Not one to turn down an offer, he fastened on his most charming smile and lifted a brow in question. In answer, the woman placed a hand on his shoulder, letting her fingers trail across his back as she moved on to the next guest. And as simple as that, he’d have a willing woman to warm his bed later, if he felt the inclination.
He took a moment to admire the curve of her backside as she sauntered away. The swing of her rounded hips promised an entertaining eve ahead. Grinning to himself, he shifted his attention to Mairi, who did not bother hiding her disgust.
“What’s the matter with you?” she whispered in a furious rush. “You’re being a rude arse.”
Her frank words struck a chord of humor in him, and a peal of laughter slipped out before he could recall the sound. At once, he became painfully aware the hall had grown silent. He stifled his amusement and darted a glance to the head of the table, only to meet Fraser’s daunting stare. Liam opened his mouth to offer an apology, but Fraser lifted a hand and motioned his way.
“Ah, Liam, you’ve reminded me of my next manner of business.”
The faint gleam in the old man’s eyes boded ill for Liam. The hair along his arms rose, and his heart drummed a swift beat.
“I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought and consideration as of late.” Fraser lifted the back of Elena’s hand and placed a lingering kiss on her wrist. “As you are all aware, I’m gaining in age and the truth is, I know not how many years I have left in me. That being said, I wish to reserve what time I do have for my beautiful bride.”
A clamoring of cheers did naught to dampen the unsettling twinge mounting in Liam’s gut. In fact, he wavered on the edge of full-blown panic.
Fraser lifted his hand to hush the crowd. “I’ve decided to step down as laird of this clan.”
All noise throughout the chamber ground to a halt, the piercing silence boring in Liam’s ringing ears. Despite capturing the hall’s full attention, Fraser had yet to remove his firm stare from Liam.
He held his breath as dread sank like a massive stone in his belly.
“Now that Elena and I are wed, ’tis only fitting to choose one particular man for the task.” Fraser flourished his arm. “Before you all, I name Liam MacGregor as my successor and heir.”
Shock held Liam immobile as a weakening numbness sped through his limbs. He fumbled with the full tankard of ale in his hand, lost his grip, and dumped the contents over his tunic and braies.
*
A short while later, Liam stood in Fraser’s solar before the hearth, willing the flames to hurry and dry his sodden clothes. Since he’d entered the small confines a half-hour ago, his mother and her new groom sat mute behind him as if they sensed he needed time to recover from his upset. And rightly so, but it would take more than a few quiet moments before he comprehended Fraser’s ridiculous decision.
Of all the blasted things the uncouth, old man might’ve said, Liam had not anticipated that. What was the daft fool thinking, naming him heir? And why the hell had Fraser not approached him with the matter first? He would’ve spared the man the trouble by flatly refusing the position.
By the Saints, he was Liam MacGregor—pleasing on the eye, confident with his sword, full of jests, and he could damned near charm the skirts off any woman. What the devil did he know about leading a clan? And more importantly, why should he want to?
Sure, he understood the workings of running a keep as well as the next. That did not mean he had any desire to run one of his own. Nor did he wish to accept the burden of ensuring the safety and welfare of a clan. ’Twas not in his disposition to lead any man, much less an entire group of people.
He preferred the carefree, audacious side of himself he presented to everyone. He’d learned at an early age no one demanded a thing of him in that capacity. His life was simple, unfettered—the way he liked it. Why should he wish to change?
Damn Fraser. First his mother, now this.
He lifted a hand to rub at the persistent dull ache in his temple. Christ, why had he not missed his mother’s wedding altogether as planned? He would’ve favored her anger or tears to dealing with this steaming pile of dung heap.
Liam gave up trying to soothe the pain in his head and dropped his arm to swipe at his damp braies. The thick buckskin clung to his thighs. To hell with it. Thoroughly vexed, he spun around, crossing his arms over his chest, and studied the pair through narrowed eyes.
