Page 50 of To Win a Highlander’s Heart

“What they say about the MacLeods is true, and I can see why my sister finds you a mutual spirit. You are warriors like no others. You’d truly take on my one hundred men with only a small contingent?” John Nicolson smiled.

Orrick scowled. “If I had to in order to save Isolde from certain death.”

“Peace. We are not here to fight you.” John released Phoenix’s reins and the horse came to Orrick. “I had no idea the Englishmen would capture her. Lieutenant Collins simply said he wished to talk with her.”

Orrick swung up into his saddle. He turned to John. “You were foolish enough to believe that?”

John flinched, then pressed his lips into a hard line. “Lieutenant Collins and his men have been terrorising us for months. What I said about being a prisoner within these walls was true. He threatened to choke off our food supply and everything else if I didn’t cooperate with him and his men.” John paused as sadness filled his gaze. “He said nothing about capturing my sister. I had no idea he’d built that trap. He demanded I get Isolde to go to the chapel when an English patrol saw you both approaching Scorrybreac. We had time to prepare for your arrival. I thought Lieutenant Collins only meant to talk with Isolde there.”

Orrick’s gaze raked the man before him. “Trusting others is an admirable trait, except when it comes to the enemy.”

“Am I your enemy?” John asked, his tone harsh.

“Not if you and your men come with me and my men to rescue your sister.” Impatience flared in Orrick’s chest. They had to go, and quickly, if they were to see what direction the English had taken Isolde. Danger was gathering in the very air, and Orrick didn’t necessarily want to stop it this time.

At John’s nod of approval, the MacLeod men who had caught up to Orrick and the Nicolsons mounted their horses and rode through the gates of Scorrybreac. Orrick allowed himself a moment to remember Isolde when she’d awoken that morning. He recalled how lovely she’d looked with tousled hair and fewer shadows in her blue eyes. Lying there beside her, he’d never been happier in his life. When he’d first returned to Dunvegan he’d felt dead inside, numb to all that was around him. His only pleasure had come from his books.

Isolde had changed all that. She challenged him to once again be the warrior he was born to be. He was a MacLeod, after all. Their father had claimed his sons, his triplets, would one day be the strength Scotland needed to remain united in her purpose—to fight for what was right and true and just.

Orrick wanted nothing more than to fight for Scotland with Isolde at his side. He kicked his horse into a faster gait when he caught a blur of the enemy’s red coats in the distance, heading east.

No longer did Orrick doubt that he was a warrior, and equal to the task of defeating the English who had taken Isolde prisoner. He would never abandon anyone who needed his help, especially not the woman he loved. His throat tightened at the thought. He did love her, with all his heart, and that was something worth fighting and dying for.

*

Grey clouds billowed overhead, bathing the world around Isolde in a strange half-light. “Where are we going?” she asked the man behind her, keeping her body stiff so as not to lean against Lieutenant Collins’s chest.

He laughed. “A special place where I can do anything I like to you for killing so many of my men. It seems only fair that we should exact our revenge upon you.”

A cold, clawing fear moved though her at the satisfaction in his voice. Lieutenant Collins wouldn’t kill her quickly. Somehow she knew he would take his time with her, maximising her pain until she begged for release. And he would push her even beyond that point. But his delay in killing her might also be her salvation. The cage they’d trapped Orrick in was not going to stop him from coming after her. The only question was, would he be able to raise his sword against their enemy when he did?

Lieutenant Collins and his men rode in silence for a distance before they turned to the north. As they did, Isolde listened for hoofbeats following them. When the sound couldn’t be heard, her throat tightened and her vision clouded. She tilted her chin up and kept her back straight, refusing to give in to her tears. Orrick would come for her. He had to because she wasn’t certain she would be able to fight her way out of this situation. She’d lost her bow and her sword. Unless she could somehow untie her hands and relieve one of these men of their weapon, she was unarmed. But not defenceless. She would fight until there was no fight left inside her.

They’d been riding for at least an hour when the remains of a long-abandoned castle appeared in the distance. As they approached, she could see that the English company had set up camp near the old structure. “Welcome to Caisteal an Bháis,” the lieutenant drawled. The Castle of Death.

He stopped his horse before the structure, then dismounted. With a tug on her leg, he pulled her off the horse. With no hands to break her fall, Isolde hit her head on the ground. She shook off the dizziness that followed as two men came forward and yanked her to her feet. She worked at the rope binding her hands, twisting them back and forth in an effort to free herself.

The men in red jackets escorted her to a narrow staircase, leading up to a tower that, despite the ruined state of the rest of the castle, appeared to be intact. The light inside the tower was dim and she struggled to see through the gloom. Once Isolde’s eyes adjusted to the low light, she could see doorways off to her right as they passed by, heading to the third floor. There, one man opened a door while the other thrust her inside.

The blaze of light in the chamber temporarily blinded Isolde. She stood blinking for several long moments until she could finally see a dozen or more candles had been lit in sconces around the walls. Silhouetted against the glare, Isolde saw two figures—one tall and well-built, the other short and stooped. The tall man wore a red military jacket. Most likely someone from the lieutenant’s company. The other man wore a plain brown robe. When he turned towards her, his mouth twisted into a slow smile of satisfaction.

It was then that her eyes drifted towards a long table and beside it a smaller one lined with metal tools. Isolde swallowed hard, feeling as though flint had been jammed in her throat, stopping her breath. The lieutenant meant to make his retribution as slow and as painful as possible—not with battle, but with torture.

With renewed intensity, she worked her hands, trying to break free. Once they tied her to that table, she would be utterly at their mercy.

“I have no secrets to tell you. So why torture me?” Isolde asked, stalling as she felt the ropes begin to loosen.

The stooped man’s smile grew. “I care not about what secrets you harbour. I am merely here to make certain you confess to being an enemy to the crown. With your confession, the lieutenant will have every right to execute you without trial.”

Isolde forced her features to go as hard as steel. Showing any kind of fear would give these men an advantage over her. The ropes at her wrists cut through her flesh, leaving a stinging, biting pain that was nothing compared to what awaited her on that table.

The stooped man moved to his tools and motioned to the man in the chamber and the others at the door. “Get her on the table.” The three of them came towards her just as she pulled free of her bonds. She snapped one man in the face with the cord that had bound her, surprising him and sending him jerking backwards. Of the two remaining men, one grabbed her shoulders while the other charged. Using the man behind her for stability, she grasped his arms, then lifting her legs, kicked the other man in the gut with all her force. She sent him stumbling backwards with a howl of pain. He bumped into the man she’d whipped in the face and sent him sprawling down the stairs.

Instead of fighting the man at her back, she brought her feet down and pushed him backwards, into the wall of the chamber. His startled breath exploded next to her ear. She didn’t give him a chance to draw another breath before she stomped her heel down on the instep of his foot and brought her elbow up to bash him in the nose. He released his grip on her.

She ran for the door, but not before the man she’d kicked recovered. He drew his sword and charged. Isolde twisted out of the way, sending the man’s blade into the chest of the man who had released her. Taking advantage of his momentary shock, she kicked the man with the sword in the jaw, feeling bone shatter. He gave a choked cry.

Isolde ripped the sword from his hands and bashed him in the side of the head with the hilt. He collapsed on top of the other soldier he had killed.