Kyla groaned and opened her eyes.
Davina stared down at her. “Keep your eyes closed whenever anyone enters,” she said urgently. “He said you’re to stay here until you’re awake. Then he’ll move you.”
“To where?” Her fingers came up to feel her face where she’d been punched. Her eye was swollen and sore.
Davina took her hand. “Do not touch it. You are a sorry sight already. You could make it worse. I know not where he’ll take you, but my guess is to his chamber. You don’t want that. We must avoid it for as long as possible.”
Kyla closed her eyes again. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A few hours. ‘Tis early morn. Go back to sleep until the morrow. You need your rest. Finlay lives and Simon has told the men they may not beat him yet, so have faith your clan will return for you.”
She set her head back down on the soft pillow and mumbled, “My thanks, Davina.”
The next time she awakened, it was past mid-day, and a beast stood in the chamber. He’d swung his foot out and connected with her leg, the sharp point of his boot catching her shin. “Wake up. You’re a prisoner. You’re not to be treated any other way. I did not hit you that hard.”
She attempted to push herself up—then thought better of it and let herself fall back onto the pallet.
De La Porte reached down and grabbed her chin. “You’d be wise never to spit on me again. I care not if you’re a lass, I’ll still beat you senseless.” He flung her away and turned around. “Find a tub and get her bathed, Davina. She’ll be with me tonight.”
As soon as Simon left the room, Kyla pushed herself up onto the edge of the bed. “Help me, Davina. You must get me out of here. Find Finlay and he can help me.”
Davina opened the door and yelled for her guard. “Send Gillie with a tub.” She closed the door and leaned against it, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
“Kyla, I understand you’d like me to help you, and if there was anything I could possibly do, I would not hesitate, but I live in this tower and see no one. I cannot do anything for you except follow instructions. Since I don’t heed my sire’s word, I am basically imprisoned here. It suits me fine.”
Kyla felt for her dagger. “Where is it? My dagger? I must have it.”
“That I can do for you. I took off your breeches and hid the dagger. I have one gown with a pocket sewn inside that should fit you. You can conceal the dagger there easily. But please be careful. Simon is not afraid to hurt women.”
“I’m not afraid to hurt him.”
A knock sounded at the door, so Davina peeked out. She opened the door, revealing a lad not quite a man yet. This had to be Gillie. Small though he was, he hefted the tub in by himself.
“Here I am,” the lad said. “Simon said I was to do whatever you ask, but do not ask for stupid tasks. A tub is here and water is coming. Who is she?” He boldly stared at Kyla.
“This is Kyla Grant. Gillie, will you answer her questions and not repeat them?”
“I can be trusted,” he replied with a scowl. “I’m not an idiot either. I’ll not make de La Porte angry, but I’ll do aught else. I know all that transpires here.”
“Good,” Davina said.
Kyla asked, “Where is my friend, Finlay?”
“You mean the Grant guard?”
“Aye, he’s tall with dark red hair. Verra muscular.”
Gillie grinned. “He’s verra good in the lists, my lady. Glenn sent ten of his men to test his sword skills, one at a time, of course. He beat them all. Then Simon sent ten of his men against him, and he beat all of them, too. He’s got a mighty fine sword.”
“That’s what he’s doing? Fighting?”
“Nay, my lady. Do you know naught? You must be a dolt.”
“Gillie!” Davina barked.
“Sorry, my lady. He’s training our soldiers. Glenn wants to know how mighty the Grant warriors will be. Now he knows. He tells his men to imitate and practice everything the Grant man does.”
“Is he out there now?”
“Aye. They keep him there all day. At night, he returns to his cell.”
“Will you get a message to him for me? Tell him I’m fine. Tell him…” She glanced at Davina and her friend shook her head. “Just tell him you’ve seen me and I’m fine.”
Another knock came at the door, and two men brought in buckets of steaming water and dumped them into the tub. On their way out, one said, “Gillie, come along. You’ve tarried too long.”
Gillie winked at Kyla and ran off. “Aye, Morgan. Coming.”
Davina’s daughter started to cry, so she moved into the adjoining room to tend her. Kyla stripped down and climbed into the tub, wishing to wash every bit of this place from her skin. She fought back tears, forcing herself to be strong.
She’d been warned many times about going off on her own. As she sank into the hot water, she thought about her cousins, wondering where they were. How she hoped they’d gone quickly back to Grant land. Her sire would come for her, or he would send his army along. So would Uncle Logan. She just had to make sure she held on.
Knowing that Finlay was hale made her feel a wee bit better. They could have easily killed him, but instead he was fighting off dozens of soldiers to keep himself alive. No doubt he’d phrase it as a joke. Forcing her eyes shut as she soaked, she tried to imagine what he would say to her if they could speak. He’d tell her to be strong, she knew, and to have faith in her sire and all the Grants.
She opened her eyes again and took a deep breath. That was exactly what she would do. Davina needed to protect her daughter, so she could not ask her to sneak out of the tower. It was up to her and her alone to fight Simon de La Porte.
She’d make Finlay and her sire proud.
After all, she was the daughter of the great Alexander Grant.
***
Finlay’s shoulders ached like he’d been thrown against the side of a mountain a hundred times. How many men did they expect him to fight? Apparently, his exhaustion was evident because in the middle of the afternoon, Glenn of Buchan arrived and said, “Morgan. Move him under the trees and guard him well. Give him water and food from the kitchens.”
Morgan and Horas led him over to a large oak tree and pointed to the trunk. He collapsed and propped himself against the tree while Morgan left for the kitchen. He took it as an opportunity to study Buchan Castle. True, he’d been here before, but he needed to learn as much as possible if he wished to have any chance at freedom.
