Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

“ Y ou pert minx! I’ll kill you for laying your poxy hands on my man!” Mackenzie flew at Esme with her fingers curled like a scratching cat. Fortunately for Esme, Bruce stepped in between the two women before Mackenzie could get to her.

But Mackenzie’s outstretched hands managed to grab hold of the scarf wrapped tightly around Esme’s head. When she jerked it off, Esme’s long brown hair came cascading down. “I swear I’ll have your head shorn of all its hair before the day is much older, you bow-legged jade!” Mackenzie hissed the angry words, trying to remove Bruce’s restraining hand.

When he was unmoved by her wild efforts, Mackenzie grabbed hold of Bruce’s hand and bit it. For one long moment, the strange scene played out; the cowering slave girl, the massive Highlander standing between the two women, holding them apart with his hands, and the laird’s fiery daughter with her teeth sunk deep into the man’s flesh, as rabid with anger as any dog.

It was as if he flourished under the pain because all Bruce did was grunt and flex his shoulders before pushing her away from him. His brows were lowered now, dark with ill humor.

“Leave her, Mackenzie. I’ll nae have a soul lay their hands on Esme, not even ye.”

Wild with jealousy and fury, the laird’s daughter withdrew a small dagger from her belt and lunged at Esme with it. “I’ll kill the she-dog if it’s the last thing I do!”

But the blow never landed. Sighing with frustration, Bruce had blocked the stab with his body. He was shielding Esme from more than the knife. He was protecting her from the harsh reality of what happens when a highborn warrior with a privileged lover falls in love with a slave.

Esme screamed when she saw the blade sink deep into his side, scything through the taut sinew and muscle. But the harmful effect on Bruce was minimal. Mackenzie had already released the dagger handle and stepped back, a look of frustration on her face. All the Highlander did was exhale heavily out of flaring nostrils before pulling the dagger out. His veins were standing out from the skin like cords and his breath was coming in hard huffs of rage.

“Ai!” Mackenzie cried out. “Are you dying, Bruce? I thought you said you were immortal?”

Throwing the dagger into a far corner of the stables with one hand, Bruce scoffed. “Ye ill-mannered scold! I prefer getting wounded in battle, I’ll thank ye very much! The injury has brought oot me berserker rage! I am fighting back the urge to kill.” It was fortunate for the laird’s daughter that Bruce had been raised to be a gallant, courteous man towards women and he would not have harmed a hair on her head because of this. Even so, he seemed to have gotten taller. His muscles flexed under the skin as he fought to control his battle rage. The sweat ran down his forehead and his hands were bunched into massive fists. After a while, he was able to calm down. His black mood did not improve, however.

Bruce was not shocked by Mackenzie’s actions, but he was extremely uncomfortable knowing that anything might happen to Esme while he was sleeping off the effect of the wound.

It was amazing for the two women to watch as the flesh began to knit itself together. As if the air had grown an invisible needle and thread, the dagger wound disappeared. To hear of such a thing happening when someone told it around the warm glow of a fire at night was one thing, but to actually witness the man’s magical healing ability was entirely another thing.

“Howt!” Mackenzie swore, “I swear I have never seen such a miracle before!”

Bruce was unmoved. He was a brutal warrior and wanted nothing to do with the domestic side of catfights and brangling. “Awa’ wit’ ye, Mackenzie. It was only a wee buss on the mouth. And dinnae yer faither tell ye that I was planning on sailing forth? All things have an end—except me, ye ken.”

Esme kept her mouth shut. The less attention she brought to herself the better chance she had of escaping punishment. But Mackenzie was far too enraged to let sleeping dogs lie. “Only a wee buss ?” Her voice was mocking as she punched Bruce’s chest hard, wiping the angry flecks of spit away from her mouth with the back of her hand. “You share my bed, Highlander! That means the only busse s you get to dole out belong to me! And until you are actually on the boat, lover, you belong to me, and me alone!”

