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She was not afraid of him.
At least, Helen had told herself so a hundred times over, and had even made certain to tell Marcus MacPherson the same when he was glowering down at her.
Yet, the truth was, she was running from him, and that bit of truth left her cheeks warm from temper. She snorted, finally pleased with some part of her circumstances. Standing in the rain, looking out over a deserted moor, she needed any way to warm herself, even being disgruntled. Her fingers were frozen, and beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all.
“Having second thoughts, Helen?”
Helen turned to look at Brenda Grant. “No, simply enjoying a view that does no’ include MacPherson Castle.”
“Ye were there a long time.” Brenda spoke softly, her tone hinting that she wasn’t convinced by Helen’s answer. “Long enough to consider it home.”
Helen shook her head. “It is no’ me home—that’s why I left with ye.” She felt something tugging at her heart but was determined to resist naming it. She’d made the choice to leave, so there would be no dwelling on anything left behind.
One of the Grant retainers burst out laughing. He was sitting with his comrades farther up the hillside from them in front of a fire. The men had built a crude shelter for the women before withdrawing to what was likely thought to be a respectable distance to preserve their good names. In the middle of the wilderness, it seemed ridiculous.
Brenda let out a sigh. “No’ that I am one to offer advice on men. Me own circumstances are a mess, to be sure.”
She patted the length of wool next to her. “Sit down, Helen, I am nae yer mistress. Share the shelter with me.”
“I’ve no quarrel with me circumstances,” Helen responded. “I am grateful.”
Brenda’s face contorted with disgust. “Oh aye, we are both reduced to being grateful for having to run like a pair of rabbits from the places that should have been our homes. Men have no kindness in them.”
Helen settled down next to Brenda.
“Do ye think they know we’re gone?” Brenda asked.
“I hope no’. The longer they think we’re in the chamber with Ailis, the better.”
Brenda looked toward her. “Ye think Marcus will come after ye?”
“Nay, he has too much pride. The man is War Chief of the MacPhersons,” Helen answered. “I worry they will come after ye, because returning ye to Grant land would gain them good favor.”
Brenda was the niece of the current laird of the Grants, and she was a rare beauty. Laird Grant had arranged a second marriage for her, and she’d run before being forced to the altar.
“
That is all we are to men in the end. A tool to be utilized,” Brenda said. “Ailis is fortunate to have Bhaic’s love.”
“She is,” Helen agreed as the rain increased and they both drew their feet up.
Brenda’s words were haunting. Helen heard them well into the dark hours of the night, likely because the fairies and other night creatures enjoyed tormenting her by reminding her of her lot. Her simple life had shattered the moment she met Marcus MacPherson. He’d plucked her from her happy home as easily as he might a flower.
But she would not be broken, would not wither. No, she was going to find a way to regain control of her fate. So she’d left MacPherson Castle dressed as Brenda’s serving woman. For sure, many would tell her it was reckless to venture out with so few men, but her alternative was to remain inside the castle and wait for Marcus to force a marriage on her.
She shifted in her sleep, the memory rising in full color. Marcus had lined up his men and offered her as a bride to them. To settle her into her life, he’d said. Well, she’d have none of it. Nor was she going to think about the way the man had decided to fight over her before one and all, as though he’d offered her even a single kind word that might have made her inclined to accept him. Damn him. He was her captor. She wouldn’t be forgetting that.
Ever.
***
MacPherson Castle was huge. It needed to be, because there were over three hundred retainers alone. When supper was laid out on the tables, their conversation echoed through the stone corridors. But that didn’t stop a woman’s scream from penetrating the chatter. Men came off their benches, their kilts flipping aside as they started toward the back stairwell where the sound had come from.
What stopped them was their War Chief, Marcus MacPherson, coming through the wide arched passageway. He had a woman with him who wasn’t pleased to be his captive.
“What are ye doing?” Shamus MacPherson demanded from his seat at the high table.
“Uncovering a deception,” Marcus replied to his father and laird. He set the woman in front of the MacPherson laird. “Helen and Brenda are no longer in this keep. Ailis has kept to her chamber to deceive us all into thinking Helen and Brenda were there with her. While this one”—he pointed at the girl—“has made sure no one saw her face to notice the game.”
Shamus dropped his knife and looked at the girl. Her eyes widened. “I did as I was told by me mistress.” She lowered herself awkwardly.
He snorted at her in reprimand. “Allowing her to act foolishly and leave the protection of this stronghold is no’ to be commended, girl. Ye lack the sense to be a personal servant to me daughter-by-marriage.”
The girl paled, shaking like a dried-out leaf in a wind storm.
Shamus grunted and waved her away before turning to his other son. “Best ye go discover what yer wife has been about this last week.”
Bhaic MacPherson was already pushing his chair back. There was a grim set to his jaw as he moved behind the other chairs and down the steps to where his half brother was glowering at him.
“With child or no, that wife of yers needs a reckoning,” Marcus growled.
Bhaic stopped in the passageway, just out of sight of the rest of the clan. “She is with child, so ye’ll manage yer temper or no’ be seeing her.”
Marcus crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at his brother. Bhaic grunted, recognizing the promise in the expression. No one liked a fight better than Marcus, except perhaps Bhaic.
“I mean to have words with her, Brother,” Marcus warned Bhaic. “And they will nae be kind.”
“If ye truly want to frighten Ailis, speak nicely to her.”
Marcus grunted and took to the stairs. Bhaic reached up and pulled him back by the shoulder.
“Helen may well be in the hands of the Gordons, thanks to this deception. Ye killed Lye Rob, and they would take great delight in paying us back in blood.” Marcus shot back at his brother. “Brenda and Helen could no’ have more than half a dozen men with them.”
Bhaic’s face tightened. “I know ye’re right to be angry, Brother.” He passed Marcus and took to the stairs. He offered his wife a single rap on the door of their chamber before he pushed it in and Marcus followed him.
Ailis Robertson was waiting for them. She stood in the center of the receiving room, ready to face them. Damn, but Marcus loved her spirit, even when it was at odds with what he thought she should be doing with all that strength of character.
“Ailis…” Bhaic began.
“I’ve deceived ye,” she stated. “I’ve been pretending to be more ill than I am, so the women could stay with me and no’ be seen.”
“Ye know very well how the Gordons treat their captives.” Marcus pointed at her. “Did ye no’ think of what might happen to Helen and Brenda if they tried to ride across the Highlands with naught but a handful of men?”
She paled. Bhaic reached forward and gripped her forearm, but she sucked in a breath and steadied herself.
Marcus snorted at her. “How long have they been gone?”
“Four days.”
Marcus was gripping his sleeves so tightly his knuckles popped. “Where did they go?”
“To court, to seek shelter from Brenda’s kin.”
“Court.” Marcus spat the word out like a curse. “Right into the hands of the Earl of Morton. Ye might recall how that man treats women he thinks can be of use.”
Ailis stiffened. “I do.”
Marcus grunted at her before he purposefully turned on his heel and left the chamber, the longer pleats of his kilt flaring out behind him.
