Lord Keeper

by Tarah Scott

  “Nothing happened,” he boomed, “but if someone does not explain what is going on, something is likely to happen.” He looked at Victoria. “Is there something I should know? Who else were you expecting?”

  Victoria stilled. “Are you saying you did come that morning?”

  He bent down, nose to nose with her. “Who were you expecting?”

  “Not you!” She shoved his chest. Iain fell back a step and Victoria advanced on him. “How dare you?” Clenching her hand into a fist, she hit his stomach. Pain radiated up her arm. She recoiled with a howl. “Now look what you have done.” She rubbed the injured hand.

  “I—”

  “Never do that again,” she growled.

  Iain’s forehead creased. “Tis not my fault you were foolish enough to hit me.”

  “Oh, no.” Victoria shook her head. “This is your fault and more—and you know I am not speaking of that.” She jabbed at his stomach.

  Iain’s glance flicked from his abdomen to Maude. “What in the name of the devil happened while I was away?”

  “Who gave you leave to come uninvited into my bedchamber?” Victoria demanded.

  His head snapped in her direction, lips thinned.

  “Do not think to intimidate me with that look. You had no right.” She threw her hands up and strode to the counter. Palms down, she leaned against the counter, closed her eyes and took a calming breath.

  “Is this shrewish tirade because I visited you the day I left?” he demanded.

  Victoria opened her eyes and caught sight of the bowl containing the beginnings of shortbread batter sitting on the counter. She gripped the bowl edges and looked over her shoulder. “Shrewish tirade? Nay, my lord, you are mistaken. This, however, may suffice.” Victoria spun, bowl in hand. The batter spewed outward. The majority hit Iain in a splattered spray, leaving the remainder in a wide arc across the kitchen walls.

  A collective gasp went up. Iain looked down at the batter blotched across breacan and white shirt, then back at Victoria. His gaze held hers, and her pulse jumped when he stalked toward her. He neared and she retreated. He took another slow step closer and she retreated more, until shoulders met hard stone and he stopped inches from her. With deliberation, Iain took a finger and wiped some of the mixture off his sash. His eyes never left hers as he lifted the finger and put it in his mouth. With a loud sucking sound, he pulled it out.

  “Shortbread,” he remarked. “How fortunate for me you had not added the flour.”

  Victoria blinked. He gave a low laugh and stretched his arms out on both sides of her, trapping her against the wall.

  “If you wanted to share, sweet, you might have asked.”

  He leaned so close his breath fanned her eyelashes. A glint entered his eyes and she belatedly comprehended his intention. Iain rubbed against her, smearing the sweet batter across the front of her dress. Soft contours of her breasts gave way to hard muscle and her nipples tightened. She gasped in surprise. His gaze sharpened. Iain seized her shoulders and yanked her against him, giving her a hard kiss. She lifted a foot with the intention of slamming the heel down on his boot, but he pushed away in time to escape.

  “Now, now, love,” he drawled as he headed for the door, “save something for later. Maude, a hot bath, if you please.” He paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder at Victoria. “Would you care to join me?”

  She started to retort, but Iain shifted his attention to the housekeeper. “Oh, and Maude, if you are of a mind to tell me what mischief you are about, it may go easier for you than if I am left to puzzle it out for myself.”

  His laughter lingered long after he was through the great hall and up the stairs.

  Chapter Nine

  Victoria pulled the tartan close around her shoulders as she slipped from the main entrance of the castle out into the darkness. She hurried across the empty courtyard, then slowed upon reaching the cover of trees. When the grove opened into a small glen, she continued up the hill until, at the top, she lowered herself onto the ground. Like the waters of a shallow pool, the cool grass caressed her. Victoria ran her hand across the top of the velvet cover of grass.

  “No finer refuge have I ever known.”

  She shifted her gaze to the courtyard below and scanned the wall until the outline of the warriors on watch became visible against the moonlight. Those men were the keepers of her prison, yet from the moment she entered the fortress a sense of security had surrounded her that never existed in Richard’s home.

