She met Peyton’s gaze, her eyes vivid in her dirty face. They were uncommonly lovely. ‘We were running away together. He said he wanted us to be together. Edmund said he loved me.’ Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving bright tracks.
‘Well, that didn’t look much like love to me, lass.’
She howled and sank to her knees in the mud.
Peyton rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, lass. You cannot stay there. Up you get. It will be alright.’
‘No, it won’t,’ she said, batting away his proffered hand. ‘I left my family because he said he would marry me and take me away. What am I to do now? I will have to marry some old lecher or…oh no, dear God…not Jasper Glendenning.’ Her hand came to her mouth.
‘What did you say?’ hissed Peyton, grabbing her arm and hauling her up.
‘Stop. You are hurting me,’ she cried.
‘Forgive me. Don’t cry. Can you not gather yourself? What is this about Jasper Glendenning?’
‘What does it matter? He won’t want me now. No one will. I am ruined. Don’t you see?’ She pointed at the Edmund fellow. ‘That whoreson, he…he put his hands on me where he should not. Oh, I shall die of the shame of it.’
‘No one ever died of shame or from having a man’s hands on them, lass. All will be well.’
‘No, it won’t.’ She looked about her in a blind panic. ‘I have to go home now. Take me home. Please. I beg you.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Fallstairs. Just the other side of the moor, to the north.’
‘Fallstairs? Are you a MacCreadie then?’ said Peyton.
Her eyes widened, and she put her hand to her mouth as if she had said something terrible. Then she bent double and vomited all over Peyton’s boots.
Could his day get any worse?
A heavy hand came down on his shoulder. ‘A word,’ said Father Luggan, his face grave.
‘Not now, Father. I have to calm this one down.’ Peyton held back the lass’s thick blonde hair as she retched, but nothing else came up.
‘Calming this poor soul might take some time, Peyton, which we do not have. The lass is terrified out of her wits. Let her be. We must speak about that young man well away from her ears to save her further distress.’
The desperate sobbing continued as Peyton walked some distance away and turned to Father Luggan. ‘Christ, what a foul day. Now I have a wailing banshee on my hands and vomit on my boots.’
‘What happened here?’
‘The lass rushed in front of my horse with that bastard in pursuit. She came out of nowhere and almost got trampled. I’ve always hated Crichton Moor. Nothing good ever happened here. I swear that evil stalks this place.’
‘Aye. Clothes torn open, red marks on her neck. I fear that young man’s business with the lass was just as evil. Do you think he forced himself on her?’
‘I do, and he was rough about it, judging by the state she is in. From what she said, she was expecting to elope and got a harsh lesson in the ways of the world.’
‘Aye, and in the lust of men,’ said Father Luggan, shaking his head.
Peyton glanced at the lass. She was shaking so hard he feared she might come apart at the seams. There was mud all over her, blood on her face and oozing from scrapes on her arms, her clothes were torn and filthy, and her bodice gaped open, revealing one breast almost to the nipple. Peyton turned away before he became as bad a lecher as the man he had just felled. He felt a stab of shame mingled with pity for her plight.
‘I wonder how far it had gone before you stumbled upon her,’ said the priest. ‘The lass must have put up quite a fight, but it would have been worse had you not been here to save her. ‘Tis a bad business.’
‘Aye, but it could not be helped,’ said Peyton, staring at the lass. She looked away from his gaze over to the young man.
‘All will be well, lass,’ he called over the wind, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her.
‘No. Nothing is well. Nothing will ever be well again,’ she sobbed.
