Read Online The Border Lord's Bride by Bertrice Small - Free Book Online
Authors: Bertrice Small
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tongue pushed into her mouth, and she tasted sour wine and rotting teeth. She was pushed back into the pillows as he struggled to climb all the way onto the bed. He was kneading her breast with one hand, and seeking to get beneath her chemise with the other. Ellen struggled against him with all her might, shrieking with both terror and outrage when that second hand slid up her leg and a finger pushed between her nether lips.
"Now we‘ll see if ye‘re telling me the truth," he growled, his fetid breath assailing her nostrils.
And his finger pushed into her a short way before he crowed with delight as she squealed. "Ye dinna lie to me, my hinny. Ye‘re a virgin, and tight as any I‘ve known before. My cock is more than ready for ye!" He shifted his body to straddle her, licking his lips in anticipation of what was to come as she twisted and struggled beneath him.
Ellen hit him with a balled-up fist while her other hand reached beneath her pillow, where she had put her dirk. Yanking it out, she stabbed him with it, almost laughing at the look of total surprise upon his face. "You will not have me, you rutting pig! You will not have me! You won‘t!" she told him as her anger at all that had happened to her, to her grandsire, to Donald MacNab, was finally unleashed. She could barely see through the red haze before her eyes. Her heart was pounding with her fury. Her arm fell again and again, the dirk plunging into his thick flesh as it found its mark. She didn‘t know how many times her knife fell, cutting him, but suddenly he collapsed with a loud groan, rolling from atop her and onto the floor.
Ellen lay upon her bed for how long she did not know. There was no sound from Balgair
MacArthur at all. Had she killed him? Finally she sat up as the anger drained away. She was covered in blood. Ellen shuddered at its wetness and its smell. Quickly she arose from the bed, keeping to the far side, away from her victim. She tore her chemise off, letting it lie where it dropped. She fetched the basin and washed her hands, and then her body where his blood had splattered. She was shaking now, and struggled to gain mastery over herself. This was no time to go to pieces.
Slowly she drew on clean clothing, realizing as she did that she was dressing herself for flight.
Aye! She had to run. There was nothing else to do. When Balgair‘s men discovered their master dead, she would be killed. There were not enough Lochearn men to protect her, and frankly she had noted that there was no resistance to Balgair MacArthur from them at all. She suspected that they really would prefer a MacArthur, even a foreign MacArthur, as their laird rather than a MacNab, and the death of her grandfather had allowed them to express their preference—a preference they would have never voiced when Ewan MacArthur was alive.
Where could she go? Ellen considered. The laird of Duffdour was about twelve hours ahead of her on the road south. She would endeavor to catch up with him, beg his protection, and plead for his escort back to the king. If she left Lochearn now and rode the rest of the night, she might find him sooner than later. There was certain to be initial confusion when Balgair‘s body was discovered, and then a messenger would probably be sent to Skye for instructions. That she was missing would certainly confirm her guilt, but she knew that the men in the keep, and even Anice, would consider that she couldn‘t escape them forever. They would believe she had fled into the woods, and that they could catch her.
Ellen went to the door and, opening it, peeped out into the hall. There wasn‘t a sound to be heard. Taking up her heavy woolen cloak—and as an afterthought the round cottage loaf—she slipped from the chamber, quietly closing the door behind her. She turned the key in the door‘s lock, and then put it in her pocket. Tiptoeing down the narrow stone stairs she peeped into the hall. It was empty of all life but for an old dog that snored
"Now we‘ll see if ye‘re telling me the truth," he growled, his fetid breath assailing her nostrils.
And his finger pushed into her a short way before he crowed with delight as she squealed. "Ye dinna lie to me, my hinny. Ye‘re a virgin, and tight as any I‘ve known before. My cock is more than ready for ye!" He shifted his body to straddle her, licking his lips in anticipation of what was to come as she twisted and struggled beneath him.
Ellen hit him with a balled-up fist while her other hand reached beneath her pillow, where she had put her dirk. Yanking it out, she stabbed him with it, almost laughing at the look of total surprise upon his face. "You will not have me, you rutting pig! You will not have me! You won‘t!" she told him as her anger at all that had happened to her, to her grandsire, to Donald MacNab, was finally unleashed. She could barely see through the red haze before her eyes. Her heart was pounding with her fury. Her arm fell again and again, the dirk plunging into his thick flesh as it found its mark. She didn‘t know how many times her knife fell, cutting him, but suddenly he collapsed with a loud groan, rolling from atop her and onto the floor.
Ellen lay upon her bed for how long she did not know. There was no sound from Balgair
MacArthur at all. Had she killed him? Finally she sat up as the anger drained away. She was covered in blood. Ellen shuddered at its wetness and its smell. Quickly she arose from the bed, keeping to the far side, away from her victim. She tore her chemise off, letting it lie where it dropped. She fetched the basin and washed her hands, and then her body where his blood had splattered. She was shaking now, and struggled to gain mastery over herself. This was no time to go to pieces.
Slowly she drew on clean clothing, realizing as she did that she was dressing herself for flight.
Aye! She had to run. There was nothing else to do. When Balgair‘s men discovered their master dead, she would be killed. There were not enough Lochearn men to protect her, and frankly she had noted that there was no resistance to Balgair MacArthur from them at all. She suspected that they really would prefer a MacArthur, even a foreign MacArthur, as their laird rather than a MacNab, and the death of her grandfather had allowed them to express their preference—a preference they would have never voiced when Ewan MacArthur was alive.
Where could she go? Ellen considered. The laird of Duffdour was about twelve hours ahead of her on the road south. She would endeavor to catch up with him, beg his protection, and plead for his escort back to the king. If she left Lochearn now and rode the rest of the night, she might find him sooner than later. There was certain to be initial confusion when Balgair‘s body was discovered, and then a messenger would probably be sent to Skye for instructions. That she was missing would certainly confirm her guilt, but she knew that the men in the keep, and even Anice, would consider that she couldn‘t escape them forever. They would believe she had fled into the woods, and that they could catch her.
Ellen went to the door and, opening it, peeped out into the hall. There wasn‘t a sound to be heard. Taking up her heavy woolen cloak—and as an afterthought the round cottage loaf—she slipped from the chamber, quietly closing the door behind her. She turned the key in the door‘s lock, and then put it in her pocket. Tiptoeing down the narrow stone stairs she peeped into the hall. It was empty of all life but for an old dog that snored
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