  Unlike the castle they had occupied in England, there was no moat surrounding Fauldun Castle. That seemed peculiar until she learned that the keep butted up against the imposing foothills of the Grampians. An enemy attacking by the south or west walls would be forced to descend several hundred feet of sheer cliff. Victoria could visualize the defeat of any foe foolish enough to attempt the deed.

  That left the north wall—the wall nearest her—and the eastern wall as the two most vulnerable. But even in that apparent vulnerability lie hidden strength. Instead of the customary outer bailey, a second wall had been built within a few feet of the original wall. It took twenty men an entire year to build the wall, but over time it had proven a worthy stratagem. Any enemy able to breech the outer wall found themselves trapped between the two walls, easy prey for the archers, not to mention the wrathful sword of any MacPherson close enough to wield a blade. A shiver rippled through Victoria at memory of having seen such a swordsman at work.

  She lay back and stared at the sky. A balmy, sweet breeze whistled past. Though her sojourn in the Highlands had been but a few short months, she had come to admire the sky that peered down over the rugged land. Even the dark clouds that so often hung above the hills had a fierce beauty. The upward reach of the hills strained as if to touch the heavens. The force of such a union was often demonstrated in windswept storms, which seemed to shake the heavenly regions as deeply as they did the earthly realm.

  Victoria rubbed her arms, warding off a shudder. Just such a storm had flashed in Iain MacPherson’s eyes earlier that evening, though it wasn’t clear at what point the storm had intensified. Had it been when he demanded an answer to the ridiculous question of who might come to her cottage or with his promise to visit her that night?

  The chill in the air deepened. A closer look at the stars confirmed the night was venturing toward early morning. Her jailer must be abed by now. No doubt dreaming of ways to make her pay for having been absent from her cottage when he came calling. Victoria rose and began her way down the hill. Near the bottom, on the outskirts of the path, light spilled from a cottage door. Victoria slowed at sight of the man standing at the entrance but it was the woman who appeared in the doorway that halted her descent. The woman threw her arms around Iain MacPherson. Pulling him inside, she slammed the door shut behind her.

  The scene in the kitchen a few days ago, when the angry woman had confronted Victoria, now made sense. Maude had been convincing in dismissing the incident as the woman’s dislike for the English. But now, the woman’s identity, as well as her purpose, was clear: she was Iain’s mistress.

  Victoria stared at the empty spot where he stood a moment earlier. Anger flashed through her. When he found her cottage empty, he simply sought out another woman. She frowned. There was no logical reason for the surprise she felt. After all, like those lights twinkling down from the sky, a man’s nature was constant. And a man such as the MacPherson lord wouldn’t deprive himself of the silky feel of long dark hair, the curve of full breasts, dusky blue eyes so perfectly set in a beautiful face…or the sparkling welcome those eyes held.

  Victoria startled at the realization that he had needed no other woman in his bed.

  Yet, he took you, nonetheless.

  * * *

  Victoria jarred awake at a soft knock that was followed by the thwarted attempt to open the cottage’s locked door.

  “Lass,” Iain called in a low voice. “Open the door.”

  She froze. What was he doing here? Afte
r seeing him with his mistress she hadn’t expected him to come to her cottage.

  The door jiggled harder. “Is something wrong?” he demanded. “Open the door. I know you can hear me. Christ, the neighbors can hear me.”

  A pounding on the hard wood caused her to bolt upright. “Go away!”

  Silence followed her outburst, then the demand, “What is amiss?”

  The concern that had replaced the impatience in his voice infuriated her. “All that is amiss, my lord, is that you refuse to go away.”

  “I warn you, my lass, open this door.”

  “And I warn you, leave me be.” A prickle of dread ran up her spine when he gave the door a hard push.

