But it must.
That truth slammed back into her now and it doused her desire as swiftly as if someone had tossed a bucket of icy water over her foolish head.
Her eyes flew wide, the reason she’d flung herself at him once again foremost in her mind. Pulling away, she glanced at the two men whose raging lust hit her like a wave of choking, vile-tasting bile.
She followed their stares, her eyes straining to peer through the haze of bluish peat smoke hanging above the common room’s crowded tables.
The joy woman she’d noticed before now lounged in the entrance to the alehouse’s darkened sleeping hall. The woman’s heavy-lidded eyes and how she stroked the folds of her skirts just where her thighs met, a clear invitation for any man eager to enjoy her charms.
Well-made and with a mass of rich-gleaming auburn curls tumbling to her waist, her generous breasts nearly burst from the lowest-cut gown Madeline had ever seen.
The top halves of the woman’s nipples peeped above the edge of her plunging bodice. More shocking, the tightly-puckered crests appeared rouged. Madeline shifted on the bench, uncomfortably aware of the hardened peaks of her own breasts. How visible they’d be without the borrowed shawl draped about her shoulders.
Across the room, the joy woman smiled at her audience as she arched her back. The stretch caused her breasts to swell against her bodice so that the thrusting tips popped into view for any who cared to admire them.
And many did.
Hoots, shouts of masculine glee, and a few chuckles applauded her ribaldry.
Heat inched up the back of Madeline’s neck, and she tightened her grip on Iain’s shoulders.
She risked a glance at him.
He also stared at the woman. But unlike the thick cloud of lust she could almost see swirling around Silver Leg’s men and the other alehouse patrons, his granite-set features revealed only indifference, perhaps annoyance.
You should no’ witness such a performance, she thought she heard him say. But his words were lost beneath a round of cheers as every man present and not too deep in his cups praised the joy woman’s bountiful wares.
A largish man at the next table leaned forward, his eyes almost bugging from his ale-flushed face. “’Fore God, if those teats wouldn’t harden a dead man’s lance!”
“Mine already is hard,” another declared, his proclamation drawing a chorus of guffaws.
“I mean to wrap those curling tresses all around my hardness,” one of Silver Leg’s men boasted, making for the woman.
Madeline stared in horrified fascination. Almost forgetting to breathe, she was only vaguely aware of Iain pulling her close again. He eased her head to his shoulder, holding her there, the flat of his hand pressed firmly over her ear.
The beat of his heart pounded hard and steady beneath her cheek, and she didn’t need her gift to sense his anger.
Mounting fury he strove hard to quell, outrage that warmed her despite its ferocity. Her feminine instincts told her the reason for his ire was having brought her to a place where she’d be exposed to such a sordid display.
Regardless, she couldn’t tear away her gaze.
As if bespelled, she looked on as the second of Silver Leg’s men, the older one, hitched his loose-fitting hose to accommodate the tent-like protrusion of his arousal.
“You can have those curls,” he called to his friend’s back, starting after him. “‘Tis her other curls I want to see. The lower ones!”
“Och, aye, now that’d be a fine sight,” a slurred voice agreed from somewhere in a back corner.
“Shall I give you a peek?” The joy woman’s painted lips curved in a smile.
“I will die happy if ye do!” Slur-voice called back to her. “Happy and hard.”
“Then I willnae deny you.” Giving a throaty laugh, the woman caught her skirts with both hands and slowly pulled apart a hitherto hidden split in the fabric to offer the men a glimpse at the dark red curls topping her thighs.
Madeline gasped.
Iain swore.
He shot to his feet, dragging her with him. “I knew we shouldn’t have stopped here,” he fumed, scowling.
His temper firing his blood, he threw a glance at the door to the kitchen. “Where is the ale-keeper?” he shouted, his attention snapping back to the two men pawing the joy woman’s breasts.
