Chapter Twenty
Within the great hall of Wingate Castle, Elspeth tugged at her bound wrists beneath the worn ivory linen tablecloth. The rough ropes chaffed her skin, causing burning pain. Henry thought he was torturing her with the bowl of beef stew and slice of bread sitting just out of her reach, but the strong scent of onions and meat turned her stomach. She glared at him, sitting a few feet away cramming food into his mouth.
He swallowed, gulped ale and turned to her. "Are you not hungry, mistress?" He smirked, then resumed eating.
Bastard!
How could she escape this hellish pit? Several of Henry's minions occupied the lower tables, drinking, laughing and making lewd comments about her. Ignoring them, she held her head high.
On the way in, she had seen some of her former guards who'd abandoned her. Ballantyne and Parker had not been brave enough to look her in the eye.Traitors!They would likely regret their decision. From what she'd observed, Henry treated his men like gutter rubbish, yelling commands and threatening them.
The slimy guard MacGirk stood so close behind her that he occasionally bumped against her chair. His heavy breathing was audible. Every time she sent a glare up at him, he leered at her. She cringed and sat straighter in her chair, drawing away from him.
What a contrast these blackguards were to Cyrus and his men. She truly prayed Cyrus had awakened without serious injury, and she hoped the rest of them were well and hadn't been injured too gravely in the fighting. Her stomach ached with worry and guilt, for she blamed herself for their pain.
Please, God, protect Cyrus.
Though he came across as a growly warlord, he was in truth the most caring man she had the privilege of knowing. 'Twas true he had a lethal and ruthless warrior side, but he fought with the sole purpose of protecting those he cared about.
Did he care about her?
He'd seemed to, and her heartbeat quickened with the possibility. Although she'd had an intimate experience with him, she hadn't known him long, and she couldn't read him or predict his actions. She certainly cared about him… against her will and more than she wanted to admit. She prayed she would see him again.
Henry guzzled more ale, then poured himself a generous portion of whisky from a silver flask. In fact, all the men were drinking heavily, and she hoped they would soon pass out. If they did, she might be able to reach her bound hands up beneath her petticoats and grab the small sheathed knife strapped to her thigh. But she could not get away with that plan right now. Too many of them watched her.
Of a certainty, she had to remain aware of the lecherous MacGirk because he was far too interested in her person.
Rotten whisky scented breath wafted to her. "Soon, my lovely little dove."
She cringed, drawing away from him. "Control your men, Henry, or I'll sign naught!" she warned.
"I told you, 'tis Laird Dalacroy to you, wench," he grumbled between clenched teeth, then glanced at his guard. "Patience, MacGirk. You will have your fun later. 'Haps tomorrow, after Talbot arrives and witnesses the wench signing these." Henry patted the rolled deeds hidden inside his doublet.
Nausea roiled within her. "Nay! Either you promise to keep your men away from me or I will sign naught."
"Well, if you don't sign them, you'll spend time with the rats in my dungeon. Meanwhile, I'll return to Darby Hall and kill the rest of the MacKenzies, including your precious chief. The ones who survived are bound and closely guarded. They'll not escape."
The knave behind her chuckled, then stroked his sweaty fingertips down her neck. She drew away. "Cease your groping!"
"Is that not what you're used to?" Henry snorted. "I know what it is… you only wish to be groped by aristocrats, not the guards."
Henry and several of his men laughed, while hot mortification washed over her. They were such filthy barbarians.
"I wager she'll like it dirty." MacGirk snickered.
∞∞∞
While observing Dalacroy's two guards at the entrance to the great hall, Cyrus gently shook a limb of the large bush which concealed him.
"Something's in there," one of the guards proclaimed.
"Go see what it is. If 'tis one of the fat rats, kill it. They've overrun the place and eaten most of the grain."
The approaching guard's footsteps pounded across the cobblestones.
Palming a rock about the size of his fist, Cyrus crouched and waited. Metal hissed against leather as the guard unsheathed his sword and rounded the shrub.
When he bent over to peer beneath, Cyrus threw the stone, striking the man's forehead. With a grunt, he fell forward and didn't move. Cyrus dragged him beneath the yew.
