Fergal snorted derisively at the suggestion, insisting that the widow was too fair to be a witch. There had been a lively argument between Maggie and Fergal, with Rob a weary spectator. The two of them scrapped like dogs over a bone most of the time, bickering about trivial events nearly as much as they did the more serious matters like witches.
Stretching his long legs toward the fading fire, Rob watched the flames through narrowed eyes. Witch or not, the woman provoked an odd mix of emotions in him, an aversion and fascination. He recalled too well the elegant turn of her head and those gleaming green eyes like a cat’s that had regarded him with what he’d recognized as hope. Or perhaps accusation.
Another sip of whisky burned down his throat into his belly. He regarded the cup with a bitter twist of his mouth.
I should have been with them. . . .
The familiar refrain exploded inside his head with all the force of crashing thunder. He flinched from it. It would have made little difference if he’d been with them, only one more death.
He knew it. Fergal knew it. Only Angus Campbell refused to believe it. The auld laird was like a wounded bull since his return, snarling and bellowing at any unfortunate who crossed his path. Accusation hung in the air when he looked at Rob. He hadn’t said it aloud again, but it was in every glance, every movement.
Glenlyon should have been with them.
Even though logic and Fergal reassured him that he would have only died with his brothers, Rob could not help but agree with his father. He should have been there.
Pain pounded in his skull, a steady throb that never seemed to ease. Not even whisky relieved it.
“D’ye intend to drink yerself into oblivion again?”
Rob looked up with a rude reply on his lips, but it died in the face of Fergal’s pained regard.
“Aye, if I can,” he retorted and lifted the cup. “Slainte.” He drained it and looked back at the fire.
“Health, is it naow. No’ good health, I warrant. ’Tis no’ like ye—ye’ve never been a drunkard.”
“Perhaps I’ve become one now.”
“I’ve always thought drunkards were cowards afraid tae face life. Is that wha’ ye’ve become?”
Rob’s hand tightened on the empty cup. “That seems to be the general opinion now.”
“I’ve heard no one say it.”
“There’s wisdom in knowing when to keep your mouth shut.” He waggled his empty cup in an ironic salute. “Only Lochawe dares make his judgment plain.”
Fergal fell silent. His gaunt face closed. When he spoke, his tone was even.
“A messenger from the village brought word from Clan Caddel. There’s to be no ransom o’ the widow unless the bairn goes wi’ her.”
“I’m not surprised. What did my father think? That they would welcome negotiations?” Rob set down his cup. “I find it amazing we haven’t yet been attacked and sacked.”
A shrug lifted Fergal’s shoulders. “The Argyll wa’ granted authority by the king to arrange a marriage for the wee heiress. ’Tis his right, and a certainty Clan Caddel knows tha’ well enough.”
“Even more certain that Argyll covets Caddel lands more than he does the hand of the little heiress.”
“’Tis the way of the world, lad, but tha’ is not why I ha’ come to ye. Ye’re to talk to the Sassenach and learn wha’ will earn her ransom from Clan Caddel.”
“Am I.” His brow slanted upward. “I prefer that you do it, Fergal.”
“It’s no’ my place. As the next laird of Lochawe, ’tis yer task.”
Rob stiffened. The next laird . . .
“It is not required that I be laird after my father,” he said and rose to his feet in an impatient surge. “I am laird of Glenlyon. He will name whomever he chooses when the time comes. Kenneth left sons behind.”
“Nay, lad,” Fergal said when he turned away, “’tis you he will name to succeed him here. Ye must know tha’.”
Rob turned back to glare at him. “I don’t want Lochawe. You know that.”
“Aye, ye ha’ made it clear enough, but it doesna change yer duty. Ye are the only living son now of the Campbell of Lochawe, and ’tis yer duty to do wha’ must be done. Lives depend upon ye, lad.”
