by Fiona Neal
* * * *
Rats skittered across the prison floor and darted into the filthy hay Deirdre shared with her ragged cellmates. Her own hair and tattered clothes teemed with tormenting lice. The stench of unwashed bodies and excrement nauseated her.
Suddenly, keys jangled, and the loud squeak of rusty hinges echoed ominously when the cell door swung open. A burly gaoler caught her by the shoulders while his small, wiry assistant bound her hands with a rough hemp cord then shoved her out of the cell and into the underground tunnel.
The torches along the way illuminated the sheen of moisture trickling down the damp stone walls, turning them to rivulets of molten copper as the icy cobbles numbed the soles of her bare feet.
All at once, Fergus stepped out of a nearby cell.
“I go with you to the gallows, my lady.”
“Nay, Fergus!”
“Cease your blathering.” The huge gaoler struck Fergus with a club.
Deirdre gasped as her servant fell to the slick, cold cobbles. His head bleeding, he struggled to his feet, and they staggered toward the gray spot of light in the distance. As they emerged into the moody dawn, the sight of the scaffold greeted them. Crested against the clouds, the empty nooses swayed in the stiff breeze.
Morag, red-eyed and pale-faced, stood by. Their tormentors prodded Fergus up the steps and put the rope about his neck, and the huge, dark-haired man’s body writhed as it dangled. A painful scream ripped from Deirdre’s throat.
* * * *
Wakened by the screams, Ian bounded from his bed. Something was wrong with Deirdre! Grabbing his banyan, he dashed to her bedside.
“God, no!” she cried.
The flickering light from the guttering candle played over her beautiful features, sparkling off the tears beading her long lashes.
“Deirdre,” he called, shaking her gently. “Wake up, lass.”
Her lids popped open, and she gasped. “Oh, Ian,” she sobbed, reaching for him.
He sat on the bed, taking her into his arms. “It is all right now. It was just a nightmare.” Ian body reacted powerfully to the contact. Still, he ignored his raging desire and concentrated on comforting her.
Besides, he wondered if her dreams were provoked by some realistic rather than imaginary fear.
“Do you often have nightmares?” he asked, rocking her.
“Aye,” she answered and exhaled a shaky breath.
“It must have been terrible. You’re still shaking.” He began to rock her. “It may help to talk about it.”
“Nay, please, Ian,” she replied and shuddered violently. “I want to forget about the vile business.”
She snuggled him closer, and Ian felt her soft breasts pressing against his chest. His manhood burgeoned. He needed to put some distance between them, or he would break his resolution.
“A wee dram would help to stop your trembling.” It would also ease his body from clamoring for her.
“Perhaps a drop would help,” she said.
He trudged to the hearth, his belly cramping with need. He threw another slab of peat on the fire, glad his banyan hid the telltale evidence of his desire. Then, taking up the bottle he left earlier, he poured the drinks, handing her one.
He sat on the bed, holding her free hand. “Poor darling, your hand is as cold as ice.”
She lifted the whisky to her lips, and he did the same, taking a big swallow. The amber liquid slid down his throat as smoothly as cream, but almost immediately, he felt the trail of heat, warming his gullet.
Deirdre finished the drink, and he took the empty glass, setting it on the nightstand.
“Feeling better?” he whispered as he leaned forward, fighting the intoxication of her heather-scented hair. “Aye,” she answered as her gaze fused with his.
The whisky had turned his blood to a river of need, making her young, tantalizing body impossible to resist. He must go right now or he would succumb.
“Sleep now, Deirdre. If the weather is fair tomorrow, I’ll take you to see the cherry orchard. It should be in full bloom.”
“Oh, that will be charming.” She lay down.
Ian’s belly bunched painfully again. He stood, pulling the downy counterpane over her. “Good night, Deirdre,” he whispered, his loins writhing in protest.
“Stay with me, Ian?” She reached out, grasping his hand. “I need you close to me.”
