“I ne’er kent that,” Jamie replied.
Fiona smiled, reminding Rory of the way a cat smiles indulgently at a mouse that mistakenly thinks he has escaped.
“Did ye ken Indian merchants developed a double-entry bookkeeping system, called bahi-khata, many centuries before Pacioli’s essay?” she asked.
Rory hadn’t known that, but Fiona’s fluttering eyelashes distracted him from coming up with a worthy retort. He’d exhausted his arsenal of what he knew about keeping ledgers.
“Speaking of India,” Jamie said. “Did ye ken there are some species of fish in the Indian Ocean we dinna find in Scotland?”
Rory only half-listened to Jamie’s list of exotic fish, more preoccupied with looking for an excuse to get rid of his host so he could take Fiona captive. Alienating the friendly fellow didn’t sit well in his gut and he certainly didn’t want to manhandle him out of the cottage.
Even Fiona’s noisy shuffling of papers failed to alert her uncle to her impatience with his chatter.
“Uncle,” she finally said, interrupting Jamie in mid-sentence. “Can I ask ye to return to my solar and bring the other papers ye’ll find sitting on my desk? I seem to have forgotten them.”
Rory doubted the veracity of her statement, but she’d played right into his hands.
Jamie frowned as he got to his feet. “Aye. I shouldna leave the two of ye alone, but I suppose…”
Rory stood and ushered Jamie to the door. “Dinna fash. She’s safe with me,” he lied.
Caitlin’s Proposal
Caitlin had an idea for the location of the wedding ceremony. She was certain Shaw would agree, but it was important her father be willing to go along with it.
She sought him out in his solar. To her surprise, he pulled himself out of the armchair in front of the hearth and embraced her. It seemed her near-death experience had sobered him—in more ways than one. No whisky lingered on his breath.
“Sit, lass,” he said. “Are ye feeling better?”
She obeyed. “Aye, but I’ve a favor to ask of ye.”
He sat and reached for her hand. “What is it?”
She filled her lungs, hoping for the best. “Shaw and I have a problem.”
A scowl replaced the indulgent smile, so she hurried on, lest he misunderstand. “We canna marry at Ardblair without offending his family, and our clan will be upset if we wed at Drummond.”
“True enough,” he agreed.
“I want to suggest to Shaw that we ask permission to wed at Stirling.”
A myriad of emotions played across her father’s face as he struggled with the ramifications. “I see,” he growled.
This was the point of no return. Her proposal was the ideal solution, and he had better acknowledge it. Rory had successfully challenged Ian Blair, now it was her turn to assert herself. “Ye understand ’twill be necessary for ye to travel with us to Stirling to apologize to the governor if we have any chance of obtaining his permission.”
His reply took her aback. “I wish Rory would return soon. We must be certain he is in favor of this plan.”
His willingness to recognize Rory’s authority as chieftain boded well. “I’m sure he’s on his way home, but why would he nay support a wedding in Stirling? Is there a more historic place in Scotland to celebrate the union of two clans?”
Her father stared into the glowing peat for long minutes before acquiescing. “Aye. We’ll go on the morrow.”
*
“Stirling,” Shaw exclaimed, spreading his arms wide, not caring if servants sweeping the floor of the Great Hall noticed. “’Tis a grand idea from my brilliant wife.”
He inhaled Caitlin’s scent as she came into his embrace.
“My father has promised he will travel with us to ask forgiveness for his outburst, and I’m sure Rory will agree when he returns.”
A little of Shaw’s euphoria fled. “I canna guarantee the same will hold true for my father.”
“What about Fiona?”
He recalled his sister’s delight at the prospect of being a guest in the historic castle. “I think she can be persuaded.”
“Even if she must apologize?”
“She’ll nay have a choice if Rory and yer father set the example. I think she regrets what happened.”
“I hadna given any thought to Rory’s obligation to apologize, but I suppose he must.”
Shaw chuckled. “’Twill be something to see. Two stubborn people forced to be amicable to each other.”
