The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  Rob thought of the woman in Weardale, pleading for her beasts, her house in ruins behind her, and understood. It had surprised him then that she did not rage for the loss of her house but wanted only the promise of tomorrow. That was what those beasts had meant to her: food for herself and her children. He was glad he’d given her the purse of silver, though Douglas had called him daft for it.

  He looked back at Judith. Her hands moved over his hurt in gentle efficiency. A fierce lady, and he thought again of the sudden panic that had clutched him when he’d seen her across the hall, thrusting a torch at her attacker. Fear for her, and anger that she’d left the safety of their chamber, had lent savagery to his blows, and he’d quickly dispatched the man who barred his path. But still, it had seemed as if he trod through chest-high water that dragged at his stride as he fought his way to her, aware all the time of her danger. He’d not seen her killing blow, for the men who checked his progress, but had seen the result of it when finally he had reached her.

  “How came you to be hard on the heels of the invaders?” she asked quietly, and he leaned back against the pile of plaides she had put behind him.

  “We were not chasing them. Until I saw the fires set upon the crofters’ huts, I did not know the keep was under attack.” He reached out, touched her lightly on the cheek, and she looked up then, green eyes shadowed with an emotion he could not identify. “Sweetling, what is it?”

  She tied the strip of linen around his arm, then her hands grew still, lashes lowered as she looked away from him. Her husky voice was strained, muffled.

  “I have never killed a man before today.”

  Of course she had not. Unthinkable, that she would need to fight for her life, yet he had left her vulnerable to it. A bitter heat flared in his throat, and he swallowed it.

  “He would have hurt you, Judith. These men came to take what pleased them, chattel or silver, it did not matter. If you had not killed him, he would surely have killed you.”

  “Yes. I know that. I am not sorry that I did what must be done. . . . I just regret the reason for it.” When she looked up again, some of the shadows had faded from her eyes. “Your arrival was most timely.”

  “If I had not been delayed, I would have been here two days ago.” He paused, put his hand beneath her chin, scraped his thumb over the velvety softness of her skin, thought again of the impatience in him at being so delayed by the division of the English spoils. Some for the crown, some for the men, few quarrels during the just division, as Douglas countenanced no strife. “I have a full purse to add to the coffers, though now much of it will go to repairs of what was already done.”

  She looked around, shuddered delicately, and nodded. “Simon will be most glad of it. He has complained heartily and constantly about the cost of everything from candles to nails.”

  “Simon should be the king’s Exchequer. All of Scotland would then be pinchpenny.”

  A smile bloomed, and the simple sight of it struck him hard, left him fumbling for thoughts of anything but this lady who ever surprised, ever humbled him. His hand left her face, curled into a loose fist in his lap.

  “I chanced upon your brother in Weardale.”

  Her smile faded, and he had a moment of regret for its loss before she asked, “Which brother?”

  “Sir Payton.”

  “Ah.” Silence fell between them, while across the hall the hum of activity continued. “Was he well?” she asked at last, and he nodded.

  “Well enough for a man without boots or horse.” Her glance was startled. “He was taken in a skirmish and left tokens of his regard in form of gear and mount.”

  A smile quivered on her lips, and there was laughter in her voice when she said, “I imagine he was not happy.”

  “That is the sense I got from him.” He paused, took her hand in his, and scrubbed his thumb over her knuckles. They bore marks of her struggle in the form of cuts and scrapes. “He asked about your health.”

  “And you told him I am well.”

  “Yea.” He paused, wondered if he should tell all that had passed between him and Sir Payton and then said, “It was the English king who was loathe to exchange Scottish lands for you, not the earl, if your brother is to be believed.”

  Her brow sketched an arch of surprise. “Is it so?”

  “That is what he said, lady fair.”

  She was silent for a moment. Firelight glided over her face, made shadows of her lashes. Then she smiled.

  “I am glad to hear it. He should have told me.”

  “Would it have mattered overmuch, the reason for it?”

