Highland Conquest, page 4
“Ella Sutherland,” Cain repeated from right behind her as she inhaled and exhaled quickly from her run. “Ye are not a guest here to decide when ye leave. We have business in the great hall.”
Business? She swallowed down the fear nearly choking her as her heart hammered at her breastbone. Would all four Sinclair horsemen take their vengeance out on her? She turned slowly on her boots, finding her voice. “You think I will walk obediently toward torment and execution?”
His lips pursed as if in thought for a moment, lips that she remembered were deceptively pleasant to kiss. “I plan to wed ye, not kill ye.”
Stomach knotted, she forced herself to breathe fully, summoning the anger to beat back her fear. She met his eyes with fire in her own. “Same thing.”
He smiled broadly, the action at odds with the blue woad and blood marks still splattered across his face and the coolness in his blue eyes. “Ye are a prisoner without choice in the matter of your life, and I have decided your fate, which does not include death.”
She glanced about the perimeter. Certainly there was a blade sitting about that she could fall upon. Her heart pumped like the hard beat of a bird’s wings as she contemplated her end.
“This is Lady Ella Sutherland,” Cain said, his gaze now on his men behind her. “She is mine.” He stretched out the last word, his voice as huge as his form. “See that no harm comes to her, even by her own hand, but she is not to leave Girnigoe without me or one of my brothers. Keenan, make sure the others know.”
“Aye,” one of the guards behind her called out, and Ella turned to glare at him. He had a menacing scar over his brow, and his wry grin made her want to kick his shin.
Ella stood stiffly, wishing she still had a dagger secreted on her. What should she do? Just stand there until someone dragged her away? Because she surely did not want to follow the arrogant clod into his castle. She squeezed her eyes shut like she used to do as a child, wishing to vanish, wishing to blink out of existence to infuriate her tormentor. She heard the crunch of pebbles as he walked closer.
“What are ye doing?” he asked, his words soft and curious.
“Praying to die right here and foil your plans.”
With her eyes shut, she waited, listening, and felt his breath touch her ear. Tingles prickled down that side of her body. “Is it working?” he asked.
Her eyes snapped open so he could see the hate in them, but her breath caught at the blueness of his eyes and his nearness, like in the tree. She pulled her lips back, gritting her teeth. “Yes, I have died. Best to toss this stinking corpse out of here.”
He leaned in again, and she fought to not back up. Inhaling deeply near her hair, he whispered, “Your corpse smells of fresh Highland air and flowers.” His gaze fastened to her eyes until she felt like she could not look away. Like a mouse caught in his falcon’s sight. He grinned. “I will keep ye for now.”
Chapter Three
The blasted man grabbed Ella around the hips and lifted her up over one of his large shoulders. She kicked her heels to throw him off-balance and shoved against the muscles of his broad back, but the vile man caught her legs, holding them together pressed to his chest, her arse sticking up in the air near his ear. She arched her back, rising to sink her nails into his shoulder to push upright.
“If ye will walk with me without seeking a way to die, I will put ye down.”
“Put me down.” If she’d been born with the muscles of a man, she’d have beaten him soundly. Of course, she would also likely be dead, but hadn’t that been what she wanted when he caught her? Well, not really, only if it was to protect Sutherland Clan from being taken over by Sinclairs. Death before surrender was one of her father’s favorite bellows.
Cain lowered her, and she yanked her black leather jerkin into place. “Where is my mask?”
“Ye do not need it,” he said. “And ye will tell me who branded ye.”
“He is dead,” she said, frowning over the idea of giving Cain any information at all.
He made a disgusted sound. “A pity.” He seemed to shorten his step so she was next to him, and they walked across a second drawbridge designed to slide over the chasm instead of being raised and lowered.
