The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  She trembled in his embrace, a delicious shiver. He lifted his head. “Judith . . .” Her name on his lips was near a prayer as he had come in God only knew how long, wicked sinner that he was, but there was reverence in the saying of it, in the way it rolled off his tongue.

  Her lashes lifted, dark brown and thick, and she gazed at him with emotion stirring in the depths of her eyes. He kissed her again, fiercely this time, his hand cradling the back of her head, fingers wide and combing through the wealth of her unbound hair, letting cool, silken fibers flow through his hand.

  A groan escaped him when her hands slid along his back, fingers digging into linen and muscle as she worked them up to his neck to cup behind his head and hold his mouth more tightly to hers. He teased her lips apart with his tongue, tasted the honeyed flick of her response against him. Heat rose higher, coursed through his body like a wildfire.

  Outside the tower, thunder rumbled and rain swept coolly over heaths and crags, but inside this chamber, fires raged.

  His fingers skimmed over the arched curve of her throat and down, laces parting with a few tugs, his hand slipping beneath linen to caress velvety skin. Sweet, soft . . . He slid a hand over her breast, felt the nipple bead against his palm. She moaned, a low fluttery sound deep in her throat.

  He moved forward, his hand behind her back holding her against him, her step halting as he took them toward the bed against the wall. Green velvet bed hangings parted, swallowed them as he laid her upon the mattress and followed, his body fit to hers with growing urgency.

  Heated whispers, soft murmurs, and exploring hands; clothing lay discarded on the floor beside the bed. Shadows claimed them. Need was fierce on him now, the cushion of her body soft and welcoming.

  When she reached for him, he groaned as her hand tested his length, fingers curled around him, a slide up and down that made him shudder. He pushed into her hand, slow and luxurious, felt her grip tighten. Sweet torment; tension built, stretched tighter and tighter.

  “Enough,” he muttered at last and held her wrist. His lungs worked, his breathing labored as he tried to drag air into his starved lungs.

  Heart pounding, fire raced through his body as he slid over her, his hand skimming up the curve of her thigh and hip. His fingers splayed over the swell of her belly. Soft flesh quivered beneath his caress, and he dipped lower, dragging his hand down to the cleft at the juncture of her thighs. Her breath came faster now, cheeks a high color and her eyes a green glitter beneath her lowered lashes.

  “Bonny lassie . . .” He wanted to say more, but the words would not come. They flitted through his head, disjointed and elusive, but it was impossible to form coherent thought.

  He felt her tremble as his hands worked into the damp folds between her legs, slipping over tender flesh in arrant sensuality. The pad of his thumb raked over the tiny bud at the top of her sex, inviting the soft cries and delicate shudders.

  Delicious heat . . . beguiling woman . . . seductive and consuming . . . Through the haze of urgent need, he held tight to control, to bring her to fulfillment before he reached his own.

  Her body arched into his hand, her breath was swift and harsh, and when she cried out, he smothered the sobbing sound with a hard, fierce kiss. Body throbbing, he slid inside her at last, felt her close around him, velvet heat clenching. She rocked with him as he thrust deeply, losing himself inside her, forgetting everything but this woman and the churning need she ignited.

  THE RAIN HAD stopped. Gray light seeped through the window and bed hangings, and Judith stirred to rise to one elbow. Rob slept. She watched him, studied his face as if trying to memorize it. Perhaps she was. There may come a day when she would long for this memory. A shudder tracked her spine.

  Why did she have this inescapable sense of finality at times? It was as if she borrowed sorrow, when she prayed daily for life to go on as it had been these last weeks. It was as near as she’d ever come to happiness, and she clung fiercely to each moment.

  Oh, there was so much she wanted to say to him, to ask him, yet when the time presented itself, her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth as if nailed there.

  So little time, so little time . . .