Darting a look over at Esme and jerking his head slightly towards the door to indicate that she should leave, Bruce grumbled out an explanation. “Ye dinnae own me, Mackenzie. Not ye, not yer faither, and certainly not some slave girl. Get a grip!”

He was relieved to see Esme make it out of the door intact, but he needed to calm the laird’s daughter down considerably so that Esme would be safe when the healing sleep overtook him. “Listen, I was ready to leave the island because I thought oor arrangement had gotten stale and lifeless, lass. But to see ye so ready to fight for me put the fire back into me belly!”

These passionate words were more to Mackenzie’s liking. She simmered down and managed to give him a rueful smile. “Really, Bruce? You mean it? You promise?”

Keeping a rational head on his shoulders, Bruce replied. “I promise nothing, lass. I can only say that I will stay here with ye for a wee while yet. Noo, get back inside and forget aboot yon slave girl. She cannae compare to ye in status or beauty.”

The moment Mackenzie left, Bruce walked slowly after Esme, easily following her tracks in the damp grass. She was cowering behind the handcart full of hay for the horses. He did not have time to explain much to her. He had to keep her safe from Mackenzie’s wrath.

“Esme, I will fall into a deep sleep soon. It will nae last for so long, but I will be dead to the world. Listen to me, ye must return to yer master. Clyde is the only man who can protect ye from Mackenzie’s vengeance while I sleep. Ye must promise me this.”

She said nothing but gave him a small nod of agreement. He wanted her so badly, it drove him almost insane to think that she would be alone and vulnerable while his body hibernated. To be cursed with eternal life was bad enough, but to be sleeping while Esme remained susceptible to the McFletchers was intolerable.

Staggering up the hill, Bruce reached the small stone cottage the laird had given him to live in. There, under the floorboards, he had carved out a crawl space to lie in. Only when he had slid the last wooden board back in place did Bruce lie down on the cold earth under the floorboards and allow the healing sleep to overtake him.

This time, when Bruce awoke there was no pretty little heart-shaped face watching over him. Groaning as the memories of what had brought him there flooded back, he pushed the floorboards up and clambered slowly out of the crawl space. The stone cottage given to him was a basic home, sparsely furnished and dusty from lack of cleaning.

Bruce had kept the cottage like that, knowing that sooner or later, he would need a bolthole to hide in. He was happy to make his home with Mackenzie while he hunted for the girl from his dreams.

The healing sleep was every Immortal Brethren’s most vulnerable time. If an enemy wanted to find out if one of the Eternal Highlanders could be killed by burning or dismemberment, that was the opportune moment to try it out. And that was the reason why every Immortal had been blessed with such dazzling good looks; it was his handsome face that drew maidens and mortals into watching him sleep instead of taking advantage of his unconscious state. No one wanted to harm a man who was so attractive that he looked more like a hero from the old tales, rather than a flesh and blood human.

Heaving himself into a crouch and then standing up, Bruce flexed his muscles and stretched like a lazy cat. Leaning over and looking down, he checked for damage or scarring. There was a small white scar, very faint now. Only if he stared closely could he see the slight indentation from Mackenzie’s dagger.

The vixen! But Bruce had to admit he had been careless. He did not want to be the cause of a lady’s heart to hurt, and now there was no escaping it. He could not let Esme go. And that might mean the two of them must escape the island together.

Bruce was not delusional when it came to Laird McFletcher’s reasons for keeping him here and keeping him happy by placing Mackenzie in his bed. He was a prized warrior, and the Fletchers had only ruled this island for ten years. Their claim to rule was small at best. But the longer he delayed the inevitable, the more risk there was of Esme being hurt.

With this in mind, he dusted the flakes of soil off his plaid and went looking for her. His senses told him that she was not in the kitchen, but he stopped there first anyway, hungry after his long sleep.

One of the kitchen scullions saw him. “Go around to the great hall, good master. There, ye will find a basket o’ bannocks and some honey.”

