Faye's Sacrifice Read online

  Faye’s cheeks were hot with outrage, but she bit back her angry words. She was not as forgiving or patient as Clara, who was practically a saint. Nay, Faye was still raw with unhealed wounds left by how quickly friends had turned on them after Da had been killed in combat. He’d been an English knight, honored by his people, a man who died bravely in an effort to keep them all safe. Those very people shunned Mum for being Scottish, and Faye and her siblings for being of mixed blood.

  Mum’s hand rested on Faye’s forearm, cool and dry. Her eyes found Faye’s. Green as grass in the summer. Just as the man who claimed to be her grandfather had.

  “Mayhap ye’d like to go for a walk to cool yer blood?” Mum suggested.

  Faye gestured to the bowl. “The beans—”

  “I can do them for ye,” Clara offered with a genuine smile. “Ye know I didn’t mean to offend.”

  Faye gave a grudging nod and scooted off the bench.

  “Can I join ye?” Kinsey asked.

  “Nay,” Faye and her mother said at the same time, albeit Faye replied with more force.

  Kinsey dropped her head back with exaggerated lamentation.

  Faye pulled her cloak from the hook on the wall and banged out of the front door. The cool afternoon air hit the heat of her face. She breathed it in, letting the fresh crispness of it revive her, and began to walk.

  The path was the same she’d strode down before for the same reasons. She knew she should wish she could release the pent-up hurt from all those years ago, but it lingered like a picked wound. And, in truth, she wanted to hold onto it. The wall she’d erected around her bruised heart would keep it safe.

  A warning suddenly tapped in the back of her mind. She jerked right, but it was too late. Something akin to a stone wall slammed into her, knocking her to the ground.

  The world spun around her as her thoughts reeled.

  Before she could think to retaliate, the iron grip of arms tightened around her torso.

  Her body acted on instinct and Faye drove her elbow into her attacker. Never had she been more grateful for the lessons Drake had taught them after seeing how skilled Lord Werrick’s daughters were at fighting.

  Whoever held her grunted and the tension around her loosened. Faye pulled her arm free and slammed her elbow back once more, this time meeting with the unyielding surface of a bony face. Pain shot up her arm, the mark of a solid hit.

  She leapt to her feet and pulled the dagger from her belt. Three men stood around her, surprise evident on their faces as they looked from her to the skinny man writhing over his injuries on the ground. Their shock lasted only a moment, and in the time Faye spun around to flee, they were already grabbing for her.

  She stabbed the first one in the shoulder, but as he released her, another man caught a fistful of her hair and yanked her backward. She went with the momentum of his tug and shoved into him, using her elbows once more, this time on the middle of his neck, so he choked and gasped for breath.

  The final man was larger than his friends. Despite her efforts to evade him, he managed to lock her in a grip so firm, she couldn’t even wriggle one elbow free. She twisted in his hold, lunging her torso to the right and bit his arm.

  His sleeve was filthy, sour with mustiness, but she didn’t let go. She’d rather die than give in to these men. It was widely known what happened to abducted women.

  She sank her teeth more savagely into his skin, tasting the metallic copper of his blood. He growled, a low, animalistic sound that reverberated through her and rattled loose deep fear. Panic nipped at the fraying edges of her control. She had to keep a level head, or she would surely die.

  But no matter how she locked her jaw on him, he did not release her. Indeed, the harder she clamped, the more he squeezed until she could scarcely draw breath.

  A flash of pain exploded at the side of her head, and everything went dark.

  Faye awoke in a large wooden crate that bounced about like a wagon crossing rugged terrain. A weight had settled over her wrists, cutting into the skin. She squinted in the darkness where slivers of light sliced into her prison. Metal shackles bound her wrists together.

  Her frantic breath huffed around her, echoing against the wooden box.

  She’d been captured.

  Taken from her family. Drawn away from her home. Every roll of the clattering wheels took her that much farther from Castleton. But to where?

  And why?

  Her panting breath dug into her fear and exacerbated it. Would her mother know she’d been abducted? Would her family think she’d left in anger?

