Leila’s Legacy Read online

  She did not accept the cloak from him. “I will wait until I arrive at the prison, if I may.”

  He set her clothing aside. “I need yer hands.”

  She set her jaw and slowly lifted her wrists to him. The ointment he’d applied glistened against her skin over the chaffing caused by her prior binding. He was careful as he wrapped the rope around once more and secured it. With that, he led her from the cell with specific instructions for one of his men to bring her clothing to the prison later.

  Four guards followed Niall and Lady Leila from the dungeon, up through the castle and into the courtyard. People had already gathered in great numbers, or as great of numbers as one could expect in such times. Many had left their sick and risked their own good health to come see the witch who had cast such a curse upon them.

  Their faces were settled in scowls and their eyes glittered with hatred. A crowd of such rage was capable of many things. Including murder.

  “Good people of Liddesdale,” Lord Armstrong announced. “I give ye the witch of Werrick Castle.”

  Insults hissed from the crowd to where Leila stood behind Lord Armstrong and the clansmen surrounding her. They would not be near her soon and she would be at the mercy of the mob.

  Niall left Leila’s side to approach Lord Armstrong. “I ask that ye reconsider making her walk to the prison this way,” Niall said.

  The Keeper of Liddesdale smirked. “Need I remind ye how yer own da perished at the hands of a witch?” His gaze was cold. “She walks on her own. And mind ye dinna get the same soft-heartedness yer da did, aye? I need soldiers, no’ mums.”

  Niall gritted his teeth but said nothing. What could he say when faced with a mass of angry people and a leader who called his logic soft-hearted? It was the first mention of his father being as much, however. It made him want to question Lord Armstrong further. But now was not the time.

  One of the castle’s minstrels thumped a drum, the rhythm that of a wildly beating heart. What was Lady Leila’s heart beating like now? Niall glanced at her and found her face calm, her expression serene.

  This was wrong. No matter how much Niall detested witches, no matter the wrong done to the people of Liddesdale, this woman had not been yet judged by Father Gerard and still Armstrong would see her punished regardless. It went against everything in him to allow this treatment of a woman. Especially one of noble birth. Especially one that looked so delicate.

  Damn it. This was wrong.

  And he was powerless to stop it.

  6

  Leila stood before a beast uglier than any she had ever known. The people had congealed into a mass, crowding one another to get a better look at her, heedless of being in such proximity to those who might be spreading the contagion. Sweat prickled at her armpits and palms despite the frigid air and left her skin clammy.

  She didn’t want to face these people. She didn’t want to be here. All her life, she had known moments like these would happen, and all her life she had dreaded them. It was why she stayed within the familiar walls of Werrick Castle. Now, she was thrust from its safety and living her greatest terror, one that would not be over until she was slain by the Lion.

  Lord Armstrong turned to her with a smile curving his lips. His gaze passed over her in obvious approval of the wool kirtle. It was loose around her waist and the sleeves and hem were too long, most likely a garment belonging to Lady Armstrong or a daughter, if they had one.

  Leila turned her attention to the Lion where he stood at Lord Armstrong’s side. Better to see him this way, in a stance of complacency rather than with the gentle kindness he had exhibited in the dungeon.

  “Walk among the people, witch,” Lord Armstrong commanded. “Let them see ye for what ye are.”

  Hard hands shoved at Leila’s lower back, sending her sprawling forward. By some miracle, she managed to keep upright without tripping over her overlong hem. Next time she might not be so lucky.

  If she would be presented to the masses with such degradation, she would maintain her dignity in any way she could. The way Lord Werrick had raised her. She grasped her skirt in her bound hands and tried to lift the hem as daintily as possible as she walked out into the waiting crowd.

  Threatening hisses rose around her like demons in a nightmare as the people pressed closer to her. A woman spit at her, the action coarse and intentionally vulgar. But Leila had known this would happen. She had seen this in a vision once, or at least part of it, with people rallying against her. It had been confusing at the time, lost in a place with no reference. She understood it now, as well as the poignancy. Except there had been a shadow descending on her in the vision.

