“You do not know what the Campbells and the Macphersons are like when they fight together,” Argyll responded, walking nervously away from the table.
“They were only fighting other Scots, and cowardly turncoats at that,” Danvers spat, his insinuation stinging Argyll. “I've carved and burned my way across this miserable country of yours, and there's no Scot alive who can stop me.”
“Then why are you looking for a way to retreat through the Grampians?” Argyll muttered tensely.
“Once I have my...bride...you can all rot to hell in this stinking perch you call the Highlands.”
“You cannot just take her and go,” Argyll responded, his voice rising in surprise at Danvers’s intention. “You cannot back out on our deal. Henry wants the Crown Prince in our hands, and I want him, too.”
Danvers strode arrogantly to a chest and drew out a parchment, tossing it carelessly at Argyll. “If you can read this message I received a while ago, it appears that your earl of Huntly has come to an agreement with King Henry. That half-breed brat will be King of Scotland after all, and you, my dear Argyll, will have nothing.”
“You bastard,” Argyll paled, reading the document. “This is weeks old. You've known this and said nothing. This says for you to return to England. You've been killing and looting, not in your king's name but just to satisfy your own twisted desires.”
“You'd better be careful how you speak to me, Scot.” Danvers laughed, the evil in his voice showing in his face. “Because I am the only one keeping you alive. So make sure you remain useful to me.”
The pounding of hooves outside broke into the conflict within as a dozen soldiers and their captive splashed up to the commander's tent.
When Celia entered the tent, Danvers and Argyll were glaring at each other across the table at the center. For the fifth time since dismounting outside a soldier tried to take Celia's arm, and for the fifth time she yanked her arm out of his grasp. Her hands were numb and her wrists bleeding from the chafing cords that bound her hands before her, but she held herself erect.
Looking from Argyll's bloodless face to Danvers's ugly sneer, Celia knew that they'd come in the middle of an argument, an argument that Danvers was clearly winning.
Danvers turned his hulking body toward Celia, and the sight of her bloody, rain-soaked figure brought a gleam into his eye.
“Lady Muir,” he said with a malicious smirk. “How nice of you to finally come to me...to your rightful husband.”
He held his hand out to her as if expecting her to walk to him. At Celia's failure to respond, she felt the soldier shove her from behind. But she only moved the half step that she was pushed, looking steadily and meaningfully into the butcher's pig eyes. That look was a look of sheer hate, the result of all the long years of pain, intimidation, and suffering—not just Celia's, but that of the innocent men, women, and children of Scotland who had felt the scourge of Danvers's barbaric cruelty.
And Danvers saw it. He had expected fear; however, there was none in her eyes. But he would enjoy watching fear replace all other emotions in Celia Muir. At last, she was at his mercy. At last, she would feel the lash of his supreme mastery over her. Before he was finished with her, she would crawl to him on her knees.
“You will come to me...NOW!” he shouted, his face flushed with rage.
Celia stood coolly before him. She knew what she had to do.
Turning away from Danvers, she strode across the tent to Argyll. Argyll's shocked expression quickly turned to a look of satisfaction as Celia stopped in front of him.
“I'm so glad you're here, m'lord,” she said calmly, her voice the embodiment of sincerity and control. “I've been looking forward to meeting with you for months now. As you know, I was given the task of delivering your nephew into the safety of your hands. But the vile activity of the scum in this room has gotten between us.”
Argyll nearly laughed aloud at this woman's audacity. No wonder Huntly had entrusted her with the future of Scotland. No wonder so many men wanted her. No wonder Danvers wanted to crush her.
Looking at the raw flesh of her wrists, Argyll drew the dagger from his belt. At his action, Celia held her bonds up to be cut and was soon freed from the cords that held her.
“It's a pleasure to finally meet you, as well, Lady...Campbell,” Argyll said as the two of them shared a conspiring look.
“She's NOT Lady Campbell,” Danvers screamed, smashing his fist on the table. “She'll never be Lady anything...because she's mine.”
“I'm not yours,” Celia shouted back, her eyes ablaze as she wheeled to face him. “I'm not now. I never have been. And I never will be.”
