Traitor Or Temptress

by Helen Dickson

  ‘I was a soldier, don’t forget, and used to dealing with the broken bones and wounds of my men.’

  His expression changed as he perceived John striding towards them. Lifting Lorne down, he waited for him to join them.

  ‘Andrew’s back,’ John said abruptly, scowling darkly from one to the other. His disapproval of the intimacy that was fast developing between Iain and the girl was plain in the firm set of his jaw and the blistering glare he threw Lorne.

  John’s mood conveyed itself to Iain and his manner became brusque. ‘Good. Now we can leave for Norwood. I want to be there before nightfall. Andrew returned to the inn to give your maidservant a letter to take to your brother in Edinburgh,’ he told Lorne. ‘He’s also brought your baggage, which should make life more comfortable for you at Norwood.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, warily searching his implacable features, already mourning the loss of her lover of a moment before.

  For a moment Iain’s gaze held hers with a penetrating intensity. ‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said curtly. ‘Time for that when your father is caught and you are allowed to go home.’

  Chapter Four

  When Iain turned and strode on ahead of them, John looked at Lorne. Her glowing cheeks and eyes large and warm with the emotions Iain had aroused in her caused him some unease. ‘I warn ye ta have a care, Lorne McBryde. When a pretty wench comes within Iain’s reach, he canna keep his hands off her.’

  Lorne’s green eyes snapped with anger as she bore the impertinence of his expression. ‘You are mistaken. I have no illusions about my situation or Iain Monroe’s intentions where I am concerned. I am his prisoner, and I am hardly likely to forget it. Do you honestly think I would let him bed me while he schemes to capture my father and see him hanged? I will be no man’s mistress—least of all Iain Monroe’s.’

  ‘Aye, well—be careful in yer dealings with him. I ken Iain better than any man alive. He’s not an easy man ta cross. It takes a very brave man, or a fool, to try. But he’s persuasive,’ John told her honestly, lightening his mood and smiling lazily. ‘He wears many faces. Not all of them are kind. He can warm a female heart with just a look—but he can also burn,’ he warned.

  ‘You appear to know him well.’

  ‘Aye, I do—and his father before him. Iain’s mother was my cousin, and when my kin was odiously butchered by the Galbraiths and yer grandfather and his sons and their retainers, Iain’s father brought me ta Norwood—where I’ve remained ever since.’

  ‘The McBrydes killed your family?’

  ‘Aye—all of them. Not one man, woman or child was free from molestation. Come dawn, when I returned after spending the night at the home of a neighbour, when frost clung to my hair and my clothes, and to breathe deeply was like having a knife thrust between my ribs, I discovered the slaughter.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,’ Lorne murmured, feeling a lump of constricting sorrow in her chest. Small wonder John Ferguson held a grudge against her and her kin. The pain she’d seen vanished, and his features were already perfectly composed when he looked at her.

  ‘’Twas a long time ago, but I canna forget the barbarous butchery and slaughter committed by the McBrydes and the Galbraiths.’ He fixed Lorne with a hard, cynical gaze. ‘Yer own father was still a youth—but experienced in the brutal ways of the Highlanders for all that. He played his part well—and will answer for his actions—as we all do in the end,’ he said with the calm conviction of what he believed. ‘No man escapes.’

  Reaching the others, who were mounted and ready to leave, Lorne was pleased to see that Archie had retrieved his horse, and relieved when he helped her to mount another that she wasn’t to ride the beast that had thrown her.

  Iain watched her mount, suddenly furious with himself for having succumbed so easily and foolishly to his captive’s charms. He had let himself be mindlessly borne away on a rush of passion. Was the wench some kind of sorceress who had cast a spell on him? He, Iain Monroe, had succumbed to the compelling force of Lorne McBryde’s warm femininity like some over-eager young lad.

  But never had he met a woman who possessed so much freedom of spirit and courage, who was so open and direct. He knew she would never be anything other than honest, and the brightness in that steady, often disconcerting gaze, was an intelligent brightness that proclaimed the agility of an independent mind. She had the wild, untamed quality of her Highland heritage running in dangerous undercurrents just below the surface that found its counterpart in his own hot-blooded, impetuous nature.