  “You best tell me what this is about, woman, or I will fetch an axe and chip away at this door until it splinters into tiny pieces. Then, by God, we will sleep together in that bed until you agree to move into my bedchambers—and I have no intention of just sleeping with you beside me, door or no.”

  Stunned by the outrageous threat, she faltered. Then she remembered he had just left his mistress’s bed. “Do as you wish, sir, but be warned, I will not sleep with you in any bed.”

  Another silence followed and Victoria released a shaky breath at having won the battle. Wood splintered. She cried out and shrank deeper into the bed when a shaft of moonlight appeared in the room as the fur that hung over the window was pushed aside. She stared in horror as Iain hoisted himself up to the window, slung his legs over, and dropped to the floor.

  Maude’s claim that Iain MacPherson was not a violent man ran through her mind. Yet, as he advanced in the darkness, Victoria realized she was trembling. The unexpected weight of his body as he sat down on the edge of the bed sent her rolling toward him and she pulled back. Fear gave way to surprise, then wariness, as she discerned by the shift of the bed that he had reached down to tug at his boots.

  Victoria rose onto her knees, blanket clutched to her breast. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?”

  She jumped when a boot hit the floor with a thud. “You—you cannot be serious. It would not be proper.”

  He grunted with the effort of removing the second boot. “You believe it proper to lock a door against me?”

  “It is my right.”

  “You were not against my coming to you earlier this evening.”

  “I never agreed,” she said.

  “You showed no signs of disagreeing.”

  “You are mad!”

  A low chuckle was followed by, “Probably.”

  “I am no more interested in your company tonight then I was when you paid your last visit,” she said.

  Iain was quiet for a moment, then said in a thoughtful tone, “This visit was not unannounced. That was your complaint?”

  “You do not own me, Iain MacPherson. I am not your possession to dally with at your leisure.”

  “Possession?” Iain shifted and strong fingers clamped around her bare shoulders. She found herself sitting across hard thighs, his breath hot on her face. His mouth came down on hers in a rough kiss. He pulsed beneath her bottom. Her pulse accelerated. Awareness that her cotton chemise offered no protection against his unyielding body sent a shiver through Victoria, and she was sure the wail of the dark storm she had glimpsed earlier moved across her captor’s soul.

  He caught her lower lip between his teeth and nibbled it with just enough force to hold her motionless. A tremor rippled through Victoria. Iain released her. She pushed herself from his lap and scrambled to the other side of the bed, heart hammering.

  “Is that how a man treats a possession?” he demanded.

  Warmth still lingered where his mouth had touched hers, and a ghost feel of him beneath her buttocks caused a quiver in her stomach. Desire? Tears rushed to the surface.

  “I am not your mistress,” she blurted, “or your wife—to take you into my bed when you’ve just come from another woman’s bed.”

  Deadly silence followed. “Nay, lass, you are not.”

  The reasonable tone of his voice confused her.

  “But why do you think I would ask that of you?” he asked.

  Victoria hesitated, then realized there was no reason to withhold the truth. “I saw you tonight…at the cottage.”

  “Ahh,” he said in the same reasonable voice. “Providence has seen fit to punish me.”

  “What?”

  “I was not in her bed,” he said.

  “Not in her bed—I am no fool. I saw her welcome you.” And his reception of that welcome.

  “Love, I did not bed her. I went to tell her I would not be bedding her anymore.”

  Victoria’s heart hammered. “What—that is ridiculous. You—you cannot need me when you have her.”

  “I never said I needed both of you,” he shot back.

  Victoria stiffened at recognizing annoyance in his voice. “It is your right to do as you please…” She trailed off, cheeks unexpectedly heating at the thought of what he might please to do with his mistress.

  “If I did what I pleased, sweet, we would not be talking. You understand, I will have you.”

  Panic roared to life and she backed up.

  “Nay, love,” he said. “I only meant, I would wed you. Have I forced myself on you?”

  Unease rustled inside her at the recollections that question called forth. “You—you took liberties…you forced me to come with you.”

