If You Dare - Cole Kresley (книги онлайн полные версии бесплатно .TXT) 📗

Niall's expression was incredulous. "I've seen you happily snap necks and slit throats, but I've never seen you be callous to someone who is weaker than you and in such a vulnerable position. Her only family is in that bastard's cell, and you would use that over her? To bait her?"

Court ran his hand over the new knot on his head. "God damn it, I said I'd get him out."

"Aye. Because you're the one who put him there."

Chapter Eight

When Annalia arrived in the village of Ordino, she heard dogs barking to each other from unseen vantages, yet nothing else stirred. Although it was early evening, the streets were eerily quiet.

She and Iambe clacked along the slate drive to the largest building, a sizable home built of ancient stone. She'd seen it before on visits here and wondered what had happened to the people who actually owned it.

She'd just reached the front entrance when a man strode from the inside. Her eyes widened. He was one of the Rechazados—she could tell by the cross tattoo on his bare arm. She'd heard of these legendary assassins, had heard they were every bit as evil as the Highlanders, but colder. Without warning he wrenched her down from the saddle, dropping her to her feet.

While he seized her bags, an unkempt deserter in a ragged Spanish military uniform arrived to take Iambe. She wanted to make sure he cared for her horse properly, but the Rechazado snapped his fingers for her to draw closer. She called on every ounce of bravery she had to walk toward him, toward what her whole being knew was a threat.

The women in the valley had said you never saw emotion, never could detect when they would strike. Another had admitted softly that the first hint her sister had that they were about to violate her had been when she hit the ground.

He snatched her arm to drag her up the steps to the front doors, then inside the dimly lit house. She reasoned with herself that the Rechazados were known to follow their orders to the letter. To the point of death they would fulfill their command, and surely Pascal would have commanded them not to touch her.

They climbed a sprawling staircase that led to an even darker landing. The room he shoved her into was the last, in the farthest corner of the house. Inside, he emptied her bags on the bed and rifled through her clothes. With a malevolent look, he exited, but he didn't lock her in. Of course there was no reason to expect her escape.

She exhaled a wavering breath, then surveyed her surroundings, surprised to find the room was large and looked comfortable enough with plenty of rugs and candles and a clean bed. The window was raised and overlooked a lantern-lit courtyard. Had she been expecting a cell? Yes, because she'd thought of herself as condemned.

She washed off the travel grime as best as she could with the water at the dresser, then changed from her mud-coated habit behind the door. After rinsing and repinning her hair, she folded her garments back into her bag, hung her dresses, which were severely wrinkled, then she did the only thing left to do—she sat on the edge of the bed and waited, having no idea what to expect.

An hour had passed—during which she relived her confrontation of the morning, envisioning scenarios where she could shock MacCarrick right back and leave him gaping—when the door opened. A pretty young woman about her age sauntered in, and Annalia's heart leapt. Was she coerced into being here as well? They could be allies!

"So you're to be my stepmother," the woman said with a dismissive smirk.

Pretty until she opened her mouth, that is.

Annalia hadn't foreseen this, but it made sense that the much older Pascal would have children. "If you're Pascal's daughter, then I suppose I am. What's your name?"

"Olivia."

"And exactly how many more stepchildren am I to have?"

"All but me have been disowned or have fled him." She tilted her head at Annalia. "You look so distressed. Aren't you excited about the nuptials?" Olivia was taunting her.

"Would you be happy in my situation?"

She shrugged impudently, ignoring Annalia to walk to the window and scan the courtyard.

"Olivia, do you know if my brother is safe?"

For long moments, she waited, then turned, as if to size up Annalia and determine if it was worth it to spare a kindness to her. "Llorente lives."

"If he were dead, would you lie to me?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "Now come with me. Your new lord awaits."

Annalia followed, but only because she was ready to get this meeting concluded. She couldn't imagine what the general would look like. He'd probably have a cruel face, with harsh angles as MacCarrick did. Perhaps that would be wishful thinking for him to have at least the Highlander's looks.

"He's in there." Olivia jerked her chin toward a door. When Annalia's feet wouldn't move of their own volition, it seemed, Olivia snapped, "Go on!"

Annalia pushed open the door, making her manner brisk. And was dumbfounded when Pascal turned to her.

Annalia had never seen a more beautiful man in her life.

Court stared into his just-poured glass, sinking back and propping his boots on a low table, attempting to relax after a day that had started out…wrong and had only gotten worse. At a table nearby, Liam, Niall, and Fergus played cards, though Fergus yawned repeatedly, while Gavin smoked a pipe full of expensive tobacco. MacTiernay rocked with his eyes—or rather his eye—closed, probably reliving old battles.

When Court had finally gotten control of his temper after the wine incident and had shaken his dogged hangover, Niall had suggested he put himself in Annalia's shoes. After all, they'd hit her property in a manner a plague of locusts would aspire to, and Court had spoken to her in a way that clearly no man had ever dared. Court also suspected that being fondled by his crew had made her…skittish. Creatures that got skittish always came out biting if backed into a corner, and she had.

So he'd taken Niall's advice and left her alone for the day. Though he'd wanted to see her later, Vitale had told him that the people here would "give" them until sundown to leave, and that the mademoiselle was so upset by "MacCarrick's vile proposition" that she was staying on the other side of the mountain for the night.

He could swear the chit was put on the earth just to make him feel guilty. Or try to. Luckily, he wasn't one to wrestle with guilt.

Usually on a night like this when they weren't working, Court would sit and dream about Beinn a'Chaorainn, his run-down estate in Scotland. He would picture the possibilities that no one else could seem to see, and he would count the days until he'd paid for it completely and all those hills, trees, fields, and the ancient stone keep would be his.

For a man cursed to have little else, Beinn a'Chaorainn kept him living. Yet now thoughts of Annalia somehow overrode dreams of his land. Damn it, so he'd treated her poorly. He was most likely going to get her brother for her tomorrow night, if Llorente was still alive….

A violent pounding on the front door interrupted his brooding. "Liam, go answer the bloody door."

Liam laid down his cards, then tromped from the room. Minutes later, he called out in a bored tone, "Court, there's a pitchfork rebellion here to see you."

"What?"

"A collection of doddering old men, torches, and farm tools. I fear for our safety and advise fleeing posthaste."

With a weary exhalation, Court kicked his feet down to stand. When Gavin raised his eyebrows, and MacTiernay and Niall laid hands on their pistols, he shook his head. "I'll take care of this."

At the front door, he found Vitale with a half-dozen men standing behind him, spread out like a rickety fan. Their faces blanched at their first glimpse of Court's expression, and he thought he heard their knees knocking.