“I canna even imagine them being in the same room without trading insults.”
“Or blows,” Shaw quipped.
As they clung together, the animosity between his sister and Rory Blair brought home to Shaw how lucky he was. “It seems we fell in love at first sight and the two of them hated each other on sight. Too bad they canna get along. However, after we are wed, Fiona and yer brother will be living a fair distance from each other, so we needna worry.”
She sighed. “I’ll miss my brother. Nairn too.”
“’Tis understandable,” he replied, “but Ardblair is only a day’s ride from Drummond. We can return for visits whenever ye like.”
“I will, for special occasions, but my life is with ye, now.”
“And I promise to spend our lives making ye happy, Caitlin Blair.”
Hostage
The cordial relationship developing between the Blair chieftain and Uncle Jamie caused a flutter of optimism in Fiona’s heart. Perhaps there was a chance of reconciliation with Rory as the new laird. He really was an impressive man.
Her optimism faltered when he didn’t return to the table to continue their lesson. Instead, he walked over to Jamie’s large armoire and began shoving it to the door. It was a hefty piece of furniture, yet he moved it with ease—no surprise given the strength she’d noticed earlier in…
Wait!
“What are ye doing?” she asked, realizing his intent was to bar entry. Her heart lurched. Surely the mon didn’t mean to violate her. She’d judged him nobler than that.
“Dinna fash,” he replied, dragging Jamie’s bed to add to the barricade. “I dinna intend to harm ye. When I see Caitlin safe and sound, I’ll release ye.”
Outrage should have forced Fiona upright, but she feared her trembling legs might fail her. “What can a woman expect from a Blair chieftain? Ye dinna care a whit about my reputation.”
He dusted off his hands and faced her. “I am more concerned about my sister. Ye can understand that.”
The infuriating man hadn’t even broken a sweat while moving furniture. The reality of her powerlessness finally propelled Fiona to her feet. Seething with annoyance, she gripped the table for support, then, screaming like a banshee, launched herself at her captor in an effort to reach the door.
It was a futile act of desperation fueled by the humiliating realization she’d played into his hands by asking Jamie to leave. “I trusted ye,” she shrieked, struggling in vain to be free of the iron grip that held her fast against his chest.
*
Rory had anticipated Fiona’s anger, but wasn’t prepared for his body’s response as she fought to be free of him. He convinced himself it was the natural reaction of a warrior to a confrontational situation, but the truth niggled—this wasn’t the first time Fiona Drummond had aroused him. “Ye canna escape,” he rasped, reluctant to admit he had indeed abused her trust.
He was strangely disappointed when she went limp in his arms. Her body felt good wriggling against his…but such thoughts were folly. She was his enemy, complicit in the plot to steal Caitlin away. He shoved aside the lunatic urge to hold her closer so he could inhale the intoxicating scent of her hair. Instead, he opened his arms and let her retreat to the table.
Gulping air, she glared at him. “Ye tricked us. All this talk of learning to keep ledgers was a plot to entrap me.”
He seemed unable to take his eyes off her heaving breasts as she fought to compose herself. If he didn’t, she might be justified in thinking
…
“Ye’re naught but a lecherous womanizer,” she hissed.
It was too much. “I am nay such thing,” he countered. “I have great respect for women.”
“Pah!”
The reason wasn’t immediately clear, but it seemed important she understand his motives. “And I truly do wish to learn more about keeping ledgers.”
She hurled the sheaf of papers at him, folding her arms when they missed their mark and floated to the dirt floor. “There,” she spat, pouting mightily. “Read for yerself.”
*
Conflicting emotions churned in Fiona’s belly. All her adult life, she’d been careful not to let her guard down. She’d begun to think she might actually learn to get along with Rory Blair, which just proved what a poor judge of character she was.
Men weren’t to be trusted. She’d forgotten that important truth. As a result, she was a prisoner.
She was furious with herself, but the pain in her heart was worse. She’d made the mistake of caring about a man.
She sat down at the table, resolved to bide her time and look for an opportunity to escape. He couldn’t stay awake forever.
