Traitor Or Temptress

by Helen Dickson

  Lorne’s eyebrow flicked upwards as she agreed with her new friend. ‘I have already made an accurate assessment of my captor’s character, Flora,’ she said, speaking with confidence, for it did not occur to her that she was already falling under the spell of a practised seducer, such men being beyond her realms of her experience. ‘I have learned to be wary and will endeavour to keep out of his way while I am forced to remain under his roof.’

  Chapter Five

  From where he sat Iain was taken aback by the depth of Lorne’s composure and the delicate, almost ethereal beauty in the young face. In repose she was the quintessence of the beautiful female animal, her face and body as perfectly formed as they could be. Her sensuality was so malignant that even her enemies’ eyes seemed to burn with evil pleasure as they lingered on her.

  He gritted his teeth in what might have been jealousy as he watched these men, who had been so ready to condemn their captive yesterday, pander to her every need, covet her. He watched the appreciation in their eyes as they regarded the creaminess of her skin and the simple elegance of her gown, the scooped neckline offering a tantalising view of smooth, voluptuous flesh. The next thing he could expect, he thought bitterly, was that they would exonerate her from the part she had played in his brother’s death and forget the name she bore.

  His eyes narrowed as he continued to watch her. What was the minx up to? If it was a ploy to charm them all into submission, she was succeeding superbly. The stupid charade was beginning to chafe against his patience, but he was no different from the others and found his gaze drawn to her like metal filings to a magnet, and he knew he was in danger of becoming as enamoured as the next man—if he wasn’t already. She had evidently had a good night’s sleep because she looked sharp and bright and flushed with the compliments being showered on her by that young pup Archie Grogan.

  Breakfast over, the men began to rise from the long tables and disperse. They would take up their allotted duties around the castle should the enemy come calling.

  Iain observed Lorne slipping from the hall like a graceful, drifting waif. Uncoiling his tall, lean body from his seat, he swiftly moved in her direction.

  ‘Wait. You needn’t hurry away.’

  Lorne turned to find Iain immediately behind her. She was unable to prevent her heart from doing a somersault on finding herself in such close proximity to him once more—so close that she could see that the wound on his cheek looked to be healing nicely.

  ‘I was glad to see you at breakfast, and that you’ve decided to be reasonable.’

  ‘Considering the circumstances, you could hardly reproach me if I choose to be unreasonable.’

  ‘I must congratulate you. You have succeeded in charming every one of the gentlemen who attended breakfast, but I warn you to have a care. To compel their admiration is a foolish course of action to embark upon when you are their prisoner. It is not a game I find amusing.’

  The look Lorne gave him was one of mock, wide-eyed innocence. ‘Game, my lord? I play no game.’

  ‘No? Yesterday these men would gladly have seen you horsewhipped—and today, after using your feminine wiles on them, they worship at your feet. I compliment you, madam,’ he drawled. ‘You are an artist.’ His expression was grim. ‘It cannot have escaped your notice that they’ve been smitten by Cupid—the lot of them.’

  His wry tone almost made Lorne burst out laughing. She looked at him obliquely, her smile provocative. ‘Really? And does that include the mighty Earl of Norwood? I have heard that you are given to breaking hearts yourself, my lord,’ she remarked glibly.

  ‘Hearts mend,’ Iain replied sharply.

  ‘And do you speak from experience?’ she asked with a smile. ‘Has your heart ever been broken?’

  ‘I have never allowed a woman to get that close.’

  ‘Heaven forbid if one does and you become her absolute slave,’ Lorne quipped, turning away to proceed up the stairs, annoyed when he fell into step beside her. She paused and snapped her head up, intending to launch into a tirade. ‘Don’t you have work to do, my lord?’

  Her impudent remark brought a chuckle to his throat. ‘Plenty—but all in good time.’ Reluctant to leave her now she was away from the others, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned casually against the newel post, one brow arched in speculative enquiry. ‘Since you are likely to be living at Norwood for some considerable time, please feel inclined to call me Iain. Is my name so difficult for you to say?’

