Sutherland's Secret Read online

  Her gaze flew to his in surprise. He raised dark blond brows. His eyes were a brilliant blue. Beautiful, she would have thought in another life.

  Slowly she uncurled herself and took the plate from him. When it wasn’t snatched out of her hand, she grabbed a piece of meat and shoved it in her mouth. She swallowed before she’d barely chewed it, then grabbed another piece, watching him, waiting for him to take the plate from her. Waiting for the mockery.

  In the back of her mind, she knew her manners were deplorable, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t eaten meat in months, and even though it was cold and tough, she’d never had anything that tasted so good. She shoved another piece in her mouth before she’d swallowed the bite before it. His brows rose in shock. She reached for more, but the plate was empty. He took it away and placed it on the ground.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  She swallowed the last mouthful and nodded, even though she could have eaten more. He grinned, and she was arrested by the transformation in him. He didn’t look so fierce or dangerous when he grinned like that.

  Her eyes began to droop. Strong hands guided her to the ground.

  “Sleep,” his voice rumbled. “I command it.”

  —

  When they crested the rise and the trees thinned out, Eleanor got her first glimpse of Sutherland’s home, and she pulled in a deep breath. It was frightening and magnificent at the same time.

  In these modern times most Scotland chiefs were renovating their castles to reflect the genteel country estates of the English, but not Sutherland. Like the arms that surrounded her and trapped her on his mount, his castle—for it could only be called a castle—represented the man. It was formidable, enormous, and impenetrable, built for protection and defense instead of grace and beauty. It gleamed in the sunlight, appearing almost pink, with a sloping slate roof and towers at the front and back corners. Behind it gleamed the ocean, with the rising mountains framing the nearly perfect picture. Tiny specks hustled about outside the castle; she assumed they were the inhabitants of his domicile.

  “Castle Dornach,” he said with pride in his voice.

  She wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Highland warriors had come charging out, hair flying behind them, faces painted, belting out their war cries. That was where the frightening part came in. She had no idea what she was riding into. Could it possibly be worse than where she came from? At one time she would have thought not, but now she wasn’t so certain.

  With a click of his tongue, he coaxed his mount down the steep path that led to his castle. A feeling of foreboding and apprehension shivered through her. What were his plans for her? She wanted to ask, but every time she attempted to speak, her voice failed her and nothing emerged. Not even a squeak. Maybe it was for the best that she couldn’t speak. She was almost certain that this large man with such a formidable castle was not a great friend of the English, and she was most certainly English.

  A large gatehouse stood sentinel in front of the main house, vigilant in its purpose. The portcullis was already raised by the time they approached. Sutherland was strangely quiet behind her. The arms that imprisoned her were roped with a humming tension.

  They passed beneath the gatehouse, through the portcullis, the horse’s hooves clattering on the timbered ground. They emerged on the other side and into the bailey. And it was everything she had feared. Fierce warriors were waiting in a line to greet him. They wore ferocious expressions, lips downturned, eyes narrowed. People milled about, looking at her. Curious and on guard.

  Instinctively she pressed her back to Sutherland’s chest. He stopped his mount in front of the men. Each of them stood with shoulders back, long hair waving in the soft breeze, the edges of their blue and green kilts fluttering. Wicked broadswords hung from their waists, nestled next to pistols. Long boots covered them from knees to toes. White shirts were stretched taut over muscular chests and arms.

  Sutherland slid off the horse and reached up to pluck her off and set her beside him. They’d been riding for so long that she swayed, but Sutherland’s hands settled on her shoulders to steady her.

  One of the men, the one with the most ferocious expression, broke the line and approached them, his dark, direct gaze locked on her. She moved a half a step closer to Sutherland.

  The man had hair so dark it was black and eyes so piercing she swore he could look into her soul. He stopped in front of her and looked her up and down with suspicion and distrust. He turned an incredulous gaze to Sutherland. “She lives?” he asked in surprise.

