Maiden of Inverness Read Free Page B

he took. But to where? Where was he taking her, and why?
    She twisted, trying to free her arms. When that failed, she kicked and squirmed. He did not care. His grip was strong, but not bruisingly so. If he planned to ravish her, he intended to do it elsewhere and at his leisure.
    But why her? She was of no value. The legend of the Maiden was a forgotten custom—even Meridene knew little of her birthright.
    Comelier girls resided at the abbey, wealthy maidens from established families with coin to pay a ransom and lands to attract a suitor.
    Then the truth dawned, and Meridene didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This brigand had mistaken her for one of the moneyed heiresses who called Scarborough Abbey home. She had to explain that he had erred. Then she’d laugh in his face.
    Sweat dampened her skin, and she gulped for air. Knowing she’d suffocate if she continued to fight, Meridene grew still and listened. She heard only the muffled sound of his breathing.
    Heartbeats later she heard the familiar creaking of the postern gate. Then she was lifted again, onto the back of a snorting, prancing horse. A hand pressed her down. The animal lunged into motion.
    As soon as the churl reached his destination, she would inform him of his blunder. Whatever profit he expected for his villainy would go unpaid, for no one would ransom Meridene Macgillivray. The notion was laughable. The people of Scotland had forsaken her.
    Her benefactor, Edward I of England, was dead. His son and heir, Edward II, either did not know of her existence or did not care, for he hadn’t continued her support. Now she earned her keep by the prick of a needle and the stroke of a quill.
    She longed to prick this ruffian from gullet to navel, and if he did not return her immediately, she would.
    An eternity later, she smelled the sea. The horse stopped. Again she was hoisted into the air and carried. Bootheels sounded on planking. Gulls screamed into the night.
    After a shorter walk down a stairway, she was lowered onto something soft. Pray God it wasn’t a mattress. Pray God he did not try to ravish her before she could explain.
    The gentle rocking motion confirmed their location: a ship. Heart pounding, she rolled free of the blankets and ripped the cloth from her head.
    He’d brought her to a small cabin.
    He.
    Her abductor stood with his back to her. No wonder he had carried her with such ease; he stood as tall and as broad as a century oak. He wore a long black robe and boots that were tooled with ancient Scottish symbols. As a child, Meridene had learned to draw those same designs.
    The past rose in her mind—images of a young man, a barefoot lad who had carried himself like a prince and made promises to match.
    An utterly unthinkable sensation swept over her.
    Turning up the lantern flame, he faced her. “Meridene.”
    She gasped in surprise. Those deep brown eyes, flaring brows, and arrestingly handsome features could belong to only one man: her husband, Revas Macduff.
    Her head grew light, and she hugged herself to stave off a shudder.
    He swept off the robe, and his striking red, blue, and green tartan plaid told her something else, equally unthinkable: The butcher’s son had declared himself king of the Highlands, and he’d come for his queen.
    Wishing it weren’t so, and determined to play no part in Scottish politics, she easily summoned indifference. “You’ve sworn to unite the clans. You challenge my father for the Highland crown.”
    Lamplight sparkled on his fair hair, turning the strands the hues of sunlight. “Aye. Most of the clans have forsaken him. He has beggared his people to buy a mercenary army.”
    Scottish meant deceit, treachery, and a landscape littered with corpses. Scottish meant terrified young maidens could be beaten and abandoned, then poisoned by their father’s servant. Only the Sheltering English abbey had offered Meridene safety and a respite from the