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  And what of poor Duncan? He was becoming such a wonderful young man. He was a good, hardworking farmer and clever, too. Maybe one day even clever enough to be working alongside Gunn in managing the Clan lands. Everything about him impressed the Clan elite. He was a reasonable fighter, too, when he had a mind to do it. Whilst he’d never overly involved himself in some of the arts that the other young Clansmen took on, in a bid to win some attention from the Chieftain, Duncan had been widely respected as a good all-rounder. Sometimes she would watch them practicing at the lists. It was wonderful when Gunn took off his shirt, and his muscles rippled in the sunlight. Though her brother was not as well defined, he could hold his own and could beat many clansmen. Farming was hard work, so he was strong and loyal. He was a generous mix of brains and brawn, and Isobel loved and respected him fiercely.

  Her heart almost broke now at the thought of him shouldering the burden of her loss. Her father was simply a kind-hearted farmer through and through. Tracking, hunting and fighting all seemed to have passed him by. Lorne Gillies was, however, a man in complete comfort with himself. He never sought to be more or less than he was. He was a man true unto his own self at all times, and the most wonderful father a lassie could ever have hoped for, but he was not a man who would have the resources now to track and discover her. It would be down to poor Duncan, and she did not know if he could track. In fact, she doubted it. So what would they do?

  Perhaps they had, even now, made their way to the keep to get help from the rest of the Clan. She certainly hoped so. Her spirits lifted; maybe Gunn himself was aware? Gunn might yet be her rescuer!

  Hugging herself gently, so as to provide comfort without wrenching her painfully bruised back, she cried again, this time in earnest, for she knew that Gunn did not share her depth of feeling. He had, if she would this once be honest with herself, made it very clear that whilst he liked her well enough, enjoyed her company even, he did not feel stirred by her, in the same way, she felt for him.

  How many times had she felt him draw near, not just physically, only to pull away from her as sharply as a knife? It was almost as if he were trying to warn her off him and save her the embarrassment of declaring herself to be in love with a man who did not return the feeling. Still, the man was a Clansman, and she hoped that he would search for her. Somehow, she trusted he could find her, and it gave her a small comfort.

  Isobel had been left in the tiny room for some hours and had put the very last of the wood onto the now dying fire. She pulled her thick plaid tightly around her shoulders as the room began to cool. Someone would have to come soon. They couldn’t just leave her there forever.

  No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she heard a shuffling of feet and a rattling of keys right outside her door. Now wishing she had never hoped for it, she shook in fearful anticipation as the key turned in the lock and the door began to creak its way open. Who was it, and what did they want?

  Chapter 7

  Isobel shrank back as far as she could and flattened herself on the rear wall of the chamber. She had the urge to get as far away as possible from the huge man who stomped into the room. The sight of him stopped her heart and had her scurrying backward. He was fat, rather than muscular, and his face was covered in thick, bristling gray stubble. He was, perhaps, a little older than her father, nearing fifty years maybe, but he was not well kept and would pass for older still.

  In his right arm, he carried a thick torch, which he approached her with. Without a word, he stood in front of her and by the bright, flickering light of the torch’s flame, his eyes unashamedly roamed over her body from head to toe. A lust filled grin spread over his fat face. Thick lips were like two ever-moving slugs, twitching on his face, wetly opening and closing as if to taste her innocence. As his gaze hovered over her breasts, she watched in revulsion as his tongue ran out over those fat lips, moistening them further.

  The man was truly disgusting. His clothes suggested his status in the castle to be high, maybe the highest, but his stench told another story. His vile aroma spoke more of a low-born, outer Clansman, although she knew this could not be true, for how would someone so low born be deep within the castle’s chambers? No, he was of the elite, and what was more, her shrewd mind knew that he could only be one of two enemies. He was either Ross Mackinnon or Tormod Sinclair. The tales she had heard separately of the two men led her strongly to suspect the latter. Sinclair was roundly described, by all who knew of him, as a filthy pig. Isobel had never heard Mackinnon described as such. So, this foul man who stood before her was Tormod Sinclair. Her body shuddered, involuntarily letting her down when she most needed to be strong. Seeing this open display of fear caused Tormod Sinclair to throw his head back and issue forth the most booming, wicked laughter she had ever heard.