  “Aye, and perhaps that was not the wisest course of action. Still, what is done is done.”

  Had she heard correctly? Was that regret in his voice? “You may yet make it right, my lord.”

  “I intend to.”

  Relief washed through her. “I can be ready to return to the abbey tomorrow morning.” An ominous stillness followed and Victoria realized the miscalculation. “Nay.” She shook her finger in his face as if speaking to a child.

  “Lass.”

  “Nay.” This time the word was spoken in a near shout.

  “I meant what I said,” he interrupted.

  “You said you would make it right.” Tears stung the corners of her eyes.

  “Aye, and I will. With marriage.”

  “I will not marry.”

  “Why?”

  The query was not what she’d expected, and Victoria found herself at a loss how to describe the prison that had been her marriage. “Let me go home,” she insisted. “That is the only way to make this right. Perhaps then…”

  “I think not, love.”

  “Why?”

  A deep sigh came from his side of the bed. “I am certain once out of my reach, you would cheerfully consign me to the devil.”

  “What makes you think it will be different if I remain?”

  “My considerable charm. Do not worry, lass. I will give you time to adjust.”

  “To what, your charm?”

  “Aye,” he answered with an air of gentle regret, “and to the idea of sharing your charms with me.”

  * * *

  Victoria pushed the library door ajar and peeked in. Finding the room empty, she slipped inside and started toward the bookshelves behind the desk. A sound outside the room stopped her. She waited, heart pounding, until the noise passed into a distant part of the hallway. Frustration seized her. A single night had passed since her captor’s return and she crept about the castle like an errant child trying to avoid her schoolmaster. Mayhap he might again take leave of Fauldun Castle. Irritation deepened. His absence left her in no better position than did his presence.

  “Sweet Jesu,” she muttered and hurried forward. “You wanted him to return and your wish has been granted.”

  At the desk she paused, her attention snagged on figures scratched helter-skelter on the top sheet of a stack of papers. She picked up the document, ran her gaze across the page, and realized she was looking at engineering equations. She glanced at the second page and grimaced at the sight of another tangled mess of figures. Whoever made these calculations had rushed through them—or was an idiot.<
br />
  She skirted the desk to the chair, started to sit, then cast a nervous glance at the door half expecting Iain MacPherson to throw it open. Shaking off the feeling, she lowered herself into the chair.

  The discomfort in her neck told Victoria she’d been leaning over the plans of the proposed waterwheel far too long. She glanced at the clock sitting on the mantle. Two hours, and still no success in reconciling the calculations. Someone had made a terrible error—not just one, but several. What sort of engineer made such obvious mistakes?

  She blew out a slow breath, set the drawings to the side, then turned over one of the pieces of paper and began working in earnest.

  It seemed but a moment later when the creak of the door intruded upon her concentration. Victoria looked up and startled at sight of a tall, dark-haired stranger in the doorway.

  His sharp gaze swept over her and her work, then swung back to her face. “Good evening, lass.”

  The soft greeting didn’t disguise the razor sharp mind behind the face, but Victoria quelled the disquiet that quivered in her stomach and gave a gracious nod. “Good evening…” she let the words trail off in question.

  Surprise flicked across his face and Victoria realized he’d discerned her English accent. She glanced past him at the open door, then cursed herself for the wish that Iain MacPherson would make one of his unannounced appearances.

  His expression turned speculative. “I am Johannas,” he said. “Who are you?” But before she could answer, he strode toward her.

  She froze when he rounded the desk and stopped behind her. When he glanced from the papers penned by her hand to the originals, her unease grew.

  He reached past her shoulder and picked up the sheet she’d been writing on. “This is yours?”

  Victoria twisted and met his gaze. He stared, eyes intent on her face. She gave a single nod.

  He studied her. “The MacPherson did not tell me he had an engineer—and a woman no less.”

  “I am not his engineer.” She pushed her chair back in a manner that should have forced him back, but didn’t.