  ‘I think “my lord” will suffice for now.’

  ‘For now? Does that mean you intend to get to know me better?’ he asked, distracted by the golden lights in her hair and the deep curl of her eyelashes silhouetted for an instance against the light.

  ‘What makes you think I want to?’ In utter disbelief Lorne watched a slow, satisfied grin sweep across his handsome face. She tried in vain to see beyond the darkness of his magnetic, shameless gaze. He looked so very different to the man of last night who had been so harsh and unfeeling towards her that she experienced great difficulty in suppressing a smile.

  ‘A small matter of a kiss.’

  ‘Which you lost no time in telling me was a mistake,’ she reminded him. The path down which he was leading her filled her with a trembling disquiet.

  ‘It was. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I enjoyed kissing you and would enjoy teaching you how to do it better.’

  Lorne tilted her head to one side and glanced up at him obliquely. ‘So, you think I’m in need of instruction?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if you weren’t. It’s considered improper for a maid to be well versed in the art of kissing.’

  ‘Perhaps if you hadn’t taken me by surprise you might not have found me so bereft of knowledge,’ she countered sharply, tossing her head haughtily. ‘The times I’ve been kissed are too numerous to count,’ she lied, ‘and I certainly don’t need to be taught how to do it from the likes of you.’

  Iain’s eyes narrowed as they settled on her lips. He nodded slowly as he contemplated her statement. ‘Kissed and often! Have you, now?’ he crooned. ‘Then it would be interesting to discover how much you’ve learned from your experiences.’

  ‘I have learned quite enough—so don’t you dare touch me—you—you vile, unprincipled lecher,’ she flared hotly.

  ‘Pray continue,’ he chuckled. ‘I haven’t had such a dressing down since I was a lad.’

  ‘There are other things I could call you, but I shall refrain for the sake of decency,’ she bit back furiously.

  Iain gazed at her, a slight, infuriating smile curving his firm lips. His eyes plumbed the depths of hers, reliving the experience of kissing her as he had done so often in his fantasies. He saw a spark of sensuality below the surface of her charm. It caressed him like an old acquaintance, and the way it made his heart quicken and his blood run warm was worth more than coupling with any other woman.

  ‘When I kissed you, I recall you kissing me back,’ he breathed, reluctant to let the incident that had given him so much pleasure drop, ‘which tells me you enjoyed the experience.’

  Gathering her shattered senses, Lorne glowered at him as much to rebuke him for his impudent reminder of his own behaviour by the stream as to declare her own response to it. ‘You allow your imagination too much liberty, my lord. Perhaps it is time you gave it a rest.’

  Iain’s lips twitched with humour and the twinkle in his eyes slowly evolved into a rakish gleam. ‘I assure you, my dear, I have no intention of reining in my imagination, not when I find the subject so appealing. And do not ask me to explain my imaginings to you, for they are of a most sensual nature and not for the ears of an innocent—if, indeed, that is what you are,’ he said, recalling her association with young Ogleby.

  Lorne struggled to remain calm, but she was unable to do anything to prevent the burning flush that rushed to her cheeks. She had no idea what had prompted his remark, and knew better than to ask. Battling with her composure she brushed a stray lock of hair from he
r brow with her slender fingers. Had she given vent to her true feelings, she would have used those attractive members to wipe the smirk from his lips.

  ‘Pray excuse me,’ she said, picking up her skirts. ‘This conversation is not to my liking and I think it wise to put an end to it right now.’

  The smile disappeared from Iain’s lips, and a heavy, deeply troubled frown creased his brow as he watched her go. He was painfully aware of what he was doing and realised that it was madness to encourage what he was feeling. As a soldier he understood the strategy of moving with caution. He had traversed the road of conquest, be it on the field of battle with the enemy, or in the bed of a woman. He knew the rules of the game, and when no resistance was offered by one or the other they were susceptible to surrender.

