The Sins of the Sire: Dark Highland Passions, #1

by Emily Royal

  Before he could move, Cardred was on top of him, screaming with bloodlust, eyes filled with murder.

  “Stop this!” he cried. “Don’t you see how senseless this is? We’re not fighting for honour or freedom, but for the amusement of these Sassenach dogs who would take our lands. Give me your allegiance, and we may both survive this day.”

  “I care naught for your lands, Highlander,” Cardred hissed. “We do not own the land: we belong to it. In your world, possession is the province of the man who takes it. Englishman or Scotsman, his lands and possessions will always be there for the taking. I give my allegiance to no man.”

  Cardred secured his hands around Tavish’s throat. Huge fingers, roughened and calloused by years of hard living, curled inwards, cutting off the air. Tavish struggled in vain as the cheering from the crowd grew faint, and the light began to fade, turning everything grey. He closed his eyes to further his descent into nothingness.

  A small voice cried out in his mind. “Tavish! Tavish!”

  Flora! His beloved sister called from beyond the grave. The gentle, sweet lass he had made a pledge before God and his clan to avenge.

  “Tavish!”

  Her sweet face smiled at him, pure green eyes and delicate features surrounded by rich red hair. The colour of autumn leaves in sunshine.

  He would not fail her.

  “Flora!” he cried, and he thrust his knife into the man lying atop him. The grip on his throat slackened, and he drove the knife in up to the hilt before twisting it and slicing his opponent’s flesh. Cardred released his throat, and Tavish withdrew the knife to slice again, but before he could move Cardred took his wrist, tightening his grip until Tavish dropped the knife.

  He rolled to one side, taking the barbarian with him. Unarmed, he had only his bare fists which were no match for the bigger man’s iron-like hands. The chain on his wrist slackened as he rolled towards his post. In a flash, he wound the chain round the other man’s neck, pulling it tight. Cardred’s eyes widened, and he grappled at the metal links, but his large hands could not get a purchase. Twisting and tightening the chain, Tavish gritted his teeth with the strain. Cardred’s face grew red, his mouth contorted in agony but unable to cry out, and he slackened his grip as if accepting his fate. A barbarian, living a landless and loveless life, welcoming the death which was a part of his very existence. Understanding the moment of no return and accepting it.

  “Forgive me,” Tavish whispered before he tightened the chain once more. Cardred’s body grew slack and fell back in the dirt. Dark, lifeless eyes stared out towards the men who took such pleasure in witnessing his end.

  A cheer erupted, the clink of coins exchanging hands as the crowd bayed and roared. These English were supposed to be civilised. They all deserved to die!

  No, not all. The woman beside Allendyne had grown pale, the pallor of her face giving the bruise more prominence. Allendyne reached towards her, kissing her full on the mouth, and she complied before letting him lead her away, but not before she turned her head in Tavish’s direction.

  As his jailer led him back to his cell, congratulating himself on a fruitful wager, Tavish did not know whose eyes were more haunted—the man he had just killed for sport, or the woman who stirred his heart.

  Chapter 2

  Elyssia drew the furs around her and prayed for sleep to come. The sight of two men being forced to fight to the death for Edward’s amusement had sickened her to the core. Her betrothed’s sadistic inclinations had been gossiped about by the servants at de Montford Castle, though swiftly hushed by Mamma. But the seed of gossip always carries the undertone of truth, even though the tree which springs from it may be nurtured by tales.

  What made her any better? Hadn’t she herself been responsible for the death of an innocent?

  A shadow moved across the wall. Someone was in the chamber. Had Edward come to take possession of his marital rights while she slept in her bed?

  Fumbling under her belt for her knife, she rolled over to face the door and the man who had just entered. But it was not Edward.

  The prisoner.

  She sat up, and he took a step back, the heavy metallic sound making her look down. His ankles were shackled together by a short, thick chain. Another, longer, chain secured his wrists. The image of that very same chain squeezing the life out of the huge barbarian flashed in her mind. As if he recognised her fear, he lowered his arms, letting the chain hang limply.

  She swallowed to remove the dryness in her throat.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was summoned.”

  Despite his injuries, he stood tall and proud, his voice strong and true, the musical lilt of a Highlander prickling her skin.

  Determined to show more bravery than she felt, she stood, but he still towered over her. The powerful frame she’d seen at a distance radiated strength at close proximity—she could almost taste it. Hard muscular planes swept across his chest as if sculpted by the Romans of old, as if a living, breathing marble statue stood before her. But not marble; this was a flesh and blood man. The faint scent of sweat and masculinity caressed her senses, sending a pulse of heat through her…

  She drew in a deep breath to dissipate the sensation in her body. As if he understood the effect he had on her, he curled his lip into a slight smile and moved closer.

  She gestured towards the shackles on his wrists.

  “How came you to be a prisoner here, to be condemned to such punishment?”

  He did not answer but continued to stare at her, his gaze discomforting, sending a flush of heat through her veins.

  “Are… are you recovering from your injuries?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “My injuries?”

  “Aye,” she whispered. “What sins did you commit to merit the… the lashes on your back?”

