Thinking of the things Harold had done to women in the past, Martin could almost pity Lady Jolene. “And if she has taken Cameron as her lover or more?"
"She will pay for that as well.” Harold glared at the rain. “I know they are close, Martin. I swear I can almost hear them breathing. Howbeit, it now grows too dark. Where are my men?"
"Since you rode far ahead of them, I suspect most of them are still near the bottom of the hill trying to convince the Scots to lead them o'er this trail. Considering how long it has been since we left them behind, many of them have probably taken shelter.” Martin peered through the gloom. “Ah, I misjudged them. They are just a few feet back, but they cling to the rocks as we do."
"If you cannot e'en see our own men behind us, then ‘tis time to give up the chase. I doubt we shall have another chance like this so I best begin to think of ways to get at her behind the walls of Cameron's keep."
"Why not when they are at Scarglas?"
"If the chance arises, I will surely take it, but I doubt it will. Those Scots said the MacFingals have been surrounded by enemies for years and ne'er been beaten or had their walls breached. They did not say the same of—of—” Harold cursed, “whatever that redheaded fool calls his keep. I need to finish this and return to Drumwich ere those puling kinsmen of mine catch wind of what I am doing. They might actually find the backbone to try and find Jolene and Reynard."
"Do we watch for the Camerons at Scarglas?"
"Aye, for they are sure to go there. The boy was taken on ahead and they will seek to shelter him from this rain. We will linger near at hand to try to catch them as they leave there. Now, let us get off this cursed rock."
Sigimor listened closely to the men carefully making their way back down the trail. Despite having heard more than two men coming up the trail, he had briefly hoped Martin had been right to think he and Harold were alone. He had readied himself to slip outside and kill them, only to have to cast aside that plan. Although he was still tempted to take the chance that he could end Harold's threat on these rain-soaked rocks, he could not risk it. He felt sure he could have taken down Harold and Martin, and probably a few others, but there was no guarentee that Harold's men would flee if the man was killed. The plan carried too great a risk of his getting killed or injured and leaving Jolene unprotected.
He ached to kill Harold, however, and knew the urge would not fade simply because the man was now out of reach again. The plans Harold had for Jolene made Sigimor's blood run cold and he wanted to end all chance that the man might get his hands on her. Just the thought of that man touching Jolene made Sigimor's innards clench with fury, a fury that had become nearly blinding as he listened to Harold speak of all he wanted to make her suffer. For the first time in his life, he contemplated killing a man coldly, and in a way that would inflict the most pain. He probably ought to be concerned about such a feeling and his utter lack of remorse for it, but he was not.
When the sounds of the men's retreat had completely faded, Sigimor made his way to the rear of the cave. Jolene was still asleep and he was glad she had not heard any of Harold's sickening plans for her. She was still so innocent in many ways. He did not want that tainted by the sort of filth Harold had spouted. She had enough to fear and worry about already.
He sat down and slumped against the wall, his gaze fixed upon Jolene's face. She looked rather childlike when sleeping, much younger than her three-and-twenty years. She was also beautiful, far too beautiful for a rough man like him. Too rich of blood for a minor laird such as himself and, he suspected, too rich of purse. He was sure it was only Peter's willingness to allow her some choice in who she married that had kept her a maid for so long.
It was too late to turn back now. He may have reached too high, but, now that she was his, he had no intention of letting her go. She was his mate in so many ways, from her wit to her passion. The way she burned so hot for him was a wonder he doubted he would ever become accustomed to. The times he had bedded down with a woman had not been completely cold unions where only he had gained satisfaction, but they were all pallid, easily forgotten interludes compared to what he shared with Jolene. He had never had a woman respond to his kiss or his touch as she did and he was determined to hold on to that pleasure.
Somehow he was going to have to bind her to his side in such a way that she would never even consider leaving him. The passion that flared between them was certainly one way, and he intended to work on those bonds whenever he could. Yet, if his sister spoke true, it was more than that which bound a woman to a man, more than the pleasures of the flesh no matter how sweet. According to Ilsa, a man could only truly bind a woman to him by winning her heart. Sigimor was not sure how one went about winning that organ. If conquering her heart required pretty words and the like, he was in trouble.
Pushing aside that puzzle when he saw that night was upon them, Sigimor gently shook Jolene awake. The way she smiled at him as she woke, and the soft look in her eyes, made him eager to join her beneath the blankets she was wrapped in. He quickly banished that urge by reminding himself of the need to get her far away from Harold.
"We have to leave here now, wife,” he said as he helped her untangle herself from the blankets and stand up.
"Did you find out where Harold is?” Jolene asked.
"Aye. For a wee while he was but feet from me.” He took the wineskin from his saddle and handed it to her.
Jolene took a deep drink of wine to calm herself, beating down a rising fear. Sigimor was too calm for there to be any immediate threat from Harold. She was glad she had slept through it all, however.
"He gave up?” she asked as she handed the wine back to him.
"Aye.” Sigimor took a quick drink then returned the wineskin to his saddle. “He and his men went back down the trail to seek shelter. The rain and the day's ending defeated him."
"Was that your plan?"
"More or less. That and keeping him too busy to go after Reynard."
"It must be hard for a warrior like you to do naught but run from your enemy."
Sigimor rather liked the sound ofa warrior like you. It was good that she saw him as a fighter despite everything he had done since Drumwich. She obviously saw herself and Reynard as the reasons he acted as he did. They were, but many women would not so easily recognize that.
"Nay, it doesnae gall me. Aye, I would like a chance to fight, to end this game, but I am nay troubled by the tactics I have chosen. With the two traitorous Scots Harold has with him, the fight would be a wee bit uneven, aye? Fourteen or fifteen against six? Careful planning could win it for us, but, dinnae forget, my men arenae the hired swords that Harold's are. They are my blood kin. Each time I face a battle, I must consider the fact that, at the end of it, I may have to bury a brother or a cousin. That not only makes me think hard about the worthiness of a battle, but carefully considerallmy choices."
"So, ‘tis not just me and Reynard who hold you back?"
"Not completely, but my first thought is almost always where would I put ye whilst the battle rages? My second is to wonder what would happen should Harold win the fight. Tis why we race to Dubheidland, though, if I could find a way to reach the bastard and end his wretched life, I would do it."
Jolene nodded in complete understanding. “I have thought the same. I want him dead and I have ne'er felt such a thing before. That he would make me feel that way only makes me hate him all the more. Now I not only want him dead, I want to spit upon his grave."
Sigimor grinned as he handed her the reins to her horse and took up his own. “Tsk. Shocking. Is that what a proper English gentlewoman ought to be thinking?” he asked as he led her out of the cave, pleased to note that the rain had eased up a little.