There was no way in all of creation that he could lie in that bed and not make her his wife in every sense of the word. Heaven help him, he wanted her with a passion he never dreamed existed.
Though she had invited him, Deirdre may be the accomplice of a felon, which made her a criminal as well, his conscience nagged. As for Fergus, she never really answered whether or not the man was involved with the Flame. In fact, her peals of laughter had been an effective evasion now that he thought about it.
Ian shuddered inwardly as the image of Janet, so young, so innocent—and so dead—appeared before him. He could not share his bed with the confederate of a highwayman.
But Deirdre’s tearful turquoise gaze pleaded with him as her hand desperately clasped his.
Chapter Twelve
Deirdre held her breath, waiting for his answer. Had her words, spoken in her sleep, given him pause? As he gazed at her, she wondered if the wheels of his mind were careening around the mountain of lies she had invented to protect Fergus and herself.
If she could just be sure Ian’s justice was tempered with mercy, she would confess right now and promise to make restitution to everyone she had ever relieved of money. That had always been her intention anyway. She yearned to unburden her soul, but she did not know him well enough to take that chance.
Besides, if Ian discovered the truth, he might recognize Fergus. She would never gamble with her faithful servant’s life.
Overwhelmed by despair and still shaken from the nightmare, she felt her chin tremble as tears burned behind her eyes once again. Out of the depths of her terror, she recalled her plan to seduce Ian as a means of distracting him from the truth. The present moment provided the perfect opportunity to begin.
But somehow, she felt guilty for trying to use his natural instincts against him. Still, lives hung in the balance.
“I’ll stay, lass,” he answered at last. “I would not think of leaving you alone and frightened in the dark.”
He turned, making his way toward the hearth. Picking up a winged-back chair, he placed it down by the bedstead then made a return trip for the footstool.
“You can have this pillow.” She held it out to him, her spirits plummeting because he again tacitly rejected her.
“Thank you, but I shall not need it.”
“Do you want a quilt?”
“Nay, my banyan is enough.” He sat, resting his head in the juncture of the chair where one wing jutted out from the back. Placing his feet on the stool, he stretched his long legs, crossing them at his ankles. “Sleep now, Deirdre. I will be right here.”
“Thank you, Ian,” she answered, supremely disappointed.
“I may keep you awake,” he admonished. “I don’t know if I snore.”
“That won’t annoy me.” She swallowed a sob. “The sound will reassure me you are still here.”
* * * *
Ian woke to the sound of the rain beating against the leaded glass of the casements. For a man who had slept in a chair all night, he felt quite refreshed, though a little stiff.
His gaze traveled to Deirdre. Still asleep, her fiery locks spilled over the white linen of the pillowcases. Her mouth reminded him of a rosebud, but its taste, he remembered with longing, was intoxicating.
He walked to where she lay, wanting to awaken her to the delights of the marriage bed, to the joys of a man and woman celebrating their wedded union. Seeing her so near, so available, and from her past responses—so eager—he found it difficult to resist her allure.
But he must. Ian raked his fingers through his hair. Right now he felt like a starving man at a banquet table,
and he was unsure of just how long he could control his raging appetite. At times, he wanted to throw all his high-minded resolve aside and make Deirdre his wife completely.
She stirred, and the thick, brown lashes fanning her cheekbones fluttered apart. Smiling, she stretched her long limbs. “Good morrow, Ian.”
“Good morrow. How do you feel this morning?”
“I’m much better, thanks to you.” Deirdre sat up and rubbed her eyes.
“Good.” Ian nodded with a smile. “Judging from the weather, I think we must postpone the outing.” He gestured toward the window. “Instead, perhaps I can show you around some of the castle.”
“I should love that. I shall enjoy walking about after being cooped up in that ship’s cabin and then in the coach for days.”
“You must not over do it, Deirdre.”
A discreet knock brought them their early morning tea. Before the kitchen maid left, Ian ordered breakfast to be sent up on a tray and hot water for baths.