Rather than meet his gaze, Elena Fraser watched the flickering flames in the hearth behind him while she plucked at the sleeve of her gown. Candlelight gleamed off her soft graying-blonde hair. Unlike his new bride, Fraser met his hard stare with one of his own. Calm and composed, the blasted old man slumped in his high-backed chair, stroking his bushy red beard streaked with white, as he patiently waited. That only served to anger Liam even more.
“Are you barking mad?” Liam’s bellow resounded throughout the solar.
His mother flinched and twisted her fingers in her lap. Not removing his stare from Liam, Fraser reached across to settle a hand over his bride’s in a bid to soothe her.
The laird shrugged. “I am no more addled in the head than you are.”
“Liam, I…we….” His mother’s fretful gaze darted to her new husband.
Fraser patted her hands. “I’ll handle this, love.”
Obedient, she nodded and crushed his hand between hers.
Astounded, Liam merely gaped at his mother. What the devil was the matter with her? Any other time, she wielded a tongue shaper than a dagger. But now she sat there, meek and mild, submitting to husband’s commands—the very same woman who’d cursed him to hell on more than one occasion.
Irritated, Liam slashed the air. “There is naught to handle. I refuse. ’Tis as simple as that.”
Fraser shook his head. “You’ll reconsider.”
“I shall not,” he shot back. “You’re daft if you believe I have any desire to lead your clan, and even dafter if you imagine your clan would wish me, an outsider, to lead them.”
“’Tis no matter.” Fraser waved away his words with a flick of his hand. He paused long enough to cast a measured glimpse at his wife. With her faint nod, he returned his gaze to Liam. “They’ll accept you because you are one of them.”
What was the foolish man on about now? “And how did you arrive at that conclusion?”
For long moments, silence stretched across the stifling air in the chamber. He looked from one to the other for answers, but neither Fraser nor his mother breached the strained hush.
At the end of his tether, Liam demanded, “Well? Speak.”
His mother bit her lip before expelling a rush of garbled noise it took him a moment to decipher.
“He is your father, Liam.”
Stunned, he rocked back on his heels, downright astounded by the admission. In a blinding flash, a flush of anger shook him from his stupor.
“What utter shite! How dare you insult the memory of my father, Robert MacGregor, with such a sickening jest?”
“I would never defame Robert in such a savage manner,” she angrily retorted. Her chin trembled as she spoke. “I vow I speak the truth.”
Tears streamed down her pale cheeks, but she held her head high, her sorrowful gaze beseeching him to understand.
Rooted to the floor while his heart hammered against his ribcage, he studied her troubled face, searching for the barest hint of deceit, for a sign—anything—that might wash away the dawning horror. Alas, naught else but the wretched truth reflected in her shining blue eyes.
Hammish Fraser was his father.
At once, the ale in his stomach soured, and he swallowed down the violent urge to retch. Head as light as a feather, he wavered on weak knees and grabbed ahold of the timber mantel for support. After several steadying breaths, he managed to scrape together a sliver of his frayed composure. The fog of disbelief lifted and the situation became glaringly clear.
Liam focused on his mother, who slumped over cupping her weeping face in h
er hands. For once, mercy failed him. Naught but betrayal burned in his chest, incinerating him from the inside out.
“Let me guess.” He jabbed an accusing finger at Fraser. “He bedded you but would not wed you. And what of my father? Did you tell him you carried another man’s bastard? How long before you spread your legs and ensnared him with your deceit?”
“That’s enough!” Fraser jumped to his feet. “You’ll not insult your mother again or—”
“Or what?” Liam spat out. “You’ll disown me? Have me tossed from your hall?” He threw his head back and laughed at the absurdity. “Let me spare you the trouble.”
His mother lifted a hand toward him. “Liam, please. Let me—”
“Nay,” Liam roared, unwilling to listen to her fumble an excuse.
He’d heard enough to last the rest of his life—a life which had been built on naught but lies and deception.