  She put a hand upon his rib cage, the sheen of his tawny skin a marked contrast to her paleness. Faint ridges marred the smooth flesh in places, puckered scars from old wounds. Her gaze traveled lower. It was nearly healed, the wound on his thigh no longer red but faded to a jagged white line, like a lightning bolt. Downy black hair furred his body, a light pelt on his chest, thicker below his belly.

  Heat eased up her throat to her cheeks as her gaze followed the arrowed wedge and ropes of muscle on his abdomen, then traveled lower. A braw man, indeed, powerful even in repose. She looked away, sucked in a sharp breath, and let it out slowly, a chuff of air.

  When she looked back at his face again, black-fringed silver looked back at her.

  “Dinna stop now, lass,” he said, reverting to broad Scots again, “look all ye want.”

  Embarrassed, she bit her lower lip to still the denial that sprang ready. It would do no good. They both knew she had been brazen enough to stare at him.

  “I am done,” she said primly after a moment, and his laugh filled the enclosed bed.

  He reached up, stuck his open hand into the mass of her loose hair, closed his fingers, and drew her face down slowly to his. His breath warmed her cheek, his other hand lifting to scoop the hair behind her shoulder.

  “Sweet lady, I hope you are never done.”

  Her throat ached with sudden emotion, with the need to hold him fiercely close, to plead with him not to ever leave Glenlyon. Futile, of course, for he would leave when the time came. It was inevitable. She’d listened to the talk of war, of more fighting to the south, along the Marches and over the border into England. It filled her with dread, for him and her and the future.

  Resting her forehead against his, she felt the brush of his lashes against her jaw and whispered, “I will never be done until you wish it.”

  “Then,” he said, his hands closing in her hair to hold her head still as his mouth moved to capture hers, “you will never be done.”

  It was enough for the moment.

  Chapter 18

  ROB WAS WADING in the shallows of the River Lyon when James Douglas came to Glenlyon. He saw the riders long before he could tell who they were, climbed out of the river and back into his boots, and was waiting by the old Roman bridge for them.

  Black eyes, cocky grin, his horse dancing sideways, the Black Douglas acknowledged Rob with a huff of laughter.

  “Eager, are we, to slay the English?”

  “Ready, if not eager,” Rob replied. He kept an easy hand on his horse, reined it around as Douglas rode alongside.

  “So you’ve become a fisherman, without battle to keep you busy.”

  “Fishing for loose stones under the bridge,” Rob said with a grin. “I was told it was near collapse, but it will be here long after we are gone.”

  “A Roman legacy: walls, bridges, and bastards. All have survived even our efforts. Have you room for us? I have a plan to discuss.”

  Rob knew well the plans of James Douglas. They usually involved bloodshed and always involved danger.

  “Room enough, if some don’t mind sleeping in the stables.”

  “I’ve slept in mud and water to my neck; a little straw and horse dung will not do me harm.”

  Many of the men with Douglas he knew, some he knew by reputation, and others were strangers to him, but by the time the evening repast was eaten and wine had relaxed them, Rob knew that he would know all of them much better before the week was out. His gaze sought Judith, who sat on a bench nearby, her expression strained, her courtesy abundant.

  Douglas watched through half-lidded eyes, a faint smile on his mouth as he lifted his wine. “An excelle
nt meal, my lady,” he said to Judith with his familiar lilting lisp. “It has been a long time indeed since I have enjoyed better.”

  A fleeting smile touched her lips, but her eyes were dark-shadowed as she inclined her head in acknowledgement of his praise. “It has been an honor to serve you, Sir James.”

  Douglas slid a speculative glance toward Rob. There had been no explanation offered for Judith’s presence here, but he would know most of the details already. Argyll had lodged a complaint with the king for the abduction of his hostage, a futile move if he expected her return, but not the vengeful violence Rob had expected. Had he found the damning evidence of his treachery? Was that why Argyll delayed retribution?

  “I have gathered forces across Scotland for a foray into England,” Douglas said suddenly, his voice soft. He leaned forward. “I want Glenlyon to join us.”

