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They had come.

She smiled and then openly laughed in his face. She gathered saliva in her mouth and spat right in his face. Her spit was bloody, and she laughed even harder. It hurt, but it was also cleansing. She’d fight a battle in here while her clan fought for her out there.

“‘Tis over, ye raping bastart,” she said. She continued laughing, even though his face paled and she might be dead in a moment. He slammed his fist into her temple, and she sank into a dark fog. Through that fog, the image of two men and their swords clashing floated in and out of view.

“Ye will die, ye maggot!” someone shouted.

Steel clashed and flashed in the shaft of light coming through the window. Cries of pain tore her mind. Then came a scream—deadly and desperate—and a loud thud of something heavy falling to the floor. She woke up to a familiar voice calling her. A dear, dear voice she’d known all her life.

“Marjorie.”

Someone stroked her head, but it felt like knives cutting her skin. She struggled to open her eyes and managed to lift one lid just a little. It was Craig. Her brother. Bloody and covered in bruises, he knelt by her bed. He was smiling, his eyes red, his dark hair disheveled. Tears blurred her vision and burned. He was here. That meant Alasdair was no longer a threat. Craig would take care of her. He’d take her home.

Relief flooded her. The echo of gratitude and love filled her chest. Despite her cracked and bruised lips, she managed a smile.

“Brother,” she whispered.

The door was flung open, and their cousin Ian stepped in. His red locks were sweaty, his face was covered in cuts and bruises, but he was alive.

“I found her,” Craig said.

“Aye, good. Let us go. The way is free.”

Craig gave her a little nod. She knew he was promising her that all would be well. He carefully wrapped her in a blanket and picked her up. Pain shot through her. As he carried her from the room, she saw Alasdair’s dead body on the floor, a pool of blood around him. She would have smiled and laughed, but she was empty.

Craig walked to the landing of the wooden stairwell, where their clansmen stood waiting. Their stern faces were illuminated by the torches as Craig carried her by. Ian went down the stairs before Craig, checking around the corners for danger, his sword atilt. But as Craig walked down the steps, the fighting stopped on the lower floor as well. Her father stood on the next landing, his face distorted with pain as he met her eyes. She tried to smile reassuringly to show she wasn’t angry at him for not protecting her or coming sooner. Craig carried her farther away, and she saw her Uncle Neil and his sons. Sorrow and fury shone in their eyes.

As they exited the tower, she saw John MacDougall, chief of the MacDougall clan and Alasdair’s father, held by her two clansmen. He jerked helplessly, his pasty face twitching in silent rage, no doubt realizing that his son must be dead if Marjorie was in Craig's arms.

He should never have allowed Alasdair to kidnap her and treat her like he had. He should have stopped the madness and sent her home. Everything that had happened to her, had happened under John MacDougall’s watch. As far as she was concerned, he was as guilty as his son.

Craig finally stepped out into the clear daylight of the courtyard surrounded by stone curtain walls, and Marjorie closed her eyes. Many men had died today to save her, and she couldn’t bear seeing evidence of it. Not right now.

Craig walked for a while and then sank to the ground. She opened her eyes. Their grandfather, Sir Colin Cambel, lay on the reddish grass. There was a deep wound near his heart, but blood didn’t flow from it. His eyes were closed, and his skin was pale. He was completely still, only the wind played with his white hair.

Craig took their grandfather’s hand in his and squeezed it. Ian stood beside them and lay his hand on Craig’s shoulder. Craig whispered something to their grandfather, and a tear fell from Marjorie’s eye. Then her brother stood and walked with her to the horses and carts.

“We have a cart for ye. ’Tis full of furs and blankets. Ye’ll be home soon.” He lay her down and covered her in blankets, and warmth began returning to her.

She felt safe.

And free.

She was free, yes, but the humiliation, the pain, and the feeling of being unworthy corroded her heart. It still held her prisoner. She curled into a ball and began to cry.

“Oh, Marjorie, sweet, dinna.” Craig patted her side. “Please, dearie. I’m sorry I didna come earlier. As soon as we kent who took ye, we came.”

She couldn’t stop her sobs. Craig sat next to her on the cart and hugged her, covering her like a heavy, protective blanket.

When she finally did stop crying, she lay still and tried to adjust to the light sensation of freedom in her chest that felt alien.

What would it feel like to be around people again? To go from room to room? To go out into the sunlight? To ride a horse again? After two sennights in captivity, she’d thought she’d never do any of those things again. She opened her eyes and looked at Craig. He looked concerned, and pain and fury fought in his eyes.

“What can I do?” he said.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Ye saved me. Ye avenged me. Ye killed the bastart. There’s nothing more that ye can do.”

He squeezed her hand and nodded. “Now we will work on healing ye. Ye’ll be yer old self soon.”