Set title

by O’Donnell, Laurel

  But his threat only earned him the same blank stare Sir John gave him each time he sought to interrogate him.

  Sir John pressed parchment-dry lips together in a show of defiance that, truth be known, required little effort. Just as his limbs withered by the day, becoming too thin and weak to do his will, so, too, did his cracked and parched tongue lie dead as a dried autumn leaf in his mouth.

  “Where is your daughter, John? Where would she go?” Silver Leg began his second assault of asked-daily questions. “Who would harbor her?”

  Ignoring him, John turned his head to the side. He fastened his stare on the narrow air slit cut high in the opposite wall and hoped Logie wouldn’t notice that if the wind caught the rain just right, a strong enough gust could send a burst of fine, wet mist into the cell.

  The moisture John gleaned in that way went far in keeping him alive.

  And miserable though he was at the moment, neither did he want to die. Unlike the Drummond lairds before him, he lacked the courage to look death in the eye and feel no fear.

  “Think you can ignore me?” Silver Leg came closer, nudged his hip with a booted foot. “I see the serving woman brought you a plaid,” he said, leaning down to muss the length of wool Morven had so lovingly tucked around John’s shackled legs.

  “She fretted you’d perish of the cold. I told her she could bring you your own plaid, the one on your bed. She declined because my two greyhounds sleep on it. She said the dog hair would make you sneeze.”

  And Sir John did.

  Just the mention of a greyhound’s coat was enough to set his nose to twitching, his eyes a-water.

  “That bad, eh?” Silver Leg shook his head. “A pity to leave this life without knowing the companionship and loyalty of a great-hearted dog,” he added, his tone softening as he spoke of his pets. “I would not wish to be without my dogs.”

  Sir John kept his face a stony mask. He struggled not to let his tormentor see he’d unwittingly trod upon another soft corner of John Drummond’s heart, for though he could never be around dogs, he’d always loved them.

  “I told the serving wench you’d starve before you’d freeze to death,” Sir Bernhard’s voice turned cold again. He snapped his fingers and a pale-faced kitchen lad entered the cell with a platter of a roasted capercailzie, the large birds so plentiful on Drummond lands.

  Tasty and much enjoyed throughout the Highlands, its tender, savory meat had always been one of Sir John’s favorite meals. Now the dish proved a torture as the delicious aroma filled the tiny cell.

  His stomach almost convulsed with hunger. His mouth would’ve watered if only he’d had enough fluid in his body to allow it.

  Silver Leg beckoned the lad to him and reached toward the platter, tearing away a roasted leg joint. He waved it in Laird Drummond’s face.

  “It would be to your advantage to speak,” he advised, bringing the still-warm leg so close it almost grazed Sir John’s nose. “I know you must be famished.”

  “No’ enough to oblige you,” John wheezed, narrowing his eyes at Logie.

  “As you wish.” Silver Leg yanked back the roasted meat, then tossed it into a corner. There, where he’d signaled the kitchen lad to place the dinner platter, well out of Sir John’s reach.

  Turning back to Sir John, he smiled. “Think hard after I leave. You might see the wisdom of being less belligerent.”

  Recognizing the end of Silver Leg’s torments, Sir John gave in to his weariness and let his head fall back against the slimed stone wall behind him. The effort to hold it upright had taxed him greatly.

  Exhausted, he closed his eyes and wished his sense of smell had lessened as much as his once-clear voice. His hearing also remained good, so he allowed himself a relieved sigh as he listened to Logie’s footsteps fading into the distance. For now, he would at least have his peace.

  He’d survived another grilling. Sir Bernhard had failed to break him.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Answering the bastard’s questions would damn his daughter to certain death. Abercairn Castle did hold a considerable cache of Sassunach jewels. And it was true that they’d been taken with the Good King Robert’s blessing.

  But as war booty.

  Due and just reward for Drummond swords and loyalty at the Battle of Bannockburn, the hero king’s most shining triumph over the English. If Silver Leg discovered the hiding place of such a treasure, he’d have no reason to keep Madeline alive.

