CHAPTER Sixteen
Anne had never seen land so rugged. She wondered how anyone could grow a thistle, let alone crops in the rocky terrain. On the first day, she saw neither towns nor farms and when Calum led them into a copse of trees to make camp she asked, “Is there no inn?”
All the men chuckled, and Calum shook his head. “We’ll nay see an inn until we reach Fort William three days hence.”
Anne surveyed the clearing. She’d never slept in the wild before—or in the company of a band of Scotsmen. With no other option, she dismounted. Her legs nearly gave way beneath her and she leaned against her horse with a pained grunt.
“Not used to riding, milady?” Bran asked.
“Most certainly not all day, especially astride.” She tried to walk a few steps. Her legs were wobbly, as if her ankles and knees would no longer function. They all watched her. Afraid she’d look like a ninny, Anne put her hand in the small of her back and stretched. That actually helped. She took a few more steps and the pain in her legs eased.
“It always takes me a few minutes to find me legs after a day of hard riding,” Calum said, gesturing to a clump of grass. “Would ye like to rest while we make camp?”
Though her bones ached and she longed to plop down on the grass and curl into a ball, she declined. “I’d prefer to help.” All the men had been set to task. She wouldn’t sit by and simply watch. “I shall gather some firewood. Besides, my legs still need some stretching.”
“Very well.” Calum loosened the girth and pulled the saddle of Anne’s horse. Calum’s gaze flicked toward her. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable. Anne reached out her hand, but Calum had already turned away. Were they to act as mere acquaintances this entire journey?
She wanted to scream and weep at the same time. But instead, the exercise did much to help Anne to regain her composure and her legs. She made countless trips, hauling in branches and twigs and by the time she dumped the last armload on the heap, darkness had shrouded the camp.
They dined on bully beef and oatcakes. Calum passed a flagon of whisky—another of Friar Pat’s hobbies. Anne took a swig. It burned her throat going down. She sputtered and gasped, trying not to make a show of her discomfort.
From across the fire, Calum chuckled. “Ye better go easy on that. They don’t call the friar’s whisky potent for naught.”
He seemed more relaxed now, though his gaze still darted between the shadows surrounding them. Anne longed to have Calum wander around the fire and sit beside her, wrap his arm over her shoulders and tell her things would be all right. The last time they’d sat at a fire had been only two nights ago at Beltane. She’d been alive with desire for him. And now she had no hope she’d ever feel such passion again.
Anne stared into the leaping flames and let them mesmerize her. Her entire body ached but the whisky spread welcomed warmth through her insides.
“What is it like to be wed by proxy?” Bran asked.
Calum shook his finger at the lad. “’Tis no question to ask a lady.”
Anne stirred the fire with a stick. “There’s not much to tell really.” She glanced up to see four pairs of eyes focused on her, popped wide with great curiosity. She took in a deep breath. “My uncle rode to Titchfield House and bounded into the hall with great purpose. He called us all together—my mother, my sisters and me. Then he said…” Anne swung her fists to her hips and mimicked a deep masculine voice. “Lady Anne, I have found you a husband at last. By royal proxy, I have signed and witnessed a marriage decree that formally weds you to the Baron of Wharton.”
Anne looked across the stunned faces, illuminated by the firelight and dropped her hands to her sides. “I could have died. And once I learned his age, I think a part of me did.”
“How could he do that without yer consent?” John asked.
“When my father passed, young King Edward appointed my uncle guardian. Uncle More left the daily operations to me and took my brother, the heir, to his estate in Loseley Park for his fostering.” She shook her head. “I digress. The king entrusted my uncle with complete power until my brother came of age.” Anne stared into the fire. “I imagine he negotiated quite a good settlement for my hand, otherwise he would not have been so anxious for me to leave Titchfield. The coffers were doing quite well, you see.”
A silent pall hung over the campfire, and Anne stared into the flames. The crackling took her back to the dreaded day when her life had been swept out from under her. She didn’t want to look up and see the pity in their eyes—especially Calum’s eyes.