  Unfortunately, the realisation of who she was banished his pleasure, for he must never forget that the McBryde blood flowed thick and strong through her veins. Nor must he forget how her betrayal of his brother had brought about his death. She was his hostage and he had no right to think about her in any personal way. But he could not escape the fact that from the moment she had sunk her teeth into his flesh and kicked his shin, she had fascinated and intrigued him.

  As Lorne was about to join the column of men, a voice rang out.

  ‘Wait. A word, if you please, before we leave.’

  She glanced at Iain, who was striding towards her, her heart contracting painfully when she heard the hard edge to his voice. Looking down at him, she waited for him to continue, feeling by the coldness of his voice, by the very intonation with which he addressed her, that it was a stranger who looked at her.

  ‘What happened between us just now was a mistake,’ he said coldly, out of Archie’s hearing. ‘It was nothing but a pleasurable moment of shared ardour—and I do not pretend that it was anything but that. I behaved in a manner that I now regret.’

  Lorne bristled, but pride prevented her from showing any emotion. Her head went up and her eyes were like dagger thrusts. ‘Why? Because I am Lorne McBryde?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Lorne was ashamed, deeply ashamed that she had yielded to him so willingly. How could she have forgotten why she was here? But for one endless, wonderful moment, she had been able to forget that she was his hostage. She had belonged to him, but then he had snatched away that brief glimpse of heaven with his cruel words.

  ‘Damn you, Iain Monroe. I didn’t deserve that. But you are right. It shouldn’t have happened and I will thank you to keep your hands to yourself for the time I am your prisoner.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to do just that.’

  His eyes focused on her with a clarity that seemed to gain power from his anger. Lorne could see something fearsome that rang a hollow bell deep inside her, frightening her. Then he turned away and she knew he was closing a mental door on her. Angrily she dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and moved on, hoping she wouldn’t have to speak to him again for the duration of the journey.

  Set against a magnificent backdrop of scattered woodlands and gently sloping hills, the massive edifice of Castle Norwood, with a blue flag emblazoned with the Monroe coat of arms flying aloft, came into view. The splendidly varied skyline of steep roofs, projecting corner turrets and gables showed the influence of France, of that country’s chateaux. Five storeys of solid, time-stained impenetrable granite, with relatively tiny windows burrowed through the thick walls, seemed to grow out of the circling, high defensive wall. The huge structure was a place of destiny and foreboding.

  With the arrival of the Earl of Norwood the castle had awakened from its temporary slumber. Lorne rode through the massive gates, which yawned open like a huge mouth waiting to swallow her up. The clatter of iron shoes against the cobbled courtyard jarred her out of her weariness. As the long line of travellers approached the iron-studded doors of the castle, a woman stepped out and ran across the cobbles, her bright green skirts flying out behind her. With a grin stretching his face from ear to ear, John reined in his horse and dismounted. It was plain that the woman was pleased to see him, for she had eyes for no other.

  In fascination Lorne watched John gather her to him in a bearlike hug, finding it hard to believe this was the same brute
of a man who had roughly bundled her on to his horse and galloped off with her into the night. Tenderly stroking the woman’s cheek, John exchanged a few brief words with her and then watched her go back inside.

  Bone weary and longing for a bed where she could lie down and sleep for ever, Lorne vaguely saw Iain swing down from his horse and speak to the men. They began to dismount and move away to unsaddle and wipe down their sweating steeds. Iain came to help her down. She was too weary to protest.

  ‘Archie,’ he called to the young man. ‘Take Mistress McBryde inside and see that she is made comfortable,’ he commanded, before spinning on his heel and striding away from them.

  Lifting her skirts to climb the short flight of steps, Lorne followed Archie, knowing she was about to enter a prison, but she was too tired to care. Despite being who she was and looking for all the world like a vagabond, she was so beautiful that it brought an unmistakable look of admiration to the eyes of the servants who saw her. Her arrival was met with interested murmurs of speculation, for each of those assembled knew of the importance of her presence at Castle Norwood.