“This castle abounds with many interesting nooks and crannies. There are still some even I have never discovered, although Strathaven and I played here often enough as children.” He guzzled down the tea.
“Really?” she asked and smiled.
“Aye, there is supposed to be a maze of secret passages stretching within the walls to far beyond the curtain wall. In the old days, more than one of my ancestors escaped to freedom when the castle lay under siege from rival clans.”
On several occasions, his forebears raised help from their allies and won the day. He’d never found the passageway, but he would not tell her of its location if he had. She may use it to ignore his warnings about the Flame, as she did her uncle’s admonitions, and ride abroad.
Another knock signaled their breakfast. A maid entered and set it down on the table in front of the soaring leaded casements. The aroma of gammon made Ian’s mouth water.
Taking their places at table, they tore into their food.
“I see your appetite has improved.” He gazed at her.
She smiled, and Ian thought he heard an angel choir.
“I’ll see you get nourishment if I must spoon feed you at every meal,” he commented.
“That will not be necessary, Ian. I usually enjoy my food, but the rough crossing and long overland journey set me awry.”
“Anything to keep you from fainting,” he replied.
Morag appeared and bowed. Behind her, Padraig waited. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord and lady,” the maid said, “but do you want to bathe and dress now, or shall I come back later.”
“We’ll bath now, but you needn’t bother with tubs,” Ian told her. “We have bathrooms. There is one just adjacent to my room and one upstairs. Padraig, have the servants prepare both of them.”
“Aye, my lord,” the manservant said. He then made an exit.
Ian stood. “Will two hours give you enough time to bathe and dress, Deirdre?”
“Oh, plenty,” she answered.
* * * *
Bathed and clad in her shift, Deirdre sat by the fire in her bedchamber while Morag helped her with her stockings and garters. Turning away, the maid took up the stays when suddenly the door adjoining the master suit opened, and Ian entered.
Dressed in buff breeches and a woolen jacket with matching waistcoat, he looked every inch a gentleman. Deirdre admired the way the white stock at his throat emphasized his clear complexion and startlingly green eyes.
“You may go now, Morag, I will help her ladyship dress.” Ian stepped toward the maid and took the stays from her grasp.
Thunderstruck herself, Deirdre watched Morag’s jaw drop.
“Aye, my lord,” the maid squeaked.
Ian grinned widely as Morag bobbed a curtsy and hastily departed.
Arms akimbo Deirdre asked, “Are you going to help me with my laces?”
“I managed them last night.”
“You unlaced them.” The thought of his hands on her naked flesh made her blush hot.
“Uh-huh.” He smiled, bobbing his brows.
“Removing stays is a bit easier than lacing them.”
“Is that a challenge, Deirdre?”
She smiled. “If you interpret it so, I suppose it is.” She sauntered to him and put her arms about his neck. Are you up to it, my lord?”
His gaze burned like green fire. “I believe I can cope with anything you put my way.”
She tilted her chin up, allowing his lips to hover a hairsbreadth above hers. “Those are bold words.” She pressed her hips to his, and triumph surged through her as she felt his manhood swell.
He abruptly moved away and Deirdre walked to the bedpost.
He followed her, placing the stays around her middle as she held the post. Ian laced the garment securely, making quick work of the task. “All finished,” he announced.
She turned. Face to face now, they stood very close. “Thank you, Ian. It is obvious you have had practice dressing ladies as well as disrobing them.”
“Not as much as I should like.” He smiled wickedly.
Jealousy pounced on her. “Oh, the ladies do not find you, shall we say...attractive?”
“I am very particular about who shares my bed.”
“So I have noticed.” She gazed with unflinching directness into the moss-green glory of his eyes.
“There is a great deal about me you will learn, Deirdre.” He took hold of her wrists.
“And vice-versa, my lord. Will there be an opportunity to do so?”
He frowned. “That depends on you.”