  He moved closer until they almost touched. The heat from his body radiated into hers, tightening her skin with want—but for what she could not fathom.

  She retreated towards the desk in the room, on which someone had placed a tray of food earlier that evening.

  “And the injuries from the… from the fight?”

  His mouth formed a grim line, and his eyes grew cold. “His lordship’s… entertainment?”

  She shook her head. “I saw no entertainment today.”

  He reached out towards her, the faint clinking of metal as the chain swung between his hands.

  “And what of you, woman?”

  Flinching, she shook her head.

  “What do you speak of?”

  “Of this,” he said softly and placed a light hand on her cheek where Edward had struck her. He caressed the bruise with his fingers, the softness of his touch in sharp contrast to the brutality he had displayed in the courtyard.

  “How came you by this injury? What sin did you commit to merit it?”

  Ignoring the unwelcome rush of sensation in her body, she jerked away from his touch, gesturing towards the table.

  “Would you care for something to eat?”

  He did not move, and she picked up a loaf of bread and offered it to him.

  “The toil of the Scots,” he snarled, slapping the bread out of her hand. “‘Tis as Wallace says. ‘The English gorge on the fruits of the labours of our people while our women and children starve.’ ”

  William Wallace—the Scotsman leading the resistance against English rule; the cause of so much carnage.

  The prisoner’s lip curled into a sneer. “I would not touch the food you give me. It comes with too heavy a price.”

  The bitter hatred in his voice matched the anger darkening his eyes.

  “William Wallace is wrong to incite a war,” she replied. “Would you not wish to see our two countries united in peace?”

  “Peace!” he spat. “A mere word which your king uses to define oppression. My people have suffered enough at the hands of yours. We wish for naught but that you return to your own country and plague us no more. I will not rest until every stinking
Englishman has been driven from my homeland. Curse the lot of you!”

  “Mayhap you are savages to curse my country thus. What hope is there for peace if you refuse to listen?”

  “You know nothing, woman.”

  “I have eyes!” she cried. “I saw you kill a man with your bare hands. If that’s not savagery, then what is?”

  Metal clinked against the floor as he advanced on her. The chain between his ankles hampered his movement but not enough to allow her to escape. Before she could move, two strong hands clasped her arms and forced her back against the stone wall.

  Hard muscular flesh pressed against her, trembling only slightly with the barely restrained potency of a powerful animal poised to spring on its prey. Yet this animal had its prey in his grasp.

  The scent of dust, sweat, and man invaded her nostrils as he thrust his face closer. He grasped her neck and tipped her face upwards until she saw nothing but cold green fury staring into her, his forehead almost touching hers.

  A spark ignited in the depths of his eyes, a flash of light in the deep, angry green—a hot flame of desire. The hard muscles of his legs trapped her against the wall, accompanied by another hardness—that of his desire, pulsing faintly against her stomach, sending a spiral of heat through her own body. A sharper scent reached her senses—earthy, musky, and strong. Unable to avert her gaze, she faced him as bravely as she could, even though his fingers curled around her throat. With one movement he would snap her neck in two, yet though he tightened his grip, his thumbs caressed her throat in a delicate, gentle gesture, sending shockwaves across her skin.

  Images invaded her mind—a masculine body covering her own, claiming it as his; hot, strong hands on her skin, his flesh calling to hers; hers responding sending spirals of desire through her body, passion she had only dreamed of as a child; the love a man and woman shared; tales of the barbaric Highlanders taking their women among the heather, bodies as hard as the granite rocks from which the land was forged. Men of the earth, pagan gods.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.

  He brought his face closer until their lips almost touched, her mouth trembling with anticipation; his strong, unyielding. A soft, warm breath escaped, caressing her lips.

  “You should be, lass.”

  He gestured towards his chest, the muscles rippling softly at the movement. “Do you like what you see?”

  She shook her head, but the expression in his eyes told her he knew she merely denied her own desires.

  “Nay, sir, I—”

  He brought his mouth down on hers, silencing her denial. A low whimper of surrender rose in her throat—unable to fight the potency of the heady cocktail of the strength of the male body against hers and her own body’s reaction. She brought her hands up to clasp his arms, drawing strength from him before she pulled away, her mind warring with her body.

  “Please…” she whimpered.

  “You want me, woman. Do not deny it.”

  She shook her head, but the knowledge she lied shone in the depths of his eyes. Unable to control herself, she drew him to her.

  A low sound of triumph rumbled in his chest, mingled with a deep growl of desire, and the musky scent of his need increased. Moving his lips over hers, he covered her mouth with his own before his rough, chapped lips traced a path across her face, leaving a trail of gentle nips before nuzzling her earlobe and grazing it with his teeth, his voice a hoarse whisper in her ear.

  “God or the devil may take me, woman, but I want ye.”

  Grasping her hair, he tipped her face back until their mouths met again. He ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips, begging entrance, gently at first, before becoming more insistent. She parted her lips, unable to withstand the assault on her senses. Accepting the invitation, he plunged his tongue into her mouth, curling it round her own, drawing it back and forth as if in battle.

