Unwilling (Highland Historical #2)

Ye’ll go to Angus the Younger and be an obedient wife.”
    “But the late Laird Angus was a
traitor and ended up fighting for the Donald.  Surely that negates the
contract.”  Lindsay had argued.
    “There’s still the land.  The
agreement stands.”  Robert Ross had folded portly arms over his belly and
jutted the foremost of his chins out at her.  The movement reminded her of the Neapolitan
Mastiffs he kept as hunting dogs.  There were many jests about the Scottish
court as to how much dogs and master resembled each other. 
    “You would trade your niece for a
few paltry acres of peat moss and heather?” she’d asked, aghast that her uncle
could care so little for her.  She’d been a good companion to his ailing wife
for some time.  That, at least, deserved some deference.  “I’ve heard that Angus
is a brute.  Would you have me treated unkindly?”
    “I’d have ye do yer duty to clan
and country.  If yer father hadna waited so long to marry you off, he wouldna have
had to settle on the MacKays.  But because ye were a raven-haired beauty like
yer mother, he couldna bear part with ye and die alone.”  His eyes had narrowed
into red-rimmed slits of cruelty.  “Yer no’ the first noble girl who had to lie
beneath a husband she didna like, and you willna be the last.  Show a little gratitude. 
There are several lassies who’d slit yer throat to take your place.”
    “Then let them,” she’d spat.
    “Doona tempt me!”  He’d thrown her
out of his richly appointed study, then.  Ultimately, she’d ended up stuffed
with a fraction of her belongings into what the MacKays had dubbed a “gilded
coach” and surrounded by dozens of reeking highlanders.    
    Lindsay looked around the cracked
and peeling interior of the conveyance.  Perhaps it had been grand once.  Last
century.  At least she’d been allowed her privacy.  And, her betrothed hadn’t
come to collect her, himself.  He’d sent this sinister looking band of brutes
to conduct her from Inverness to Dun Keep, the MacKays’ highland castle on the
other side of the bloody isle.  She parted the dingy curtain of questionable
color and tried to let some fresh air into the close interior. 
    A nebulous and sinister mist had
abruptly rolled off one of the many nearby lochs and blocked out the autumn afternoon. 
Lindsay could taste the moisture of it on her tongue and breathe it into her
lungs.  It smelled of ripe berries and freshly fallen leaves. 
    Squinting through the soupy swirls
of silver and gray, she assumed she was looking north, as they’d endlessly been
traveling east to reach Dun Keep.  It was hard to tell though, as the trees,
rock formations, and the river all lay hidden in the fog. 
    The sounds of anxious horses and
the low murmurs of her vanguard caused the fine hairs on her body to rise with
awareness.  She could see the forms of the three closest men to the coach.  The
flashes of their green kilts and drawn swords would sometimes come into view
before disappearing back into the thick cloud. 
    “Is everything all right?” she
asked the closest highlander.  A scrawny man whose age remained indeterminable
beneath his shaggy locks and what had to have been a summer’s worth of grime. 
    He shifted his horse closer and leered
at her, revealing that he’d lost most of his teeth and all of them on left
side.  Whether from rot or battle, she couldn’t be sure, but the effect was
most unsettling.  “Nothin’ ta fash yerself with, lass.  Just a bit o’ fog makes
the horses jumpy.  Ye never know if there be a wolf or what not in the woods.”
    “Oh.”  His words didn’t relieve her
worry.  Something about this particular mist was unsettling.  Maybe a
bit unnatural.  It slithered around them, its silver fingers reaching through
her clothing to leave a cool sheen on her flesh. 
    She shivered. 
    If yer in need of diversion.  I can
come in there, teach ye a few things.”  His tongue made an alarming appearance,
though he kept his teeth clenched.
    The burly warrior next to him
smacked the back of his head.  “Ye canna be saying those things to the lass!”
he chided.  “She’s wedding the Laird.  Angus’ll cut off yer sacs and feed them
to his dogs while ye watch… and that’s just fer lookin’ at her sideways.”
    The scrawny lad had the decency to
look stricken.  “Ye’ll no’ be mentioning it to ‘im, will ye lass?  Ye know I
meant nothing by it.”
    “Your secret is