Across another bailey, they entered the tall stone fortress to step through a darkened entryway. The small antechamber opened up into a large room with a two-story ceiling made of timber and chiseled granite. Glass-paned windows were situated up high in the thick blocks to let in light. Tapestries adorned the walls, and a large cold hearth stood at the far end where another archway led beyond. The largest tapestry was made of bright threads and showed the four biblical horsemen riding down from the illuminated clouds of Heaven on steeds of four different colors: white, red, black, and a pale green.
Ella’s gaze slid to two women standing near the table that held the wrapped body of George Sinclair, the sadistic monster of Girnigoe. Her strategy had worked—cut off the head of the snake and the rest of the armies pulled back. But now, instead of readying for the inevitable siege, she was imprisoned in the snake’s den with his lethal son.
The room was silent, except for the whispered prayers of the younger of the two women near the head of the table. She was dressed in white, her light-colored hair draped about her shoulders as if she were an angel. An older woman with white hair stood next to her. Was she the Sinclair witch? The woman’s sharp gaze crossed over the prone body to squint at Ella. Did she need spectacles like Kenneth or was she casting a spell on her, condemning her for the death of their chief, her brother?
Several other warriors stood about the room, their battle armor streaked with mud and blood. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat when two large men walked out of the alcove. One had a bandaged arm, but it was the other who made her forget to inhale. He wore the dark robes associated with death, and a large human skull covered his face, its white bone polished, his eyes peering from the empty sockets. Hefting a bloody scythe over one shoulder, he was certainly the fourth of the Sinclair brothers. The horseman of death.
“Eun returned your flag,” the brother with his arm tied held up a ripped piece of red and black fabric. He was as tall as Cain but not as broad. His gaze slid along her form. Ella crossed her arms before her to ward off the feeling that he was judging her. He finally looked to Cain. “Why did ye not lead us on to smash the Sutherlands completely?” he asked, making a fist. He was either Gideon, the third brother, or Joshua, the second brother.
Cain’s voice came out hard as he looked down at the unmoving body of his father. “A strategy to save Dunrobin, its people, and its horses from being smashed and slaughtered.”
“We would never slaughter horses,” the brother in the skull mask said, his words clear because the jaw of the skull hung lower than his mouth, as if the previous owner had continued to scream when the horseman won his head.
“Who knows what the Sutherlands would do to their herds if they thought we would take them,” the other brother said, shooting her a dark frown.
Cain crossed his bare arms over his linen-covered chest, the lines of the horse tattoo prominent along the contours of his muscles. He was a mountain of strength and masculine confidence, his wheat-colored hair tangled from the wind and battle, the blue woad painted down his strong features still marking him as wild. “I would not have my new prizes marred when I have a way of taking them peacefully with a wedding.”
Ella’s stomach dropped farther down within her. Despite the heat that had flared between them during her distraction kiss in the tree, the thought of being wed to her mortal enemy turned her to ice. She opened her mouth to restate that she would never take the sacred vows with Cain Sinclair, handing her clan over to her enemy.
“Where is he?” boomed a voice from the entryway, stopping her. In strode a warrior with his armor still covering his chest, blood streaked across his bare arms. His hair was darker, and he held a large sword, his arms powerfully built. He stopped before the corpse and yanked back the cloth from George Sinclair’s face. “Foking hell,” he said. “Da is dead.” He looked up, his gaze going to the other three of his brothers. “He is really dead.”
He reached out, shaking the corpse’s shoulder, and for a brief second, Ella wondered if he might have some mystical power to rouse the madman. He leaned forward. “Wake,” he roared in the dead man’s face, and everyone watched, but the corpse remained unmoving and pale. He released his father’s shoulder. “I did not believe one of us was dead when I saw your bird’s flag.” He ran a hand through his hair, nodding. “’Tis best that it was Da.”
“He said Merida predicted it,” the brother with the skull mask said, and they all turned to the elderly woman with thick white hair.
Merida Sinclair. She had been wed to Ella’s father years ago, but she hadn’t given him a living child, and he accused her of witchery to divorce her. It had started the bloody war between their clans thirty years ago.
