he wished to fight. After Culloden, he had taken his wife and escaped to the continent, in hopes that his child would be born safe from the blood bath that had been Scotland. But, such was not to be, and once again, he had returned to the place he called home.

Wholesale genocide was the Duke of Cumberland's aim, but he was not going to succeed if he, Alisdair MacLeod, had anything to say about it. As long as a breath of air filtered through his lungs, and his arms could raise the long leather straps of a harness, and his back could bend beneath the savage demands of a plow, he would fight for his people. If once he thought that the drudgery of endless nights of study for exams and tedious days of listening to interminable lectures were hellish, it was little compared to his life of the past two years.

Sometimes, at night, he would nearly sob with fatigue, or genuine pleasure, at the feel of his body lying straight upon his bed. Tears would sometimes squeeze from beneath clenched lids in those stolen moments in the darkness and silence of the night, but Alisdair wouldn't feel ashamed. He was too exhausted to feel shame. Or grief. Or a thousand other emotions that would only hamper his driving ambition to be a leader for the rag-tag, haunted looking group that was his clan.

He did feel regret, however, that he had not taken the time in the past to realize how precious life truly was. As a physician, he had been prepared for death, but Alisdair realized he had never lived so fully as during the last two years. He had never appreciated the heather blooming on the moors as he did now, stooped to the plow. Nor had he smelled the sea with quite the sense of wonder, when each wave washed up the briny scent and carried with it the hope of a fresh catch in the morning. He had never before appreciated a clean, soft linen shirt with the same, singular joy as now.

Simple things measured the clicking of each day on some celestial clock, like rising in the morning and striding barefoot on a cool, wet patch of dew, the plucking of a rosy turnip from the ground, a filling meal of potato pancakes, the tangy sweetness of heather ale.

He appreciated too, no matter how paradoxical it seemed, his struggles. The hardships proved he still drew breath, that he still lived. Therefore, he was unperturbed by small events which would have left him irritated in the past. He repaired fallen roofs without cursing God for bringing the rain, played the part of plow horse without complaint. When his belly growled with hunger, he anticipated their meager rations and was grateful. He no longer questioned the unjustness of life, simply experienced it, with all its glories and disappointments, accepting the bad along with the good.

Hope was an emotion of choice, one of the few liberties still left him. Hope had made him agree to the terms of his conditional pardon. Hope had made him discount the feeling that he’d betrayed his country, his heritage, his ancestry, as he signed his name to the document which lashed him to English terms of justice. If he were lucky enough, did not die of starvation, or incur the wrath of the English, perhaps he would one day become a bitter old man feasting on the alum taste of memories grown vivid with age. But for now, he clung to the feeble ray of hope, shielding it like a candle in a gale, cupping it protectively in his hands and his heart, choosing not to remember as much to dream.