  She clenched her teeth, and determination grew inside her with visceral force and she threw her body weight against the side of the crate. The whole thing rocked on its side.

  Outside, someone cursed, and the movement drew to a stop.

  “She’s a fecking hellcat,” a man said.

  Faye clasped her iron-bound hands together. They had no idea how much of a “fecking hellcat” she could be.

  A clatter came from the left side of her crate as the latch was lifted. She edged toward it, held her breath and waited. When a crack of light appeared, she lunged through the opening and slammed her manacled hands at her captor’s head. The man dropped to the forest floor like a sack of grain.

  Strong arms wrapped around her, locking her in place as they’d done before. “I’m wearing leather this time,” the man said in a low, menacing voice. “Even ye canna bite through that.”

  “Faye.” Her name was barked with the authority of a father figure scolding their bairn.

  She glared up at the man who dared call her thus and met the familiar green eyes of the Ross Chieftain. Her own grandfather.

  “Ye’ve abducted me,” she accused. “Ye’ve stolen me from my home and my family.”

  “I am yer family,” her grandfather said in a gravelly tone.

  “Ye’ll never be my family.” She kicked out her legs, but the man behind her only tightened his hold.

  “Where are ye taking me?” she demanded.

  “To yer betrothed.” Ross crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her. “Because ye’re too damn stubborn to listen to reason.”

  “How is there any reason for this?” She shook her shoulders to free her captor’s hands off her.

  Her grandfather nodded at the man. “Ye can release her.”

  “If she bites me again, I’ll beat her,” the man warned.

  “Do ye hear that?” Her grandfather raised his brows at her. “I willna stop him.”

  The warrior released her with a shove. She staggered to remain upright and looked around for the first time. They were…nowhere. A scattered forest surrounded them, without a house or person who might help in sight.

  She had no idea how long she’d been in that damn box, or how long she’d been knocked out senseless. Her head ached with each thrum of her heart; the beat reverberated in her skull.

  “Ye’re to marry Ewan Sutherland, Chieftain of the Sutherland clan,” her grandfather explained carefully. “Ye’ve been promised to one another since ye were bairns. Do ye no’ remember visiting me in Scotland? He almost never left yer side when ye’d come. He always protected ye, being champion to ye like a fine knight, thinking ye too fragile to defend yerself.” He chuckled. “He’ll have quite the surprise when he meets ye. Eh, Dougal?”

  The man behind Faye grunted and spat on the ground.

  Her body remained tense, ready to run. Even still, she could not stop her mind from plunging into memories she’d long since forgotten. A savage land of vivid green grass and brilliant blue skies with patches of amethyst heather sprinkled like shadows through the mountains.

  And a boy, older than her, light brown hair falling into his hazel eyes as he looked earnestly at her and held out his hand. “Ye dinna need to be afraid. I’ll always protect ye.”

  As soon as the recollection was there, it was gone, like a slight ripple on a still pond.

  “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.” The Ross C
hieftain heaved a great sigh, and lines of fatigue showed on his aged face. “Be a biddable lass, and we can keep ye unbound. Or I’ll be forced to keep ye chained and boxed for the next three weeks.”

  Three weeks?

  Faye balled her hands into fists. She would be compliant long enough to earn their trust, but as soon as they least expected it of her, she would fight back. She would gain her freedom and not stop running until she was home.

  Ewan had not been on Ross lands in many years. Even his horse seemed wary as they made their way toward Balnagown Castle. Certainly, his cousin Moiré had warned him against even considering Faye as his wife.

  “If ye decide no’ to wed her,” Monroe said from his side, “I’ll ride out posthaste to inform Gordon ye’ll accept the marriage to Mistress Blair.”

  Ewan nodded. Though he was not interested in either prospect, he knew a decision must be made. And the Chieftain of the Gordons was growing tired of waiting.

  The journey to Balnagown had taken Ewan and Monroe into the afternoon. Now, the castle rose before them, spires stretching up toward the brightly lit sky. The woman Ross claimed Ewan had been betrothed to since childhood was within those cold, stone walls. Unless Faye’s mother had signed the agreement, which Ewan was not aware of, the contract was not binding.