A noise outside sent gooseflesh scurrying up her spine. Jamie had returned.
“Is there something blocking the way?” her uncle shouted.
Rory strode to the door. “I’ve a message for yer clan, Jamie.”
Staring at her captor’s back, Fiona saw the tension in his broad shoulders as silence greeted his announcement. He wasn’t happy about taking her hostage. Nevertheless…
“Do ye hear me? Fiona Drummond is my captive, and I canna be responsible for my actions if anyone tries to free her. I willna release her until I see for myself that my sister is safe.”
Another silence ensued, until her uncle asked, “Are ye well, Fiona?”
The genuine concern in his voice touched her heart. “Aye, Uncle Jamie, I’m unharmed. He hasna hurt me.”
“Hear me, Rory Blair. Ye’ve abused the hospitality of the Drummond Clan and the sanctity of my home. If ye harm a hair on that lass’ head, I swear ye’ll die by my hand.”
It had been many a year since Fiona had wept, now tears welled. She’d never thought of her gentle uncle as a warrior, but there was no mistaking the cold fury in his voice. He had considered Rory a friend and felt the sting of betrayal. The feud she’d hoped was over and done had been well and truly reignited.
Where is Rory?
After the evening meal was finished and there was still no sign of Rory’s return, Shaw felt the animosity directed at him by folks gathered in Ardblair’s Great Hall.
Caitlin had insisted her betrothed be allowed to sit at the head table, but he felt conspicuous with Rory’s empty seat beside him.
Ian Blair sulked, grimacing at Shaw whenever he tried to begin a conversation.
His heroic efforts to find and rescue Caitlin were apparently forgotten. “I fear everyone thinks Drummonds are to blame for yer brother’s absence,” he whispered to Caitlin.
“But ye’ve been here with us the entire time,” Nairn exclaimed.
“Sometimes, suspicion outweighs common sense,” he replied, clenching his jaw when Ian Blair lumbered to his feet and loomed over him. He stood and faced Caitlin’s father nose to nose. Behind him, he sensed his bride’s agitation, but hoped she wouldn’t intervene.
“I canna agree to ride to Stirling without Rory. I suspect foul play is behind his disappearance.”
“Ye suspected as much when yer daughter couldna be found, yet…”
Blair growled. “Then where is he?”
Shaw wished he had the answer, but the important issue was to hasten the day of his marriage. “I agree we canna go to Stirling without Rory. I dinna ken what has detained him. I propose we send a missive to the governor explaining our shared desire to lay the feud to rest.”
“What about yer clan? How will ye get them to agree to Stirling?”
“The messenger can go by way of Drummond with a separate missive for Fiona.”
“See it done,” Blair conceded before ambling out of the hall.
Caitlin reached for Shaw’s hand when he regained his seat. “He’s nay used to anyone standing up to him,” she said with a smile.
He chuckled. “Especially a Drummond.”
Nairn’s grin turned into a yawn. “I’m for bed.”
He was pleasantly surprised when she stood and pecked a kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight, Shaw Drummond. Thank ye for bringing my sister back safely.”
“Aye,” was all he could manage in reply.
“I’ll be along shortly,” Caitlin told her.
After Nairn’s departure, they continued to hold hands, watching servants spread fresh rushes for the castle folks who would sleep there.
“I’ll speak to Merryweather about our plans,” he said.
She meshed her fingers with his and leaned closer. “Aye.”
Shaw decided to take a chance. He moved her hand to rest on his thigh, as close to his arousal as he dared. “I dinna want to say goodnight,” he confessed.
His heart raced when she edged her fingers into his groin. “I feel yer heat, Husband,” she murmured.
Given the lust in her eyes, he saw no point in denying his desire. He stood and offered his hand. “I want to kiss ye like a mon kisses his wife, Caitlin, but there are too many eyes watching here. Come to my chamber after Nairn falls asleep and we’ll share a goodnight kiss.”
She nodded shyly, rising with his help.