It was the phrase he dreaded most; lives depend upon ye had been used like an ax on him before. It was what had sent him to fight against the English, to perpetrate death and destruction, to become someone else. He knew what he became when in battle, didn’t recognize that part of him that rose up to extinguish civility and humanity. It was as if he became another man.
“I’ll talk to her,” he said abruptly and bade Caesar stay as the dog struggled to his feet to follow. He turned toward the circular stairs that led up to the north tower. “But I doubt she will yield up the information you seek. It’s been my experience that most females never recognize imminent danger until it’s too late.”
“Remember, Auld Maggie claims she’s a witch.”
“If that is meant as a warning, save it for the more credulous. I’ve yet to meet a woman who does not have some sort of power of enchantment over a man, whether it be by persuasion, trickery, or beauty.”
He heard Fergal’s derisive snort behind him and ignored it, climbing the curving stone steps two at a time. Lamps set in niches lit the circular staircase, flickering light dancing with shadows. He was in no mood for this. It was too soon, the woman a harsh reminder of why his brothers were dead. It wasn’t just, but he cursed both woman and child for their very existence.
Three flights up, the heavy oaken door to the tower room loomed at the end of a long corridor. A single torch tilted outward from a cresset holder, shedding sparks. The key hung on a peg outside the door, and Rob took it down with a jerk. It fit easily inside the huge lock, tumblers turning with a metallic grind as he unlocked the door and shoved it open with an impatient push.
The tower room was small, circular, with only the bare necessities of comfort: a narrow cot half hidden by a frayed tapestry on one wall, a small table and stool, a privy close in an alcove. Cut into a recess, the only window was an arrow loop that looked onto the bailey below, a restricted view.
Despite the frugality of furnishings or perhaps because of it, the room was tidy. A sparse fire burned on a charred hearth, the peat smoking so that an acrid pall hung in the air. The widow stood before a polished steel shield mounted on the wall, brushing her hair as if before a mirror of the finest quality. She was garbed in garments of English style, not the léine and brèid most Scottish women wore; this gown fit her form closely, green wool smoothed from breast to hip over an undertunic, torn in places and dirty, but obviously of good quality.
At the intrusion, she turned toward the door and regarded him silently. Had she expected him? There was no sign of surprise on her face, only a wary anticipation.
Loose hair settled around her shoulders in a glossy cape that made her look younger than he recalled, softer, but the green eyes were the same, watchful as a cat’s.
A perverse urge to elicit a reaction other than this calm wariness prompted him to slam the door closed with a deliberate violence. It shuddered loudly, a thunderous bang that echoed in the tower room.
“You’ll wake the child, sir.”
Her response was not what he wanted from her, from this woman who had inadvertently caused the deaths of so many, and he leaned back against the door. A glance at the small cot tucked into the shadows of heavy tapestry revealed the sleeping child, copper hair rioting over the mattress, but she gave no sign of waking. He cocked a brow in disbelief.
“She sleeps soundly enough.” When there was no reply, he pushed away from the door, took a step closer, and saw the woman’s nostrils flare as if a wild doe scenting danger. Her knuckles whitened on the handle of the hairbrush she still held like a weapon in front of her.
&nb
sp; At last. An honest reaction. He smiled.
“I’ve come to persuade you to write a letter to your Caddel kinsmen to ransom you.”
For a moment she just stared at him, wide eyes dark with something he didn’t recognize, then her lips curved in the suggestion of a smile.
“That is impossible.”
“It would be to your advantage,” he snarled, any claim to patience he still possessed evaporating in the face of her refusal. “Are you so foolish as to think we welcome your presence here?”
“Are you so foolish as to think they would expend one gold coin to claim an unwanted possession? That is what I am, you know, a stranger in that household, unwanted since my husband’s death, an enemy in an alien land. Surely, you know who I am?”
“Lady Lindsay, widow to Kenneth Lindsay, Baron of Haddington and the nephew of Iain Caddel.”
