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Authors: Loretta Laird
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had been paced by Stref, eager to return to claim his bride. Without a break, they had ridden relentlessly to challenge Lord Haigh.
Side by side, the two men stood apart from the group, and held their mounts. The beasts thirstily drank their fill from the clear stream. Stref bent to fill his water pouch. He relished the feel of the cool water against his calloused skin, roughened by the friction of the leather reins.
“I would not wish that bastard on my worst enemy, let alone a slip of a girl who he seeks to destroy; to claim her lands. Lands which I covert,” he added to distract his friend from the real purpose behind his frenzied ride.
“So nothing to do with her raven hair and fair face then?” Clyde asked with a laugh bubbling up in his throat.
“Grrr! You know me too well, old friend,” Stref said with mock severity. “I plan to take the wench as my wife, thus securing our claim on her land. It hurts me none that she is a rare beauty to boot.”
“And how do you plan to rescue the maiden from Haigh?” Clyde asked, his voice still heavy with amusement.
“That, I have not given much thought to,” Stref admitted. “I may just walk in through the gate and carry her away.”
Clyde shook his head as he walked towards the gathered men to claim his share of the food. Stref remained by the brook quickly becoming lost in his own thoughts. The image of the girl who had been his captive for such a brief time seemed to come to his mind too easily. The delicate way she had licked her lips before he had bruised her with his crushing embrace haunted his vision and quickly hardened his loins. What was it about this girl that affected him so intensely?
Stref had met Haigh just a handful of times, and each encounter, Stref had sensed evil in his soul. The man relished pain and torture. After a battle, he would leave any remaining survivors to die slow and painful deaths, often lingering to watch their torment. His own men were not spared from the sadistic streak of their laird. Punishments were swift and brutal, and had been known to cause loss of limbs or even mobility. When Gavin Haigh lost his temper, he lost control of himself, beating any who angered him without mercy. Women were not spared his vicious streak. Maidens were taken from his own clan, and those of his enemies, and raped until they were left as broken spirits fit for no other. Many had been returned to their homes as empty vessels, driven to taking their own lives or eking out a pitiful existence of cowering from any form of human contact. One such woman resided in Stref’s own lands. She was renowned as a witch since she lived as a recluse deep in a wooded copse. Stref jolted as he imagined a future dwelling with Lena as the broken soul residing within.
Stref’s musings were rudely interrupted by the cry of the golden eagle. It had perched on a nearby branch and regarded him with wide eyes.
“I suppose you wish me to get on with rescuing your mistress?” he addressed the magnificent bird.
In answer, the eagle lifted its wings and soared into the air. It made a graceful circle of the assembled group then headed west. Stref laughed as he watched it disappear into a dot on the horizon.
“Seems we are too slow for our feathered friend,” he said as he reached the men. “I hope he can get there in time to be of some use. As for us, we ride on!” Stref ordered, mounting his horse with renewed vigour.
With unquestionable faith, his men joined with him in his frantic pace.
Chapter Eight
Lena dry-retched as hot, lurid breath touched her neck. Her head bent at an uncomfortable angle as she leaned as far as she could from the lecherous man who seemed intent on devouring her. She sat beside him at a long trestle table. Other warriors looked on, feasting on her misery as hungrily as they devoured the plates of food that were placed on the tables before them. Wide-eyed girls served the men, swinging their hips expertly to avoid the greedy,
Side by side, the two men stood apart from the group, and held their mounts. The beasts thirstily drank their fill from the clear stream. Stref bent to fill his water pouch. He relished the feel of the cool water against his calloused skin, roughened by the friction of the leather reins.
“I would not wish that bastard on my worst enemy, let alone a slip of a girl who he seeks to destroy; to claim her lands. Lands which I covert,” he added to distract his friend from the real purpose behind his frenzied ride.
“So nothing to do with her raven hair and fair face then?” Clyde asked with a laugh bubbling up in his throat.
“Grrr! You know me too well, old friend,” Stref said with mock severity. “I plan to take the wench as my wife, thus securing our claim on her land. It hurts me none that she is a rare beauty to boot.”
“And how do you plan to rescue the maiden from Haigh?” Clyde asked, his voice still heavy with amusement.
“That, I have not given much thought to,” Stref admitted. “I may just walk in through the gate and carry her away.”
Clyde shook his head as he walked towards the gathered men to claim his share of the food. Stref remained by the brook quickly becoming lost in his own thoughts. The image of the girl who had been his captive for such a brief time seemed to come to his mind too easily. The delicate way she had licked her lips before he had bruised her with his crushing embrace haunted his vision and quickly hardened his loins. What was it about this girl that affected him so intensely?
Stref had met Haigh just a handful of times, and each encounter, Stref had sensed evil in his soul. The man relished pain and torture. After a battle, he would leave any remaining survivors to die slow and painful deaths, often lingering to watch their torment. His own men were not spared from the sadistic streak of their laird. Punishments were swift and brutal, and had been known to cause loss of limbs or even mobility. When Gavin Haigh lost his temper, he lost control of himself, beating any who angered him without mercy. Women were not spared his vicious streak. Maidens were taken from his own clan, and those of his enemies, and raped until they were left as broken spirits fit for no other. Many had been returned to their homes as empty vessels, driven to taking their own lives or eking out a pitiful existence of cowering from any form of human contact. One such woman resided in Stref’s own lands. She was renowned as a witch since she lived as a recluse deep in a wooded copse. Stref jolted as he imagined a future dwelling with Lena as the broken soul residing within.
Stref’s musings were rudely interrupted by the cry of the golden eagle. It had perched on a nearby branch and regarded him with wide eyes.
“I suppose you wish me to get on with rescuing your mistress?” he addressed the magnificent bird.
In answer, the eagle lifted its wings and soared into the air. It made a graceful circle of the assembled group then headed west. Stref laughed as he watched it disappear into a dot on the horizon.
“Seems we are too slow for our feathered friend,” he said as he reached the men. “I hope he can get there in time to be of some use. As for us, we ride on!” Stref ordered, mounting his horse with renewed vigour.
With unquestionable faith, his men joined with him in his frantic pace.
Chapter Eight
Lena dry-retched as hot, lurid breath touched her neck. Her head bent at an uncomfortable angle as she leaned as far as she could from the lecherous man who seemed intent on devouring her. She sat beside him at a long trestle table. Other warriors looked on, feasting on her misery as hungrily as they devoured the plates of food that were placed on the tables before them. Wide-eyed girls served the men, swinging their hips expertly to avoid the greedy,
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