The conquerors must have been unimpressed with Gowry’s keep. She noticed no bundles of plunder, and only one extra horse tied to the back of the armor wagon. But perhaps their motive had been revenge.
Gowry had seemed the kind of man to commit any manner of atrocity by the look of him, so these men were likely just a few of many enemies. However, the idea that there had been no better point to the bloody madness made her sick at the waste of life, especially if she had been the only one who had benefited from the attack.
For the first time that day, she asked herself what she dared not ask aloud.Had these men only come for her?
She imagined the wives and families of those who had died in the bailey below her, and she felt their blood on her hands. Glancing at her lap, she saw no marks of red but wiped her palms on her skirts just the same. If she didn’t think about something else quickly, she might cry, or worse, be sick.
It could not be. The king knew nothing of her. Why would he have sent this wee army to capture Kenna Carlisle?
Her mind reeled. Agatha Carlisle, despite being married to a staunch supporter of King Duncan, was kith and kin to the Macbeths. After Angus Carlisle’s death years ago, Agatha was vociferous in her support of the previous king. Every tapestry, every raised glass in Kenna’s home honored His Majesty, Macbeth. Could that be the reason she now rode toward Malcolm III, Duncan’s son? Malcolm who had ripped his father’s crown from Macbeth’s lifeless body but a year ago? Was the new king as bad as the old, searching out and murdering any who might oppose him?
She took a deep breath and tried to calm. If they intended to kill her, she would be dead by now, would she not? If they had already killed Agatha…
Kenna searched her heart but found no remorse for the loss of such a woman. The inhabitants of Carlisle Folly—of the entire glen—would be better served without the oppressive presence of Agatha Carlisle. There would be men allowed inside for the firsttime since Angus had died. There would be dancing in the hall, likely in celebrations.
She would have liked to see that.
If she wished to know what King Malcolm wanted with her, she would have to cooperate and be patient, but she had no intention of doing so. She would not be meeting her king anytime soon. She would remain docile for a wee while, but then break away at the first chance.
She had her own bit of murder to carry out.
Her laird and master rode somewhere behind her now, and she wished he would clear his throat or speak so she could tell how close he was. Feeling that vibration in her bones again would be a mere bonus. As soon as they put a little distance between themselves and Gowry Keep, where Fia would be carrying out her own deceptions, Kenna would fight for her freedom.
Agatha was her only remaining family in this world, and if Fia kept her promise, or if King Malcolm had Agatha executed, all her unhappy ties in this world would be severed. She would truly be free.
Free! Loosed!Like this breeze against her face. Like a horse finally free of its tethers.
It took all her control to keep from spurring her mount into a full gallop. She would have to veer away from her escorts to get any speed at all from the poor beast. But she must wait a wee bit longer. And soon, she would hunt down Leith MacPherson. She prayed he still lived so she could remind him of her vow—a promise of retribution she made when she was eight.
Kenna had dreamt of killing the man like other lasses dreamt of their future husbands. There was no conscience involved. It was something that needed to be done. She had sworn upon the soul of her dead brother that she would see the man killed fortearing the siblings apart. To her, keeping that vow was a duty more necessary to her than all those Christian virtues combined.
She had waited eighteen years for the chance to go hunting. Eighteen years of frustration while her hope of escaping Carlisle Folly rose and flagged in a continuous cycle. Certainly, she could have turned to prayer to hasten her liberation, but she would never acknowledge a god who had allowed Sander to die.
No, it wasn’t God who had kept her from giving up. It was hatred.
Now she found herself seated on a strange horse, heading out into the world of Leith MacPherson, attributing the fluttering in her stomach to excitement, not fear.
Straightening her shoulders, Kenna leaned forward over her mount, eager to be about her own business, when she heard her laird and master bark from close behind.
“Dinna even think it, my lady!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Athick cloud poured shadow across the road, a harbinger of the evening soon to come. Kenna looked about for any sign that the company would be slowing, but there was no change. For what seemed like hours the road itself had few turns to it. Dense fields of heather had long ceased to enchant her, and a clump of trees now and then was almost a treat.
She’d expected the world to be a more interesting place.
With a lack of entertainment and only disturbing and unanswered questions in her mind, she turned her attention to the men and beasts surrounding her. She noticed that men certainly smelled different from women. There was something almost sweet about them, while women could be quite rank. However, she had no intention of getting a taste of the pungent soldier before her. To keep from doing so she breathed lightly through her nose and clamped her lips shut.
Finally a break in the monotony—up ahead was a thickening forest and the road bent, narrowing enough to shift the troops. After her eyes adjusted to the head-on glare of the lowering western sun, she was presented with a new set of backsides at which to stare.
The hindquarters directly before her were curtained by a long tunic. The rider was one of the few who still wore his armor, without his helm. A mass of dark gold hair stuck to his head in spots, his head still sweaty. Not a hair fluttered in the passing draft of air. At times, when he turned his head, she caught glimpses of a prominent brow and a handsome face.
Kenna’s attention rested on the horse’s plodding backside. It was a pale, dappled gray animal whose rump was splattered with a reddish-brown trail of dots, resembling a necklace of giant beads, subtly diminishing in size as they rounded the large cheek and disappeared from view.
Kenna frowned. She had seen this before.
Playing out once more in her mind was the sight from the earlier battle. She remembered clearly a long blade slicing through a man’s neck, seeming to have done no harm until his head began to turn, and then turn too far as it spun away from his body. The trail of blood arcing away to rain in an orderly pattern on the rear of a pale horse.