  Sutherland grunted. Eleanor’s stomach dropped to her toes and she sucked in a ragged breath. Sutherland’s fingers on her shoulder flexed.

  The dark-haired, dark-eyed man looked her over again.

  “Enough, Lachlan.” With a hand in the middle of her back, Sutherland guided her up the steps that led to the doors of the castle. She went, because what choice did she have? Run? She’d proved last night that running was impossible, and even if it weren’t, the portcullis slammed into place just as she put her foot on the first step.

  The warrior named Lachlan opened the front door. It was thick and heavy and impenetrable. It should have given her a sense of protection, but all it did was frighten her more. She hesitated before entering, knowing that if she stepped into this castle, she more than likely would never leave it.

  Sutherland nudged her. She stumbled over the threshold and into the dark recesses of her newest prison.

  She blinked. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. They had stepped into the main hall, or what she assumed they would call the great hall. Here the walls were paneled in dark wood and the vaulted ceiling soared above, giving the place a cavernous, echoing quality. An enormous fireplace—everything was enormous here—took up a large portion of one wall; it was so big that several of Sutherland’s warriors could stand erect in it. Two rows of long tables took up the middle of the hall. Light filtered through windows set high up.

  Sutherland led her to a bench at a table and nearly pushed her down on it with a firm hand on her shoulder. A girl stood a few paces away, watching with wide eyes. The servants appeared to be going about their duties, but in reality they were watching everything. The warriors tromped in behind them and stood at attention.

  Lachlan approached, and it took everything Eleanor had not to flinch. She knew very well that he did not think highly of her.

  “Ye said ye would—”

  Sutherland growled a warning, and Eleanor’s breath caught in her lungs. He said he would what? What was he supposed to have done?

  “Cecilia,” Sutherland barked out, making Eleanor jump.

  The girl who had been watching her jumped as well and hurried forward. “Yes, my lord.”

  “See to the lady. Put her in the ladies’ solar.”

  Cecilia’s gaze widened. “My lord?”

  “Just do it,” he growled, then turned toward Eleanor. “Cecilia will see to ye.”

  Eleanor hesitated, looking up at Lachlan and then the others, who were staring at her as if she were a particularly nasty piece of refuse. She was dirty and she supposed she was a bit odiferous, considering she hadn’t had a bath in about five months, so she couldn’t quite blame them, but she sensed her presence was a bit more problematic than that.

  She followed Cecilia to a set of circular stone stairs. The middle of the steps was worn down from centuries of warriors going up and down them, indicating that Sutherland was from a long line of warriors.

  Eleanor took one last look over her shoulder. Sutherland was standing with Lachlan; their heads were bent together. Lachlan was speaking furiously, his hands waving in the air.

  Situated at the top of the round tower, the lady’s solar was glorious. The walls were painted a cool blue. The bed was a monstrosity made of dark carved wood with a covering of light blue and piled with pillows of every conceivable shade of blue. A matching escritoire was against a wall with a view out the window. There were two other doors besides the one they’d walked through, but Eleanor stood rooted to the floor, too scared to explore, afraid this was all a jest and they had only stopped here on their way to the tower dungeon.

  Cecilia dipped a quick curtsy, mumbled something, and fled.

  Eleanor looked around, shock numbing her thoughts. She began to shiver, partly because the fire had not been built up, but mostly because she couldn’t shake Lachlan’s words from her mind.

  She lives?

  Ye said ye would—

  What had Sutherland said he would do? And how did the other warrior know of her?

  There was a discreet knock on the door before it opened. Young boys marched in carrying a large copper tub. Others followed with buckets of steaming water, but Eleanor couldn’t even comprehend that.

  Ye said ye would—

  Her heart pounded and she began to shake harder.

  She lives?

  Lachlan had seemed shocked to see her alive. That could only mean that he had expected her to be dead.

  Ye said ye would—

  Had Sutherland said he would kill her?

  She didn’t know she was backing up until she hit the wall. Her hand went to her throat, and she stared at the tendrils of steam rising from the tub.