After a time, Bran tossed a stick of wood on the fire. “Do ye ken My Bonnie Lass She Smileth?”
Anne’s heart squeezed. The boy had a way of changing the mood toward the better. “Yes. ’Tis an English madrigal. How do you know it?”
Bran shot an insecure glance at Calum who nodded. “I heard it in an English pub when we were…”
“That’s enough.” Calum stopped him.
“Will ye sing it with me?”
Bran started the melody. Anne matched his voice with her soprano. On the second verse they broke into harmony. Anne’s gaze drifted across the fire and caught Calum staring at her, his eyes dark and intense, hungry—starving. His full lips parted, and her heart lurched, making her voice warble. She wanted to walk over and let him cradle her in his lap, but she turned her away so his gaze could no longer affect her.
When the song finished, the men applauded. Anne stole a glance at Calum. His gaze had not changed. Why does he have to look at me so? Does he not know it ignites a fire inside my breast?
The flagon of whisky went around again. Anne took a healthy swig and licked her lips, pleased she didn’t cough. Before passing it to Bran, she tilted it back one more time. She needed something to numb the ache in her heart.
When they unrolled their plaids around the fire, Calum placed his beside Anne. “Laird? You cannot.”
Calum rested his claymore between them. “Ye are under me protection and mine’s the strongest sword. I will see to yer safety, milady.” His voice no longer had the harsh tone from earlier in the day.
It was bad enough watching him from across the fire. Now he lay so close, she could feel the heat radiate from his back. The smell of wood smoke and horse mixed with his own spicy scent tortured her. If only she could reach out and touch him—reach out and place her hand on his muscled back—apologize for her tirade on the beach—ask him to cradle her in his arms and tell her all would be well.
***
Calum rolled onto his back and watched the stars. Every night on the trail could not be as draining as this one or else he would be worn to a splinter by the time they reached Carlisle. Did Anne have to challenge him at every turn? Why she could not wear the trews was an act of pure stubbornness. Wearing them under her skirts—what good did that do? Besides, if she didn’t eventually dress as a man, he’d have to come up with another plan. Dammit all.
Calum glanced at her. He shouldn’t have looked. Anne’s hair glistened like gold against the fire. If only he could reach out and draw her into his embrace—protect her from the night and the chill that comes with darkness. But she had become cool toward him since he’d visited her chamber with news of the ransom. He couldn’t hold her aloofness against her. ’Twas the truth that he sought payment for her, and he hated himself for it. Again and again, he wished he could will away her proxy marriage. It seemed false, yet it was a lawful union .
In two weeks’ time, this would all be a painful memory. He couldn’t bring himself to think about what it would be like without Anne at the keep, sleeping in the adjoining chamber. Her smiles, those subtle glances from under her long eyelashes, would all haunt him forever.
Why had he not made love to her on Beltane? Damn his needling, chivalrous streak. He owed nothing to Wharton or the English. Though he could not put his clan in jeopardy—before Anne, the clan had been his only care. Calum looked to Anne and watched her in slumber. Perfection. She was born to be a queen, or near enough to it. His heart formed a lump in his throat. He would do anything to see her happy.
Calum closed his eyes and tried to ignore the rock beneath his back. Sleep teased him throughout the night and he lay on the ground neither asleep nor awake but aware of every nighttime sound echoing around them.
Dawn had turned the sky to violet when Calum heard a rustle in the trees. He grasped his sword, rose to a crouch and peered through the leaves. A buck with a hearty rack of antlers foraged a mere twenty feet away. The camp must be downwind. Without a sound, Calum sheathed his sword and reached for his bow and quiver of arrows.
The deer moved out of sight, but he could still hear the leaves rustling. Easing forward, he crouched in the clearing and waited until his senses were absolutely sure of the beast’s location. Springing up, Calum raced into the wood, his bow at the ready. Behind a tree, the stag’s head snapped up.