The woman’s chin tilted up. “Aye, I told my brother his time to die was here.” She shook her head and pulled back more of the plaid to look down at him. “Ye never listen to me, ye stubborn goat. See where it’s led ye.”
Surely to hell.
Merida’s eyes had fine lines around them, and her skin was tan but still smooth. Her white hair was loose and long, with one thin braid plaited to hang along her cheek. A mantle of blue linen draped from one shoulder to the other in a regal style that reminded Ella of the ancient Roman’s costume that she’d seen painted in her mother’s books. Could the crone really see death coming for a person? Maybe her father’s claims of witchery held truth. What could Merida see for Ella? There was only one option for her if she couldn’t escape.
“Perhaps that is why he battled so fiercely and alone, as if he were beating off death,” the brother with the bandaged arm said.
Merida shook her head again as if furious at the dead man. “He always fought like a giant, cornered wildcat. He did not want to strike one of his boys down in his frenzy.”
The brother who had yelled leaned closer and pulled the cloth farther down the body. “Arrows?” He turned his head without straightening, his gaze going to Cain.
“The Sutherland chief ordered all her archers to fire straight at him,” Cain said. “At least fifty of them.”
Fifty of her most skilled warriors, for she had known it would be their best chance to kill the warmonger. Ella swallowed as every set of eyes in the great hall turned to her. Courage. Stand tall as if you have it, and sometimes it comes. Kenneth’s words reverberated in her mind. What was the worst they could do? Cain didn’t want her to die, but pain was worse.
She wet her parched lips, suddenly realizing how badly she thirsted. “It was the best strategy to end the battle and save my people from cruel slaughter,” she said, proud of the force behind her words. She met Cain’s blue eyes, his longish hair falling around his rugged jaw. “And it worked.”
“It is war, then!” the brother yelled.
“It has been war since Alec Sutherland showed no honor by sending me back to Girnigoe, Joshua,” Merida said, hands on her ample hips.
“And it ends today,” he roared, striding toward Ella, his fists as tight as his scowl. Instinct screamed at her to crouch low and cover her head, but she kept herself straight, drawing on courage and dignity as the only things she still possessed. One hit from the charging man’s fist and she might very well have her wish to die. Her heart pounded, giving her legs the power to run, but there was nowhere to go.
In a rush, Cain intercepted his brother, yanking him around in a massive display of strength. He shoved his brother back and continued toward her. A lesser man would have fallen on his arse at the power in Cain’s thrust, but Joshua merely took two steps to catch his balance.
Cain caught her to him, holding her before him with an arm under her breasts. “She is mine,” he said, the three simple words filling the room. “No one shall touch Ella Sutherland other than me.” And for the moment, she was grateful for it.
“Fok, Cain,” Joshua said, walking in a tight circle as if his pent-up energy demanded he stride.
“Da is dead, and I am the chief,” Cain said. “We will all play our parts.”
Joshua threw his hands up and let them drop, piercing Cain with his gaze where he stopped. “As ye bloody wish,” Joshua said, his teeth showing as his mouth pulled back in a snarl-like smile. “But we win this war with slaughter tomorrow.”
“We win this war with a formal betrothal and posting of banns,” Cain countered.
Ella forced herself to breathe, the feel of Cain’s grip like iron against her ribs. Would her wildly thumping heart give away her fear? She steadied herself and opened her dry lips. “I choose death.”
Everyone stared at her in a long silence. Did they not think her brave enough to wish for death over wedding her mortal enemy and giving them a solid claim to her castle and clan? “You said there were two choices,” she said, turning and tipping her face up to look at Cain. From directly under him, she could see the strong lines of his stubbled jaw and the strength in his neck. Lord, the man was all muscle. She swallowed. “And I choose death.”
“Only two choices?” the brother with the wrapped arm, who must be Gideon, asked.
“Why Death?” Joshua asked and turned to the fourth brother in the skull mask, the anger on his face dropping away to surprise. “He is still but a boy.” A wicked grin surfaced through the hate on his face. “Ye should choose someone with some skill and brawn.”