  He was going to kill her. For whatever reason, he hadn’t done it in the forest, but he was going to do it now. Possibly while she was enjoying her first bath in months. He would come in while her guard was down and force her head underwater and she would be helpless against his strength.

  The door opened and he was standing there, his shoulders filling the doorway, a scowl twisting his lips.

  Pushing away from the wall, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Never let it be said that Eleanor Hirst, Countess of Glendale, didn’t meet her deat
h with dignity and grace.

  Chapter 4

  Brice stood on the threshold of the lady’s chamber and looked around. He’d not been in these rooms since his wife had left him, and he wasn’t particularly pleased to be standing here now.

  His wife had loved the color blue. Not Sutherland blue. Oh, no, that would not do for Alisa. It had to be sky blue. Everywhere. His gaze touched on the ornate bed done up with an overabundance of pillows and bed coverings and curtains, to the blue carpet, the blue walls, and finally the woman who was not his wife but would live in this chamber.

  She was on the other side of the room, her shoulders thrown back, her eyes defiant. Even from this distance, he could see the fear that made her tremble.

  He forced himself to enter the room. Lachlan was not happy that Brice had brought the woman home, and Brice could not say he blamed his friend. He’d brought danger to his people, but what else was he to do? Leave her on the side of the road again? That seemed exceptionally cruel.

  He approached her. She cowered, the defiance he’d first seen gone, replaced with a hollow, resigned look.

  “I’ve called for a bath for ye.” He motioned to the large steaming tub as if she hadn’t seen it herself. He felt tongue-tied around her. He wished she would talk. Then he would know how to respond.

  Her gaze flicked to the tub, then quickly back to him. Her breathing was harsh. He was in mind of a trapped animal that knew its time was up. He stopped a few feet from her. She whimpered and crossed her thin arms over her stomach.

  “Who are ye?” he asked again. As usual, she didn’t answer, and it frustrated him to no end. “If ye tell me yer name, I can help ye get back to yer people.”

  Her eyes widened in panic. She looked over his shoulder, at the door behind him, then back at him.

  “Ye do no’ want to go back to yer people?”

  She neither nodded nor shook her head.

  “Christ, woman, how am I to help ye if ye do no’ tell me how?”

  Her bony shoulders shook. She’d lost so much weight that her gown was falling off one shoulder. Her bones were prominent, her skin fragile and pale.

  He took an involuntary step closer. To do what, he didn’t know. Hold her? Comfort her? Warm her? Christ, he was a fool.

  She made a small noise and buried her chin in her chest, hunching over herself as if waiting for a blow. She’d done the same thing the other night. What the hell had happened to her?

  “Look at me,” Brice said softly.

  Slowly she lifted her head and stared at him with such a desolate expression that his heart skipped a beat.

  “Ye have my word that I will no’ hurt ye. I know you do no’ believe me.” He reached into his boot and slowly pulled out a dagger. Her eyes widened, and she pressed her hands into the wall behind her as if she could push her way through the thick stone.

  He held the dagger out to her, hilt first. She stared at the weapon for the longest time before she raised her eyes to him. She had blue eyes. Not sky blue, like the color of this room, but a deep, dark blue. Sutherland blue.

  “Take it,” he said gruffly. “For protection.”

  Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched. He knew she wanted to take it, but she did not trust him. Not yet. He found that he was powerfully induced to earn her trust. Why, he didn’t know. It was just that he wanted her to look at him without distrust.

  He backed away from her and placed the dagger on a small table by the bed. “It’s yers. Bathe. Sleep. I’ll send food up for ye.”

  He turned his back, trusting that the dagger he’d given her wouldn’t end up embedded between his shoulder blades, and walked out the door. Once he closed it behind him, he leaned against it and breathed deep.

  He’d seen the injuries to her body the other day; now he was beginning to glimpse the injuries to her soul.

  —

  Stunned, Eleanor watched Brice leave the room and close the door. Her gaze went to the dagger on the small table.

  He’d left her a weapon for her own protection. That’s what he’d said. So she could protect herself.