  Isobel knew she had to be strong but she could not face this, would not face this. Somehow she had to escape. As if he sensed her thoughts, Tormod angled his body closer to hers, effectively cutting off any escape.

  Isobel felt her knees go weak, and for a moment she was faint. Nay, she would not give him the satisfaction. Straightening her shoulders, she raised her chin and looked him straight in the eyes. Whatever happened, he would never break her.

  Duncan held tightly to his reins, hardly able to believe that he and Gunn alone were cantering with purpose towards the Castle of Sinclair. Forgetting his sister’s plight but briefly, Duncan had been lost in admiration for the slightly older man who, having spied the loosened earth in the first place, had run his hands through it and discerned that a struggle had taken place. Not only that, but he’d further seen a stray, half bitten piece of bannock on the ground, at the edge of a thick clump of tough looking heather and lifting it to inspect it more closely, declared the teeth marks to be those of a woman!

  “How on earth...?” Duncan had begun.

  “Smaller than a man’s, generally. Of course, it could be those of a small man, or even a large child, but Isobel is the one who has disappeared from this place, so it is likely to be her teeth marks. She, no doubt, will have packed herself something for her walk, and here, look, blaeberries scattered about. She always picks blaeberries and eats them as she walks.” Gunn was picking the loose berries up from the ground and studying them as if they would give up some secret to him. Duncan held back from asking the Chieftain’s son just how he knew that his sister liked to pick and eat berries as she walked. It seemed unimportant somehow.

  Gunn paced silently, staring all the while at the berries in his hand. Duncan did not interrupt but merely watched him. Gunn was putting the pieces together, as calmly as he could. It was true that they were on the outskirts of Sinclair territory, so it seemed likely that it was they who had Isobel. Furthermore, as much as Mackinnon was an enemy of the Kincaid, randomly kidnapping women was not so much his style as Sinclair’s. Certainly, Mackinnon had thought nothing of sacrificing his own daughter to the vile Sinclair, and it was true that he seemed to care little for women in general, but Mackinnon, he had learned, always worked toward a purpose. There would have to be a reason, a foreseeable goal, for all of his actions. The bartering of his own daughter had been a plan to shore up his relations with the Sinclair Clan; neat and simple. Random acts of cruelty, the chance taking of a wee lassie from a rival Clan, well, that was definitely a trait of Sinclair’s reportedly twisted nature. Reportedly. His informant, of course, being his own mother, Effie. It gave Gunn no grounds to do anything other than believe it to be true.

  “She’s been kidnapped, Duncan, and I know by whom,” Gunn stated simply.

  “You mean Sinclair, don’t you?” Duncan replied his face ashen in the lamps light.

  Poor Duncan looked appalled, and Gunn pitied him. He knew that Duncan was thinking his sister was already raped and possibly dead. Gunn’s mind had tended towards that himself, and it sickened him to the very core of his soul. How foolish he had been not to have trusted her depth of feeling! Not to have trusted his own, for that matter. For, thinking now as he did,
fearing now as he did, Gunn knew that he loved Isobel and hated himself for not making her his own months and months back. Now, because of his own vanity, because of his need to know he was admired for himself and not for his title, he had lost her, and the first man’s touch that beautiful lassie would ever know would be that of a cruel old rapist.

  “Ach, get on your horse, Duncan, we’re going over there.”

  Duncan was torn. He loved his sister dearly and nursed the vain hope that she was, as yet, unharmed. All the same, the thought that he and Gunn should go alone to the Castle of Sinclair when they could turn back and call on the rest of the Clansmen, seemed foolish at best. And yet, as he thought of his sister’s kindly, beautiful face, he clawed his way atop his horse and heeled it into action.