  “I dinna like this,” Ewan said under his breath.

  Monroe cast him a guarded look. “Her dowry is substantial,” he replied hesitantly. “It would do considerable good for our people.”

  Ewan didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. They both knew what this union would bring. Not only fortune but things more priceless than land: peace. As long as the Ross clan kept up their end of the terms. Which was doubtful.

  A short, round man met them near the stables and bade them follow. They were led into the Great Hall, where a lingering fetid odor bespoke of rushes that hadn’t been changed in some time. Shadows of smoke scarred the whitewashed walls above the wall sconces, and thick wooden beams lined the ceiling above like the rib cage of a great beast.

  Ross sat at a dais in a fine doublet, looking down at them from his steepled fingers. He stood as Ewan and Monroe approached.

  “Sutherland.” His voice was still as heavy and ragged as Ewan remembered from their few interactions.

  They clasped forearms like allies. For soon, they might well be.

  “Thank ye for coming.” Ross grinned at him, revealing yellowed teeth beneath his russet and white beard. “It heartens me that ye’re finally keeping yer word on yer betrothal after all these years.”

  “The contract wasna ever signed by the lass’s mum,” Ewan said.

  Ross’s chest puffed out. “’Twas signed by me.”

  “Which was no’ binding,” Monroe pointed out.

  Ross slowly shifted his gaze to Monroe with quiet irritation before returning it to Ewan. “I want to honor my part of the agreement. I’d like to think ye’re man enough to do the same.”

  Ewan ignored the blatant goad. “I thought Mistress Faye had left Scotland for good.”

  “She’s back.” Ross’s smile became more of a grimace. “And she’s ready to make good on the betrothal, same as ye.”

  “It wasna—”

  “I signed it,” Ross growled.

  “Ye’re no’ her guardian.” Ewan glanced around the great hall, expecting the lass to make an appearance.

  His curiosity had been teased awake by the prospect of seeing her again. Though it had been a good sixteen years since they’d known one another, he could still recall being awed by her beauty.

  Ross surreptitiously scanned the doors along the side of the Great Hall as though he’d expected them to open at any second. They did not. A moment of heavy silence passed.

  The older chieftain cleared this throat. “Ye should know, she may be different than the lass ye knew. She’s been living on the borderlands between England and Scotland. ‘Tis a hard land, as ye know. She is no’ as—”

  A door opened and a woman in a homespun gown entered the room. She was of a sturdy build, like a farmer’s wife, with tufts of blonde peeking from beneath her mob cap. Her face was hard with a determined set that was not entirely pleasant. He met Monroe’s eyes, but his advisor kept his expression blank.

  “Fetch me Dougal,” Ross snapped at the woman. “And get us some ale, aye?”

  She started in surprise. “Aye, sir.” She bobbed a short curtsey and practically ran to do as he bade.

  Ewan’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. The woman was a servant. Not Faye.

  “It shouldna be much longer.” Ross indicated the seats at the dais, and they all settled at the long table in the otherwise empty room.

  The woman rushed back, a flagon in one hand and three goblets in the other. With practiced efficiency, she laid them out on the table and quickly poured the ale. As she was completing her task, a tall, bald man entered the Great Hall. Presumably Dougal.

  He kept his back straight and proud as he strode toward them, but it did not mask the stiffness of his limp. As he approached, Ewan realized that was not the extent of his injuries. His left eye had gone dark with a violent bruise.

  “Where is my granddaughter?” Ross demanded. “And what the feck happened to ye?”

  Dougal slid a look toward Ewan and Monroe before replying, “If we could speak privately, sir.”

  Ross issued a curse and pushed up to his feet. He led Dougal to a rear corner where the two proceeded to whisper.

  “What do ye make of all this?” Ewan asked his advisor.

  Monroe tapped a long finger on the table’s marred surface. “’Tis…extraordinary.” The diplomatic answer was given with care and followed by a sip of ale.