  “Yea, for if I had known my own kin valued me enough to barter with a king, I would not have felt so worthless and unwanted.”

  “Unwanted . . . ah, lady, lady, I cannot think you have ever been unwanted.” He reached up, tunneled his hand into the unbound mass of her hair, cupped his fingers around her neck, and drew her closer to him, so that he felt the warmth of her breath across his cheek. “You are wanted here.”

  She put a hand against his jaw, fingers rasping over the beard stubble in a light caress. “I was not always wanted here.”

  “A lifetime ago. Another land, another time, another man. I want you. I want you now, I wanted you then, though I did not know how or why.”

  “And now you do?”

  “Oh aye, lady mine, now I do.”

  The loose fall of her hair was a pale curtain that veiled the kiss he pressed upon her mouth, his lips moving over hers with unfamiliar, unexpected tenderness. She tasted of spiced wine, as he must, heady and potent.

  A loud “Harrumph!” summoned him from the bower of wine and soft emotion, and Judith dropped her hand and sat back. Rob tilted his head toward this unwelcome intrusion and saw Archie MacCallum grinning like a mummer’s fool at him.

  “Grant pardon for the interruption, but I was sent to tell ye that one of the prisoners has information ye might want to hear. Should it wait?”

  “No.” Rob sat up, reached for the plaide he’d discarded when Judith tended his wound, and stood, wrapping it around his shoulder and waist with practiced ease. He flexed his arm and grinned, satisfied that it would not hinder him.

  “Take me to him.”

  Black Douglas leaned against a wooden post, arms over his chest, a faint wild gleam in his eyes.

  “This man’s claim may be of interest to you, Glenlyon, for he has news of a mutual acquaintance.”

  One of the raiders knelt in the straw-littered dirt; he looked up. His face was battered, bloodied, bruises swelling one eye and darkening his cheek. He touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth.

  “Water . . .”

  “When you have given the laird your news.” Douglas prodded the prisoner with a booted foot. “I may be patient, but the Red Devil’s Cub is not.”

  A shudder ran through him, and the man jerked his head. “Aye . . . ’twas Argyll. He sent us, twice now, but we were too few the last time . . .”

  “Sent you here? To plunder?” Rob stepped forward when the man hesitated with a sideways glance, his voice low and fierce as he said, “Or to take the lady . . .”

  “Mercy, crave mercy . . . we were not to hurt her, but to take her to him along wi’ the paper.”

  “Paper?” Ah, Argyll had not found it then. A taut smile bent his mouth. He dropped to one knee beside the prisoner, said so softly few could hear, “Tell me of this paper you were sent to find.”

  “I have not me letters. . . . It bears a seal, he said, the king’s own.”

  “Yea, so it does, man, so it does.”

  Rising to his feet, he looked at Black Douglas, who had listened to all with unabashed interest. Dark eyes danced in the thin face, his grin wide and cocky as Douglas said, “I shall see that he gets water now.”

  Rob understood and shoo
k his head. “Do not foul my well, Douglas.”

  “Nay, I would not. We shall see how much he drinks from the loch.” He turned, smiled down at the wide-eyed prisoner affably. “Do you swim, good fellow?”

  ROB FOUND JUDITH still in the hall. Her steps flagged, her shoulders bent wearily as she moved among those wounded, tending with herbs and soothing words. He moved to her side. When she looked up, he put out a hand.

  “You shall need tending next if you do not rest, lady. Come with me.”

  It was indicative of her exhaustion that she did not protest and went with him up the curve of steps to the first floor. There was no damage here, save for the taint of smoke, and he saw the chamber door ajar. She was pliant, quiet, and he led her to the wide bed against the far wall.

  “Sit here, while I fetch Morag and hot water.”

  “Nay,” she said faintly, a hand brushing back loose hair from her eyes, “Morag is also weary—”

  “Not too weary to heat water. Stay, I tell you, or I’ll bind you to the bed with ropes.”