  Sir John drew a thin breath, licked his cracked lips. With the exception of him, only his daughter knew Abercairn’s secrets.

  So he kept silent.

  And prayed to every saint and all the old ones to let him live long enough for his daughter to get as far away from Abercairn as her feet could carry her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “So, lass, here we are.”

  “And not a floor-pallet in sight,” Madeline said from somewhere behind Iain, the swish of her skirts revealing that she was already exploring the room.

  “Nae, and praise the gods.” You shall ne’er sleep so roughly again, he added to himself.

  He also frowned at the room’s heavy wooden door, his hands still on its drawbar. He wasn’t keen on sliding the bar into its socket-hole. Doing so would mean locking himself in the chamber with Madeline.

  The last thing he should do – yet his only choice if he wanted her safe.

  At least, the ale-keeper hadn’t lied about the room’s comforts. Beaming with pride, he’d ushered them inside, even patted the bed’s plump feather mattress, again claiming it stuffed with swan down. Iain doubted that. Nevertheless, the bed’s sumptuous dressings and great size made it seductively appealing.

  The entire chamber proved so.

  Firmly latched shutters held back the worst of the night wind and rain, though enough of a draught whistled through the slatting to ruffle the wall hangings and tease the flame of whatever candles had been lit.

  A great branch of them flickered on a table by the bed, along with a platter of oatcakes, honey, and tasty-looking cheese. Two drinking cups and an earthen jug of what the ale-keeper insisted was fine Gascon wine rounded out the tempting array.

  The chamber could have been at Baldoon. Not quite as fine as his own, but similar enough in amenities to hold more than the chill of the stormy night and its shadows.

  The room brimmed with reminders of his past.

  Grim ones dark enough to unleash his demons, even as the undoubted luxuries ripped at his manly restraint. How could he not be stirred by the huge curtained bed, the round wooden tub filled with steaming water?

  Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath. Laced with the smell of rain, the cold night air also held traces of the thyme and meadowsweet someone had scattered across the floor rushes. He also caught a hint of heather.

  Her scent.

  Wishing he hadn’t noticed, he considered the reasons he couldn’t keep her with him. Beyond the silly title she’d given him, he had nothing to offer her. Too many pain-filled memories resided at Baldoon for him to take her there. He also worried that he was somehow cursed. Damned by long tradition to bring grief or death to anyone he cared about.

  How could he not worry?

  The lass he’d hoped to wed before the Council of Elders pressured him into marrying Lileas perished of a fever not long after his wedding. Lileas lost her own life not long thereafter.

  Nor could he ignore another truth…

  Madeline Drummond carried enough burdens of her own.

  He wouldn’t add to them.

  But he might be able to rid her of a few. Hoping so, he slid the drawbar in place and turned to face her.

  “The door is sturdy, and barred.” He paused where he stood, letting his eyes adjust to the flickering candlelight. “Nae soul shall enter. Even so, I’ll have my sword close.”

  “What of us, my lord?” She met his gaze, the slight lifting of her brows indicating she meant far more than how they’d pass the night.

  His l
oins tightened in response for she stood in tantalizing disarray near a brazier of glowing coals. Just as damning – for him – she’d lifted her hands and was unbraiding her red-gold hair.

  “We take our night’s rest.” Iain gave her the best answer he could. “The day was long,” he added, glad he could find words at all. It wasn’t easy as, at the moment, he could think of nothing save how the pulsing red glow of the brazier gilded her tresses and flattered the smooth cream of her skin.

  He’d thought to question her about the ex-voto, pull it from the leather purse hanging from his belt, brandish it at her, and demand an explanation. But he held his tongue, the pounding heaviness at his groin pushing him to the brink of madness.

  He clenched his hands, determined to ignore the insistent throbbing, and hoped she wouldn’t spot the rise in his plaid – just as he strove not to notice she’d discarded Amicia’s shawl.

  His sister’s arisaid lay folded atop a three-legged stool, and the lushness of Madeline’s breasts strained against her torn bodice.