  Meeting her opponent head-on, she mirrored his gesture and their tongues engaged in a slow, tentative dance as she learned from him, following his lead. Swirling, spiralling, intoxicating passion—a drug as potent as any wine coursed through her, and she drank from him, savouring his masculine taste.

  She shifted her legs, and a burning need flared within her core, compelling her to draw him in. A large hand caressed her arm, moving down her back until it settled on her buttocks, squeezing softly at first before taking her more firmly, pulling her close, his hips moving in a soft undulating motion.

  His body trembling with unsatisfied need, he moved against her, a low growl reverberating round his chest, sending shockwaves through her own body.

  All rational thought was driven away by an instinctive need—but for what? A release of some kind. The need grew within her, swelling as a tide, a great mass of water, forming a wall, higher and higher until it threatened to break…

  A loud crash smashed through her senses followed by shouting and the hiss of blades being drawn.

  “Get away from my fiancée, you savage!”

  The prisoner spun her round to face the newcomers. He pulled her hard against his body and secured an arm round her throat.

  Edward stood in the doorway, flanked by two men, swords drawn. His face contorted with rage and he took a swipe at the head of the man to his right.

  “You fool! You were supposed to guard him.”

  The prisoner tightened his hold on her throat, and she choked against his hand.

  Edward held his hands up in appeasement. “Let her go, Highlander. Killing her will serve no purpose. You are outnumbered, and we will cut you down. Release her and I may be merciful.”

  “You’ll cut me down whether I kill her or no,” the prisoner replied, his voice hoarse, “I’ll not bargain with the English—men who do not keep their word.”

  Elyssia choked again, and the prisoner slackened his hold. She lowered her voice so only he could hear.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, “I’ll protect you.”

  He bent his head down, putting his mouth to her ear where he had whispered of his need of her just moments before. “Why should I bargain with an Englishwoman? You may be more treacherous than your master.”

  She shook her head. “I have a knife concealed beneath my skirts. Take it as a gesture of my good faith.”

  “Are you not afraid I would slit your throat with it?”

  “I do not fear death.”

  “You fear life more?”

  Keeping one hand around her throat, he felt along her waist with the other, his body stiffening on touching the knife. But he did not draw it. He pressed his lips against her hair and loosened his grip.

  “Take him!” Edward roared.

  “No!” Elyssia cried. “Sheathe your swords. This man means me no harm.”

  “I beg to differ, my dear,” Edward replied. “He had his hands at your throat—or do you lust after him?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Edward.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do not play me false, woman. Mayhap I should have offered for your half-wit sister rather than you. If I find you to be a whore, perhaps I’ll take her instead.”

  Alice. At all costs, she must be spared the prospect of a life with Lord Allendyne.

  “I am not playing you false,” she replied, forcing calmness into her voice despite the shiver of fear at the thought of her gentle sister in his hands. “This man only reacted in fear as anyone might when hopelessly outnumbered by a group of lumbering soldiers waving their swords about in a confined space.”

  Turning her head to the side until she met the prisoner’s gaze, she nodded.

  “Release me now. I give you my word—and that of my betrothed—that no harm shall come to you. He pledged to be merciful and will keep to his word.”

  The pressure on her throat eased, and he lowered his arm, touching her lightly on her lower back before she moved away.

  Edward raised his hand to strike her.

  “Don’t touch her!” the prisoner’s voice boomed across the room.

  Edwar
d’s face twisted with rage and Elyssia stepped back. He was not known for a rational nature, nor a forgiving one. The men beside him waited as if anticipating a death sentence. But eventually, his lips curled into a smile, though his eyes remained cold.

  “How amusing. My good lady has found herself a champion.”

  He let out a soft chuckle before gesturing to her.

  “Leave us, my dear.” He turned to his men. “Go with her. Make sure she stays out of trouble.”

  “My lord, do not harm the prisoner.”

  He scowled at her. “I give you my word, my dear. He and I have much to discuss. Now leave us before I change my mind.”

  With no choice, she let herself be led from the room. Whatever Edward had in mind for the prisoner, it could not be good. Fear for him shook through her senses. Did she care for the stranger or was it merely the awakening of her passion? Had he given her a taste of something she now desired?

  * * *

  The woman disappeared through the door, swiftly followed by the men who blocked his view of her retreating back.

  Allendyne closed the door and sat, crossing his legs. He eyed Tavish up and down as if assessing the value of a bull. He seemed to take in everything—the muscle and sinew on display as Tavish stood before him barely clothed in a rough loincloth; the scars across his chest from years of swordplay and battles; the fresh wounds from the lashing administered at Allendyne’s behest; and the iron shackles and chains which marked his captivity.

  Though he had suffered much hardship during his life—winters with meagre food, the loss of his beloved sister, pain and injury in battle—never had he been subjected to such base humiliation as now, to be viewed as nothing more than a commodity, a piece of flesh from which his master would reap a profit.

  Was this how Flora felt at the hands of de Montford, the gentle lass brought to nothing more than bones and flesh, a body devoid of a soul?

  Allendyne smiled, recognising the hatred in Tavish’s expression.