  But whether Lorne McBryde was susceptible to surrender or not, when he looked to where John still sat and he caught his disdainful expression, it reminded him that she was still his prisoner and he was behaving like a besotted fool to the daughter of his enemy.

  Iain thought he had solved the problem of his captive by avoiding her as much as possible, but his plight became unbearable when he found her round every corner and in every room of his great house. He came to recognise her footfall on the passageways, the swish of her skirts, and her delicate perfume that lingered like a fragrant cloud in her wake. He observed her from afar without meaning to—sitting in a window recess looking out, reading or industriously stitching at a sampler, which Flora had provided her with to occupy her hands.

  Iain observed that the spell she cast was not reserved for him alone. With every passing day it found new victims, each one hopelessly vulnerable to it. Somehow she had inveigled her way into his household, dazzling his servants, who tripped over each other to be of service to her—fetching her refreshment from the kitchen, or a stool on which to rest her small feet while she read or stitched. Becoming abnormally sensitive to every nuance of her presence, he dealt with the enforced situation by working relentlessly, as if to burn his desire for her and his anger from his system.

  At night he lay awake in his great bed, restless and tormented as he thought of the beautiful young temptress on the other side of the wall. It was as if his whole being was trapped on the edge of something. He was pulled deeper into a maelstrom of desire that had a hold on his senses, tightening with each passing day she remained beneath his roof. Furious with himself and fate for having thrust him into this untenable situation, it was with an effort of will, which amounted almost to hypnosis, that he would blot her image from his mind and fall to sleep.

  Lorne’s life at Castle Norwood assumed a routine. She rose at dawn and breakfasted in the dining hall with the other inhabitants. During the morning and afternoons she mended linen or helped Flora with some of her chores, mainly in the stillroom, which smelled delicious with the spicy scent of herbs. After supper she would usually escape to her chamber to read before going to bed, but there were evenings when she would return to the hall with Flora, where others not on lookout were gathered.

  She would sit quietly, sipping wine as she listened with interest to the stories that were told. They were spellbinding tales and legends that refreshed their hearts and enriched their spirits, that thrilled and entertained everyone present. They were of magical folklore, beautiful and dramatic, telling of a world of beguiling witches, elves and fairies and evil monsters, stories that had been told in Scotland for centuries and handed down by word of mouth from generation to generation.

  And then they would listen to the music of the harp and pipes. When prompted, Archie would sing a lament, sometimes to the accompaniment of a fiddle or the soft strumming guitar. Melody sprang naturally to his lips, and his songs made the heart stir.

  As everyone became used to her presence, often she would fall into conversation and be included in others. She began to relax, but she was forever conscious that she was still the subject of her captors’ vigilance.

  Finding herself more and more in John Ferguson’s presence, torn between an intense dislike and a growing respect, she gradually revised her opinion of him. Away from the wildness of the forest and soberly clad, his hair neatly brushed and tied back, he was no longer the intimidating ruffian who had captured her and carried her off into the night. He sat across from her slumped in a chair. Idly he toyed with a drinking cup full of whisky.

  The huge log that had been hauled on to the fire in the great hall had burned down to a red glow, but its light and the light from pine torches did not dispel the black shadows that accumulated high up in the medieval hall. Wine, ale and whisky flowed and the atmosphere was thick with the aroma of food and sweat and smoke from the fire. Those gathered had settled down to listen to an old man recount tales of his youth. John turned his head to find Lorne surveying him from the seat opposite.

  Lorne met his gaze squarely. ‘You watch me a good deal, John Ferguson. Are you afraid I might vanish beneath your nose if you look away?’

  The whisky he had imbibed had mellowed John’s mood and he gave her the closest thing she had ever seen to a smile on his dour countenance. ‘So closely are ye guarded, Mistress McBryde, that ye would have to possess the powers of a witch to do that.’

  ‘Be assured that if I had such powers I would have used my witchcraft to my advantage and spirited myself away long before now. I would have cast a spell on you and everyone else in this accursed pile and sent the lot of you to the devil. Or maybe I have been blessed with the second sight and have foreseen what is in store for us all and am content to bide my time.’

