Page 19 of Highlander’s Haunted Past

Without another word, the man pulled Kenna to her feet and shoved her mercilessly from the tent. She stumbled forward and onto her knees, feeling a sear of pain in her palms as they collided against the ground in an attempt to catch herself. Unleashing an unyielding current of unladylike words against the brutish hulk of a man, most of which she had learned from her brothers over the years, she struggled to get back to her feet despite the protests of her aching knees.

The brute just looked at her and smiled as he let the tent flaps fall back behind him.

“Impressive, now off we go, lass.”

Murtagh jumped out in front of them, his nose crooked and dripping with blood. “I told ye, the lass is to stay put ‘til her husband returns.”

“Out of the way.” The brute grunted, a bit of a sigh to his voice as if he was being bothered by a fly instead of a Highland warrior.

Murtagh sprung at him, fists raised, and for one quick moment, Kenna thought he would win. But the man was too large, and the tables quickly turned, resulting in Murtagh flat on his back with the larger man kneeling over him, fist raised in warning.

“No! Stop! I’ll go!” Kenna shouted, reaching out to grab the fist before it could descend.

It was enough. The man backed away from Murtagh, a nasty smile on his face as he grabbed Kenna once more and pulled her away.

“I’ll tell Rob where ye are,” Murtagh shouted after her as he struggled to his feet and looked to the forest.

Whether he went or not, Kenna wouldn’t know. There were too many tents, too many people scuttling about with torches and panicked faces for Murtagh to stay in her view for long.

“My husband is going to be looking fer me. Or my father-in-law, the Laird Lovat,” Kenna said, her heart racing as her mind continued to pull escape plans from every corner of her brain. “At least tell me where we are going, ye great ogre.”

The morning that she had left Inverness Castle, Rob had granted her a few moments of privacy to bid her siblings goodbye, one by one. John’s and Elizabeth’s had been what she expected: the first blunt and unemotional and the second filled with quiet tears. Thomas, on the other hand, had surprised her.

“There will be times ye want to say something smart, but keep yer mouth shut like a good lass. They’ll not care that ye are a noble lady. They’ll harm ye all the same,” he had told her, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her gently, as if that would make his words take hold.

She had rolled her eyes and told him she would but hadn’t really believed him. Who would hurt her? A valuable hostage to the Queen and the daughter-in-law of such a well-standing laird?

But this, apparently, was the sort of occasion Thomas had been referring to. And, all the worse, he had been correct in his estimations. The brute of a man took offense to her correct estimation of him, and Kenna hadn’t even seen his hand rise before it blew against her cheek, directly over the bruise that John had inflicted, which was only just healed. Stars flitted across her eyes as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, cursing the “Gordon wench.”

Kenna had hardly regained herself when she was dropped roughly to the ground in front of a large blue and gold tent that was decorated with the Stuart coat of arms. The Queen’s pavilion.

“Get up,” the ogre snapped, and Kenna obeyed, not wishing to be thrown about again.

If she ever needed to keep her wits about her, it was now. Quickly, she smoothed her hair as the ogre opened the flaps and whispered something to the guard just inside of it, who motioned Kenna inside.

It took a moment for Kenna’s eyes to adjust to the brightness of dozens of candles and torches, which reflected beautifully in the various golden furnishings set here and there. Lords and ladies lined the side of the tent, most pressed up against the sidewalls looking confused, scattered, and a bit terrified of the woman pacing at the pavilion’s center. The Queen was circling a table that was strewn with papers, notes, and maps. Immediately in her wake was a group of advisors, pressing to her heels like goslings chasing after a mother goose. It was the first time that Kenna had seen the Queen disheveled. Her nightgown was covered by a thick silk robe that was finer than anything Kenna had ever owned, but her red curls were in tangles around her face, which was splotchy and pale from a lack of sleep.

Kenna took the opportunity to view the room, hoping for a familiar face. The Earl of Sutherland, perhaps, or, better yet, a member of her new clan. But none were to be found. The Queen’s maids were the only ones she could name, but she doubted they would come to her aid if she needed it, especially after they had caught Murtagh staring down at them through the trees with a lewd smile while they had bathed earlier that evening.

“Lady Kenna Fraser,” the guard announced, halting the Queen’s pacing.

“Lady Kenna Fraser, or most recently, Lady Kenna Gordon,” one of the Queen’s advisors said with a proud huff as if he was stating a fact that none of them had known before, though likely everyone in this pavilion had been present for her wedding.

He was a stout man with a nearly perfectly round head that was far too small for his body. He was dressed nearly head to toe in Stuart blue, though the plaid draped across his chest revealed him as a Lockhart—a Lowland Scottish clan with very little to distinguish them.

Kenna curtsied, not sure what else she should do. She sensed the danger lurking behind the Lockhart’s words, but Thomas’ warning was now fresh in her mind, and she bit her tongue. If the man-ogre had been able to hurt her without a second thought, knowing full well who she was and who she could name as family, then the Queen could do whatever she wished with her.

“Kenna, I am so glad ye are all right. I heard ye were present when the arrow came from the forest. Please, come, sit,” the Queen said through a tight, feigned smile.

She directed her to a seat at the table, taking the chair at the head beside her, as her advisors fanned out in a half-moon behind her like well-trained dogs.

Kenna moved her hands from the wood of the table to her lap, doing her best not to look at any of the papers strewn about.

Do not seem too eager, Kenna told herself, or they could use that against ye.

“Now, Kenna, ye are a loyal lass, aren’t ye?”

“Of course, Yer Majesty. I hope to prove that my father’s actions were not ones that I could ever condone.”