The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  He’d pulled her closer so that her body fit between his open thighs, still on her knees before him, his bandaged leg beneath the light hand she used to brace herself. Somehow, the neck of her tunic slipped from her shoulders, leaving them bare, and she fumbled at it clumsily before he caught her hands in his, held them firmly as he deepened the kiss.

  It was so hard to think, so hard to resist when the tip of his tongue teased entry into her mouth, a seductive play that left her breathless and oddly aching. Sharp sensation flared, spread like molten fire through her veins as his hand shifted beneath linen, cupping the bare skin of her breast. No man had ever touched her like this, not even her husband, and it was as novel as it was agitating.

  He lifted his head at last, freeing her mouth, and a moan escaped her in a soft exhalation. Her fingers dug into her palms, her wrists still held in his grasp. She leaned back and away from him, but the movement only brought her breasts closer to him.

  Through glazed eyes, she saw his head lower, and then his mouth was on her, his tongue a hot, wet brand over her shivering flesh. The world tilted, blurred, and the thunder and rain and wind seemed to envelop her in a hectic embrace that swept her away. It was so hard to breathe, the air so thick and heavy . . . heat engulfed her, a consuming blaze that seemed as if it would devour her entirely.

  She couldn’t think, could only feel, as the world dissolved into acute sensitivity, his hands and mouth on her an agony of pleasure. He drew her nipple into his mouth, and a spiral of heat plummeted to her belly, exploded there, and plunged between her thighs. She writhed with it, uncertain and floundering, not knowing what she should do or what he would do. . . . Her body responded without her consent, eager for his touch, quivering at the exquisite sensations he lured from her traitorous flesh.

  He’d released her hands. She curled her fingers into his tunic to keep from collapsing. Someone cried out, and she recognized it as her own voice, a wordless cry that echoed in the storm-rent room.

  When had they stood? He was holding her hard against him now, her bare breasts scraping against his tunic. Their bodies melded together, and she burned with relentless need. The pulse between her thighs beat with deep, heavy strokes. His hands moved to mold her closer to him, cupping her hips against him so that she felt the rigid shape of his erection pressing urgently into her belly.

  It shocked her.

  This proof of his intent was like a douse of cold water that brought her back sharply to the implications of the moment, and when he scooped her into his arms and moved to the wide bed, she gathered the remnants of resistance.

  “No . . . you cannot—do not!”

  He’d reached the bed and lowered her to the mattress. Bed ropes squeaked a protest as he leaned over her, a hand on each side of her pressing into the coverings. He kissed her again, smothering her protests, until she almost ignored the warning peals in her head . . . dark laird, the devil’s own with clever hands and enticing mouth . . . damnation lay in the act if not the wanting of it, in lying with him without the blessing of the priests . . . in yielding to the sweet, wild need he coaxed from her with such ease . . .

  “Give over, bonny lass,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp against her ear, wine-sweet breath feathering across her cheek in potent promise as his mouth moved over her parted lips, the broad Scots accent as much a lure as his kiss. Emotion ran rampant through her, the betrayal of his need evident in that lapse, that fraying of his taut control a sign that this laird of Glenlyon was as affected as she.

  Resistance unraveled, spun away in scattered shreds when he tucked his hands behind her head, tilted up her chin with his thumbs, his mouth trailing wet heat over the arch of her throat, then her lips. Surrender beckoned. Unseasoned passion trammeled her senses, left her wavering.

  Thunder growled a warning, and a bolt of lightning lit the darkened chamber to the strength of the midday sun, a brief flash that snatched her from the brink of surrender. It would change everything if she yielded.

  “No!” It came out on a wheezy gasp, her head jerking back as she wrenched her mouth free, the palms of her hands pushing at him, immovable as a stone, and his face so close to hers, so close. . . . “No, ’tis not right . . . I cannot . . .”

  He halted, eyes half closed, a hard glitter between his lashes; his expression was tense, strained. She put a hand to her mouth, scrubbed the back of it over her lips so hard her teeth grazed her knuckles, fingers shaky as she stared up at him.