Bruce nodded his thanks but stepped into the kitchen and began to slice meat off a haunch of boar roasting on the spit over the fire. “What day is it?” He did not need to ask the time, seeing that the remnants of the morning meal were still on the boards and the dinner was being prepared.

“Day, master? It’s three more days before oor day of rest. ’Tis Thursday morn.”

He did a quick calculation and then thanked the scullion, taking a big plate of food to the kitchen table and wolfing it down. Then he went to the sluice drain and used the water pump to douse his head under the water and clean his teeth with the softened end of a hazelnut tree twig. Running his fingertips lightly over his jaw, Bruce winced when he felt the rough beard scruff that had grown there, but there was no more time to waste making himself presentable. He must find Esme.

It had been a little over one day since he had crawled away to sleep long and hard, dead to the world and all of its problems. Anything could have happened to Esme during that time, and that was not even taking into account the laird’s two children.

Standing at the post outside Clyde’s cottage, Bruce announced his wish to enter. No one was allowed to simply walk up to a warrior’s front door and knock. “Hie! Are ye open for a visitor?”

At first, he thought there was no one at home, but then a servant opened the door a crack. “Good morrow, Highlander. Do you seek the master?”

He had not really thought it through. He did not want to ask for Esme directly, and he knew that all the Norse folk were loyal to the Fletchers. “Master or yer mistress, lass. Both are acceptable to me.”

Pushing the door open all the way, the servant stepped aside to let Bruce in. The front room was such a mess of shields, weapons, and armor hanging from the walls and ceiling beams that Bruce had to crouch so that his head did not hit them. When Anna came in and asked him to sit down, he accepted gratefully, perching on a stool by the fireside that creaked ominously when it felt his weight. Bruce reasoned that if the stool could bear the weight from that sack of wind, Clyde, it could take his weight without breaking too.

Anna sat on the bench by the hearth. She was a comely lassie, so young that the dewy skin of her cheeks bore no sign of wrinkles and the lids of her eyes were pink and plump. She wore a loose-fitting tunic woven from red-dyed wool, which must have cost Clyde McFletcher a pretty penny to buy on the mainland. The dyes available on the island turned everything russet brown or dull yellow.

“Ye are looking bonny, Mistress,” Bruce smiled and pointed at the lady’s swelling belly. “I wish ye a healthy bairn and many more to follow.”

Anna smiled and thanked him. But then she sighed. “Truth to tell, Highlander, I am pleased to see you here. I was hoping that we might be able to help one another.”

Placing a finger to his lips, Bruce rose to close the door so that no one could overhear them. “Continue, Mistress.”

Anna nodded. “You are an acute man, so I am sure I do not need to tell you about recent developments.”

No emotion or expression crossed his face as he responded. “I have been gone for the last two days, Mistress, so please fill me in.” He would not show his hand so quickly, because he was not sure if Anna was heartfelt or if she was acting on behalf of her husband.

“Clyde has taken a mistress. Do not misread my feelings, please. I know it is a husband’s right to use a slave girl when his wife is bearing his child. But no slave girl has Esme McKenzie’s charms.”

Biting back the urge to growl and smash things, Bruce remained serene on the outside. “Has he taken her already? Wheesht, I was only gone two days! I didnae realize Clyde was champing at the bit to have his way with the girl.”

Anna tried to smile at his attempt at humor, but she was too brokenhearted. “Clyde has not bedded the wench yet, but he has set her apart from all the others and gives her pretty gifts.” Staring out of the window, Anna watched the door of the cottage where Esme was kept. “She has such a tempting way about her, Highlander, that I do not think that my husband will come back to me after the baby is born.”

He tried to soothe her fears, but he was a clumsy man, unused to complex female emotions. “Och, Clyde would never leave ye for a slave, Mistress. He prefers his own folk at the end o’ the day.”

Anna looked sad. “There are no wet nurses on this godforsaken island. So I must nurse the babe myself until it is old enough to sup from a cup. During all that time, my husband will be free to use another woman in the bedchamber.” Her eyes refocused on Bruce and a steely light came into them. “I am not blind, Master Sterling. I have seen your gaze follow the slave girl around the great hall. So, I want you to know this. I will do whatever is in my power to help the two of you leave this place and never come back.”