  She turned her face to the gray sky. Would the clouds fall over the sun to cast such a shadow? And what would happen then?

  Something smacked her neck, hard and wet where it struck. She staggered in that moment, taken aback by the iciness that still clung to her skin. Her toe caught on her hem and she stumbled, managing to catch herself at the last minute. The scent of earth was strong in her nostrils. Mud. They were throwing mud at her.

  “Go back to hell, ye slattern.” An older woman sent a head of cabbage hurtling toward her.

  Leila maintained her dignity as much as was possible and turned her head to avoid the hurled vegetable. It hit the ground where it lay intact. In that one moment, she had a ridiculous thought that the people were not so bad off if they were throwing perfectly edible vegetables when in the last year, the rains had wiped out enough crops to keep the people of Scotland and England hungry.

  A hurled spray of mud splashed over Leila’s skirt. One man stepped forward and shoved her. She might have been able to keep her footing, were it not for the long hem. The tips of her shoes pinned her skirt to the ground, drawing it tight and preventing her from stepping properly forward to keep her balance. She crashed into the soupy earth as cheers rose up all around her.

  A foot in front of her lifted to stomp down on her, but she scrambled to her feet. A peasant with his few remaining teeth bared tried to push her to the ground once more, but she edged away from him in time to avoid another spill.

  “Dinna kill her before she can be tried,” Lord Armstrong called out in a bored droll.

  “Then she shouldna have brought on the pestilence,” someone cried out.

  A balding man sent his fist rushing toward Leila. She threw her bound hands up in front of her face, blocking the hit as she ducked away.

  A glance toward the center of the village revealed the large stone prison. Too far away. Her heart pounded with such a frenzy, it left her head light and spinning. She knew the Lion would be the one to take her life, aye—but it didn’t mean all the bones in her body wouldn’t be broken by the villagers first.

  Would this hell have no end?

  Thoughts of her family crowded into her mind. How she would never be able to tell them she truly loved them; how appreciative she was for the way they had loved her when she had always been so undeserving. A knot of tension clenched at the back of her throat, but she swallowed hard to clear it. She would not give these people the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

  They pressed into her path, crowding close enough that she could smell foul breath and sweat and the lingering sickly sweetness of illness. It would be impossible to fend them all off at once. Especially now, as people were pelting her with food, shoving at her, spitting at her.

  Her ears were filled with their vile hate; her body assaulted from where rough hands shoved at her. The kirtle was soaked through from her fall and clung icy and wet to her body and while she tried to be stronger than the cold, she could not help but shiver.

  A parsnip flew through the air, flying toward her.

  Leila tensed in preparation for it to hit when the shadow fell over her. Another attacker. She held her ground, prepared to fight. Except the person did not hit or shove or even shout.

  A glance upward revealed a targe held aloft in the air by someone with a leather cloak hanging like a curtain of protection. Bits
of refuse bounced off the wooden shield and the cloak rippled under the assault, but still the man did not move. He held his ground, targe lifted with a solid body, his back straight and proud, daring any mortal to challenge him. She knew him before she looked higher to his face.

  There he was, strong jaw clenched, hazel eyes narrowed and facing forward as he shielded her from the villagers’ wrath. The Lion.

  Leila wanted nothing more than to sink back against his large chest, to give into the trembling weakness of her legs and the clawing fear scrabbling within her. But she was raised as a daughter of Lord Werrick. She was above fear, above simpering.

  “You needn’t do this.” Leila notched her chin higher.

  He tilted his head. “I disagree.”

  “’Tis not their fault.”

  He continued to hold the shield, pausing only to shove a man back with it. “They want to kill ye.”

  “They’re scared.” The truth of it worked itself through her mind, even as she spoke. If nothing else, having the Lion at her side helped her thoroughly rationalize the situation. “Everyone is dying: friends, neighbors, children. They’re frightened and they have been told I am the one who caused it.”

