Page 5 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
God above help me.
The gates stood open as their small party approached, guards stepping aside with casual familiarity. Clearly, this was not the first time these men had brought unwilling ‘guests’ to their laird’s attention. They clattered into the courtyard, where servants scattered like startled birds. Rhona found herself hauled down from the horse and marched through corridors that seemed designed to intimidate – high ceilings, cold stone walls hung with weapons and battle trophies, and everywhere the sense of barely contained violence.
“Wait here,” the leader commanded as they reached an enormous set of oak doors banded with iron.
Rhona stood between two of her captors, trying to project dignity despite her torn dress and disheveled appearance. Her shoulder ached from the fall, and she could still taste blood from her split lip, but she refused to show weakness to whatever monster awaited beyond those doors.
Suddenly, the door swung open with ominous creaking.
“Laird Wallace,” the leader called out as they were ushered into a great hall dominated by a massive fireplace. “We’ve brought ye a prize.”
The man who rose from the chair before the fire was nothing like Rhona expected. Douglas Wallace was tall and lean, rather than brutish, with iron-gray hair and cold blue eyes that seemed to strip away pretense with a single glance. He might have been handsome once, before cruelty had carved permanent lines around his mouth and eyes.
“Have ye now?” His voice was cultured, almost pleasant. “And what manner of prize have me faithful hounds retrieved?”
“A MacAlpin lass, me laird. Found her ridin’ alone in the borderlands, bold as brass.”
Those pale eyes fixed on Rhona with calculating interest. “And which MacAlpin daughter graces me hall?”
Rhona lifted her chin, meeting his stare with all the defiance she could muster. “I am Rhona MacAlpin, second daughter of Laird MacAlpin. And I demand ye release me immediately.”
Wallace chuckled, circling her slowly, like a predator evaluating prey. “Demand?” He jested, pausing directly in front of her. “I was hoping tae meet yer elder sister. The heir, as it were.”
“Isolde is–” Rhona caught herself before revealing her sister’s disappearance. “Isolde is well protected at our family’s keep.”
“Is she?” Wallace’s smile was winter-cold. “How disappointin’. I had such hopes fer a profitable marriage alliance.”
Relief flooded through Rhona. If he wanted Isolde specifically, perhaps he would simply release her as worthless to his plans.
“Since yer nae the bride I was expectin’,” Wallace continued, “I suppose ye’re of little use tae me…”
Hope flared in her chest.
“Still,” he mused, tapping one finger against his thin lips, “second daughters have their value. A backup bride, as it were, should something happen tae the first one.”
The hope died as quickly as it had bloomed.
“Take her tae the dungeon,” Wallace commanded with casual indifference. “See that she’s fed enough to keep her alive. We wouldnae want damaged goods, should I need tae use her as leverage.”
“Nay!” Rhona lunged forward, only to be caught by rough hands. “Ye cannae dae this! Me faither will–”
“Yer faither will negotiate reasonably fer his eldest daughter’s hand, or he’ll find himself with one less bairn to worry about.” Wallace had already turned away, dismissing her as easily as he might have done away with a bothersome insect. “Either way, the MacAlpin lands will be mine.”
As the guards dragged her from the hall, Rhona’s last glimpse was of Douglas Wallace settling back into his chair with the satisfied air of a man whose plans were proceeding exactly as expected.
The dungeon lay deep beneath the castle, accessible only through a maze of narrow stone corridors that seemed designed to crush hope along with the spirit. With each step she took downward the air became cooler, taking her further away from light, from freedom, from any possibility of rescue. The air felt damp and her breath misted in small clouds before her face.
“Home sweet home,” one of the guards said with mock cheer as he unlocked a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands.
The cell beyond was small and dark, furnished only with a thin straw pallet and a bucket that served purposes she preferred not to contemplate. A tiny, barred window high in one wall provided the only light – a dim gray square that spoke of approaching evening.
“Sweet dreams, lassie,” the guard leered as he shoved her inside.
The door slammed shut with awful finality, followed by the scrape of the heavy bar falling into place – sealing her fate.Rhona found herself alone in the dimness, surrounded by stone walls that seemed to press closer with each passing moment.
She sank onto the stone pallet, finally allowing tears to fall now that no one could witness her weakness. Four days ago, her greatest worry had been Isolde’s mysterious absence. Now her sister might be dead, and Rhona herself faced a future as either Douglas Wallace’s unwilling bride, or a bargaining chip in his quest for MacAlpin lands.
What have I done?