“Yea, and with my husband’s death, my value died as well. My father would not yield so much as a hide of land for my return, so I became a stone around their necks. Only little Mairi has required anything of me.”
It was said calmly, without self-pity, a bald statement of facts. He frowned.
“Then your own family will be willing to ransom you.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. A barren daughter brings little to the family coffers.”
Now he detected a trace of bitterness, but it was quickly gone, her composure returned.
“Then you will write a letter to your father,” he said irritably, “pleading to be ransomed.”
“I will not plead.” She paused, then added softly, “I refuse to humble myself.”
“Stubborn pride may find you left to uncertain mercy, my defiant lady.”
“I was left to that long before your men came to snatch us away, sir. Do not deceive yourself that my father will be swayed by threats or pleas. He is not a man to yield to such paltry tactics.”
“Nor, it seems, is his daughter.” Rob regarded her with a new perspective. This was not a woman who would be easily intimidated.
“Fate has left me with few options, sir. I do what must be done.”
“Then you will write the letter.”
After a brief pause, she said quietly, “No.”
“No?” He moved closer, using his size and anger as a weapon. “You are in no position to defy me.”
The hairbrush she still clutched in her hand quivered slightly, but her gaze did not waver. “Yet I must, sir.”
“You would risk your liberty for a whim?”
“’Tis no whim.” She inhaled sharply when he moved so close that there was only a handbreadth between them, but she did not retreat. “I will not leave Mairi.”
“Mairi?—The bairn. Do you think we mean her harm?”
“Oh no, ’tis certain you mean her only peace and goodwill. Why else would you have torn her from her home so rudely?”
He scowled. “Your mockery is insulting.”
“Your stupidity is more so.”
“Stupidity!”
“Yea, do you think I am so inhuman as to leave a child to men such as you, who want only to use her as a piece of goods, like no more than a bolt of cloth to be haggled over? No, I will not leave her in your careless custody with no one to watch over her.”
Tightly, he said, “She is safe enough here.”
“She was safe enough in Caddel Castle, yet here we are. Your own brothers were not kept safe. Why then should I have any reason to think a child who means nothing to you would be cared for any better?”
The sheer scope of her reminder stunned him. Worse, he could not deny the truth in it. The air between them quaked with tension.
“Milady treads on dangerous ground,” he said at last.
“I am accustomed to navigating quicksand, sir. I’m just not foolish enough to build a house upon it.”
“Your meaning escapes me.”
“I know better than to trust in promises. Men’s oaths are made only to be broken, honor tarnished, and lies mended. You have given me no reason to trust your word.”
“I have not lied to you.”
“That is only one more lie.”
Anger fueled by whisky and her defiance scoured him. “Name me the first lie I told.”
“When you said Mairi is safe here. She is not. It is not safety to be held prisoner.”
“That is beyond your control, or even mine. She is here and will stay. Your fate, however, is undecided.”
“I am all Mairi knows in this dismal keep. She is only a child. I will do what I must to stay with her.”
“Will you?”
“Yes.” Her head tilted back, lips pressed rebelliously tight. “I will not write that letter.”
It was time to point out the precariousness of her situation, that she was in no position to refuse him.
“You have said only what you will not do. That does not say what you will do to stay with the child.”
He meant it as a mocking illumination of circumstances, but to his astonishment, she took him seriously.
“I will do anything else that is required of me.”
“Anything?” Christ above! His brow rose. Foolish lady, to present him with such a challenge. He smiled. “That could be interpreted to mean a broad range of deeds, Lady Lindsay.”
“Interpret it as you wish.”
His smile faded. He stared at her. A faint fragrance emanated from her, teasing him with elusive memory. He was so close he could see striations in the pupils of her eyes, the gold flecks gilding deep green. Riveted by her gaze, he found himself reaching for her, his hand closing in a skein of hair softer than he’d imagined it. His fingers curled into a fist and let the feathery strands slide across his palm slowly, pale ribbons trickling free to lie upon her breast.