Calum let his arrow fly. It hit, embedding into the animal’s shoulder. The deer spun and bolted. Running after it, Calum snatched another arrow. A trail of blood guided him toward the wounded stag. Calum had to finish him. Not only did they need the meat, he would not leave the animal to suffer a lengthy death.
The beast fought against the pain but Calum could tell he was slowing. Calum’s lungs burned and his thighs ached but he pushed up the steep incline. With every step, he gained a bit. He could hear the deer’s breathing crackle. It wouldn’t be long now. The stag turned and faced him with black soulful eyes, as if wanting to see his killer. Calum’s gut twisted but he had his shot. Without hesitation, he released the arrow, hitting his mark with a swift kill. The magnificent beast’s knees buckled and he dropped.
Gritting his teeth, Calum circled the deer. He tapped him with his foot to ensure the stag was dead. Only then did he kneel down and cut out the innards to lighten his load and keep the meat fresh. He hefted the stag over his shoulders. He could hear the camp stirring as he barreled into the clearing and dropped the carcass to the ground. “We’ll have a good meal of venison tonight. Tie him to the pack mule.”
***
The venison was a nice addition to their diet of bully beef and oatcakes and helped to sustain them over the next three days. Anne’s body longed for a soft bed and the warm water of a bath. They rode into Fort William. It wasn’t much of a town, with a single inn situated along a dirt cart path. By this stage, Anne didn’t mind. It was the first likeness of a road she’d seen since leaving Portsmouth. Anne waited with the others while Calum went inside to make arrangements.
When Calum finally came out, he didn’t look happy. “They have one room available.” He looked at Anne. “You cannot stay in there alone. Ye’ll take the bed and the rest of us will sleep on the floor. Apologies, but ’tis the best I could do.”
There went her imaginings of a bath.
Calum grasped her elbow and whispered, “Stay close to me. I dunna trust a single scrapper inside. They’d sooner slit me neck and spirit away with ye draped across the pommel.”
He placed his hand in the small of her back and spoke so all could hear. “The mistress of the inn will serve us a warm meal. Watch yer backs and dunna drink too much.” He locked eyes with John who fell in at Anne’s other elbow.
When the door opened, the racket of men telling tales and the stench of sour ale wafted around them. Inside a candelabra, encrusted with years of wax and dust, dimly lit the room. Rickety wooden tables huddled in the center of the room with the bar at the back. Calum led them to a dark corner where they would attract little attention.
He held out a chair for Anne and then sat with his back to the wall. This was a side of Calum she’d never seen. Very cautious, trusting of no one, his face deadly, his eyes shifted across the room with watchful vigilance. A buxom woman set a loaf of bread and a carving knife on the table in front of them, behind her was a greasy-haired man toting a black pot and five bowls. The stew splashed over the sides as he ladled it up. Anne tried not to cringe. Luncheon had been a quick bite of bully beef on the trail and she was starving.
Calum divided the bread and Anne looked at her bowl. She didn’t dare ask what was in it. Bran dove in, dunking his bread and chewing. Anne carefully dipped a corner of her bread and nibbled. Finding it palatable, she dipped in for another taste. The matron tossed a handful of spoons on the table and brought a pitcher and five tankards.
Anne rubbed the knot in her shoulder and let out a long breath. The men at the bar had left them alone. She sipped her ale and looked back over her shoulder. A big Scot, possibly larger than Calum, stared back. She could smell him from where she sat. She averted her eyes, the knot in her shoulder seizing up as if she needed it to tell her to be careful.
Calum’s guarded frown transformed into a scowl and she didn’t need to turn around to know why. The big oaf had wandered up behind her, his stench nearly rancid. Calum’s hand disappeared under the table and he tipped his up chin. “What can we do for ye, friend?” He drew out the word friend as if to emphasize its importance.
“I’ll pay ye coin for a toss with yer wench.”