  Nothing but darkness leaked through the shutters, but the brazier and candles cast enough illumination to clearly define all the curves and dips of her delectable body.

  Especially her breasts.

  Iain cursed beneath his breath, molten heat running through his veins. His only salvation was that she hadn’t yet removed the two brooches holding the gown together.

  Damaged as the bodice was, he could already see more than half of one coral-tipped nipple peeking through a tear in the cloth. He stared at it, his blood turning ever hotter as the tempting areola drew tight, crinkling beneath his gaze.

  Lust slammed into him, his need deepening to a fierce urge to ravish her. But his conscience chided him, warning him to look aside. How sad that he couldn’t.

  She stood before him bathed in shifting patterns of soft golden light, her hair unbound, the gleaming waves tumbling to her hips. Her beauty and something else – a deep, elemental ache – held him in her spell, searing his soul.

  She peered at him just as intently, wearing an expression the bards would surely call haunted longing. The look wreaked as much havoc on his heart as her body let loose on his nether parts.

  “We have dallied.” She broke the silence. “I do not wish to hurry you, but the hour grows late,” she added, glancing at the wooden bathing tub.

  Steam rose off its heated water, curling wisps fragrant with bay leaf, rosemary, and another pleasing scent he couldn’t identify.

  She looked back at him. “We are both tired, and the bathwater will not stay warm overlong.”

  “To be sure,” he said, turning to the brazier, holding his hands toward its warmth.

  He was an arse. He’d meant to say that the two louts belowstairs who’d seemed so interested in her wouldn’t stay in place long either. Their path would be cold by first light unless they were daft enough to linger after seeing her in his company.

  To be sure, indeed.

  The lass robbed him of his ability to control his attraction to her. He couldn’t even form coherent sentences. In short, she rendered him a fool.

  A bluidy, lust-crazed oaf.

  “Sir?”

  “Aye?” He whirled around, away from the softly hissing brazier.

  “The bath…” She kept her gaze on his as she combed her fingers through her hair, loosening whatever travel-tangles might’ve found their way into the glossy, red-gold waves.

  “What of it?” Iain hoped she couldn’t tell that he burned to feel the cool silk of her hair sifting through his own hands. Before she could guess, he glanced at the steaming water. “The bath is well readied. I will give the ale-keeper an extra coin for his trouble.”

  “That is good of you.” She, too, slid another look at the tub. “He even added a lining. But…” She clasped her hands before her. “I am wondering which of us should bathe first?”

  “You, sweeting.” This time the words fair shot from his lips. Not at all ashamed of his nakedness, he was alarmed at its current state.

  Nothing under the broad, starry heavens could persuade him to remove a shred of clothing until his damned manhood no longer resembled a tent pole.

  His plaid in particular was staying right where it was.

  “I do not mind waiting if you’d rather go first,” she offered, apparently forgetful of how much her ruined bodice displayed. “I can even assist you. I often helped my father’s guests with their ablutions. You will know ladies are accomplished at hospitality. Such duties come often, so I am not shy.”

  She smiled, proving it. “I offer gladly.”

  “Nae, nae, nae.” Iain raised his hands, palms facing her. He couldn’t bear it if she bathed him, touched him so intimately.

  He’d also spill, shaming himself for all his days.

  “Just see to yourself.” He couldn’t believe how close he was to the verge. “Enjoy your soak and I will prepare the sphagnum moss tincture I promised you.”

  “You will keep your back turned?”

  “Aye, so I said,” he reminded her. “You needn’t fash yourself, lassie. I ne’er break my word.”

  “Nae, I imagine you do not,” she said, seeming to accept that.

  Relieved, Iain strode to the end of the bed where his travel satchel rested atop an ironbound coffer.

  He also kept his promises to himself. That meant he’d address unanswered questions this night. And he’d do so even if his unruly tarse grew so rigid it snapped in two.

  Figuring he deserved such a fate, he undid the fastenings of his satchel and searched through its depths until his fingers closed around a small silver flask.

  Uisge beatha.

  Fine Highland spirits.