  With a morbid sense of doom Lorne entered the lofty, stone-vaulted hall, passing between halberds with red plumes that flanked the doorway. The interior seemed extremely bright in comparison to the deepening dusk outside, for pine torches had been lit and burned straight up in sconces. They cast a brilliant light, enriching the plaids and banners and bouncing off the steel blades of a lavish armaments display—a copious arrangement of equipment for killing people that adorned the walls and dominated the hall.

  The woman Lorne had seen in the courtyard crossed towards them. Perhaps close on thirty in age, she looked to be a person of strong character and bore herself with a dignified confidence. Her hair was the colour of the bracken that clothed the autumn hills, and her attractive features were marked with a strong squarish jaw. She greeted Archie with a brief smile before assessing Lorne, her blue-grey eyes bright and alert and surprisingly friendly as she hastened to minister to this unhappy young woman her husband had captured.

  ‘I am Flora—John’s wife. He has told me why you are here and that I must make sure you are made comfortable. I expect you are exhausted after being in the saddle all day. Please come with me and I will show you to your chamber.’

  Lorne gave her a curious glance. ‘You speak as if you were expecting me,’ she said with stilted coolness.

  ‘I was. Iain sent a man on ahead to proclaim your coming.’

  Despair filled Lorne as she followed the older woman across the hall and up the stairs. Climbing to the third storey of this massive tower house, she was shown into a comfortably furnished chamber, which was heated by a blazing fire.

  Flora’s gaze was soft when she looked at Lorne. ‘I’m sure you’ll be comfortable in here. I’ll have some food sent up for you—unless you’d care to eat with the rest of the household in the dining hall?’

  ‘No—I think not.’

  ‘I understand. Perhaps you would welcome a warm bath,’ she suggested after making a brief assessment of Lorne’s appearance. ‘One of the maidservants will unpack for you and see to your needs.’

  Lorne’s chin went up belligerently. ‘Thank you, but I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own needs.’

  Flora felt her resistance. ‘Iain has stressed that while you remain under his roof you are to be treated as his guest—and guests at Norwood are not left to fend for themselves.’

  ‘I am his prisoner, not his guest,’ Lorne stated, her voice laced with sarcasm.

  Flora offered a tentative smile and her eyes betrayed her sympathy as she looked at the younger woman with sudden liking. Lorne McBryde was resentful and frightened, of course, even though she was trying to disclaim it to bolster her courage. And what girl wouldn’t be upon finding herself snatched by kidnappers in the dark and forced to travel miles to an unknown destination with hostile strangers against her will?

  ‘Guest or captive, we will do our best to make your stay at Norwood as comfortable as possible. I know why you have been brought here, and I realise how extremely difficult this must be for you—and, for what it’s worth, I am sorry. I don’t agree with grown men kidnapping young women to aid them in settling old grievances—and I am none too pleased to discover that my husband is capable of such villainy. I am well used to John’s impulsive acts, but he can often be so infuriating—as are all men.’ She sighed deeply. ‘At times all that male posturing wearies me. They are like small boys playing out some game.’

  ‘I can assure you that this is no game to me, ma’am,’ Lorne retorted coldly.

  ‘Please call me Flora. Whatever you imagine, I wish you no harm.’

  If Flora thought Lorne would succumb to her kindness, she was mistaken. The young woman’s face remained expressionless, nor did she lower her gaze, but her rejection couldn’t have been plainer if she had put it into words.

  ‘Thank you,’ was all Lorne said.

  Flora directed her a level gaze. Her voice was stilted when she spoke. ‘I do understand how you must be feeling, and I speak with your best interest in mind. Excuse me. I’ll arrange to have some food sent up.’

  Lorne watched Flora cross towards the door, feeling a touch of remorse. Her smile had been so genuine, so guileless, that she felt ashamed. She wasn’t naturally rude to people, especially when they were being kind. Besides, she would rather have this woman as a future ally than foe. ‘Wait—please.’

  Flora paused at the door and turned.