They strolled out of the hall and up the stone steps to the second floor. He bowed courteously when they reached her chamber. “Dinna be long,” he whispered as she entered and closed the door behind her.
*
For someone who’d come close to falling asleep after the evening meal, Nairn was suddenly infuriatingly wide awake. “Where do ye think Rory is?” she asked as Caitlin emerged from the boudoir in her nightrail.
Caitlin had lingered over her ablutions, expecting her sister to be asleep, but Nairn was sitting up in bed, arms clasped around bent knees.
“I dinna ken,” she replied, turning down her linens. “But I’m sure he’s on his way.”
She worried her lower lip as she climbed into bed, knowing full well there’d be no sneaking off to Shaw’s chamber if Rory was home. Her brother’s chamber was located next to her own.
Scant weeks ago, she’d never have imagined she’d be meeting a man in secrecy dressed in her night attire. Yet, she felt no guilt. The certainty Shaw was her destiny simply heightened the excitement of the tryst.
She yawned, hoping Nairn would do the same, then snuffed out the lone remaining candle. “Goodnight, sweet sister,” she murmured.
Despite the restlessness thrumming through her body, she forced herself to lie still until Nairn’s soft snores reached her ears. “Are ye asleep?” she whispered.
Hearing no reply, she slipped out of bed, donned her robe and tiptoed to the door.
Fine Dining
Rory supposed it was to be expected that Fiona spent the afternoon sulking, with arms folded. She refused to respond to his observation that prolonged silence would inevitably result in boredom.
As the shadows lengthened, the first pangs of hunger swirled in his stomach. A cooking pot half-full of potage hung suspended over the remains of the peat fire in the grate. He dipped a finger and tasted. “’Twould seem yer uncle is a passable cook,” he said, “but the soup has gone cold. I’ll stoke the fire and reheat it.”
As he anticipated, there was no response, but he set about rekindling the flames with another clump of peat and a good prodding with the poker. When that didn’t suffice, he got down on all fours and blew on the embers, sparking them to life.
He got the feeling Fiona was watching him but, when he turned to look, she quickly averted her gaze. “There. We should have a meal ready in a short while,” he declared, dusting off his hands as he rose.
She shrugged, which he considered a small victory, though he wasn’t s
ure why he cared if she responded to him. He’d never had a problem getting along with women; they enjoyed his humor, his willingness to listen. Fiona seemed immune to his charms and it irked.
He hunkered down by the hearth, stirring the pot from time to time. When he deemed it hot enough, he filled two bowls with a ladle and set them on the table, along with two spoons.
Squirming in the chair, she eyed the food as he sat across from her and loaded his spoon. He decided silence was the best option. If he spoke, she would deny her hunger. Eventually, she’d be forced to eat.
The potage was tasty and he had no trouble polishing off his first helping. When he returned to the table with the second bowlful, she scowled. “’Tis theft, ye ken, stealing Uncle Jamie’s food.”
“He invited me into his home,” he countered with a shrug as he looked around, secretly pleased he’d forced an outburst from those pouting lips. “Where does he keep his ale? Entertaining a hostage is thirsty work.”
*
“Ye’re nay entertaining me,” Fiona hissed, frustrated she’d abandoned the resolve not to speak to Rory Blair. “I dinna find ye amusing at all.”
However, she had to admit she’d never seen a man’s backside from the same angle as when Rory tended the fire. It was quite appealing, what with the tight trews and all.
Stop it!
Uncle Jamie’s potage was always hearty and she was hungry, but she’d rather starve than sup with her captor.
Her throat was suddenly as dry as the eastern plains when Rory located a potel of ale and poured it into two tumblers. Watching him gulp down his share, she became fascinated with the movement of his Adam’s apple. “Ye have a long neck,” she said, clenching her fists at her inability to control her mouth.
He chuckled. “So folks tell me. Drink. Ye’ll feel better.”
It made sense to keep up her strength if she intended to escape Rory’s clutches. Her uncle had made the soup, and it was his ale. She had more right to eat and drink Jamie’s victuals than her captor.
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