  Ewan grunted in reply, no more amused by the passing of wasted time than he was Ross’s inability to produce Faye.

  The chieftain returned to them; his mouth pressed in a firm line beneath his overgrown beard. “It would appear yer intended bride is missing.”

  Even Monroe lifted a brow at this.

  “Missing?” Ewan repeated.

  “Aye, she escaped from her room early this morning.” Ross’s already ruddy face went a new shade of vivid red.

  Escaped?

  “Ye make it sound as though ye were holding her captive,” Ewan replied.

  Ross drank from his goblet before bothering to reply. “The lass is willful.”

  “I’ll no’ wed a lass being forced to marry me.” Ewan got to his feet, and Monroe stood at his side. “Leave the lass in peace. I’ve other prospects.”

  “Nay,” Ross growled. “Berwick is mine. Ye promised it to me.”

  “No’ like this.” Ewan stepped away from the dais.

  “Aye, like this.” Ross slammed his fist on the table’s surface. The sound slapped off the stone walls and made a servant freeze in fear.

  Ross leaned over the table menacingly. “Ye’ll no’ get out of yer contract with us, Ewan Sutherland. If ye refuse to wed her, I’ll ensure ye pay dearly for yer negligence.”

  “Are ye threatening me?” Ewan demanded. “For a contract that doesna hold bearing?”

  Ross glared at him. “If ye dinna follow through with our agreement, I’ll see ye’re properly punished.”

  “There is no agreement.” Ewan glared back at his enemy, a man who he’d intended to secure peace, not start a war. This had all gone wrong.

  They couldn’t afford to anger the Rosses further. Not when the Ross clan attacks were already so brutal. Not with their own stores already reduced after all the years of fighting they’d endured.

  Something niggled at the back of Ewan’s mind about Faye Fletcher. He came back to the dais. “Ye said she was from the borderlands, aye?”

  “Aye.” Ross grimaced around the word.

  “How long has she been here?”

  Ross lifted his ale and took a swig. Foam dotted his beard around his mouth when he lowered his goblet. “Nigh on three days.”

  Dread crept through Ewan. “Ye mean to say the lass is now somewhere outside t
he castle, alone and in a land she doesna know?”

  Ross nodded once, appearing more enraged than concerned for his granddaughter.

  The girl he’d known as a boy rose to the forefront in his mind once more. She’d been a slight thing—delicate with small, fragile hands he could easily tuck entirely against his large palms. He’d vowed to protect her then and had always kept that promise in the times she visited with her grandfather. Even from the wolf that had set on them once. The scar at his forearm burned with the reminder, and he could not help but recall how she had shivered afterward with fear.

  And now she was alone in the wilderness of Kildary, a land both foreign and dangerous.

  “How long has she been missing?” Ewan asked.

  “As of early this morn.” Ross set down his goblet. “My men have been looking for her and assumed they’d have her back already. Which is why they dinna tell me until now.” He glared at Dougal, who kept his soldier’s gaze set in the distance, his face impassive.

  Ewan let a curse slip from his mouth, something he rarely did.

  “Does that mean ye’ll help find her?” Ross’s thick brows rose.

  Ewan drained his ale before giving the answer he somehow knew he’d deeply regret. “Aye,” he replied. “I’ll help ye find her.”

  3

  Faye was freezing. Her breath puffed white as the snow covering the dead, straw-like grass at her feet. All around her, trees rose like spear shafts, too skinny to block out the bitter wind and too dense to let in a bit of warmth from the sun.

  She’d stopped shaking some time back. A bad sign. With fingers she could no longer feel, she smoothed her unbound hair, trying to look as presentable as was possible. She wore a new dress, which her grandfather had procured so that she might look “bonny” for Ewan Sutherland. A man she hoped never to be forced into meeting.

  Mayhap she looked fine enough to impress someone—anyone—who might offer her aid.

  Her hopes, however, were fleeting. Especially when she hadn’t happened upon a soul for hours. Not since she’d hidden in a half-rotted log to evade her grandfather’s men. They’d given up some time ago, but they would be back.