Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  “Then, as your laird, I will select your husband for ye.”

  She was losing ground. "But 'tis the eve of All Souls’. The night to go a’souling. I beg the right to choose my own husband."

  "Your begging goes unheeded. But not your marital status." Crevices creased at either side of his mouth. "You are herewith betrothed to Nob of Glenorchy of the Clan Cameron."

  She gasped in real amazement. This she had not anticipated. She had not truly believed he would give her to Nob. Any of the men— stuttering Patric, wild-bearded Colin, paunchy Macdonald, one-eared Robert of Macintosh, even Jamie—but not Nob. A neat trap Ranald had sprung on her.

  A murmur of surprise rustled among the onlookers. "Why, thank ye, me laird!" Nob cried out from somewhere amid the crowd.

  Ranald nodded, then turned his attention back to her. "However, as your laird, I claim droit de seigneur – the right to bed ye first. Your betrothed will escort ye to my chambers."

  So, she had lost! At first, despair sagged her shoulders. Then she was overtaken by the hysterical urge to flee from the room and its revelers, to run and hide somewhere no one would ever find her.

  A hand at her elbow jarred her. Nob’s broad face beamed at her. ‘"Tis a caring husband I’ll be, Mistress Enya. After our marriage, there’ll be na more heavy work for ye.”

  She tried not to shrink from his touch. Nodding, she managed a "Thank you, Nob.”

  Beneath the low forehead, his little eyes twinkled. “With a bairn in ye, yell need to take it easy," he said, leading her toward the staircase. “Na more hefting firewood and buckets of water."

  “What if 'tis the laird’s child within me?" she demanded, anger replacing her momentary apathy. “What then, pray tell?"

  Nob’s grin displayed yellow teeth, some missing, reminding her of the ghostly neep lanterns lighting the great hall. "Why ’tis even better, mistress.”

  “Oh, God!”

  With much pomp, he ushered her into Ranald’s chamber. She stood just inside the doorway and surveyed her oak-paneled prison cell for the night with apathy.

  Embers smoldered on the hearth, where lay the faithful Thane. A furred spread covered the curtained four-poster. Her gaze darted away. She was unwilling to face its implications. Not just yet.

  She turned back to the troll of a peasant. “Thank you, Nob.” After all, he could not fathom that she would not feel the same pride as he at being selected for the laird’s attention.

  The gruff-looking little man didn’t move. His thick lower lip hung loosely, as if he were unsure what to do next. He couldn’t be thinking about watching what was about to happen—or was that one of those horrible Highland customs, the right of the betrothed?

  "I will await him, our laird, alone,” she said firmly, her smile frozen.

  Nob’s head bobbed. "I’ll return on the morrow to escort ye to your chambers – in time for our wedding."

  "You do that."

  When he had gone, she leaned back against the closed door and shut her lids, shut out all that awaited her.

  If Ranald Kincairn were taking advantage of that barbaric Highland tradition of the droit du seigneur merely to satisfy his lust, she might be able to accept the man with a blank mind. Many a bride with husband selected for her, either by parents or by a sovereign, had done just so.

  But Ranald was using her body for revenge on another. And tonight would not be the last of his imposed punishment upon her; she was certain of that.

  If only she could go back to Afton House and the security it had represented. Now all was about to be changed—irrevocably.

  Her head came up. Hadn’t her mother suffered a similar fate? Then her mother’s daughter could behave no less courageously. She would meet Ranald Kincairn with courage and dignity.

  Chin tilted, she left the comfort of escape the door afforded and strolled around the man’s chamber, as if merely inspecting a guest room. Thane’s ears perked up, those soulful eyes followed her. The collie’s furry neck was ruffled. As if he, too, sensed this was no ordinary evening.

  She stooped to scratch behind the collie’s ears. "So, you, too, are awaiting our laird.”

  Studiously, she ignored the feather bed to wander over to a simple commode of planked pine, where reposed an ewer and basin of water—and a formidable claymore with its blood-rusted blade.

  Common sense told her, she couldn’t even begin to lift the claymore. But, oh, what a marvelous way to split hairs with her captor.