Christ, he had to get the hell out of there, out of the keep, and as far away from the pair as possible. He spun on his heel and marched to the entrance. With his hand on the latch, he paused long enough to glare over his shoulder.
“The two of you deserve each other more than I could’ve ever imagined.”
“Liam!”
The slam of the wooden door smothered his mother’s tearful cry. Anger propelled him down the torch-lit passageway at a furious clip. Disregarding the prying eyes in the great hall, he swerved for the buttery off the side of the kitchens.
He stepped into the dank storage chamber and scanned the shelves until he located just what would knock him on his arse and make him forget the past half-hour. At least for the eve, until he rode for home on the morrow. He hoisted a small dram of whisky beneath his arm and fled through the hum of activity in the kitchens toward escape.
Just before he reached the rear doors, the blonde serving wench from the great hall caught sight of him and darted over to grab the sleeve of his tunic. She pressed in close to his chest, her smile widening with invitation. “Do you require aid, my lord?”
Earlier, he welcomed her attentions. But now, he simply wished time alone to welter in his misery.
“Nay.” The gruff refusal did little to deter her.
Leaning closer, she tightened her grip, sinking her nails through the thin linen of his tunic and into his skin. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Are you certain there is naught I can do for you?”
Another time, her boldness might’ve impressed him. But in his present foul mood, the sight of the overconfident wench repelled him. Applying a firm glare, he shook off her hold.
“I said nay. Was that not simple enough for you?” The snarled words had the desired effect.
The maid’s head snapped back as though he’d slapped her, and her arms fell limp at her sides. Anger bled through her surprise. Hate and derision twisted her features which prompted him to question what, exactly, he had found comely about the woman before.
“You’ll regret that.” The wretched wench spun away and stormed from the kitchens.
Damned women. Were the blasted creatures determined to destroy him?
Rolling his eyes, Liam adjusted the cask under his arm, snatched a tankard from a table near the rear doors, and stepped out into the cool night air. No matter how far he walked, noise from the great hall resounded throughout the courtyard, closing in around him. Was there no blasted escape?
Abandoning any prospect of solitude, he dropped onto his knees beside a grain wagon in the outer bailey and placed the cask and goblet in front of him. He grabbed the dagger sheathed at his side to ply the cork from the dram and then poured himself a healthy dose of whisky. Drink in hand, he sank down to the cold, hard earth and leaned against a wagon wheel. He stared at the clear, star-filled sky overhead while he attempted to sort through his cluttered thoughts.
At least one thing made far more sense—his mother’s contempt of Fraser.
Damn, how had he not seen it sooner? He swallowed a mouthful, savoring the deep burn in his belly.
What the hell was he to do now?
How could he bear to look upon his mother or Fraser again without feeling the sting of betrayal?
And what of his father?
Had Robert MacGregor known the truth—that his wife carried another man’s bairn? Or had he gone to his deathbed without the knowledge of her deceit?
How could she? Hell, how could Fraser?
Liam remembered numerous times he’d spent with Hammish Fraser—years of training in his youth, dining in his hall, trading ribald jests—all the while the devious cur knew he sat in the company of his own damned son.
To hell with it.
Liam tossed back his tankard of whisky, draining the contents. He swiped his sleeve over his mouth and poured another goblet full, intent to lay the troubled thoughts in his head to rest for a few blessed hours. The morrow would come soon enough, and he’d have no choice but to deal with his mother’s treachery whether he wished to or not.
Chapter Two
Venora Fraser tugged the shawl tighter around her middle and cast a quick glimpse over her shoulder to the safety of her small, quaint cottage she left behind. Laughter and shouts from the banquet cut through a swath of stillness in the surrounding village. Following the clamor, she quickened her pace along the cottage-lined trail through pockets of darkness.
Her hastened steps thudded over the heavy planked timber bridge at the front of the settlement. At a clipped pace, she headed for the torch-lit path winding to the inner courtyard and keep.