  He went to the table by the bed and filled one of the cups with a wee measure. He’d meant to offer her the fiery drink to soothe her nerves and take the sharp corners off any edginess she might feel upon being alone with him.

  Now he needed the potent brew.

  Crossing the room again, he handed her the cup. “Drink,” he said when she hesitated. “‘Tis uisge beatha.”

  “That I know.” She glanced at the cup, then back at him. “It’s strong. I can smell it.”

  “You need strong. Now drink.”

  She took a small sip.

  “Gads!” She thrust the cup at him, her face turning bright pink, her eyes watering.

  “More.” Iain pushed the cup back toward her. “It is potent, I know, but finish it. The heat it brings will lessen the ache in your muscles,” he improvised, the half-truth smearing another layer of dirt onto his honor.

  To be sure, the drink would relax her body. But it was the loosening of her tongue that concerned him.

  Feeling unworthy of the fancy title she’d bestowed on him, he took the empty cup from her and returned to the bedside table where he’d left the flagon.

  He poured himself a much greater portion and downed it in one throat-burning gulp.

  And a good thing, for when he turned back, she was working the clasp of his cairngorm brooch, trying to undo its pin with trembling fingers. Iain almost shook, too, a sick feeling spreading through his gut.

  He knew what was coming.

  And though he wouldn’t have believed it, that part of him sprang even harder. Granite hard and so much so, even his plaid could no longer be counted on to shield his deplorable condition.

  “Oh, bother!” She looked at him, her eyes glittery from the uisge beatha. “I cannot undo the brooches,” she said, just as he’d dreaded she would. “You must help me.”

  Iain’s heart dropped. Or would have if such a thing were possible.

  Either way, he suppressed a groan and started forward. And he hoped with every step that her gaze wouldn’t dip below his waist.

  He reached her in a few quick strides, the wild beat of his MacLean heart hammering in his ears, its thudding rivaled the night’s thunder and the pounding of the ceaseless rain.

  “Nae worries.” He set his hands to the brooch. Quickly, before he could
heed his better judgment and whirl away to sleep outside the chamber door.

  “I shall help you every way I can,” some still-there shadow of his honor added, the gallant-sounding words at war with the turmoil inside him.

  Save that he did wish to aid her.

  But who would help him?

  Not a damn soul, he answered himself as the clasp sprang free, his own cairngorm brooch dropping into his palm.

  “Thank you,” she said, a tremor in her voice.

  “A pleasure, lady.” He managed a smile. “I could no’ have done otherwise – lest you wish to bathe fully clothed.”

  He flinched at the images conjured by his words, cursed himself for splashing them across his mind. He also fisted his hands so tightly the pin clasp jabbed him.

  Clamping his teeth, he ignored the pain. In truth, he welcomed the distraction from the growing urge to push apart the edges of her torn bodice and thrust his face deep in the softness of her breasts.

  Or at the very least, pull her into his arms and kiss her again.

  But he just kept his jaw set and lowered his hands before his fingers could brush against the creamy silk of her bared skin even one more time.

  Then he eased the pin from the fleshy part of his palm as unobtrusively as he could.

  But maybe not inconspicuously enough, for her eyes narrowed, and something in her expression told him she knew exactly how wide her bodice now gaped.

  How much it revealed.

  Not all, but enough of her sweet bounty to buckle his knees.

  “Are you unwell?” She frowned, the gold flecks in her eyes deep amber in the candlelight. “You look pained.”

  “I am tired.” He was, but also stunned by the earthy, intimate things he wanted to share with her.

  Worse, he’d been hit by recognition, and an irrefutable sense of rightness.

  Belonging.

  “If you are sure,” she said, doubt in her eyes.

  “I am.” He forced a smile. “Weariness is all that plagues me.”

  And it was true.

  But he was not exhausted from the road. He was tired of fighting the urge to draw her into his arms. Not just for more heated kisses, to run his hands over her warm and silky flesh, to sink deeply into her, truly claiming her. He burned for that and more. Above all, he wanted to tell her who she was and what they were to each other. If the MacLean bards were to be believed, she’d belonged to him, and he to her, since time beyond mind.