A burly warrior stopped to speak with him. “You know the Ramsays?”
Finlay nodded, not wanting to start up a conversation with any of Buchan’s men.
The man continued. “What know you of the daughters of Logan and Quade?”
Finlay had no idea where the warrior was going with his line of questioning. He answered as vaguely as possible. “Naught.”
“Are they still on Grant land?”
“Probably. What’s your name?”
“Bearchun.”
Finlay tried his best not to react too much to his name. “I’ve heard that name. Why?”
He gave him a smug smile and a slight nod. “Because I have a reputation.” He spun on his heel and left.
If he ever gained his freedom again, he’d be sure to inform Logan Ramsay of their conversation.
Freedom. All morning, his mind had dwelled on one thing—how he’d failed. Hot shame filled him when he thought about how much he’d let his best friend down. Jamie had encouraged him to pursue Kyla, and he’d even allowed him to take her here, and now they were prisoners, the victims of terrible trickery. He wondered how Jamie could ever forgive him. He had always been proud of his position as his second, knowing that someday Jamie could be the clan’s only laird, but surely that position would be taken away from him—if they survived this.
In his foolhardy quest to appear worthy of Kyla Grant, he’d put her in a life-threatening situation, and he had no idea how they were to get out of it.
True, he was not the only person who’d considered their plan solid…and yet, he could not deny his role in the way these events had unfolded.
He’d been too wrapped up in his own problems to see the situation clearly.
He’d never be allowed back on Grant land. If he found a way to save Kyla, he’d take her home and then leave. He did not think he could bear to face her father. How could his laird forgive him for what he’d done? The simple answer was that he couldn’t. Alex Grant would run him through with his own sword.
His fate was sealed. There’d be no wedding, and he’d have to find a new home.
He no longer deserved to wear the Grant plaid.
***
The man named Morgan led Kyla down the stairway and into the main keep, then up another staircase and down a passageway before stopping at a door. He knocked, and when they were bidden to enter, he grinned at her and said, “Have fun, my dear.”
He retraced his steps and let out a chilling laugh as she turned the handle on the heavy wooden door.
The chamber was cold and stark. One chest had dirty clothing piled atop it, and a table covered with weapons sat in front of the hearth. Two chairs waited in front of it.
Simon de la Porte sat in one chair, his gaze perusing her. He beckoned her forward, but she didn’t move.
“Come here.” He pointed to the spot in front of him.
“I’ve done naught to you. Set my friend and me free.” She stared back at him, refusing to be intimidated by the bastard.
“And here I believed you to be a fair head…instead you strike me as a featherhead.” He grinned at her. “Do not be foolish. I enjoy breaking women, especially those who belong to my enemies.”
“Let me go.”
He stood and sauntered over to her. “Have you ever gotten on your knees to service your friend, my dear? Because if you have, it would make this much easier. I truly do hate to have to instruct a whore on how to take care of my needs.” Once he was close, her ran his finger down her jawline.
She slapped his hand away. “Our king will love to know how you treated Alexander Grant’s daughter and Logan Ramsay’s niece.”
He slapped her hard across her cheek, splitting the corner of her lip.
She refused to cry out, instead positioning her hand near her dagger, ready to use it if necessary.
“I don’t care what your king thinks. Get down on your knees, bitch.” His voice came out in a low tone, his jaw grinding while he waited for her to comply with his wishes.
She didn’t move. His hands shifted to her shoulders and attempted to force her down. She locked her knees and gritted her teeth, vowing not to give in to him, no matter what the cost. There was no way in hell she would service this beast. She’d heard talk of this before, and she refused to bend to his will.
“Down on your knees,” he ground out, still putting pressure on her shoulders in an effort to force her down.
“Rotten bastard,” she cried. Try as she might, she could not hold her strength against the force that propelled her down. As soon as her knees buckled, she reached for her dagger and stabbed the flesh of his thigh as hard as she could. Blood stained his breeches as he grabbed her hand.
He jumped backward, cursing her, but she didn’t stop there. She grabbed another dagger from the table and flung it across the room, catching him in his left shoulder. Maggie’s lesson had served her well.
De La Porte’s bellow brought men running down the passageway. Once he managed to remove both daggers, he came at her. As soon as the door opened and two of his men came inside, she slipped out past them and raced down the passageway.
“Stop her, you fools!”
Two more men came running toward her, and they grabbed her and spun her around just in time for her to see Simon de La Porte charging at her, his fist pulled back and flexed for a blow that landed directly on the side of her head. Her knees collapsed as pain shot through her head, and she dropped to the ground, wrapping her body into a ball to protect her head and face.
His boot swung out and kicked her over and over again as he called her every vile word in his vocabulary. Maggie had given her brief instructions on how to protect herself, but all those lessons had left her.
Now in a fetal position on the floor, her body screaming in pain, she thought of Finlay. How she wished she’d had the chance to love him. Instead she would die here at the hands of her sire’s enemy.
A loud voice rent the air. “Stop! Stop, you stupid fool! Do not kill her, I care not what she’s done.”
“Foolish bitch took a blade to me twice,” Simon turned toward the voice, heaving from anger.
“If you kill her, we have naught. Put it back in your pants and leave her with me. I told you this was one condition I would not bend on.” She recognized the newcomer as Glenn of Buchan, now standing in front of her. His voice dropped. “You’ve done enough damage today. Go see my healer and get your wounds tended.” He glanced at Morgan and said, “Bring her to my chamber, and if you touch her, I’ll cut your bollocks off.”
Morgan lifted her and she promptly fainted from the pain.