“Your king has commanded your rightful place,” Danvers spat. “And you will abide by that.”
“That king is dead,” she replied. “But Henry was never my king.”
“You crossbreed traitor,” he sneered. “You think that because you've slept with some cowering Highland oaf, you now have a country that will claim you? A home that will accept you? You have nothing! You are nothing!”
“What I have, you will never understand,” Celia answered disdainfully. “What I am...will never be yours. I am Scottish, proud and free. I have a king that I fight to protect. I have a home that I honor and will serve. I have a husband and a family that I love. These are things that you will never have nor ever know.”
“Husband,” he jeered. “Where is your husband now? Where will he be when you are begging me for mercy? Begging me to kill you rather than take any more of what I have planned for you.”
“Long before I beg you for anything, my husband Colin Campbell will cut out your heart,” Celia vowed.
Danvers laughed, but there was something hollow in it, and Celia knew that something in her words had struck home.
A horse galloped to a halt outside the tent, and a soldier entered with the breathless rider.
“M'lord,” the horseman cried, waiting for permission to address his commander.
“SPEAK!” Danvers shouted angrily.
“M'lord, they're coming,” he panted. “Only hours away. A force from the west, and Campbells and Macphersons from the north.”
“How many?” Danvers demanded.
“We cannot tell. They're spread across the hills, moving slowly and combing the countryside.”
Danvers shouted for his subordinates outside. “Break camp now,” he shouted. “We're going through the mountain pass to the south.”
“We cannot go south now,” Argyll bellowed, moving to the table. “We cannot outrun Campbell. Our only chance is to cut a deal with him while we have his wife.”
“And give up what I've waited so long for?” Danvers retorted. “There will not be any deals. I'm leaving with my troops, and I'm taking her with me.”
“She's not yours to take,” Argyll replied, turning back toward Celia. “She is a woman of great value. She will never be an object for your sadistic pleasures. I'll not order my men south, and I'm keeping Lady Campbell here. You can run all the way to England...or to hell if you please.”
As he strode back to Celia, his broad, gaunt frame blocked Danvers from her vision momentarily. But that was all that was required for Danvers to follow from behind. Argyll smirked and gave Celia a wink as he came up to her, but then his expression abruptly changed. Shock registered on his face as his opponent's sword blade slid between the ribs in his back, and cut a path through the vital organs before protruding from his chest.
As Argyll sank to the floor in the agonies of his final moments, Danvers braced his foot against the bloody back and withdrew his sword. The look of bloodlust was in his face as he eyed Celia over the twitching body.
“This is what happens to any that defy me,” he sneered, his lecherous eyes raking her body. “And now I'll take you as I please.”
Celia stepped back, her eyes quickly scanning the surroundings as she assessed the situation. Not too promising, she thought. Two soldiers stood at the entrance, observing the spectacle. Danvers stood leering, enjoying his moment of murderous power and intimidation, waiting for the total impact of Celia's powerlessness to descend upon her. Judging from the shouts and movement outside, the camp was already a mad rush of activity. Her hand edged closer to the dagger hidden inside her dress belt.
She might possibly kill Danvers, but she would not be able to escape the two guards. I will turn this knife on myself, she vowed silently, before I let this pig touch me.
Suddenly bedlam broke out in the camp. The sound of hooves and the uproar of voices drew Danvers's attention to the entry of the tent.
“What's going on out there?” he shouted at the guards. Before either could move, though, one of the captains entered.
“M'lord, they're here,” he rasped hoarsely, his face ashen at the prospect of being the bearer of the news.
“Who's here?” Danvers screamed, moving back to his subordinate, his dripping sword still in his hand.
“An army of Scots, m'lord. To the south,” he replied, his eyes riveted to the body lying on the ground.
“No, you idiot,” Danvers hissed, taking hold of the captain's throat. “They're coming from the north! We're going south!”
“I know, m'lord,” the captain choked out. “But the vanguard of our troops met a force under the earl of Huntly's banner not two miles to the south. They've cut off our escape, m'lord!”