  “And is it true?” He did not lower his shield even as he asked.

  “It is not,” she said. “But they do not know that, and neither do you.”

  “Ye’ve no’ been declared a witch yet. I’ll no’ let them kill ye until ye have been.” He nodded. “For now, ye’ll be locked in the prison to await Father Gerard. When he arrives from Edinburgh, he’ll pass his judgment.”

  Bile rose in Leila’s throat. She had heard of the ways they found witches guilty, with trials no person could possibly survive.

  The prison loomed before them and a wall of guards pushed the crowd back as Leila was led to the massive iron door. The Lion unlocked it with a key from the ring at his belt and led her in while the crowd roared in protest behind them.

  At least behind the locked gates of the prison, she would be safe.

  For now.

  Niall had always put a considerable amount of trust into the strength of the well-built prison at the village’s center. At least before a hoard of frenzied villagers tugged at the bars at its front gate.

  They wanted Lady Leila. Noble birth or not, they wanted her dead.

  He had unbound her hands and locked her in her cell but remained outside the iron bars in the event the villagers broke through. She was a pathetic sight, especially for an earl’s daughter. Mud spattered her face and neck; the blue gown was no longer so fine as it hung heavy and wet with filth. However, never once did she complain or rail against her containment or the people who put her there.

  Nay, she remained in the center of the whitewashed room with her arms folded firmly across her chest.

  He hated that her bravery tugged at a deep place within his heart, that even filthy and sodden, she was still beautiful.

  The crowd had settled after an hour or so, but still Niall did not relinquish his post.

  “You needn’t wait here with me,” Lady Leila said softly in that lovely throaty voice of hers.

  “They may come for ye still.” Niall shrugged as if his attention to a prisoner was not atypical. “Especially if I leave.”

  “You didn’t have to protect me when I was walked through the village.” She shivered and hugged herself tighter, though he didn’t know if it was from the perceptive chill in the room or the memory of what Lord Armstrong had made her do. “I thank you.”

  “They may have killed ye and ye’ve no’ stood trial yet.” Niall pushed himself out of his chair beside the cell as Brodie appeared with Leila’s clothing.

  He pushed the dark hair from his eyes and handed Niall Leila’s clothing from the dungeon. “I made certain Lord Armstrong dinna see me.”

  Niall nodded in understanding and appreciation. Lord Armstrong’s displeasure at what he’d done for Leila had been palpable. The Keeper of Liddesdale had let his gaze linger on Niall before he’d left, the almost imperceptible narrowing indicative of a stern discussion at a later date.

  Not that it would have altered Niall’s decision to protect Lady Leila from the crowd’s wrath.

  He took the bundle, as well as the sack of food Brodie had brought, and turned to Lady Leila. Her gaze fell on her clothing.

  Brodie’s footsteps fell away in the distance and a quiet settled over the prison once more. Niall hesitated outside Lady Leila’s cell. “What did ye mean when ye said ’tis ye’?”

  Her wide blue-eyed stare slowly lifted to study him before sliding away. Doubtless, she thought he intended to hold her clothes ransom for the answer to his question. It was in the back of his mind to do so. But he found himself dreading the answer.

  A shiver went down his spine this time. Not with the cold, but with the knowing. She was a witch. And yet, he wanted her to be otherwise.

  “We were told ye warned yer people of the upcoming pestilence,” Niall continued. “Is that true?”

  Her silence answered him once more and a hard ball of ice tightened in Niall’s gut. He thrust her clothing through the iron bars, extending his hand toward her.

  She started and slowly reached for her clothes, as though she thought he might pull them away. Only when she had them in her possession did she offer a soft word of thanks.

  Niall pushed a bowl of water and linen through the small opening meant for food. “Clean up.” He turned to go, to give her some privacy in the barred cell. “I’ll give ye some time.”

