Highland Warrior by Heather McCollum (the rosie project TXT) 📗

her to follow him and handed her the cloak to put on over her dirty gown. Had she been imprisoned here without means to wash? The smell of curdled milk and urine mixed with the potent perfume coming from Jean’s cloak as she threw it around her shoulders. The poor woman had been locked up here while he bedded Jean two doors away. Self-loathing poured through him. To how much had he been blind?

Out in the hallway, she followed right behind him without a word. Not only was Hilda Flett wise, she was also brave. If Robert came out, Joshua would have to stop him. Killing him would bring the wrath of his nephew, King James. And if Jean came out to look for him, she’d wake the whole palace with her shrieking.

They moved swiftly to the steps and down the dim circular tower, Joshua bracing himself in case the woman was to lose her footing and fall into him. “I have a horse in the stable,” he whispered to her as they reached the bottom. He paused in the archway, his gaze sweeping the ten sleeping men within the great hall. Relief funneled through him when he saw that Angus had replaced Connor in his circuit around the perimeter. Joshua’s gaze dropped to Hilda. “I will carry ye. Keep your face tucked into me.”

She gave a quick nod, pulling the cloak over her gray hair. He handed her the heavy stone she could hold only with two hands. Lifting under her knees, he picked her up. The rock and chain nestled into her lap, which she covered with the cloak. Joshua walked with light feet into the great hall.

Angus turned toward him immediately, his mouth opening to yell. But he froze, his eyes going wide. Joshua slowly shook his head, and Angus shut his mouth.

Halfway across, one of the sleeping men sat up, blinking at him. “What goes on here?” Connor, who had not completely given in to sleep yet, also sat up.

“Back to sleep, William,” Joshua said, authority in his voice, and he nodded to Connor. “The Lady Jean and I are taking things outside.”

“Lusty bastard,” William murmured and lay back down. Connor glanced at Angus, and then, fortunately for him, decided his shift was over and returned to his pallet.

Joshua nodded again to Angus and strode through the hall to enter the dark bailey, passing another watchman as he made his rounds. Apparently, the Horseman of War had not been gone long enough for him to look out of place on the palace grounds, especially carrying a woman wrapped up in Jean’s cloak. He entered the barn, expecting to see the three sleeping guards from before, but they were gone.

“Come find me, love.” John Dishington’s rough voice came from the far end of the stables where Fuil was tethered and Kára was hiding. Bloody hell. There was no way around him to get out without being noticed.

Joshua set Hilda’s feet on the packed dirt floor and lowered the rock and chain. “Wait here in the shadows,” he whispered. “Keep draped.”

She nodded, and he moved quietly along the stalls lining the aisle toward the back where John apparently waited for Jean. As the silence continued, the hairs on the back of Joshua’s neck rose. His fists clenched, one of them wrapped around the hilt of his short sword. If John was still breathing with Kára back here, fully armed and vengeful, was she dead?

“John Dishington,” Joshua called out, barely keeping the promise of death out of his voice. “Show yourself.”

John kicked open the stall where Kára’s horse stood, pushing out into the aisle with Kára before him, a dagger at her throat. “I had planned on tupping Jean out here, but after I kill you, I will sample your woman instead.”

…

The Brute clutched Kára up against him, and she could feel his jack pressed against her backside. Brutality apparently heightened his lust. One of his meaty arms encircled her waist while the other bruised her chest with the pressure of the mattucashlass he held against her throat. She would die before she let him rape her, and she had no intention of dying that night, not when Brenna depended on her.

“Drop the sword, Sinclair,” The Brute said. “Or I will lay her neck wide open.”

Kára stared at Joshua where he stood motionless, his largeness and strength obvious even in the shadows and slices of torchlight. Was he alone? Had he not found Hilda?

Thump. Joshua’s short sword hit the dirt floor, and he stood there, his arms open wide. Death painted his face almost like a mask, and she understood how others could believe he was the biblical Horseman of War sent to herald the end of times.

“Let her go. Now,” Joshua said, the rough warning in his tone sending a shiver between Kára’s shoulder blades. Blood would surely wet the earth beneath them.

“You did not leave Orkney? Are you working with the native rabble now?” The Brute asked. “I thought you had learned your lesson down in South Ronaldsay. Did not you swear never to help the helpless again?”

His words pricked along Kára’s spine. There was history between them. South Ronaldsay? Had Joshua been involved in the slaughter there?

Joshua’s gaze never wavered from The Brute’s. “Let her go.”

The Brute pulled her in tighter, his crooked nose inhaling deeply along the skin of her neck. The brush of him against her made the small meal she’d had earlier wash around inside her middle like a whirlpool.

“I agree there is merit to knowing this bit of rabble,” he said. The bastard sucked in through his teeth. “Have you not educated her on the consequences when you become a spoil of war?” He paused a moment to let Joshua answer. When Joshua did not reply, The Brute shrugged, making the blade slide against the surface of her neck, and she felt its sting. “I am certain Henry will not mind sharing her.”

By the devil! She would never let Henry touch her