“Stop struggling,” he commanded, and under his glare, her limbs wilted. He carried her around the table and sat her down between him and the younger girl. “Ye should be grateful I saved ye from falling. Ye were fainting again.”
“I was not.”
Why did she find it necessary to dispute an obvious fact?Females.
“Mama’s weak from hunger.” The older girl, whose name he’d learned was Beatrix, spoke up.
Once again, fury flooded through him at the unnecessary suffering caused by the lady’s stubbornness.
“Eat slowly or you’ll be sick,” he said, and pushed the platter in front of her.
He needn’t have warned her. Even starving, Lady Alison ate with the delicacy of a wee bird. It annoyed the hell out of him.
“When did ye run out of food?” he demanded.
The lady gave him a scathing sideways glance but did not answer.
“We’ve had nothing but thin broth the last two days,” Beatrix said. “But Mama refused her portion.”
Lady Alison gave her daughter a quelling look.
“When was the last time ye ate?” he asked her.
She shrugged and continued nibbling at her food.
“When?” he repeated, keeping his voice low, though he was so furious he saw red around the edges of his vision.
“She didn’t take her share yesterday,” Beatrix said, blithely ignoring her mother’s glare. “Or the day before.”
David clenched his jaw so tightly it ached, but he waited to speak again until the three of them had eaten their fill.
“Escort the ladies upstairs and guard their door,” he said, pointing at two of his men.
As soon as they disappeared up the stairs, he strode out of the keep and into the courtyard, where the captured Blackadder warriors were being held. He ordered them on their feet and paced up and down before them.
“What kind of men are you,” he thundered at the prisoners, “filling your bellies while your mistress, the lady ye were supposed to protect, went hungry?”
He could have dismissed, though not excused, their failure to protect her door as a grave error made in the confusion of battle. But taking their meals while she sat at the table having none showed a blatant disregard for her well-being. No matter what Lady Alison had done to earn their ire—and she must have done something—there was no excuse for their dishonorable treatment of the lady of the castle.
“I should have all of ye whipped within an inch of your lives,” he shouted at them. “As your laird’s widow, yeowedher your protection.”
“She’s a Douglas, not one of us,” one of the prisoners muttered under his breath.
“By God, I will teach ye respect,” David said, and hauled the Blackadder warrior forward.
The man was as big as an ox and proved he was no brighter by sneering at David.
“Give him a sword,” David called out as he brandished his.
As soon as one of David’s men gave the big Blackadder warrior a sword, he charged at David as if he expected to cut him down with his first swing. When David spun, the blustering fool lost his balance, and David slammed him to the ground on his arse. David let him get up and try again, just to have the satisfaction of hitting him once more.
He backed the Blackadder warrior across the courtyard with their swords clanging. When he had him pinned against the wall, David took one last powerful swing and knocked his opponent’s sword out of his hands. The man dropped to his knees, acknowledging defeat.
David turned to the other prisoners. “Who will be next?”
He fought half a dozen Blackadder warriors, one after another, pounding them with his sword until each submitted and no more would come forward.
When he was finished, every Blackadder man knew that he lived only because David Hume, Laird of Wedderburn, had shown him mercy—this time.