“How so?” she asked, a frown creasing her brow.
“I want the truth about your affiliation with The Flame.”
Deirdre walked to the secretary against the wall and retrieved a Bible. She picked it up, placing her left hand on its cover and raised her right hand. “I have told you. I know no man called The Flame. I swear it as God is my witness.”
The trickery of her semantics worked, for she saw his posture relax, and he smiled.
Deirdre breathed a sigh of relief. She set down the Bible and moved to the bed, slipping her petticoats over her head.
“Will you want your panniers today?”
“Nay,” she replied.
Ian moved to the chest at the foot of the bed and picked up a frock from within. “Is this a new riding outfit?”
“Aye, how did you know?”
“It was not the one I saw you wearing when you and Fergus returned from Effie MacLean’s house.”
“So you told my uncle!” Fury exploded within her.
He glared at her.
“You never relent do you, Ian?”
“Nay,” he answered, steadily holding her gaze.
Realizing that an argument was no way to seduce him, Deirdre reined back her temper and softened her tone. Forcing a smile, she said, “Just remember this, my lord. Never is a very long time.”
* * * *
Later that morning, before meeting Ian, Deirdre knocked on Aunt Barbara’s chamber. She hoped the woman was feeling better this morning.
“Come in,” Aunt Barbara called out.
Deirdre found her ensconced in the big four-poster bed, resting against a heap of pillows. Her tray rested across her ample lap. Her face, beneath her lace-edged nightcap, had regained its color since yesterday.
Deirdre walked to the side of the bedstead. “I am glad to see that you are faring better, Aunt Barbara.”
“Oh, I thought I should have to die to get better, but a good bowl of hot broth, a dozen scones with butter, and a restful night’s sleep made a world of difference. Breakfast helped too. My late husband used to say that I was as tough as a gorse root. But how are you, my dear?” Her childlike eyes rounded. “I heard you swooned last night.”
“It was a silly business, really.” Deirdre dismissed the issue with a wave of her hand.
“I shall order Ian to take better care of you. He was a silly boy, insisting on that nasty sea voyage.”
“But we had no
other way to get from Skye, Aunt Barbara. It’s an island.”
“I know that, my dear, but we could have taken the shorter route across the water and traveled by the longer overland route. But would he listen? Why, suppose you were carrying his child?”
Deirdre looked down, avoiding the woman’s gaze. That is not likely to happen at this rate, Aunt Barbara.
“Ian is a sweet lad, my dear, but sometimes, like all men, he does not think.” The woman reached out and patted her hand. “But have no fear. You will alter his ways.”
That accomplishment would require an act of God. “I am unsure, Aunt Barbara. Ian seems set in his ways,” especially in his suspicion of me.
“You underestimate your affect on him, my dear. Why the boy is positively smitten.” The old woman smiled broadly.
Deirdre knew he found her attractive, but his aunt was overestimating the depth of his feelings. Ian remained quite in control of his emotions; otherwise, he would have already bedded her.
“Why, you will be molding him to your will in no time.” Aunt Barbara chuckled.
Deirdre hoped so.
* * * *
Deirdre was enchanted as she entered the huge library later that morning. Bookshelves lined the walnut-paneled walls from floor to ceiling, a ladder affording access to the volumes on the top shelves. Large casements—a new renovation to the old castle, she surmised—admitted the maximum amount of light for reading. A large Aubusson carpet of cream, rose, and green covered the oaken floor. An ivory damask sofa faced the fireplace, flanked by a pair of sea-green armchairs.
The room provided a snug haven from the cares of the world. Deirdre imagined herself wrapped in a shawl on a wintry afternoon and reading novels.
The door opened and Ian entered.
She smiled, glad for the opportunity to be alone with him. If what Aunt Barbara revealed was true, Deirdre would be well on her way to distracting him from his pursuit of The Flame. She sidled closer to him and tipped her lips up a notch, making them easy for him to kiss.