Craven bastards he meant to question Madeline about at first opportunity. He hadn’t missed how she kept glancing at them and there had to be a reason.
One he wouldn’t like, he suspected.
Chapter Sixteen
Iain scoured the Shepherd’s Rest’s common room, looking for the proprietor. He saw only carousers, though he did earn a few owlish stares. Most of the men lining the tables ignored him, their gazes on the bawd as she undid the lacings of her bodice to free the heavy globes of her breasts.
“A plaguey stewhouse,” he muttered, turning away.
And hoping he did so swiftly enough to prevent Madeline from witnessing the woman’s lewd behavior.
“My apologies, lass.” He tightened his arm about her shoulders and kept scanning the smoke-hazed murk for the ale-keeper.
“It is not your fault, and you needn’t worry.” Madeline gripped his hand, squeezing it. “I shan’t swoon. I’ve heard all alehouses are frequented by one or two such women,” she said, glancing at him. “Even fine inns.”
He arched a brow. “Say you?”
“I do.” She dropped back onto the bench. “There isn’t much privacy in a keep, however large. Men in halls talk, especially late of a night when they’ve had too much ale. A nip into the kitchens provides an even greater education.”
“Be that as it may-”
“It simply is.”
“You are a lady.” Iain also sat, but displeasure rolled off him, heating the air around them. “I am at fault. I should ne’er have touched you. To kiss you was unforgivable.”
“It was my wish.” Madeline pressed two fingers to his lips, silencing further argument. “I gave you little choice. And here we are now, come what will.”
Turning away, she looked again to the joy woman. She’d now hooked arms with her newly lured customers – Silver Leg’s men - and was drawing them into the shadowy realm of the common sleeping room, where Madeline suspected she surrendered a portion of her profits for a well-stuffed pallet in a dark corner.
“She is gone now.” Madeline reached for her cup, took a sip of ale. “She will ply her trade out of view, harming none.”
Iain started to argue again, but waited as a serving lass brought them another fresh jug of ale.
“Whether such women are welcomed in an establishment or nae, a lady should no’ be confronted by them,” he said when the lass moved on to another table. “You should no’ be bothered by the knowledge of such affairs.”
“I know of much that weighs on my heart.” Madeline pushed away her cares before they could crush her. “Greater concerns than one joy woman and her night’s trade.”
She sighed.
And wished for the thousandth time that she wasn’t privy to all she knew.
Iain eyed her sharply, his eyes dark with silent questions. His jaw looked tense again, so she smoothed her fingers along his cheek until his face relaxed.
“As I just soothed you, so does the joy woman serve a need,” she said, thinking of Nella.
She drew the borrowed arisaid closer about her shoulders, repressed a shudder. Not that her common-born friend had ever trod as lamentable path as an alehouse whore.
Even so, Nella had known her own sorrows, fetched as she’d been at the first bloom of her womanhood to bear sons for a landed man whose barren wife couldn’t produce heirs.
A faint echo of Nella’s long-ago anguish rippled through Madeline. She shivered and hugged her waist, grateful the years had changed Nella’s pain to numb resignation.
But Madeline’s indignation over her friend’s past had never lessened.
Straight teeth, clear eyes, and robust health h
ad decided Nella’s fate, thrusting her into a life she’d come to accept and even to joy in – until she’d made the mistake of showing too much affection to the young boys she could never claim as her own.
And falling in love with the well-born man whom she still refused to name.
Her admiration for Nella steeling her backbone, Madeline cast another glance toward the sleeping hall. Its low-arched entry loomed empty, but her gift let her pick up the heated blood and carnal arousal, the muffled grunts and rasp of heavy breathing now filling the hall’s shadowy depths.
She turned back to Iain. “If anything,” she said into the hush stretching between them, “such women are to be pitied.”
They should not be scorned.
Nor could she condemn a single one amongst their ranks – not even if she wished to do so.