  A bureau bookcase with a drop leaf and small glass panes, most of them cracked or missing, attracted her attention. Empty of books, as she had suspected. If the oaf’s formal schooling went no further than a year at Winchester, she doubted his literary efforts went beyond the rudimentary.

  She bypassed a sturdy chair built in the pattern of an X and fully covered with fringed material of a Turkish design to reach a desk, where a wax candle sputtered. It smelled of honeysuckle. The mahogany writing table with fretted detail on the pediments was of quality workmanship; doubtlessly booty from a raid.

  Then she noticed the open book. A Bible. Wonderingly, she ran her fingers over the thumb-worn parchment pages. The Highland warrior read this? She peered closer at the text.

  He delivers me from my enemies; Surely Thou dost lift me above those who rise up against me; Thou dost rescue me from the violent man. Therefore, I will give thanks to Thee among the nations, O Lord.

  Her eye skipped farther down the page to another passage.

  . . . in them He has placed a tent for the sun, which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber.

  "I see that ye can read.”

  She whirled. Guiltily, she stared at the masked Cameron laird. “Ye knew that I could! Ye knew almost everything about me before ye abducted me, ye did!”

  “Your speech is betraying your nervousness.”

  Tail wagging, Thane padded joyfully over to him, and he bent to pat the collie’s head. Then he straightened, and Thane, content now, trotted back to his guard post before the fire.

  Ranald removed the domino that masked his eyes, tossed it atop the bookcase's drop leaf, and crossed the room toward her with easy grace for such a massive man.

  She held her ground. Would he take her now, without preliminaries? No, his form of cruelty would be more subtle, more insidious. He would delay the act to prolong her torment.

  She miscalculated. It wasn't she he desired, but a pipe.

  He removed a long-stemmed clay pipe from a desk drawer cluttered with more pipes and writing utensils. With a modicum of motion, he tapped tobacco from a pewter box into its clay bowl. As he lit the pipe, he watched her, as if gauging the effect on her of what he would next say.

  "But you are right about me knowing almost everything about you. For instance, I know ye enjoy the pipe yourself. Smoke it when ye think ye are alone.”

  Those three sentences did more to rattle her than anything she had yet experienced. "How long did your men spy upon me?”

  He studied her through the haze of smoke. "Do ye think I would allow someone else to watch your most intimate of activities?”

  Her jaw dropped. "You? You spied upon me?”

  "Gaining entree to your mother’s salons was but a wee thing.” He crossed to the Turkish chair. Sitting, he puffed on the pipe stem, all the while measuring her reaction.

  She hoped her panic was not revealed in her expression; hoped he couldn’t hear her heart's frantic beating. "This is madness!”

  Staring up at her, he held out the pipe. “Care to try?"

  She slapped it from his hand. The clay bowl shattered on the floor. Aghast, she looked from the scattered fragments back to him. When he made no move to strike her she regained a portion of her courage. "You will not get away with this.”

  "And ye will learn to control your temper. Teaching ye will be most entertaining, I think."

  She put her hands on her hips. "You think! Your thoughts are geared for warfare. And that will be your downfall!"

  "Oh?"
r />   "It will be unexpected, because I shall make you fall in love with me."

  Those angled brows flared in astonishment.

  Her statement surprised her also, but she maintained her equanimity.

  A slow smile stretched his long mouth. "That will prove interesting.”

  "You don’t think I could?"

  “Tis highly unlikely. First, as I told ye, I find red hair uncomely. I am not attracted to ye in the least.”

  She wanted to screech at him, scratch out his eyes. She smiled superiorly. And waited.

  “Second, ye are to be Nob’s wife, not mine. I don’t think ye can accomplish your intention in the space of one night. For that matter, not ever. Now, pick up the pipe shards.”

  Her hand jerked, and he warned, "Don't. Should ye strike me, I would have no alternative but to return in kind."

  She sought an unguarded place, hopefully his Achilles heel. "Does not the Bible say turn the other cheek?” she asked, stooping to collect the pieces of clay.

  "It also says an eye for an eye. It is full of such paradoxes.”