Again, Bruce did not react. He watched Anna keenly for any sign of deception. Clyde was a bully and a scoundrel when it came to women, and Bruce would not put it past him to force Anna into plotting with him to see if he would take the bait.

Standing up, he jerked his chin towards the cottage. “Is he in there?”

Pressing her lips close together, Anna nodded. “Yes. He-he likes to watch her sew and weave. He counts the days until her lunar cycle is over…and sometimes, his sister, Mackenzie, goes to sit with him. It worries her why you were gone for so long.”

“Och, aye, well then, I better go and pay them a visit.” Bruce patted the lady’s shoulder with a comforting gesture as he went out the door. Life was becoming very busy on the island for him since he located his mermaid rescuer, but he would be damned if he left here without her.

This time, there was no knocking on the gate post. Bruce waited for the dinner bell to be rung by the kitchen, calling all the laird’s men to gather in the great hall. He wanted to be sure that no one would come sticking their noses in if Clyde called for help.

It was an ominous sign when the laird’s son did not walk out of the cottage at the sound of the bell. Clyde was as fond of his food as the next man. Bruce braced himself for the fact that he might be too late—and that he might find them in the bedchamber together.

When the coast was clear, he quietly lifted the door latch and went in. Angling his head around the corner so that he could look into the bedchamber without being seen, Bruce’s blood boiled when he saw Esme sitting with Clyde. The laird’s son had his arm around her and he was caressing her breast carelessly with his fingers.

“Ye’re hurting me,” Esme tried to lay a stitch of embroidery with a shaking hand. “I cannae concentrate with yer breathing so close.”

Clyde gave her nipple a sharp pinch. The laird’s son was easily able to see how to land his pinch because Esme was sitting in a transparent lawn shift that was tied so loosely around her neck that it was slipping off one soft, white shoulder.

Esme cried in shock and pain, but it was evident that these emotions aroused Clyde even more. “I am counting the days until I can make you mine, wench. Need I remind you that it is your job to obey me and satisfy my every wish.”

There was no reply because Esme was biting back her rebellious words so hard that her lips were nearly bleeding. The skin on her face was raw from being roughly handled and kissed from Clyde’s bearded chin. There were bruises on her neck and throat, although Bruce could not tell if it was from bites or throttling.

“Come now, wench,” Clyde used what he believed to be a winning voice, but all it ended up making him sound like was a hog snuffling at a bowl of truffles. “Surely you know how to satisfy a man with your sweet mouth? If not that, then what about your hand? I’ll treat you gently, I swear it. One spurt of my essence, and my mood will lighten considerably. Please.”

Esme could not bear it any longer. “I have nae idea what ye’re talking aboot, master! Leave me be! Hand or mouth, I have nay skill with such nonsense. And I’ll be damned if I let ye be me teacher!”

Clyde stood up, smacking Esme across the cheek as if he were swatting a fly. “Damned, is it? I will see you in hell if you do not bend the knee to me. All I am asking for is one lick, one dainty touch. Come on!”

With his back to the door, Clyde began to unbuckle his breeks. So, it was Esme who saw Bruce step into the room first.

“Thank goodness!” she breathed a sigh of relief. This change of mood confused Clyde, but not enough for him to turn around. But his head whipped around really fast when he heard Bruce’s voice speaking no more than a foot away from his ear.

“Laird McFletcher, yer faither, calls ye to dine at the great hall, Clyde.”

The laird’s son felt incredibly foolish to be caught with a reluctant woman and his breeks down in front of the Highlander. By all reports, Bruce was physically large and impressive in every part of his body, while Clyde was holding all the evidence of a weak and wilting instrument in his hand.

The laird’s son was humiliated, too humiliated to fight or protest. Hastily pulling his trews up and buckling them under his belly, Clyde mumbled something that might have sounded like thanks before quickly exiting the room.