  It was expected since he had seen James Douglas ride onto the Roman bridge, and he nodded. “Aye, so I will.”

  Satisfaction rode the smile on Douglas’s mouth, and he gave a short nod. “If you need time to make arrangements here—”

  “No. Simon MacCallum is an able steward, you will recall. He can call up men for defense, should it be needed.”

  That was true enough. Rob’s gaze shifted to Judith, and he recognized the strain that marked her mouth and eyes. The hand that held wine shook slightly when she lifted the cup to her mouth. Her lips parted, closed on the rim, damp red from the wine.

  Douglas returned his attention to the lady, and his dark brow lifted slightly. “It is my understanding that your father is Earl of Wakefield,” he said, earning her notice, and she nodded slowly.

  “Yea, that is true, Sir James.” A drop of wine clung to her lower lip, reflecting light. “I have not seen him in seven years.”

  “A pity. War separates families at times.”

  She held his gaze. “It was not war that separated us, Sir James. It was my marriage.”

  Amusement lit his eyes as Douglas nodded. “Aye, another form of warfare. Yet you are widowed now.”

  “Yes.” The lift of her wine to her lips was an obvious signal that she did not intend to elaborate.

  Ever bold, Douglas ignored it. He leaned forward. “Was no ransom offered for your return to England?”

  “If you know of my abduction from Caddel Castle, then you must also know that it was not, Sir James. Ask me what you really wish to know. It will save us both much time.”

  “You are English born, Scots by marriage. Where lie your loyalties?”

  Her eyes moved to Rob, and he smiled faintly. “They lie with me,” he said before she could reply, “thus with Scotland by default.”

  Douglas grinned. “I had wanted to hear the words from the lady.”

  “Then hear me,” Judith said softly, though there was an edge to her husky voice that Douglas could not have missed. “My loyalties lie with Robert Campbell of Glenlyon. Should he swear to Scots king or English, I follow his banner.”

  “That is plain enough, my lady, and answers me quite well.”

  Distress loomed in her eloquent eyes, and Rob rose to his feet and put out a hand to her. “Come, lady mine, and I will escort you to our chamber.”

  After the briefest of hesitations, she put her hand in his and bade the company a good night.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked when they reached his chamber, and he shook his head.

  “Sir James was being the Black Douglas. He has a reason for persisting, and I will know it soon enough.”

  “Rob—” Her hands wound into the front of his tunic, held tightly as she said, “I swore to you the night we made our vows and would do so again. Yet I fear that Douglas has knowledge that may do us harm.”

  “He’s a lot of things, but Sir James isn’t treacherous, sweetling.” He put his hands over hers, held them tightly for a moment, then gently untangled her from his tunic. “I must return. I’ll not wake you when I come to bed.”

  She leaned forward, bent her head, and pressed her face into his chest. “Nay,” she said, the words muffled, “you had better wake me. I want every moment with you before you leave.”

  He crushed her to him, then reached down to lift her face to his, kissing her fiercely before he set her back and away from him.

  “Sleep now. I’ll wake you when I come to bed.”

  Douglas and only a few other men remained in the hall when he returned, the rest having sought their beds in corners or stables. Douglas lifted his wine in a salute.

  “I understand the lure, Glenlyon. She is lovely and loyal, two of the best qualities in a woman.”

  “Wife.” When Douglas stared at him, he said, “We are handfasted.”

  A look of consternation creased Sir James’s face. “It’s dangerous to thwart Argyll and the king. I cannot think the Bruce will be pleased to hear that you have stolen your overlord’s hostage and wed her, backhand though it may be.”

  “The king is far too concerned with other matters now to worry about my affairs,” Rob said, “and when he has the time, I will have resolved Argyll’s protests.”

  “Will you?” Douglas looked amused. “I would be most interested to hear how you plan to do that.”