  He was a paradox. She would have to unravel this man’s skein of complexities if she hoped to best him. For the moment, she ceded him the battle.

  "‘Never seek a fight,’” he told her. “‘If it comes, step back. It is far better to step back than overstep yourself.’’’

  "From the Bible?” she muttered.

  "No. Tis a Chinese admonition. Ye are shaven, mistress?"

  Her hand clenched. Crimson seeped between her fingers. She opened them and stared at her palm. Tiny welling cuts crisscrossed it. Oblivious to the pain, she looked up at him. "Aye, I am shaven."

  He grasped her wrist. His brows met above the bridge of his decidedly Roman nose. "A bloody mess, ye are."

  He rose, tugging her along behind him to the commode, where he poured the ewer’s water into the chipped basin and dipped her hand. Scarlet swirled the water. Removing her hand, he gingerly probed the cuts.

  “Oh!” she gasped as his big fingers found a tender place.

  He peered at her through his dense lashes. "Tonight, it will be not only your hand that bleeds, I trust."

  Grasping his meaning, she yanked his hand from hers. "You are merciless!” With a swipe of her hand, she toppled the basin of bloodied water onto his robe. Blood red was stark against the robe's white.

  His eyes narrowed, and she could see the faint tightening in the strong line of his jaw. The fact that he was trying to curb his temper granted her a measure of satisfaction. He tugged her by her wrist toward the curtained bed. "Disrobe. Or shall I call the village women to assist ye?”

  She knew he was angrier with himself, the betraying emotions he was fighting, than with her. Yet, she foolishly parried with a goading smile when a submissive word might have won the day. "Do you need someone else to accomplish your purpose, my laird Kincairn? Tell me, how many betrothed lasses have lost their maidenhood to you?”

  "Dozens."

  “You must be proud." Keeping her eyes on the mask that was his indifferent countenance, she said, her expression just as indifferent, “You will have to help me with my lacings, as I have no lady’s maid.”

  “I live to serve, milady,” he taunted and stepped behind her.

  She could feel his warm breath on her nape, and shivered with goose bumps that were from both pleasure and fear. She dared to glance over her shoulder at his passion-darkened face. His fingers fumbled with the lacings. Then with an oath of profanity, he whipped from beneath his cloak his dirk. With the frightening proficiency of a single stroke, he severed the lacings that crisscrossed the length of her spine.

  The back of her gown parted, and she had to clutch it at her shoulders to keep it from sliding off. "A grand stud horse, who lives to serve,” she snapped, “How many brats have you sired?"

  "I may recant giving ye to Nob. Better Simon Murdock endure your waspish tongue, except you will be soon widowed, as Murdock’s life span is due to be shortened drastically.” He circled to face her. Your gown. Take it off.”

  Drawing a breath to steady her inner trembling, she let it slide from her shoulders to puddle on the floor like plucked petals

  “And the rest of your clothing.” His low lyrical voice was fluid, with only the heat in his eyes revealing his inner turmoil.

  With but her ivory satin shift to hide her nakedness, she tugged off, instead her cap. Like a red flag, she let her flaming hair tumble out and cascade over her pale shoulders. Her heart was furiously beating a drum, but she squared her shoulders and said flatly, “Have done with it then. I am tired and desire to sleep."

  He stared at her. "The shift, mistress."

  True, he had seen her naked. Still, peeling off the shift’s straps and letting it fall around her ankles was opening herself to the vulnerability of his unwavering intention that night. The first time he had beheld her nudity had been an accident. This time, what he was requiring of her was a violation of herself that was nigh as painful emotionally as a physical violation would be.

  Slowly, his gaze traveled from her defiant one, to the lower lip she bit, to the pulse beating wildly at her throat, and then to the mass of red curls mantling her shoulders and breasts. After a long, heart-stopping moment he said, "I told you. Your red hair puts me off. Get in bed and go on to sleep."

  Her expression betrayed utter surprise.

  At that, he grinned. "Ye had prepared yourself for martyrdom, hadn’t you?” He pinched out the candle. Only the fire’s embers lit the room. He untied the cords of his robe. When, his hand went to his fall flap, she quickly lay down and rolled to the bed’s far side, turning from him.