“She’s no wench.” The chair clattered against the wall as Calum stood with his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “I suggest ye go ’bout yer business afore ye insult the lady further.”
Anne glanced between the others. The unspoken expressions and nods around the table were unmistakable. She fingered the little dagger in her pocket and tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. She knew she was no match for a soul in the room, including the buxom matron of the inn.
Chairs scraped across the floor and she stole a glance over her shoulder. A half-dozen men walked up behind the big Scot. She stiffened when he reached out and grabbed a lock of her hair. “Me thinks I want a turn with the lass.”
Anne’s hands shot up to protect her head when he pulled. Her knife flew out of her hand and skidded across the wooden planks. Faster than she could blink, Calum drew his sword. With an inhuman roar, he leapt forward. One foot tapped on the table and he launched himself over Anne’s head. Feet first, he thrust his full weight into the brute’s chest. Careening backward, the Scot thudded hard against the floorboards. Anne shrieked when he jumped to his feet and scrambled to pull his long claymore from its scabbard.
Anne dropped to her knees and scurried to the wall as the room erupted in a full on brawl. She eyed her knife. Crawling under the table, her hand was inches from it when a booted foot kicked it across the room.
She scurried back against the wall and she hugged herself as Calum and his men stood back to back in a circle in the center of the room. Drunken, barbarous savages lunged in, swinging claymores and battleaxes. Calum’s relentless sparring sessions sprang into action. The MacLeod men wielded their swords with expert finesse. Even Bran held his own. Bloodied, the attackers began to ease away, but the big Scot advanced on Calum with fire in his eye. He swung his sword over his head and Calum stopped him with a swipe of his dirk across his exposed under arm. The brute staggered back, mouth agape. He raised his sword and charged in for another clash of iron.
Anne shrieked. A thick, hairy arm grabbed her around the waist and hefted her over his shoulder.
“Help!” Anne kicked her legs as the pungent swine hauled her out the door. She slammed her fists against his back and the heathen mocked her, howling with a hacking laugh.
He pushed through the stable doors and into a vacant stall. Throwing her down on a musty pile of straw, he slid the door shut behind him. The moonlight shone through the barred window and cast a shadow across his black bearded face.
He glared down at her and cackled while he unclasped his sword belt. “You’re a pretty morsel to be traveling around these parts.”
“Keep your filthy hands off me.”
His eyes popped wide. “Why you’re an English lass.”
“Lowlander.” She hedged, trying to affect a Scottish accent. Calum had warned her to keep her mouth shut. The feral beast took a step toward her and Anne shoved her back against the wall, her hands blindly feeling for anything she could use as a weapon.
“It doesna matter to me, wench, as long as you’re warm.”
Discarding his belt, in one move he crouched over her. His hands either side of her head, he trapped her with a low chuckle. Anne swallowed hard and crossed her legs tight. The stench of him made her wretch. She shrieked when he grabbed at her, his hands everywhere. Her dress ripped. He seized her leg. Anne twisted against his brutal fingers. He pressed her to the ground and forced her legs apart with his knees, pinning her shoulders down with his hands.
“Friggin’ boar’s bullocks. Trews?”
Anne kicked and gasped for air. His face was an inch from hers and he licked her mouth while one hand fumbled with her trouser laces. Unable to break from under his crushing weight, she raised her head and bit his cheek. Her mouth filled with vile beard and the taste of salt and dirt but she didn’t release. She sank her teeth deeper until he yanked his head away.
He bellowed like a bull being castrated and jerked his palm back. Anne tried to shield her face, but the speed of his hand ripped through her defenses and slapped across her face. Her teeth crunched and the stinging pain seared her skin. Anne struggled to pull her legs together against his weight. He crushed his body atop her. She could scarcely breathe. With all her strength, she shoved his heavy chest, unable to make him budge. Hot prickles attacked her skin as she wheezed. His weight would soon suffocate her.