The fourth brother ripped off his cloak, leaving the skull mask still tied to the front of his face. He whipped something through the air. Whack. The blade of a mattucashlass stuck into the table next to Joshua’s hand. The older brother just grinned without moving.
The quiet, ethereal woman with sun-colored hair came around the table. She looked close to Ella’s age, her red lips set in a pale face. She stood before her, tipping her head to the side as she studied Ella. “Ye, Arabella Sutherland, wish to marry my fourth brother, Bàs Sinclair?”
…
Now that Joshua wasn’t charging at her, Cain released Ella. The bending of the woman’s brows showed her confusion. “Bàs? I do not under—”
“My youngest brother is named Death,” Cain said. Certainly, if she refused to wed him, she would not ask to wed his brother. “Bàs means death in Gaelic, named for the fourth horseman from the Bible.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open as she looked toward Cain’s youngest brother. Even though Bàs was the quietest of the four, he was as large, his strength finally growing into him over the last few years.
Joshua chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Did ye think his name was short for Sebastian?”
Ella shook her head. “Your mother named you Death?”
“Our father did,” Cain said. “Since he was the fourth horseman to be born after the third horseman,” he pointed to Gideon, “and the second horseman.” He pointed to Joshua.
“So, by choosing Death, ye chose him to wed,” Joshua said, his maddening grin in place. He looked like he was starting to enjoy the exchange now that the shock of their father’s death had waned. Maybe he wouldn’t lose his mind and try to kill Ella again.
Ella turned on Joshua. “George Sinclair did not name you ‘Start A Bloody Fight,’” she said, jabbing her finger in his direction.
Her cheeks were stained pink, and her voice rose. Aye, she was brave. Even though he’d felt her heart flying, she did not swoon or cry out. She yelled instead. He liked that.
“And you,” she said, pointing toward Gideon. “He did not name you ‘Starve Your Neighbors.’”
Gideon frowned, and Cain almost smiled. The lass knew exactly where to stab in his brother’s most vulnerable spot. “Famine is only one interpretation of the third horseman,” Gideon said. “I am to keep track of the food and supplies, but I am also the one to decide what is fair and just.” He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic on his uninjured arm to show the tattoo of weighing scales. “I am Justice.”
“Fair and just as long as it sways in favor of the sons of Sinclair,” Ella finished. The lass had a firm grasp on the beginning of Revelations. He would have to spend time reminding Gideon that they did not think of him as Famine. She spun her gaze toward Cain. “And you are not named ‘Spill all the Blood and Replace it with Sinclair Blood.’”
Cain felt his lips twitch with humor, the fire in her voice and her cleverness pulling it out of him despite the grim circumstances. “My mother was not in favor of those particular names. They are a bit lengthy, so she and my father chose biblical names. Joshua was a great leader of battles, and Gideon was a warrior but also a judge. Da felt that Bàs was appropriate for the fourth, and without our mother’s influence, since she was dying, he named him so.”
“How can naming a newborn bairn Death be appropriate in any way?” she asked, her gaze sliding back to the youngest, who still wore his battle mask.
“My mother was my first execution,” Bàs said, his voice an even whisper, his hands fisted.
“She died giving birth to him.” Cain finished the explanation. Certainly, she had heard the tale before. Their father had spouted it throughout the Highlands, his grief for his angelic wife turning to rage against the living.
Ella’s gaze slid across all the brothers to land on Cain. She cleared her throat. “I was not saying that I choose to wed Death.” She glanced toward Bàs. “But that I choose to be executed over being wed to any of you.”
“Foking harsh, lass,” Joshua said. “Choosing death over surrendering to one of us.” His grin turned wicked as his gaze drifted over her leisurely, making Cain’s fists tighten. “Ye might find being bound to a Sinclair quite…fulfilling.” He arched his brow over his carnal suggestion.
“She is wedding me,” Cain said, stepping in front of Ella. “No one else, for I am the chief.”