  Braced on his elbows, his body fit to hers so that she was far too aware of his need, stiff and unyielding against her. She tried to draw in a deep breath but couldn’t, could do nothing but look up at him.

  He lifted a hand, stuck his finger into the curl of her half-closed fist, drew her hand down and away from her mouth.

  “Your lips say one thing, your body another, sweet lady mine,” he murmured, his voice husky, thick with desire.

  She tried to think, but the world was a heated haze, so difficult with him so close, with his body notched to hers in the age-old way of men and women, his arrant sex pushing at her through the tunic . . . and she knew it wasn’t Glenlyon who frightened her nearly as much as her own need, the hunger he’d awakened inside her almost overwhelming, making her forget everything but the moment.

  “I do mean it . . . I do . . .” She sounded unconvincing even to her own ears, breathless, and her voice all wrong, so high and quavering.

  Silver-gray eyes, translucent and backlit with fiery need, tracked her face with a steady gaze, his very silence a mockery of her denials. Lean-muscled arms braced on each side of her body, his hands pushing into the mattress, his weight still heavy on her. Ah, saints help her, she felt the throb of him there, in the cleft between her legs, a scrape of linen against linen as he shifted.

  She drew in a sharp breath, saw his eyes narrow, his bruised mouth flatten into a grimace. There was a taut clip to his words:

  “You now deny what you first began, lady.”

  “Yea, so I do.” There was no denying that she had first initiated intimacy, but the reasons were far different, that intent more noble than mere pleasure. She should admit her fault, the serious flaw in her character that had led her to desperation, but her lips could not form the words.

  His gaze smoldered, burned, accusation evident in the deliberate mockery: “I could still take what you so freely offered.”

  “Aye, there are none here who could stop you.”

  He sat back, raked a hand through his hair, silky black strands skimming through his spread fingers. A curse rode his sharply expelled breath, his brows dipped low over his eyes in a scowl. He bent a harsh gaze on her.

  “Christ above, woman, you undo me.”

  Her lashes lowered; she couldn’t bear to look at him longer. Shame heated her cheeks. An awkward moment, made worse by her inability to deny her obvious surrender.

  Glenlyon seemed to have no trouble. “I do not take unwilling women,” he said softly, “but I do not think you are unwilling.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath a rapid drag of air into her lungs, the heat in her face scalding. She rose to her elbows, fumbled at the untied strings to cover herself, unable to look at him. After a moment, he pushed her hands away, his fingers deft as he pulled the léine up to her chin and tied the string. To her horror, tears welled in her eyes.

  He saw them, touched her dewed lashes with a fingertip; his brow lifted, and she felt the tension in him easing.

  “Be at ease, lady, your secret is safe for the moment.”

  An indignant reply died unborn on her lips at the swift glance he gave her, a challenge that she dared not answer.

  And then it was too late to comment. He withdrew, his face impassive as he turned away from the bed.

  Sitting up, she drew up her legs, hugging her knees to her chest as she watched him cross the room. Thunder stil
l rattled outside, louder now, the rain flailing walls and roof. He retrieved his trews from the floor and stepped into them, his back to her as he tied the laces; then he turned.

  “There will be another time, my lady.”

  It sounded very much like a promise.

  THE CANDLES HAD guttered. Judith stirred at last, the sound of rain still a drumming patter on the stone ledge of the window as she rose from the bed. Gloom filled the solar, though the storm had passed.

  Would that the storm inside her had eased as well.

  She fretted, repacked the basket twice, but still the herbs and pots would not fit as before. Her mind was not on the basket nor on the tasks that awaited her below but on the man who had turned her world backwards but a short time ago.

  It was true enough that she had opened that door on her first encounter with him, and she’d always been aware that men were more susceptible to certain female wiles, but she’d not thought herself so vulnerable. A laugh strangled in her throat, turned to a sound like a sob.

  How foolish she had been!