  “Wait.”

  He paused.

  “I need you to please undo this kirtle.” Her voice was gentle, timid. As if she did not wish to ask for his assistance in her changing of clothing again. Only this time, rather than putting her gown on, he would be assisting her in taking it off.

  Heart pounding, blood racing, he returned to the small cell and reached through the bars at the lacings she’d put toward him. With shaking hands, he slid the silky ties free, revealing her flawless back one precious inch at a time.

  Once the twin dimples at the base of her spine were visible, he spun away and quit the room abruptly. He did not stop until he was at the prison’s center. Even there, guilt nipped at him. A hollow sensation in his gut told him she was a witch despite her claims she was not. Why else would she remain silent? Why would she not answer his questions?

  The plinking of water echoed off the cold stone walls of the prison and Niall went still as another trickling sound teased at his senses. Lady Leila was washing herself, or at least as best one could in a prison cell with an ewer of cold water.

  His cheeks burned at the thought of her naked within that cell, imagining what went past that slender, smooth back. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall as another splash of water came from the rear of the prison. Mayhap she was pouring it over herself, letting it sluice down her naked body, her skin prickled with gooseflesh against the cold, her nipples hard, pink points. How he would love to draw one between his lips and warm them with his tongue and mouth.

  His cock swelled with the enticing idea and dragged his mind further into the fantasy. He could run his hands up the insides of her slender thighs to where they met, where she would be slick with desire.

  Nay.

  Niall snapped his eyes open and stared hard at the bare white-washed walls in front of him. His breathing came hard and his body burned with the aftereffects of his imagination. He pressed the flat of his palms to the cold wall and tried to calm his racing blood. Why did this woman have such a strong effect on him?

  He waited for his lust to ebb before returning to her cell. She had changed into her trews once more and had her cloak wrapped snuggly around her. The blue kirtle had been neatly folded beside a pile of wet rushes near the back of her cell where she had apparently dressed. Her skin was rosy from scrubbing where she could and even her hair was wet as though she’d attempted to wash it as well.

  “Yer hair willna dry quickly.” He handed her a crus
t of bread and bit of cheese.

  She accepted the food with a nod of thanks. “Why do they call you the Lion?” she asked before taking a small bite of the bread.

  Niall settled in his chair beside her cell once more. “I’m as fierce as I am loyal. A lion guarding his pride, his land from all threats.”

  She considered him for a long moment with her lips pressed to one another, as though holding back a thought. He lifted a brow.

  “Were you always so loyal?” she asked the question carefully.

  “Nay.” He watched her carefully. “But ye already knew that, dinna ye?”

  She turned her attention to her food and did not reply to his question. Aye, she knew it already.

  “I used to be wild,” he admitted. “I reived from lands on both sides of the border. I was dishonest and held loyalty to no man.”

  She broke off a piece of bread and slowly brought it to her mouth without looking at him. Oh, aye, she knew all this already.

  He continued regardless. “My da was an honest man and always tried to make me realize the wrongs of my actions. I dinna care. One day, I held a Scotsman for ransom for a bit of coin. And my da was furious with me.”

  More than furious. He’d been disappointed. Niall could recall all too well the heaviness to his father’s expression, the sadness in his eyes. It had wounded Niall to the core to see his da look upon him with such displeasure. But he didn’t tell Lady Leila that now. He would never tell any soul of how he’d felt that day.

  “He died that afternoon.” Niall kept his tone flat to keep from letting his emotions show.

  “How did he die?” Lady Leila asked. Again, her words came with slow care, as though she already knew the answer.

  “He was cursed by the wife of the man I was holding for ransom.” Anger and hatred loosed from a walled-up dam and swept over Niall. “She was a witch who cast a spell on him. He was dead by noon. Two things changed for me that day. The first being that I stopped my foolish, youthful ways of lying and stealing. I became honest, like him.” Someone Niall’s da would be proud of.