  Lorne took a tentative step forward. ‘Ever since I was captured I have been surrounded by so much hostility that I’ve been at my wits’ end not knowing what to do.’ Suddenly her lips broke into a smile. ‘Actually, that isn’t entirely true. Archie has gone out of his way to be nice to me. He was the only person civil to me after I was captured. I will not forget his many kindnesses.’

  Flora moved back into the centre of the room, touched by Lorne’s change of attitude. ‘Archie’s like that—quite the young gallant, in fact.’

  At that moment a pretty, bright-eyed young maid in starched white linen entered the room. Despite Lorne being kin of the despised McBrydes, the maid’s manner was subservient to the point of bobbing a curtsy.

  ‘Arrange to have hot water sent up, will you, Janet,’ Flora ordered. ‘Mistress McBryde would like a bath.’

  Lorne submitted without protest to the young maid’s ministerings. The journey to Norwood had been long and tiring and she felt weary and dirty. The bath was invigorating, and when she had been towelled dry she felt much better. While Janet unpacked her belongings she ate a little of the food that was brought to her, but the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours was beginning to tell on her. Her bed was an invitation to rest, but her head was still reeling from the events of the day and she was too restless to sleep. Instructing Janet to snuff out the candles and leave her, she covered her nightdress with her robe and went to the window, looking out at the dark, listening to the sounds of the night beyond.

  As she felt the huge castle wrapping itself round her, the dire reality of her predicament hit her like a heavy weight. What dangerous folly it had been to leave Mrs. Shelly at the inn and wander off into the night as she had. How long would she have to remain in this place? How long before her father and brothers came to rescue her? She knew that as soon as Mrs. Shelly handed James the note in Edinburgh telling him of her capture, he would lose no time in returning to Drumgow. Her family would certainly make haste to set her free from her gaolers—and become gaolers of a different sort.

  Aware that she hadn’t heard Janet close the door behind her when she went out, but feeling eyes boring through her back, she spun round, sensing that she was not alone. In the gloom she was startled upon seeing Iain’s tall figure propped in the doorway with his arms folded casually across his chest, the perfect image of relaxed arrogance and elegance. He was attired in breeches and knee-high boots, and a sleeveless, brown leather jerkin hung loose over a white shirt, which was open at the neck, s
howing the corded muscles of his throat.

  He had a hard look about him, with a firmly muscled chest, lean waist and narrow hips, and, recalling the agility and easy strength he had shown when he had come hurtling after her when she’d escaped into the woods earlier that day, she could only guess at the discipline he practised in keeping himself in such fine, fighting form. Beneath raised brows he was regarding her in cold silence, and his grim expression boded ill.

  ‘So, the Earl of Norwood felt duty bound to welcome me to his house, did he? What an honour and an extraordinary mark of esteem from a man of such tender pride! However, you are either unaware of the impropriety of such a visit to a lady’s bedchamber at this hour, or you are out to strip me of what little dignity I have left. What you have to say must be of the utmost importance to justify such behaviour—or am I to assume you have ventured into my room with sinful intent?’

  Iain loomed in the doorway like a dark, ominous shadow, his expression remaining hard. ‘Banish the thought. I’ve merely come to see if you are comfortable.’

  ‘You have servants to see to that. I do not welcome your intrusion into my privacy.’

  Lorne’s heart began to beat in deep, fierce thuds when her unexpected and highly unwelcome visitor relinquished his stance in the doorway and strolled casually into the room. His size made the room appear smaller, and he cast huge shadows on the wall. She faced him bravely, her hands clasped demurely at her waist to prevent them from trembling, conscious that she wore nothing but her nightdress beneath her robe, and of the intense physical awareness she felt at his nearness. The warmth he had shown her earlier was still absent. It was as if the closeness, the tenderness they had shared, had never been.

  Iain’s eyes were drawn to her graceful figure. The light from the fire fell on her small, proud head, and even in the shadowed room softer lights glowed within the shining depths of her hair loosely falling about her shoulders. Her face was like an icon, exaggeratedly so in the dim light, and the silken robe covering her nightdress moulded itself to her curvaceous form, presenting such delights to Iain’s closely attentive gaze that he felt his senses leap. He cursed himself for his weakness. He might covet her, but he would not allow himself to be affected by her.