  He drew the curtain about the bed, then flopped down beside her and closed his eyes. "I, too, desire sleep."

  She felt like smacking him. Because of him, her energy was running high, her thoughts were scrambled, her nerves were stressed. The warming pan to which she was accustomed at Afton Manor had not been provided here. She was chilled, but because of his weight she could not tug the fur coverlet over her. She rolled back over and nudged his shoulder. "I’m cold."

  He sighed, grabbed one end of the coverlet and wrapped the two of them in it. His much heavier weight created a valley in the feather mattress, and she rolled down and against him.

  Breathing shallowly, she lay ensconced in the curve of his length. Maybe half an hour passed. At one point, he slung a heavily muscled arm across the indentation between her hip and her rib cage. His warm breath fanned her ear. Gradually the coverlet and his own body heat drove the chill from her.

  When, in his sleep, he cupped her breast with one hand, she stiffened. Nothing happened. Then, without her volition, her nipples actually began to harden. She shifted so that her breast was not thrusting into his palm.

  "Sleep," he murmured, his hand slipping down to palm her belly, as if a most natural act between him and her.

  “I can t.”

  He stirred, nestled his head in the pool of her hair. "Why not?”

  "You are touching me."

  He did not say anything, but she knew he was fully awake now. His palm stayed where it was.

  She squirmed. "I canna sleep like this."

  "Then leave me bed."

  "No."

  He raised on one elbow and glared at her. The firelight glinted green in his eyes. "God’s blood, but ye are an argumentative wench."

  She pushed herself upright, holding the covers over her bare breasts. Why she did so made no sense to her, since he by this time doubtlessly knew every freckle on her body. "If I leave now, the people below will know you did not find favor with me. It will make my position just that more untenable in the castle.”

  Then, too, Nob was waiting below. At the moment, he seemed the worse of the two men.

  "God," he groaned and rolled over to his other side. “Stay then."

  She had only to figure out how to stay here— and stay safe until rescue came. Besides, she had a promise yet to keep: to make Ranald Kincairn fall in love
with her.

  * * *

  The south end of Loch Siel was shallow and reedy and, from Kathryn’s vantage point, she could see the garish flats of cluttered fish cages. An old cattle-drive trail passed within sight of the coaching inn. Its view was depressing, with a steady afternoon drizzle and lowering gray skies. Herons stood muffled and miserable on the shoreline.

  Kathryn deserted the single window in her room to pace the red-and-green-plaid carpet. All the while she rubbed her chilblained hands. Since Arch had trod off into the mist earlier that morning the mantle clock had ticked off more than four hours.

  The mantle clock was one of the few amenities offered by the half-timbered coaching inn of Acharacle. The village had little to recommend it beyond the nearby Castle Tioram. The ruins were once the home of the chief of the Clan Ranald, who burned it to keep it from falling into the hands of his enemies, the Camerons, during the 1715 Jacobite rebellion.

  Her concern must have summoned Arch, because at that moment the door swung open. "I may have a lead!” he said, shedding his drenched cloak on the plank floor.

  “Oh, Arch, I’ve been worried. You were gone so long!”

  He slapped his floppy, black felt hat against his knee. Rain droplets splattered everywhere, reminding her of a wet dog shaking the water from its coat. "By accident I found a clue to Kincairn, Kathryn.” He crossed to the fire to warm his hands.

  She poured the fragrant green tea she had induced the innkeeper’s wife to bring up. “So many leads, so many tales, with none having any substantial results.”

  "This one may prove out. An old man, mayhap all of seventy-five years, lay dying along the roadside. I half-carried him, half-dragged him, to a close-by tithe barn. I tell you, the thatched roof was leaking like a sieve. Anyway—”

  "You’re shivering, Arch. Here, let me get you my blanket.”

  He crossed to the wheel-back chair and eased his frame into it “As I was saying, I laid the old man on a bed of straw and covered him with my cloak. I was trying to ease his last moments. Without thinking—I hope to God I don’t burn in hell for this—I began murmuring, administering the Last Rites.”