  It would take them nearing an hour and a half, maybe less if they drove the horses hard. It would be nearing midnight when they arrived at the castle. That would give Gunn time to think.

  Nairn wandered the cold stone corridors, seemingly aimlessly. However, her demeanor was contrived, and she hoped that anyone encountering her in her wanderings would ignore and dismiss her as usual.

  She would seek him out. She had not seen or heard of Tormod for hours. The castle seemed so very quiet. Besides a bustle of outer Clansmen arriving at the keep some hours before, there had been no other activity she could discern. Perhaps it was that which had first drawn her suspicion; this feeling that things were not as they usually were.

  Nairn knew she should be feeling fearful. What if her husband caught her spying on him? He was a brute and she knew this better than anybody, and yet, she felt nothing. Finally, after years of pain, shame and heartache, she knew she could be harmed no more.

  Her thoughts strayed to the day of her wedding. She had wept openly throughout the ceremony, and not one person had come to her aid. The Clansmen and women she had grown up amongst, celebrated wildly, with food and wine enough to serve the whole of Scotland. She had watched, raw-eyed, as people all around her had danced and drank and slunk away in odd pairs to celebrate in their own way. All the while, she had been dreading the coming union of her own. Just hours away, she knew it could never be the beautiful union she had dreamed of as she’d blossomed into young womanhood. That thrill and delight had been saved for her cousin, for it would be Effie who would enjoy the love of a good and handsome Highlander, whilst she would suffer in ways she had yet to truly understand.

  Nothing in her worst imaginings could have prepared her for the cruelty that was to come on her first night as a full woman. What woman should have had to suffer the pain of blows being rained down on her as she first gave herself to her husband? What a creature he was, and what awful atrocities he had visited upon her that night, and so many nights after it.

  Never once had she had a normal conversation with her husband, for she knew he did not even consider her human. And so, what more could he do to her now, save killing her, that he had not already done? In some ways, it would be a blessing and she knew she had nothing to lose. Turning her newfound bravery over in her mind, she studied it as a thing almost tangible and separate from herself. It was then that she heard his deep, cruel laugh, echoing from a distance along the dark corridors. She knew that laugh. She knew he had someone cornered; some poor, frightened creature a prisoner in this castle, just as she was. Nairn moved quickly on tiptoes, hastening towards the sound of the laughter.

  Chapter 8

  “What do you want from me?” Isobel demanded, trying to appear as brave as she possibly could. She could barely stand upright for shaking, and she knew in her heart that Tormod Sinclair could see it. Still, she did what she could to dignify herself.

  “Brave, are we? And what a stupid question! What do you think I want from you? I should have thought, lass, that it would be painfully obvious.” He lingered over the word painfully, as if being sure to let her know what her fate held for her.

  His ugly smiled returned, and he reached out a giant, paw-like hand, and gently stroked her hair. Utterly repulsed, she drew sharply away from him, knowing immediately that she had made a mistake.

  “Recoil from me, would you?” he began, in a low, menacing whisper.

  Isobel began to shake violently and couldn’t seem to stop. She knew he was going to hurt her. Nobody had ever hurt her in her whole eighteen years, beyond the playful scrapes she had got into with Moira and Duncan when they were younger. Apart from this and the odd bump and fall, she had never really felt much in the way of physical pain. How would she stand it? How could she endure? To know that pain was coming, truly coming, was the worst anticipation she had ever encountered. She was trapped here, and no one was coming to save her.

  Twisting his ugly lips in crazed anger, Tormod reached out and grabbed a large hunk of her hair. Twisting it sharply, he yanked her towards him as she pulled away, fueled by anger, fear, and revulsion. There was a ripping sound, and she felt some of her hair breaking free of her scalp. Yet still, he pulled her towards him by the thin silky strands.