  She looked startled but gave him no more argument, and when he returned with hot water and a huge wooden tub slung between two stout men, there was a fleeting glance of gratitude from her.

  He waited until the men had left, then shut the door behind them and let down the bar. Light flowed in through the window, distorted by the glass into hazy prisms that crept across the floor with the rising of the sun. He went to the bed and lifted her gently to her feet. She stood as docile as a newborn lamb while he untied the laces of her léine and unbuckled her belt. Then he put his hands in the neck of her linen tunic and rent it in two.

  Startled, she looked up at him, protests on her lips. “It cannot be mended! I have but two—”

  He put his finger over her mouth. “Peace, lady. There is time enough later to fret over linen.”

  The léine pooled on the floor at her feet. Light was her only garment now, soft and velvety on the high, firm contours of her breasts, the curve of hip and thigh, the pale shadow below her belly. A knot settled in his throat; heat rushed to his groin. He marshaled his resistance and concentrated instead upon guiding her to the wooden tub.

  Steam wafted upward, gauzy drifts of scented cloud, and she lifted a brow. “Heather.”

  “Yea, lady mine. ’Tis my favorite fragrance these some months past.”

  He’d bought it for her, purchased it with good coin in a Glasgow shop, awkward with the selection. Never had he purchased gifts for a woman, save for his mother when he was but a greenling. Buying items he thought would be dear to a female heart had taken more time than he’d considered, until James Douglas had come looking for him. Among the more bawdy suggestions he’d had for gifts had been a very practical recommendation that he purchase scented soaps.

  “It has been my experience that women find them most pleasant, and my delight in discovering their use is even more so,” Douglas had drawled.

  There had been no question of which fragrance to choose for Judith. He still carried the sprig of white heather in the pouch on his belt to remind him of her.

  An unnecessary reminder, for she inhabited his dreams as well as his waking thoughts.

  With a hand beneath her elbow, he helped her into the tub, watched the lines of strain ease in her face as she slipped into the heated water until it reached her breasts. He pulled a stool close to the tub, straddled it, and picked up a pot of soap.

  “Ah no,” he said when she reached for it, “lean back against the sides, and I will bathe you.”

  Her cheeks were pink, whether from the hot water or emotion, he wasn’t certain, and she gave him an almost shy glance.

  “That isn’t necessary. You must be weary and need your own ease.”

  “Yea, but that will come later.” He dipped his fingers into the pot, scooped out a generous portion of heather-scented soap, and rubbed it into foam. His hands were slick as he slid them over her arm first, starting at her hand and working soap over each finger in turn, then massaging her wrist, forearm, and elbow before he soaped her upper arm. She lay back against the tub’s edge, eyes half closed now, her first tension easing under his hands.

  He washed her arms, then reached beneath the water to lift her leg, ignoring her startled breath as he soaped her foot with strong, sure pressure that made her moan. Delicate bones, as fragile as a child’s, yet there was a strength in her that could exceed the best of men. He’d seen it.

  His hand slid along the slick curve of her calf to her knee, then upward along the cushion of her thigh and hip. As he skimmed his hand over her belly, she looked up at him through brown lashes, lips parted expectantly.

  It took more constraint than he knew he had to ignore that veiled invitation, and he washed her other leg, ending this time with her foot, a steady massage of the pads of his thumbs on her instep earning her luxurious sigh. She slipped lower in the tub. Water lapped at her breasts, tiny drifts of soap froth teasing pink nipples like rosebuds.

  Heat washed him, steamy and rife with promise, but he kept to his intent and did not yield to the aching need that grew with each stroke of his hand over the soft cushion of her body. Yet he could not help his own reaction as his hand moved to ply soap along the curve of her collarbone, then lower. Torment, to touch her there and not follow his urges.

  He straightened, took up another pot that sat on the floor by the tub, and uncorked it. She watched him with eyes half shut, her hair floating on the surface of the water in dark, wet ringlets.

