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She had no idea how much time had passed since the unknown assailants had seized her in the summerhouse, aided in their crime by Lady Mary Douglas. That fact she found almost incomprehensible, but the truth of the matter had been crystal clear. The ladies had pretended to befriend her, just to lead her into a trap. Then they had left her at the mercy of violent, evil men.
That was as much as she knew. She remembered nothing of how she got onto this vile cart, nor of how she had been spirited away from Holyrood, nor how much time had passed. And she was utterly baffled by Lady Mary’s so-called explanation. It made no sense at all. Robbie had never been betrothed to a woman from the Douglas clan. He would have said so…
Ultimately, though, the reasons for this outrage were irrelevant. What mattered now were the questions swirling in her head.
What do they want with me?
Where are they taking me?
And where is Robbie?
That last exercised her the most. She had never longed for anyone as much as she now yearned to see his handsome face again. Not even when her brother died had she felt so desolate, so alone. So terrified that she believed she might actually choke on the fear that threatened to bubble up and consume her.
She gave herself a mental shake.
He will come. He will find me.
She prayed Robbie would arrive in time.
The jarring motion ceased. The cart had stopped. Now that her ears were no longer filled with the sound of the wheels bouncing across the pitted track, Katherine could hear voices. She had only seen two men at the summerhouse, but there were more now. And they all spoke with that clipped brogue she was now finding more familiar. These voices were harsher than those she was used to at Roxburghe, or maybe she just imagined that, and the words less…restrained. There was much cursing and blaspheming as well as raucous banter. Much of the raillery and jeering concerned her.
“A fine pair o’ legs. They need tae be spread nice ’n wide, though?” Rough hands seized the hem of her skirt and dragged it up to her knees.
“Get yer paws off ’er. We saw ’er first. Ye can wait yer turn.” There was the sound of a scuffle, of blows landing. A weight fell against her ribs, then rolled away with a muttered oath.
Katherine screamed silently beneath the sacking, kicking out in terror when she found herself shoved onto her back, then both her ankles were grabbed and pulled wide apart. Her skirts hitched up well past her knees, and her hands were trapped painfully beneath her.
Dear Lord! Robbie, help me… Mother of God…
“Have ye nae manners?” Another voice joined the fray, louder, dripping with authority. And rage. “The wench is mine till I say different. Ye jackals can ’ave what’s left, when I am done.”
“Nay, laird, there be plenty tae go round.” Rough fingers dug into her knee. “We can all ’ave a wee piece.”
“Get yer ’ands off my property, Dougal Fenwick. An’ the rest o’ ye can do the same. The next man tae lay ’is ’ands on what belongs tae me can watch while I peel ’is nuts an’ stuff what’s left intae his own sporran.” A coarse cackle of laughter followed the jibe but was soon stifled. “Ye lot havenae much tae laugh about. Ye shall all see the same fate, if it pleases me.”
The harsh tones and doubtless far from idle threat won Katherine a brief reprieve. The hands gripping her ankles slid away, and she was able to scuttle back onto her side.
She curled in a ball and willed herself not to start sobbing for fear she might actually suffocate herself. On second thoughts, maybe that would be a more merciful end than whatever these monsters had in mind for her.
She blinked, dazzled suddenly, when the sacking was dragged from her head. Katherine found herself staring up at a man she did not recognise, a man who might have been vaguely handsome in an unkempt sort of a way, were it not for the cold, cruel glint in his dark eyes and the vicious-looking scar running from his temple to below his chin. His hair was long, dark in colour and lank from dirt and the lack of anything remotely resembling grooming. His beard was equally wild and untended, bisected by the scar. The warlord leered at her and grinned, revealing even, white teeth with a gap where one of his top incisors should have been.
The grin lacked anything in the way of warmth. Rather, it was a self-satisfied smirk which spoke of gleeful anticipation. And lust.
His plaid was wrapped about his waist, the spare length flung over his broad shoulders. He was a well-set man, his body hardened and bulging with muscle. Katherine had no doubt of his strength and his power over the dozen or so men, including Angus MacKinnon, who now watched the proceedings from a safe and more respectful distance. It was like gazing up into the jaws of a bear.
An angry, ferocious and hungry bear.
The warrior wore nothing beneath his tartan. The colours were unfamiliar. Red, brown, and a dark green. He wore a wide leather belt from which were suspended his huge sword and a murderous dagger.
His ill-mannered, arrogant gaze raked Katherine from head to toe. He quirked his lip and nodded. “Aye. Ye’ll do. At least, fer a while. I bore easily, ye ken, an’ I find ye English do tend tae be a wee bit on the fragile side.” He drew the dagger from his belt and reached for her. “Still, ye cost me naught, an’ I have a purse o’ silver tae show fer this day’s work.”
He grabbed her hair and forced her head back. Katherine steeled herself, certain he was about slit her throat without further ado, but he merely sliced through the leather strap securing her gag.
“Who are you?” Katherine rasped once she had spat out the rag and taken a few gulps of welcome, clean air. “You need to release me. My husband is the Earl of Roxburghe. He will be—”
The tartan-clan warrior cut her off, laughing. It was a raucous, grating sound. Katherine recoiled from it.
“I ken all about yer man. My good friend, Angus, ‘as told me of ‘is fondness fer the English. Even if ’e’s noticed that ye be gone, ’e’ll ’ave nae way o’ knowin’ where tae start searchin’.”
