Page 98 of Cottage in the Mist
She strode forward, head tipped toward the floor, heart hammering. She’d made it about halfway when suddenly a thick arm snaked around her waist. “Ach, and what have we here?” a deep voice asked, pulling her to an abrupt halt.
She risked a glance from beneath the veil of her hair. Whoever he was, he was huge. With a crooked scar that bisected his face, his hair was oily and he smelled so rank her stomach recoiled in rebellion again.
His lips parted in a feral smile, yellowed teeth bright against his dark beard. “Aren’t ye a bonny lass? I’ve no’ seen you afore. I’m thinking the laird has been hiding you away.”
He had no idea.
She gave him what she hoped was a careless shrug, and lifted her pitcher as she tried to pull herself free. But the man was having none of it. “Ah, come on then, lassie, give us a kiss.” He pulled her closer and she fought the urge to gag. It was hard to stay under the radar when one threw up all over a man.
“Please, sir, I’ve others to serve.” She sounded ridiculous, but it was that or bean the bastard with her pitcher, which most likely would only raise his ire and draw unwanted attention. She be damned if she’d let him touch her any more than he already had.
“Dinna be coy with me,” he growled. “Yer only purpose for being here is to please us. I heard it from the laird himself.”
For a moment, she thought he knew who she was, and then with horror she realized he thought she was a whore.
His big hands tightened on her waist, jerking her to him. If she wanted to be free, she’d have to give the man a kiss. Holding her breath, she gave him a peck and then tried to pull awayagain, but he was having none of it, his beady eyes filling with undisguised lust. “I’ll wager ye can do a wee bit better than that.” His hand slid lower, his fingers kneading her bottom, pressing her against his erection.
She struggled, lifting the pitcher, thinking only of making him stop. But as if he’d read her mind, he reached up and plucked it away, tossing it onto the table. Then he pushed her against the wall beneath an alcove, shadows swallowing them from view.
She fought him openly now, but he was twice as big as she was and every bit as determined. His putrid breath assaulted her as he leaned closer, holding her captive with his body, his hands pushing up her makeshift skirt. His fingers reached the brooch holding it closed and he froze, looking down at the small salient cat.
“Mother o’ God,” the man growled. “Yer no’ one of the laird’s women. Yer the Comyn. The one that Frazier brought.”
She thought for a moment that he was going to push her aside, and even though she didn’t relish the idea of losing her freedom, captivity seemed better than what this man was offering. But she’d misinterpreted his reaction. Instead of pushing her away, he grabbed her more forcefully.
“I’ve a mind to show ye what we think of yer kind. But first I’ll bury myself so deep, I’ll tear you apart.” He shoved her over onto a table, ripping at her plaid.
Bile filled her throat, fear turning to panic. He was going to rape her. Right here in front of all these people. And no one was going to do anything to stop him. Enraged, she struck out at him, kicking and biting and struggling for all she was worth. But he was a big man, and he straddled her, holding her firmly in place.
“Now then, I’ll show you what a real man feels like.”
Tears gathered and she closed her eyes.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Tormond? Get your hands off the wench. She’s no’ for you.”
The man released her with a curse. “Mayhap when you’ve finished with her I’ll have a go.” With a last lascivious glance at her, he turned his back and walked away.
Lily sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes as her gaze collided with the man who’d rescued her. Not exactly a savior—more likely a trade of one devil for another. Although not as big as the man who’d attacked her, he was tall, and relatively clean. But it was his eyes that gave away his identity, their cool icy blue currently devoid of any emotion as he assessed her.
Despite her disheveled state, she stuck out her chin. “Malcolm Macgillivray, I assume.” Behind him Frazier stood, eyes bulging, looking very much like the toad he truly was.
Malcolm dipped his head. “At your service, my lady. I understand felicitations are in order.”
She frowned, certain that she’d heard his voice before, but unable to place where or how.
“Your marriage,” he prompted, a flash of anger lighting his eyes. “My nephew is a lucky man.”
“Right. Lucky,” she responded, her own anger coming to the fore. “I find that rich coming from you. First you kill his father, then you take his home. And now his wife. What, may I ask, has my husband ever done to you to deserve all of this?”
His lips curled into a sneer. “He had the misfortune to be born to the wrong father.”
“But the right mother?” She knew she should watch her mouth, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. If possible, Frazier’s eyes had gone even wider. She pulled her focus back to Malcolm. “The one who had the audacity to choose your brother over you?”
His hand flashed out, striking her before she had time to realize what he was about. She lurched backward, the edge of the table saving her from a fall. “You’ve the tongue of a shrew.”
“And you’ve the manners of a swine,” she retorted, wiping away the blood that trickled from her mouth.
His gaze slid slowly from her head to her toes, lingering on her hips and breasts. “Believe me when I say that it will be a pleasure to bring you to heel,” Malcolm said, his sneer bordering on lechery now. “But first I need to deal with your husband. And what better bait than his lady love?”