  Lifting a strand of her hair, he reached behind her to scoop it from the water and rubbed in more soap. He worked in soap until he had a fine lather, then dragged his hand through her hair, admiring the sleek beauty of it, even wet. Her eyes were closed again. His hands moved to the crown of her head, flexing against her scalp, removing all traces of grass and dirt and blood. When the soap was rinsed from her hair, he lifted a soft towel from the floor.

  She lay still, her arms draped along the edges of the tub, her knees bent and feet braced against the side, water slowly cooling.

  Gently, aware that she was near asleep from his efforts, he lifted her from the tub and wrapped her in the linen towel, then sat her on a stool before the low fire. She leaned back against him, her damp hair wetting the front of his tunic. He wound the towel around her head and rubbed her hair until it stopped dripping, then took a hairbrush from the chest and dragged through the length until it began to dry in lazy waves down her back.

  The silence in the chamber was soft and soothing, lending a sense of peace that he hadn’t felt in longer than he could recall. Never had he brushed a woman’s hair, and the unusual act lent its own sense of peace as well. Before, he had always watched, perhaps admiring the grace of motion as the hairbrush slid through glossy locks, but it had never occurred to him that it would be so soothing to slide brush and hands through damp, drying hair that felt like threads of silk in his palm.

  Outside, he heard the distant barking of a hound, the clap and rattle of men and carts, the familiar workings of a keep. Inside, he heard only the steady thud of his heart.

  His hands stilled in her hair. Standing behind her, he saw that the towel wrapped around her had slipped open. Her hands were curled into loose fists in her lap, and her breasts rose and fell in a steady rhythm. She slept. He stood for several long moments, relishing the simple trust that allowed her to relax so completely in his care.

  Her eyelids fluttered but did not open when he carried her to the bed and laid her gently upon the coverlet. The fragrance of heather surrounded him, from the mattress to the scent of her body, welcome and arousing.

  He lay beside her, drinking it all in, the sight and feel and smell of her, real at last after the months of having only dreams in his comfortless bed.

  A wry smile curved his mouth. This was not the welcome home he had imagined on the ride north, his impatie
nce to reach Glenlyon and his lady pressing him on until even James Douglas voiced protest at the pace.

  But, perhaps, he reflected, it was the welcome home he needed. There was something so gratifying about just holding her without expectations of anything other than the moment.

  Chapter 22

  THIN BLUE LIGHT sifted through the glazing. Judith felt it first, then opened her eyes to the deep shadows that lay in the corners. The wooden tub still sat on the stones before the hearth, and by it, the three-legged stool and open pots of soap. She was alone. The depresssion beside her on the mattress was still warm, her hand testing it, then lingering as if she could feel him beneath her palm.

  It was late in the day by the reckoning of the light, and she had slept through. He must have lain with her for hours, holding her, and she recalled the uncomplicated sense of sanctuary that had eased her into sleep.

  How rich and rare it was, a tenuous thing, to feel so safe when the world was so dangerous.

  Loath to rise, she knew she must. There were those who needed her care, men who had been wounded in the fray with the raiders. She still wondered who they were and why they had come now. It would have made more sense to wait until all the rents were in, when the stores were filled to the roof with goods for the long winter.

  Simon MacCallum would be grateful they had not.

  Simon . . . his wound was deep but not fatal; his expertise lay in wielding a quill and not a sword. He was proficient enough, she knew, for she had seen him with the others in the bailey, his brothers and cousins who had come one by one and two by two to enjoy Glenlyon hospitality. A plan, she thought, to fortify the keep without being obvious. It must have worked well, for the invaders had been repelled not once but twice.

  This last, the damage was immense. Crofts beyond the walls were burned and fields laid to waste, smoke still thick in the morning light, but no one had been killed. Inside the walls, where there had been resistance, the casualties were on the raiders and not the inhabitants, save for wounds. Damage to the keep could be repaired.