  “And I will be most pleased to tell you when the time is right.” He lifted his wine in a salute. “Sléinte.”

  Grinning, Douglas lifted his cup. “Suas e, sios e,” he said, and did just that, downing his wine in a single gulp.

  SHE WAS STILL awake when Rob slipped into their chamber, though she lay still and quiet so she could watch him for a moment. So precious these hours, so few now with his leaving hanging over her head like doom. Grief rose up in her throat, and she pushed it down. It would solve nothing to let him see her weep, and she didn’t want his last memory of her to be with the ravages of tears on her face.

  But God, it was almost impossible. . . .

  A low fire burned on the hearth to take away the chill of night, putting off scant heat but a rosy light. It played over him as he shrugged out of his tunic and boots, stood before the hearth clad only in splendid male pride. Narrow flanks, well-muscled and burnished with a tawny sheen, flexed as he stretched, his back to her still, the light a pale shadow. Her heart clutched. It was painful to think she might lose him.

  Fingers curled around the small sprig she held in her hand, a convulsive movement. She waited until he turned, his step soft on the stone floor, the bed ropes creaking as he eased his weight onto the mattress. Darker now, his profile moved over her, and she reached up to touch his face.

  “You’re awake, lass.”

  “Aye. I could not sleep.”

  He slid down beside her, warm and familiar, a comfort and a blessing after all the empty years.

  “What do you have there?” His voice was soft, amused as she pressed the sprig she held into his palm and his fingers closed around it.

  “Fraoch ban.” Her voice shook a little. “White heather. I want you to carry it with you for luck.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I will carry it with me for love. I never smell the heather but what I think of you, sweetling.”

  She buried her face against his chest, felt the heat of his body like a balm against her cheek, the steady beat of his heart the most lovely melody in the world. She would die if he did not return. How did she tell him that?

  Lifting her face, she eased upward to press her lips against the strong column of his throat, felt his indrawn breath as her hand moved over the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen and lower. Expected reaction, a rising of him to meet her caress, and he turned to push her back into the mattress.

  Borrowed time, sweet hours to remember, to hold tight to her in the long days ahead.

  Chapter 19

  IT WAS RAINING again, a miserable downpour that soaked Rob to the skin an
d made footing difficult for his horse. It was the middle of June and felt like April, cold and wet. The track that wound through the Kielder Gap was rutted and rocky, mud sucking at hooves as they plodded onward to cross the Tyne at Haydon Bridge. James Douglas rode unheeding of weather or terrain, as always, resolute in purpose.

  Once across the English border, the three flying columns led by Douglas, Lord Randolph, and Donald, Earl of Mar, fanned south into Weardale, laying waste to farms and villages as they went. Lords Randolph and Mar swept east and west, while Douglas went south. It was a tactic designed to prove to Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer that they would not be diverted, even by the vast host of mercenaries that were now assembling in an army in York.

  “’Tis said they have a crack contingent of twenty-five hundred heavily armed Flemish cavalry at their disposal,” Douglas told them when they camped in the still-smoldering ruins of a village for the night.

  Cattle wandered aimlessly in the field, and Rob heard the ferocious barking of a dog in the distance. He hunched his shoulders forward, munching on hot oatcakes as he mulled over this dismal information.

  “What does the king plan?” A MacNeish leaned nearer the campfire; flames illuminated his unshaven face, the weary lines of battle carved into craggy features with grime and soot.

  “War,” was the succinct reply.

  They all looked much the same, Rob thought, with the same grimness in their eyes.

  “Is’t true the English have a new weapon?” MacNeish asked.

  “Aye.” The Black Douglas stretched lazily, his posture so unconcerned that the air of tension slightly eased. “It’s a gunpowder cannon. Lethal, ’tis certain, but cumbersome to drag along.” Black eyes narrowed with amusement. “While they trudge through the bogs, we can watch from a nice dry hill until we have them where we want them. Then we attack before they know we’re even close.”