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“Ye need tae keep a civil tongue in yer ’ead, bitch.”
“And, if I do not? Will you hit me again?” She glared defiantly at him. Let him do his worst, Robbie would avenge her. Eventually.
“No. I shall simply cut it out,” he countered coolly, with not a hint of emotion, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. “But first, I have a use for it.”
“What use?” she demanded warily. Katherine was already regretting her sudden rush of ill-conceived bravado. She had sworn she would do what she must in order to remain alive long enough for Robbie to come, yet here she was, recklessly provoking this wild beast masquerading as a man.
“Ye can start by wrappin’ it round this.” He grabbed the lower hem of his plaid and raised the kilt up to hitch it in his belt. His huge cock dangled before her, pendulous, swathed in a dark, grizzled thatch of hair. He took the organ in his fist and stroked it lovingly.
Katherine considered herself no authority on the unclothed male form but was perfectly certain they could not come much uglier, or more grotesque, than the specimen in front of her. Everything that she adored about Robbie had become a monstrous travesty on Callum Fenwick. She recoiled in horror.
“You filthy, disgusting pig. Stay away from me…”
He bounded up onto the cart and seized Katherine by the hair to haul her to her knees. “Open yer mouth,” he growled. “We shall see if ye can put that tongue o’ yours tae a useful purpose?”
“No!” She shook her head, clamping her jaw closed. “Do not do this…”
“Open,” he repeated, twisting his fist in her hair.
His merciless grip was so fierce that she could no longer move her head at all, but her jaw remained firmly shut.
“Angus, make yersel useful an’ slice the bitch’s mouth open wi’ yer dirk if she refuses tae do as she’s told.” Fenwick snarled the command, rubbing the bulbous head of his erection against her lips.
Angus MacKinnon leapt up into the cart. He leered at Katherine, took a moment to peruse her bloodstained breasts, then drew his dirk. He bent to set the point against the corner of her mouth.
It was the last thing he did.
His eyes widened. He let out a startled gurgle, then lurched forward to topple clumsily over the side of the cart. The hilt of a dagger, still quivering, was lodged between his shoulder blades.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Robbie was planning his next moves as he and the king’s men galloped west along the southern bank of the Firth of Forth, towards Stirling. There, it would be possible to cross the river then turn back on themselves to follow the north bank and head to the east. Fynmuir was a few miles south of St Andrews. Not too far as the crow would fly, but given the need to skirt the Forth estuary, the distance over land was almost doubled. Robbie calculated that it would be at least a two-day ride to Fynmuir, assuming decent horses and fair weather. He could not be certain about the first, but the afternoon was fine and sunny, and where the landscape permitted, it was possible to see for miles ahead.
The kidnappers only had one hour’s lead on their pursuers, and they probably had no idea that they were being followed. They would not have expected their coconspirators to confess to the crime, or at least, not so quickly. The Fenwicks had no cause to expect pursuit and therefore may not perceive any need for haste or stealth. It should be possible to overtake them before they reached the sanctuary of their stronghold on the east coast, especially since they were travelling with a prisoner.
“Which is the quickest route tae Fynmuir?” Robbie shouted to James whose mount kept pace with Zeus.
“From Stirling, northeast to Kinross, then due east to the coast.”
“’Twill be hours until sunset…” One of the disadvantages of the high summer, Robbie observed. “They will likely continue until the light fails, then make camp for the night.”
“Agreed.” James shot him a purposeful glance. “If we can have them in sight by nightfall, an’ assuming they do not see us, we can come upon them under cover of darkness, when they are not expecting it.”
That had been Robbie’s thinking exactly. He nudged Zeus to even longer strides, refusing to even contemplate the prospect that he may already be too late.
Zeus was the mightiest of warhorses with the heart of a lion, but there were limits even to his stamina. The stallion was tiring, his pace slowing despite Robbie’s urging. Matters were not helped by the terrain. The horses’ hooves thudded in the thick carpet of heather as the animals climbed doggedly up towards the distant summit. At least then, once they crested the hill, the going would be easier.
Robbie leaned forward, over his mount’s neck. “Not much further. Dinnae fail me now, my friend.”
Zeus’s ears pricked up. As though rejuvenated by his master’s voice, he surged forward, his long stride eating up the distance. The top of the hill grew closer, until, at last, Robbie could survey the rolling vista beyond.
And it was then that he saw them. Far in the distance, at the foot of yet another rise, a dozen or so men on horseback. With a cart.
“There!” He pulled Zeus to a halt, then used his hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun. “D’ye see them?”
James paused beside him and squinted at the landscape ahead. He nodded slowly. “Aye. That’s them all right. They are wearing the Fenwick colours. And they are making slow progress. We have them.”
Not yet. But we will.