Hadn’t she, mere moments before, strained against her shadow man’s chest? Known wonder at the hard-slabbed contours of his muscles, evident even beneath his leather hauberk and the folds of his plaid?
Indeed, she’d reveled in the solidness and warmth of his masculine strength, breathed deep of the essence of him – and ached for more.
She’d gloried in his kisses, all but begging him to deepen each one. She’d felt excitement when he’d thrust his tongue between her lips and let it tangle with her own. She’d even wished he’d done so far more often than he had.
Truth be told, she was almost ready to beg him to kiss her again.
Now, this moment. Uncaring who saw. She only needed, her womanly passion thrumming inside her, demanding…
Her breath hitched. “Oh, dear…”
“Aye, most dear,” Iain agreed, his earlier anger gone. He hooked a finger beneath her chin, lifted her face – looking at her as if he could see into her soul. “Dear, and far too sweet.”
“Too sweet?”
“Aye. Leastways for the likes of me.” He took the new ale jug, replenished their cups. “And much too desirable to suffer a life spent behind convent walls, no matter how many bumbling poltroons are after you.”
She blinked. “You knew?”
“My great lacking is my inability to hold my temper. There is no’ anything wrong with my wits.” He gave her a lopsided smile, its very imperfection splitting her heart.
He leaned in, dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Or dare I hope you find me so irresistible you couldn’t help but throw yourself into my arms?”
“If I do?” Madeline blurted, too light-headed to check her words.
“So, good sir!” The ale-keeper swept up to their table. “All is readied.”
Iain turned to face him. “Our room is prepared?”
“None too soon, it would seem.” The man glanced at Madeline, his words and the look leaving no doubt that he’d seen them kissing.
“My husband and I thank you.” She thought fast. “We have only just wed.”
“Ah, well.” The man beamed. “A long happy life to you, and many strapping bairns.”
“We thank you.” Iain supported her explanation. “Regarding our lodgings, the chamber is clean? I’ve nae wish to sleep fully clad. No’ this night, you’ll understand?”
“So I do.” The proprietor used his drying cloth to mop at his glistening brow. “My own wife saw to the tidying. The room is fine as any and better than most. You can see we’re full to the rafters, but you’ll find it well-appointed and” – he slid another glance at Madeline – “private enough to serve your needs.
“More than one freshly wed pair has enjoyed that room,” he added, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve heard only praise for its comforts.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Iain said, sounding pleased indeed.
Madeline could only smile when the man looked at her, clearly expecting similar enthusiasm.
Her heart beat faster than the rain striking the window shutters, so she glanced aside, letting the chill air pouring through the slats cool her heated cheeks.
In the same moment, feminine laughter came from the sleeping hall. Hearing it – aware of its source – sent a rush of nerves down her spine.
“One other matter.” Iain’s tone changed. “The room is no’ used for…” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Nae worries.” The man took a lantern off a shelf and lit its wick. That done, he gestured to a narrow, dark stairway at the back of the room.
“None save quality climb thon steps.” His barrel chest swelled a bit. “All others take their pleasure belowstairs. You, my lord, shall pass the night in a blessed haven.”
“Then take us there.” Iain stood, helping Madeline to her feet as well. “We are ready.”
“An honor, sir.” The ale-keeper nodded, clearly pleased. “Follow me,” he added, and raised his lantern.
Turning, he struck a swift path through the crowded tables, making for the far wall and the spiral stairwell cut into its thickness.
Iain strode after him, his grip on Madeline’s wrist giving her no choice but to follow, her gaze on the looming threshold. Dimly lit by a few sputtering wall torches, the steps wound upward into the shadows. Truth be told, she knew exactly what awaited her beyond the well-worn steps.
If she allowed her passions to get the better of her.
But she wouldn’t.
No matter how much she wanted more of Iain’s kisses. And despite the way her heart clutched at the thought of sharing darker, deeper intimacies with him. The kind they’d enjoyed countless times in her most secret dreams.
