Page 88 of Bride of the Mad Laird
She screamed, lifting her kirtle to run, when the first of the riders swept toward her. Before she could scream a second time, he leaned over and seized her with both hands, one hand winding in her hair and pulling hard, the other snaking around her waist and drawing her onto his mount to toss her across the saddle.
Struggling vainly, she managed to scream again before the wind was knocked out of her lungs and, save for gasping a breath, she was unable make another sound. The man wheeled his horse and in the space of a brief moment, he and his men were streaking back through the gate. The man pressed his knee painfully against her face while one hand pinned her to the saddle.
The last thing she heard before the gate clanged shut behind them, too late, was Edmund’s voice roaring above the melee.
She was conscious of very little as they rode. They spoke occasional words to each other in a guttural language she did not understand. But she had no need to understand their language to gauge what was happening.
MacDougall’s men had finally claimed her and she was being transported with all speed to Castle Duart for MacDougall to do what he willed with her.
Her mind swum with possibilities of escaping once they stopped to rest their ponies, yet she knew that with every passing minute the distance she would have to cover to return to the castle was growing. Her chances of escape lessened with every such moment.
They had left Dùn Ara well behind before the men pulled their horses to a standstill and the man who had captured her finally allowed her to draw breath. He hauled her from the steed struggling as best she could, despite the terrible stiffness in her limbs, holding her still while another man bound her wrists with rope and tied a black fabric around her eyes.
After only a short break they rode on, again pushing their sturdy ponies to a gallop. That time her captor insisted she sit astride on the saddle in front of him as they rode, her hands tethered to the saddle. Had she contemplated escape by flinging herself off the pony to her death, his move put paid to the notion.
As she sensed them drawing closer to Castle Duart, she retreated into numbness. All memory of the joy and rapture of the past day and night was frozen into a distant recess of her mind, unreachable. It would remain there, strengthening her in the ordeal and horror she knew would come once they arrived at MacDougall’s domain.
* * *
Although she was unable to see and her captors’ words were lost to her, she understood they had arrived at Duart Castle.
The horses clattered loudly across cobbles, and the men’s talk, which had been subdued, burst forth in an excited chatter. Finally, the steed she was riding drew to a halt and the man holding her captive hoisted her unceremoniously to the ground. She staggered, uncertain of her footing and a rough hand grabbed her elbow, keeping her upright and urging her forward.
A door creaked open, footsteps receded and, despite her blindfold, the darkness grew even more impenetrable around her.
Underneath her feet was slippery dampness, and the air she breathed was dank and foul smelling. She guessed they had entered a hidden tunnel which would lead them to the heart of the castle.
She stumbled, the man wrenched her arm and pulled away the blindfold. Unaccustomed to being able to see, she slowly made out a dimly lit passageway, the walls dripping, and the underfoot was slimy, swirling with water.
They had not progressed far when they reached another doorway, this one leading to a set of stone stairs, lit dimly with torches held in sconces at intervals along the wall. Pressing a hand to the stone wall, she managed to keep her balance and ascend the stairs.
After what seemed an achingly long time, they arrived at yet another door. It opened to a passage, much wider than the tunnel and in contrast the air was pleasant smelling as if somewhere scented oil was burning. The men propelled her along the corridor, each of them grinning.
She surmised they were bringing her to their master, the Laird Alexander MacDougall, and were anticipating his pleasure at their success in kidnapping her and dragging her before him.
Trying hard to stop her body from shaking, she shook her head.
He is but a man.Evil, tae be sure. Yet he will die as all men dae, and when me husband, the Laird Tòrr, will put an end tae this beastly laird once and fer all.
There was some consolation in the way her thoughts turned that helped build her courage. She would not quail before the MacDougall, no matter what.
They finally arrived at a much larger and more ornate oaken door, studded with metal spikes and with a giant handle.
They knocked and waited. An interminable amount of time passed before she heard the deep voice responding.
“Who goes?”
The man gripping her arm called her name in ringing tones.
“The Lady Lyra MacInnes.”
“The Lady Lyra MacKinnon”, she ground out fiercely, only to be completely ignored as the man opened the door and with a grunt of satisfaction, pushed her into the room.
She did her best to stand tall, shoulders squared and her chin high as he stood her before the dark figure seated behind a large desk.
As the man rose to his feet, she could not contain a gasp at ger first glance at the man she knew was MacDougall.
He was taller and older than she’d imagined him to be. He held himself straight, yet she could see the age cruelly etched on his fine, thin features, on his slightly stooped shoulders, and in the silver locks falling in thin whisps to his shoulders.