  Robert Campbell of Lochawe and Glenlyon had given the lie to that naïve assumption quickly enough. For nearly a month she’d been hostage at Lochawe, yet she was more of a prisoner now to her own heedless deeds and emotions.

  The corridors outside the solar were empty, musty, and dim-lit by foul-smelling lamps. Her footsteps echoed eerily on the steps. Even the hall was vacant of the usual chaos, a few men clustered by the fire, but no sign of the laird or Glenlyon, a blessed relief when she was still so unsettled. Rushes squelched beneath her feet, water seeping through the doorway to saturate the floor. No one seemed to notice, men hunched against the chill, jugs in hand and the storm ignored. Her mouth flattened. It was obvious no one would think to sweep away the water or sodden rushes unless she set them to it.

  She entered the kitchens, where the only light came from the open door and a faint glow on the hearth. Catriona was there, tucked into a knot of misery by the fire, her eyes wide and round with fear and apprehension.

  “What ails thee?” Judith murmured distractedly as she put the basket on the table. “The storm passes. Where is Mairi?”

  “Gone wi’ Tam and th’ lady Saraid.”

  Judith’s brow lifted. Saraid—Kenneth Campbell’s widow. “For what purpose? You were charged with her care,” she said sharply, fret raking at her for the child.

  “Aye, yet the lady ha’ wee bairns tha’ romp wi’ Mairi. It didna seem harmful.”

  “No,” Judith said after a moment, “no, ’tis not harmful for her to play with other bairns. Why do you crouch there by the fire? Were you hurt in the storm?”

  “Did ye conjure tha’ storm, m’lady?”

  Catriona’s quavering voice came from behind hands she’d clasped over her mouth.

  “Of course not.” Judith’s reply was brisk. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Auld Maggie said ’twas tae prove tae the laird tha’ ye are more powerful than he . . .”

  “What nonsense.” She turned, put her hands on her hips, frowning at the girl. “If I wish to perform magic, it will be to my advantage, not to frighten the simple.”

  Catriona hesitated, then rose from the hearth and held out a knotted rag. Her hand shook. “She said ’twas yer hand tha’ saw this done.”

  Three knots were tied in the cloth, and Judith knew at once that the old woman must have put them there. “’Tis a trick, Catriona,” she said, “but not of my doing.”

  “Three knots and a thrashing stone bring fierce storms tae Lochawe.”

  “Perhaps, but not for my sake. Here. Put aside fears of curses and storms and lend a hand. Water soaks the rushes in the hall. Fetch some others.”

  She filled the time with mindless work, concentrating on anything but Robert Campbell, anything but the memory of his hands on her . . .

  Anything but the memory of that wild, sweet yearning he’d made her feel, the mystery of the minstrels’ songs solved at last.

  Chapter 11

  IT WAS QUIET in the bailey now, the storm having passed over. Sticky mud sucked at hooves and boots, abducting loose shoes with careless ease.

  “Och, ’tis foul as a wee bairnie’s napkin,” Fergal said in disgust, knocking his shoe against the barnekin wall to dislodge clogged mud. “A yard more an’ the marsh would be in our hall.”

  “It delays my return to Glenlyon,” Rob said, squinting at the impassable road beyond the keep. “The road is covered with water.”

  “As usual this time o’ year.” Fergal grunted, gave his shoe another slap against the wall, then shoved his foot into it with a grimace. “Cauld an’ wet, by hell.”

  “Is the only damage to the stable roof?”

  “Aye.” Fergal jabbed his hand toward the littered yard. “An’ a door bashed in by yer wicked beastie. He doesna like the noise, it seems.”

  “So it seems.” Splintered wood lay scattered in the mud near the stable. Debris was being cleared by several men: shingles and tree limbs, the usual result of a fierce storm, some a good size. “The storm was fierce,” he said, more to himself than Fergal, for he barely recalled it. The storm in the solar had been more intense, the aftermath unpleasant.

  “Aye, tha’ it was,” Fergal agreed. His old eyes thinned a bit. “The lady tended yer hurts well, did she.”