  ‘Have a care what ye say, lassie, lest yer words be misconstrued by those not familiar with Highland superstitions.’ John’s rugged face was expressionless as usual when he looked at her, but this time his eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘’Tis not uncommon for witches to be scourged and burned at the stake, ye ken.’

  Lorne smiled. ‘I see you have not forgotten your Highland upbringing entirely, so tell me, John Ferguson, as a Highlander, do you believe in the second sight?’

  His lips twisted scornfully. ‘Only babes and animals and ancients see the second sight.’

  Lorne permitted herself the luxury of a smile. ‘Ah, but you know the superstition of the Highlanders. It is said that there are those who can read the future and believe in black cats scheming to do mischief on All Hallows Eve, and malevolent goblins roaming the hills. They believe in men and women with the evil eye who can wither crops, shrivel a body at a glance and dry the milk of a cow.’

  Surprised by her knowledge of Highland superstitions after so long an absence and the light humour with which she spoke, John smiled his dry smile. ‘Aye, and dry the lochs and see through time and converse with people from the past and beyond the grave.’ Falling silent, he looked at her long and hard, his expression serious. ‘I was weaned on Highland superstitions, lassie, and there’s na a thing ye can tell me that I dinna already know—but whether or not I believe them is another matter. They’re sinister tales passed down to us through time and founder in ridicule on non-believers’ ears.’

  ‘Are you a Catholic, John—or have you recanted your faith?’

  ‘Sanctimonious hocus-pocus doesna interest me.’

  ‘And if my father is captured, can he expect no mercy?’

  ‘Edgar McBryde is unworthy of compassion, and the only mercy the chief of a sept of murderers and thieves can expect is a kindly executioner who will na prolong his passing. Whatever he does will aid him not at all. The end of his life has already been ordained. He knew that when he returned to Scotland. An awareness of the violence of his death as punishment for his sins is a destructive force in any man’s life, so I can only assume his need to be back in the Highlands is greater than his fear of what he will suffer.’

  ‘Contrary to the opinions of you and the Earl, my father will assess the situation carefully before launching an attack against you. At the cost of his pride, he will not run away.’

  ‘He’s either left the field and returned from whence he came, o
r the redcoats are hunting him. In which case he’ll have gone to earth.’ The smile on John’s lips deepened into mockery and then into an icy contempt. ‘But be assured they’ll dig him out.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Whatever—our aim is to defeat him by any means, to bring him low and not to let him escape the noose a second time. And that’ll be the end of it. I witnessed what ye did that day in the glen of Kinlochalen,’ he said suddenly. ‘With me own eyes I saw ye betray David Monroe’s whereabouts to Ewan Galbraith.’

  ‘Then your own eyes deceived you, John Ferguson,’ Lorne said, with all the satisfaction of one telling the simple truth.

  John stiffened, an imperceptible frown furrowing his heavy brow. His bright blue gaze was penetrating when he looked at Lorne. ‘If they did then explain ta me what I did see.’

  Lorne rose and looked across at him, her expression hard. ‘You have prejudged me. I refuse to give you my confidence now. On pain of death the Earl has forbidden me to speak his brother’s name, so I will abide by that. Besides,’ she said, her voice laced with sarcasm, ‘you don’t want to be swayed from what you believe, do you, John Ferguson?’

  With a quiet dignity she turned and left the hall, leaving John with a perplexed, uncertain frown staring after her.

  Iain would have been surprised to know that Lorne was no more immune to him than he was to her, for as time went on and she waited to be set free she could not prevent her eyes from searching him out or her thoughts from straying in disquieting directions. Nothing in her limited experience had prepared her for such a man as Iain Monroe. If she had found him impressive before, to see him now in his own castle, surrounded by the men and women of Norwood who depended on him in every sense, made him grow, in her estimation, to an almost invincibility.