  Everything seemed to slow down, that was everything except her heart. It pounded in her chest like a hammer, knocking so hard she felt it rocking her very body. Though she gasped for air, her breathing was coming faster and faster and for one awful moment, she thought she would faint. What would be worse, to be unconscious with this man, while he did what he pleased or to be conscious? It was a terrible choice, but she fought to stay there. Fought to stay awake. Maybe she could fight, maybe she could escape. It did not matter because to be unknowingly at his mercy seemed worse.

  Closer he came, and her heart constricted. The stench washed over her, followed by his fat hand as it reached out to stroke her breast.

  She let out a scream, and he whipped his free hand hard across her face.

  “Scream again, if you like.” He smiled at her, almost willing her to defy him as if he wanted her to be the writer of her own undoing. He would make the whole thing her own fault. Isobel did what she could to calm herself. The pain in her scalp and cheek was fierce, but she knew that if she screamed again, this pain would be as nothing compared with what would come. Her breath was coming fast and shallow, and she could see Tormod greedily eyeing the rise and fall of her breasts.

  It took more courage than she thought she had, but she managed to calm herself just for a moment. It was so hard to breathe, and she knew that she would faint if she did not get control. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and for a moment saw Gunn. It gave her hope and courage, and she managed to slow her breathing and gain a semblance of control. As she opened her eyes, a question came to mind. How could she survive this? Any chance of escape was forgotten, but if she could survive the night then there was hope, and somehow she knew that Gunn would come for her, that he would save her if she could just stay alive.

  It came to her then, she needed to distract Tormod. Perhaps she could try talking to him? Oh, but he was such a man, how on earth could she tempt him into conversation when he had come there to make her his sport for the night? It did not matter, the idea had taken hold, and one way or another, she would do it. And if not, she would still survive. No matter how she would survive.

  Tormod contemplated the pretty face before him for a long time. It was part of his game to watch the fear as it started small and grew like a living beast. Consuming the wench before him. Many had stood before his gaze but this girl was different. Unusually all he could see in their eyes was fear. It reflected back at him and warmed him like a fire on a cold Highland night. This girl was afraid, of that he was certain. He could see it in her eyes, taste it on the air and smell it in her sweat that rolled off her in delicious waves. Yet there was more, she was thinking furiously, that much he knew, and it disturbed him.

  What it meant he did not know, except maybe that she was keen-minded, if nothing else. A growl formed deep in his gut, and he let it spew forth across her. Most women and many men would have faltered at such a roar. This one stood firm, and it excited him. Made him want to break her more.

/>   In all the years he had taken his perversions out on his wife, not once had he seen her do anything other than fall prey to her own stupid emotions. Had he told Nairn to scream again, she quite simply would have done so, but this girl, this girl, had not screamed. She had stopped and stood still, and she was thinking, by God, she was actually thinking. She was planning and scheming and trying to find a way to save her own life. It was the first time in his life he had come up against a woman like this and it excited him all the more. The urge to beat and rip and tear into her was almost overwhelming, but he fought it back down.

  For now, he knew that he must keep her safe. He must not touch her yet, and ruin the beauty of his plan. The spawn of Lachlan Kincaid must be broken. Gunn Kincaid must know it to be happening, he must watch it happen and must know that he would be powerless to save her.

  For years, Tormod had seethed and boiled over the disgrace and mockery that Lachlan Kincaid had brought down on him. He had as good as stolen his property, so close was he to having Effie. Though he’d never touched her, he still felt the sting of the cuckold. For years, he had sought a way to bring Lachlan Kincaid as low as the man had brought him, but time had passed, and it had begun to seem as if his chance would never come.

  Then, out riding to escape the mournful face of his ungrateful wife, Tormod had happened upon a drunkard, right on the edge of the Kincaid territory, through which he regularly rode as a means of silently kicking Lachlan Kincaid in the gut.

  The drunk was slumped against a tree in the fading sunshine, snoring like a pig. He had stirred as Tormod’s horse had raised up a cloud of dust all about him.

  “Ach, get away, will ya!” Slurred the red-headed wretch.