  “Well enough.” He had no intention of allowing Fergal to bait him over Lady Lindsay and turned abruptly away from the barnekin wall and his view of the swollen marsh. “Whether the water goes down or no, I’ll return to Glenlyon. Now the laird is recovered, I need to see to my own lands.”

  Fergal rubbed a hand over his grizzled jaw; the gesture made a faint scraping sound. “Aye. Ye left ’em in good hands, hey?”

  “In good hands.” That was true enough. Simon MacCallum was cousin and loyal companion, an able steward. He had sent Simon word of his brothers’ fates, unwilling to tell of it when he returned. It was hard enough to think of it now, without having to relive it in the telling.

  Restless, Rob descended the short flight of steps to the bailey grounds, sidestepping sodden drifts of straw. A displaced rooster squawked irritably, wings flapping as it avoided efforts to catch it.

  Puddles reflected clouds and sunlight, tiny rainbows gleaming in some; he splashed through one that was deceptively deep, cursed softly at the mud on his boots, stomped his feet when he reached the hall. The rushes were soiled, soggy from the rain and wet feet, lying in clumps on the stones while several girls worked with brooms to remove them. New rushes waited in a barrow, sharp-scented and fresh from the storeroom.

  Pausing as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he knew she was across the hall without seeing her. Perhaps it was the faint fragrance of heather that had nothing to do with the herbs strewn in the rushes, or just knowing she would be there to oversee the work.

  A taut awareness shimmered in the air, crystalline and palpable, so that he wasn’t surprised when she looked up to meet his eyes. The hall seemed changed somehow, as if with a new perception that sharpened sight and sound, ardent memory shared between them now a barrier.

  “I told ye the marsh near came inta the hall,” Fergal said behind him, grunting irritably at the mess. “A spout needs repair o’er the door, it seems, or we’ll need tae grow gills and fins tae live here. The lintel is cracked.”

  Rob barely listened, his response curt: “Tell the laird and not me, Fergal.”

  He felt the old man recoil, knew that he had offended him, but it needed to be said. It was time Lochawe tended to Lochawe. He had naught to do with this keep, as he had been forcibly reminded that morning.

  “Lochawe business needs be tended by the laird of Lochawe, not by Glenlyon,” he reminded Fergal tersely.

  While the sharp words rose ready to his lips, his focus was on the lady. Amber and gold light fro
m torch and candles glinted in her hair, lit her face with soft color. She wore the brèid again, the length of wool fastened upon her breast with a rough brooch. On her, it draped in graceful folds for all its bulk, a dark swatch of color over the rounded contours of her breasts.

  For what seemed an eternity he watched her, remembered the silken feel of her skin beneath his hands, soft as down and fragrant with heather. If he touched her again, he would not stop.

  Pivoting on his heel, he was vaguely aware of Fergal following after him, of the lady’s gaze as he moved to the circular stairs and took two at a time, the burn in his leg displacing the burn in his groin. He had to leave Lochawe before he disgraced them both. Hostages were treated with respect, not as prisoners—a fact of which the laird of Lochawe needed to be reminded before he left for Glenlyon.

  The morrow would see him quit of Lochawe, away from sire and lady before he went against all he knew, all that was right and familiar in his life. Cursed day, when the earl of Argyll had sent the Red Devil to steal a hostage.

  For now it seemed as if he was held hostage as well as the lady, tethered to her by a need that only grew worse with each glimpse of her face or form. She’d ignited a ferocious itch in him to have her, and if he lingered here, he would ignore caution and integrity to gain his desire.

  Better to leave than to stay and burn for it.

  “Ye canna leave her here, Glenlyon.”

  Rob turned sharply on Fergal. The corridor was empty, torches giving off yellow light that was reflected in the gillie’s black eyes. It gave him the appearance of an owl, wide-eyed and wise.

  “When I leave here, I take my horse and my gear. That is all I brought and all I will take with me.”

  Shaking his head, Fergal smiled slightly. “There’s been no ransom. Will ye leave her tae reckon wi’ the laird on her own now?”