  That didn’t sound like a man who wanted to kill her.

  Then again, maybe he wanted to put her at ease so she wasn’t on guard.

  She pushed away from the wall and approached the dagger as if it were a snake ready to strike. It sat there innocently enough. Should she trust him?

  No. She dared not. But she would take the dagger and keep it with her. Brice Sutherland just might regret his decision to arm her. She touched the tip and watched as a drop of blood welled on her fingertip. It was plenty sharp. She’d have to be careful with it.

  Next she looked at the tub. Her stomach curled in anticipation of slipping into that hot water. It had been so long since she’d had a bath.

  The door opened again and Eleanor jumped. Quickly she pointed the dagger at the door. Cecilia stopped short. Her eyes widened and a small “eep” erupted from her.

  Eleanor lowered the dagger but remained watchful. For all she knew, Sutherland had sent this woman to do his work for him.

  Eleanor never used to be this way. At one time she’d been trusting. Naive. Oh, how naive she’d been, not believing there was evil in this world.

  She barely remembered that girl, and when a memory of her happened to slip through, she jeered at it. Stupid, naive idiot. That’s what she’d been.

  So she wouldn’t trust this Cecilia any more than she would trust Sutherland.

  Wide-eyed, Cecilia stared at her. “I’ve been sent to be yer lady’s maid,” she said. “I thought ye might want to bathe before ye ate. Am I wrong, my lady?”

  The bath called to Eleanor. Her body ached to slide into the hot water and let it soothe her. She flicked a longing glance toward it.

  Cecilia moved closer. Instantly Eleanor raised the dagger and pointed it at the girl.

  Cecilia’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t seem the least bit cowed by Eleanor’s weak display of bravado.

  “His lordship said ye were skittish.” Cecilia looked her up and down in curiosity. Eleanor knew she looked a fright; for once she was embarrassed by her appearance.

  “If ye give me yer clothes, my lady. I’ll find ye something better to wear while ye bathe. I promise ye’ll feel much better after a hot bath and some warm food in yer belly.” With a swallow that indicated she wasn’t as sure of herself as she wanted Eleanor to believe, Cecilia took another step closer, keeping a keen eye on the dagger still pointed at her. “And if ye’ll allow it, I’d be mighty pleased to brush yer hair.”

  Eleanor’s arm began to sag. Even the slight weight of the dagger was too much for her flagging strength. Who was she fooling? She probably didn’t have the strength to stab anyone. Let alone the courage. She lowered the tip until the dagger was hanging from her fingers at her side. Having her hair brushed sounded awfully good.

  Cecilia smiled. “There, now. We’ll get along just fine if ye stop threatening me with that wee dagger of yers.”

  Despite herself, Eleanor’s lips twitched in a smile.

  “I’ll help ye off with the gown, and ye can soak in that tub as long as ye want. I’ve more hot water waiting for ye.”

  Cecilia stepped behind her and Eleanor stood mute, closing her eyes as Cecilia’s deft fingers unlaced the back of her gown. The girl talked the entire time, not the least put out that Eleanor did not answer. “This was a fine gown at one time. I can tell by the material. But it’s seen better days, I tell ye.”

  The ties loosened. The gown slithered down Eleanor’s body and fell in a disgusting heap at her feet. Tears leaked out from her closed lids as she tried not to remember the morning when her maid had laced her into the gown. She squeezed her eyes tight as if that would hold back the memory.

  Behind her, Cecilia chattered on. “Ach, but everything needs to be burned. I’m powerfully sorry, my lady, but there’s no saving this gown, for sure.”

  Cecilia removed the petticoats and there was silence. Eleanor held her breath.

  “Oh, my lady,” Cecilia breathed. Her fingers danced across Eleanor’s back, over bruises that pulsed with pain and scratches and scrapes that burned at the touch. Eleanor could only imagine what she looked like, with scrapes on top of scars and bruises marring her once pristine skin.

  “What have they done to ye?” Cecilia whispered.