Hitching her skirts, she tried to ignore the lurid images. They whirled across her senses, threatening to trample everything she held as right and honorable.
But she climbed the stair behind him, the conflicting emotions inside her waging a fiercer battle with each ascending step.
“Have a care, lass, the stair is uneven,” Iain warned over his shoulder. Releasing her wrist, he laced his strong, warm fingers with hers.
His words almost made her laugh.
A nervous laugh, for he had no idea how much care she was already taking. Even his simple words of caution, spoken in his smooth, deep voice, melted her.
Jellied her knees so badly she could hardly manage the steps, slanting or not.
Feeling trapped, apprehensive, and excited in one, she followed him onto the landing, and the moment she set foot on the creaky wood-planked floor, a cold wave of jitters swept away the last remnants of her courage.
For good or ill, she was about to spend the night with her shadow man.
Candlelit hours alone with the man she’d now styled Master of the Highlands. The compelling man who’d branded his claim on her soul the very first time she’d felt him wrapping himself so warmly around her heart. His own broken one reaching out to her, needing her.
Now…
“That be your room,” the ale-keeper declared with pride, his voice loud in the quiet of the landing. “The last one down,” he added, gesturing to the end of the poorly lit passage where soft yellow light shone from beneath a door.
“You’ll be well pleased.” He started forward, his lantern casting shadows on the walls, each one seeming to point long, accusing fingers at Madeline.
“I’ve nae doubt.” Iain squeezed her hand, but the gesture he’d surely meant to be comforting only flustered her more. That wee physical contact sent little bolts of flame skimming across her skin.
As if he knew, he glanced over his shoulder at her, one brow lifted in silent question.
Was she ready?
She nodded, sparing herself the shame of voicing a lie.
Beyond him, the ale-keeper had reached the end of the darkened passage and was already opening the door to their room. Welcoming light spilled out, its glow banishing the shadows.
Madeline’s heart leapt to her throat.
She gulped.
But then she straightened, put back her shoulders, and braced herself to make the best of what she couldn’t change.
Fleeing was no longer an option.
~*~
The same wet
and windy night, but in far less comfortable quarters deep in the bowels of Abercairn Castle, Sir John Drummond, true laird of the stronghold, drew a wheezy breath of chill, musty air. It was the best he could hope for in his dungeon cell.
He thanked the saints that as a young man, his first act upon becoming laird had been to abolish use of this selfsame hellhole. A cramped and dank niche scarce larger than a garderobe and equally foul-smelling.
An abomination beyond any man’s dignity.
Sir John prided himself on being a just man, a fair and kindhearted one.
And it was his great softheartedness, the lack of steel and fire in his blood, that made him a much-loved father to his people, but a not so notable laird.
A poor leader, were anyone callous or bold enough to speak the truth.
A truth that had landed him in his present predicament and would no doubt cost him his life.
But not his beloved daughter’s.
And for her – to ensure she lived and remained unharmed – he’d draw on the strength of the more stalwart Drummond lairds who’d gone before him.
He’d do so for her, for Madeline. Even though she’d never know. He would. His daring would be his last gift to her, the daughter he loved more than life.
“Speak!” His gaoler, Sir Bernhard Logie, kicked his leg, the pain sharp and fiery. “Where are the jewels?”
Sir John shook his head. “Have none,” he rasped.
“Aye, you do.” Logie kicked him again, this time in the ribs. “English booty. All ken your father harvested riches from the slain English after Bannockburn. Many say he spent days gathering English swords and armor, simply to pry away the jewels. Word is he even cut off beringed fingers, anything to get gemstones – and with the Bruce’s sanction!”
Logie peppered him with the same questions he shot at him every day. “I’ve found your treasury stores, your gold and silver coin, but not the stolen English riches. Where are they?”
Pausing, he considered the fingernails of one hand, his face a tight-set mask. “It will go easier on you if you speak.”
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