When she approached two guards posted at the outer gates, both called out affable greetings. Nora spared a reluctant nod as she stomped into the courtyard. After two hours spent worriedly pacing the small confines of her cottage, waiting for her younger brother to return home from the banquet, she lacked a cordial bone in her body.
Unbearably vexed suited her present mood.
By the Saints, why had she allowed him to attend the feast in the first place? So what if Geordie accompanied him? She could not trust the old man any more than she could Will.
How could the pair simply disregard her fears and apprehension? Especially after everything the three of them had been through. They knew how she worried—how she would always worry. Yet, Will and Geordie seemed to have forgotten their pasts, but never Nora.
She’d never forget, nor could she shake the uneasiness that hounded each day of her life. Regardless of Fraser’s protection, a dark thundercloud hung over her and Will, shadowing their every steps. Even after five long years, the sense of restlessness never quite abated. And she doubted if it ever would.
Determined to reach the keep and find her brother, Nora rounded the corner, entering the inner courtyard at a brisk step. A few hundred yards away, the front of the keep stood like a beacon in a starless night’s sky. Continuing along the path, she rounded a grain wagon and smacked into a substantial mass.
Nora stumbled backward, her feet tangling in the hem of her gown, and lost her footing. She gasped and expected to fall to the hard earth, but a strong pair of hands shot out to catch her by the shoulders. Her heart slammed in her throat and the breath fled her lungs in a sharp rush of air. Her gaze darted to the stranger’s face.
For several long moments, Nora stood rooted to the ground at her feet. She could not say why, but the handsome figure snared her attention. Torchlight bathed his flawless features in warmth and glittered on the thick waves of his golden hair. A careless lock rested against his forehead, and she longed to raise her hand to smooth the hair in place. Her lips parted in surprise with the unbidden thought. At a loss for her sudden reaction, she merely gazed into his shining blue eyes, while the corners of his mouth lifted with a sinful grin.
“I have you, my lady.”
The smooth cadence of his voice drifted to her ears at the same time the stench of whisky assaulted her nostrils, shattering the fleeting enchantment. The lout was sotted.
Swallowing her irritation, she pressed against his shoulders. “Thank you, my lord, but you ma
y release me.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled with merriment. “Are you certain? I’m rather comfortable with you in my arms.”
“What?” Nora blinked in confusion.
Leaning in closer, he breathed a gusty sigh that left her swimming in an odorous cloud of whisky. “I said you feel comfortable in my arms.” The man practically shouted in her face. “Do you not agree?”
“Nay, I do not.” Nearly choking from the smell, she shoved against his chest. “Unhand me, you knave, or you shall regret it.”
Brows knitting together, he peered over her shoulder. “’Tis not the first time I’ve heard that this eve.” He settled the twin jewels of his blue eyes on her once more.
“Mayhap, you should not make a habit of waylaying women,” she suggested with a scowl.
“Nay, of course not. I merely…” Frowning, he paused as if he’d forgotten the rest of his words. “Tell me, what is your name, lass?”
Leaning as far away from the man as she could, Nora wondered how much of the blasted dram he had consumed. “It matters not. Now, release me.”
“You know,” he started as a wicked grin eased over his striking features, “your scowl’s every bit as charming as those dark eyes of yours.”
Caught off guard, she gawked at the man for several heartbeats. Once she found her tongue, she opened her mouth to cut him with a harsh rebuke, but the fool slanted his mouth over hers, robbing her of words.
As swift as lightning, outrage stripped away her momentary stupor. ’Twas not the first time a deceitful rogue attempted to steal a kiss, but she’d make certain this one regretted the forward action. When his tongue slipped past her parted lips, she swallowed back the urge to retch at the foul taste of whisky, and bit down. He tore his face away from hers, leaving the salty tang of his blood in her mouth.
“What the devil?” He grabbed his tongue between his thumb and forefinger. “Why’d you do that?”
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