Uilleam stood and exited the croft ahead of Jamie. He glanced skyward and nodded. “We’ve plenty of time to work our way south and come to the keep from another direction. If we do a bit of hunting on the way, none will remark our absence.”
Jamie’s horse stood patiently as he mounted. “That’s sound thinking.”
With a nod to cousin Rabbie, he headed away from the croft, Will at his side.
Chapter Seventeen
Caitrin did her best to hide her trembling as she stood before Alasdair in his solar at dawn the next morning. Guards waited outside the door, and the fact that she’d just heard Malcolm’s voice out there gave her some small measure of comfort. If MacGregor forced her to scream, he might come to help her, though he would risk his laird’s displeasure or worse. But where were Jamie’s men? He’d promised they would keep her from Alasdair’s clutches. Did they know where she was? Even if they did, now that she was here, what could they do about it?
Alasdair had simply regarded her from his relaxed position, leaning back in the seat behind his desk, since she’d been brought to his lair. His stare made her nervous, but she had no doubt he intended just that. If he got her off balance, he might think to startle a confession from her. She kept her gaze off the tapestries or anything else in the room and firmly on her hands clasped before her.
Finally, he sat forward. “It pains me to confine ye, Caitrin,” he began. She kept her gaze on her hands, refusing to react, no matter that his voice, pitched uncharacteristically soft and low, had startled her. “I’ve found nothing disturbed, yet I feel in my bones ye did more than watch the moon from yon window.”
Caitrin refused the bait and did not look at the window. She remained silent and still. What was he up to?
“Have ye naught to say? No’ even to defend yerself?”
At that, she ground her teeth and met his gaze. His smile unsettled her further, but she stiffened her spine. “Ye didna believe me days ago. Why would ye believe me now? I’m no’ in the habit of wasting my breath.”
“So ye willna confess.”
“Confess? Confess what? I told ye what happened. I canna make ye accept the truth when ye hear it.” Caitrin held her breath. Had she said too much? Did she sound too aggrieved, or not enough? Years of sensing how others lied had given her a repertoire of tone, expression, and movement, but she was not always sure what worked in a particular situation.
Alasdair remained seated, sprawled back and smiling.
Caitrin’s skin crawled. She didn’t like the smile and wondered what he hid behind it.
“Ye ken I can ruin ye? For any other man? Will ye spend yer life alone, unwanted?”
She merely held his gaze. It seemed she’d missed the mark. Alasdair remained on the offensive.
“And then I can ruin yer da. Yer clan. Or ye can tell me what ye were doing in here. What does Fletcher want?”
That startled her into an involuntary lift of an eyebrow. She hoped Alasdair missed that small telltale sign, but when he got to his feet, she knew he’d seen it. She stood her ground on quaking knees as he rounded the desk and grabbed her by the upper arms. “What advantage does he hope to gain? Marrying ye to me is no’ enough?”
“Ye have imagined a threat where there is none,” Caitrin replied, certain her tension-induced trembling would be obvious to him.
“I’ve imagined naught,” Alasdair growled and shook her. “Or is it Lathan ye serve? I’ve seen the way Jamie Lathan looks at ye. And ye him. Hardly fitting behavior for my betrothed.”
Caitrin tried to break free of his grip, but she quickly regretted her mistake. Apparently, he’d been waiting for just such defiance.
“So let’s begin, shall we?” he whispered as he pulled her closer to him and bit her ear.
Pain washed through her, inciting her anger. “Nay!” Ach, when would she learn? Fighting him would only feed the beast within him. She thought she was in for another beating. But as he started to fumble with her clothes, she realized he intended to make good his threat to ruin her.
She tried to push him away, but he spun them and backed her into the desk, then shoved her down so hard she saw stars when her head cracked against something on the surface. She felt a cool wetness on her neck. Blood? Or had she hit the inkpot? It didn’t matter. He held her down with his upper body while he fumbled one-handed to pull up her skirts. She kicked as hard as she could, forcing him to trap her legs to protect himself, which meant he couldn’t yank her skirt any higher. But he managed it, rolling her onto one cheek and getting a hand inside her clothes.
Up to now, she’d fought him silently, with only gasps signaling her displeasure, but she had to stop him, and she could not do it herself. She gasped to get a lung full of air then screamed.
Alasdair’s ear was right by her mouth. She hoped she’d deafened him. He reared back and removed the hand from under her skirt—but only to slap her, rocking her head to one side. She inhaled. Again he pressed his weight on her chest, suffocating her, so the scream came out as more of a squeak.
“Aye, lassie. Fight me. Ye ken I like it that way. Should I release yer hands so ye can scratch and claw?”
His taunts increased her anger.
“Nay, I think I’ll keep the cat’s claws away from my face.”
He jerked and she heard cloth tear. Her skirt!