Silent, she stared up at him, only the small pulse that beat a rapid tattoo in her throat evidence of reaction. Pallid, brittle light streamed through the arrow loop to play upon her face, glinting along the high, sweet curve of her cheekbones. She was bonny, this fair lady from Caddel Castle, bonny and foolish indeed.
When he put his hands upon her shoulders, his fingers digging into slender bone and muscle, she murmured a protest that he swiftly overrode.
“Sir—”
“Ah no, you swore compliance, sweet lady. It is only my duty to test you.”
He closed his hand along the curve of her jaw, holding her still. His head bent, and he brushed his mouth over her lips, felt them tremble. It sparked an unexpected heat in him, just the taste of her a teasing lure to unanticipated bounty, her fragrance a subtle, delicious temptation.
Heather, sweet and spicy . . . she smells like the spring meadows.
She quivered beneath his touch, a faint tremor that was a betrayal. Loosening his grip on her chin, he skimmed the backs of his fingers down the curve of her throat, pausing on the dip between her collarbones. The pulse beat fluttered, a frantic thrum like the wings of a trapped bird. There was a seductive vulnerability in the way she closed her eyes and leaned away that prompted him to test the limits.
Soft female curves fit snugly against him when he drew her close. Her fists were still held against her chest, the hairbrush an uncomfortable intrusion that he gently removed and tossed aside.
Closing one hand in the wealth of hair at the nape of her neck, he slowly drew her head back so that her face was tilted up to his, his other arm curved behind her to hold her tightly. In blind obedience, long brown lashes lay on her cheeks in soft shadows, her lips parted slightly, moist from the drag of her tongue over them, and his hunger grew sharp and urgent. It coiled in his belly, moved lower, an aching fullness that startled and unsettled him.
Curse her for her folly. He should halt now, before he took this further than he’d first meant. He should . . . yea, he should, but the
weeks—nay months—of empty nights stretched his resolve to its limits, his self-imposed abstinence an evil reminder now, with temptation so soft and sweet in his arms. Whisky urged persistence; reason bade him resist.
“Open your eyes,” he said then, and she complied. Brown lashes still veiled her eyes, her gaze averted so that he had to tilt her face even more. “Look at me, milady.”
When she did, he recognized the hazy uncertainty and confusion in her eyes and regretted his insistence. The irresolution in her gaze only inflamed his need, whispered to him of compliance if he would but persist. He kissed her, this time a lingering kiss that left no doubt of his intentions. His mouth moved over hers with insistent pressure until her lips parted for his tongue. She tasted of something sweet, a honeyed comfit, perhaps, or sweet wine that was heady and potent, a powerful snare to a man long starved. It took all his resolve not to toss her skirts and thrust himself inside her without preliminaries.
She was limply acquiescent in his arms, her hands still folded between them like pale doves, clasped in an attitude of prayer that was unnerving. This had become a test of his own fortitude more than hers, it seemed. She made no protest nor resistance but no response, either. Frustration roiled in his belly, until at last he found the control he sought.
He set her back from him, his tone cooler than he felt. “You are not keeping your word. I expect participation, not just compliance.”
She met his eyes calmly, a limpid gaze. “I offered you compliance, but you cannot command emotions I do not feel.”
“Do you think I want vows of love, or even your regard, milady? You are much mistaken.” Her eyes widened slightly, a startled green beneath her lashes, and his mouth curled into a smile. “I expect more enthusiasm from a woman who barters her body for favors. Disrobe, my lady, if it is your intent to purchase my sanction of your freedom.”
A last chance, an insult designed to prove how reckless she had been; no woman should allow such an offer, and not a woman of gentle birth, certainly. He waited for her retreat, an admission of fraudulent purpose to wring concessions from him, a confession that she had no intention of pursuing or allowing intimacy. He was rarely wrong about a woman, and this lady was no common harlot.
The Laird Page 4