Parris Afton Bonds

by The Captive

  A hand at her elbow jarred her. Nob’s broad face beamed at her. ‘"Tis a caring husband I’ll be, Mistress Enya. After our marriage there’ll be na more heavy work for ye.”

  She tried not to shrink from his touch. Nodding, she managed a "Thank you, Nob.”

  Beneath the low forehead, his little eyes twinkled. “With a bairn in ye, yell need to take it easy," he said, leading her toward the staircase. “Na more hefting firewood and buckets of water."

  “What if 'tis the laird’s child within me?" she demanded, anger replacing her momentary apathy. “What then, pray tell?"

  Nob’s grin displayed uneven, yellow teeth, reminding her of the ghostly neep lanterns lighting the great hall. "Why ’tis even better, mistress.”

  “Oh, God!”

  With much pomp, he ushered her into Ranald’s chamber. She stood just inside the doorway and surveyed her oak-paneled prison cell for the night with apathy.

  Embers smoldered on the hearth, where lay the faithful Thane. A furred spread covered the curtained four-poster. Her gaze darted away. She was unwilling to face its implications. Not just yet.

  “Thank you, Nob.” After all, the troll could not fathom that she would not feel the same pride as he at being selected for the laird’s attention.

  The gruff-looking little man didn’t move. His thick lower lip hung loosely, as if he were unsure what to do next. He couldn’t be thinking about watching what was about to happen—or was that a Highland custom, the right of the betrothed?

  "I will await him, our laird, alone,” she said firmly, her smile frozen.

  Nob’s head bobbed. "I’ll return on the morrow to escort ye back to your chambers."

  "You do that."

  When he had gone she leaned back against the closed door and shut her lids, shut out all that awaited her.

  If Ranald Kincairn were taking advantage of that barbaric Highland tradition of the droit du seigneur merely to satisfy his carnal lust, she might be able to accept the man with a blank mind. Many a bride with husband selected for her, either by parents or by a sovereign, had done just so.

  But Ranald was using her body for revenge on another. And tonight wouldn’t be the last of his imposed punishment upon her; she was certain of that.

  If only she could go back to Afton House and the security it had represented. Now all was about to be changed—irrevocably.

  Her head came up. Hadn’t her mother suffered a similar fate?

  Then her mother’s daughter could behave no less courageously. She would meet Ranald Kincairn with courage and dignity.

  Chin tilted, she left the comfort of escape the door afforded and strolled around the man’s chamber, as if merely inspecting a guest room.

  Thane’s ears perked up, those soulful eyes followed her. The collie’s furry neck was ruffled. As if he, too, sensed this was no ordinary evening.

  She stooped to scratch behind the collie’s ears. "So, you, too, are awaiting our laird.”

  Studiously, she ignored the feather bed to wander over to a simple commode of planked pine, where reposed a ewer and basin of water—and a formidable claymore with its blood-rusted blade.

  Common sense told her, she couldn’t even begin to lift the claymore. But, oh, what a marvelous way to split hairs with her captor.

  A bureau bookcase with a drop leaf and small glass panes, most of them cracked or missing, attracted her attention. Empty of books, as she had suspected. If the oaf’s formal schooling went no further than a year at Winchester, she doubted his literary efforts went beyond the rudimentary.

  She bypassed a sturdy chair built in the pattern of an X and fully covered with fringed material of a Turkish design to reach a desk, where a wax candle sputtered. It smelled of honeysuckle. The mahogany writing table with fretted detail on the pediments was of quality workmanship; doubtlessly booty from a raid.

  Then she noticed the open book. A Bible. Wonderingly, she ran her fingers over the thumb-worn parchment pages. The Highland warrior read this? She peered closer at the text.

  He delivers me from my enemies; Surely Thou dost lift me above those who rise up against me; Thou dost rescue me from the violent man. Therefore I will give thanks to Thee among the nations, O Lord.

  Her eye skipped farther down the page to another passage.

  . . . in them He has placed a tent for the sun, which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber.

  "I see that ye can read.”

  She whirled. Guiltily, she stared at the masked Cameron laird. “Ye knew that I could! Ye knew almost everything about me before ye abducted me, ye did!”

  “Your speech is betraying your nervousness.” Thane padded joyfully over to him, and he bent to pat the collie’s head. Then he straightened, and Thane, content now, trotted back to his guard post before the fire.

  Ranald removed the domino that masked his eyes, tossed it atop the bookcase's drop leaf, and crossed the room toward her. Reluctantly, she conceded that the big man moved with grace akin to a lithe sailor who scaled a ship’s mast.

  She held her ground. Would he take her now, without preliminaries? No, his form of cruelty was more subtle, more insidious. He would delay the act to prolong her torment.

  She miscalculated. It wasn't she he desired, but a pipe.

  He removed a long-stemmed clay pipe from a desk drawer cluttered with more pipes and writing utensils. With a modicum of motion, he tapped tobacco from a pewter box into its clay bowl. As he lit the pipe, he watched her, as if gauging the effect on her of what he would next say.

  "But you are right about me knowing almost everything about you. For instance, I know ye enjoy the pipe yourself. Smoke it when ye think ye are alone.”

  Those three sentences did more to rattle her than anything she had yet experienced. "How long did your men spy upon me?”

  He studied her through the haze of smoke. "Do ye think I would allow someone else to watch your most intimate of activities?”

  Her jaw dropped. "You? You spied upon me?”

  "Gaining entree to your mother’s salons was but a wee thing.” He crossed to the Turkish chair. Sitting, he puffed on the pipe stem, all the while measuring her reaction.

  She hoped her panic was not revealed in her expression; hoped he couldn’t hear her heart's frantic beating. "This is madness!”

  Staring up at her, he held out the pipe. “Care to try?"

  She slapped it from his hand. The clay bowl shattered on the floor. Aghast, she looked from the scattered fragments back to him. When he made no move to strike her she regained a portion of her courage. "You will not get away with this.”

  "And ye will learn to control your temper. Teaching ye will be most rewarding, I think."

  She put her hands on her hips. "You think! Your thoughts are geared for warfare. And that will be your downfall!"

  "Oh?"

  "It will be unexpected, because I shall make you fall in love with me."

  Those angled brows flared in astonishment.

  Her statement surprised her also, but she maintained her equanimity.

  A slow smile stretched his long mouth. "That will prove interesting.”

  "You don’t think I could?"

  “Tis highly unlikely. First, as I told ye, I find red hair uncomely. I am not attracted to ye in the least.”

  She wanted to screech at him, scratch out his eyes. She smiled superiorly.

  “Second, ye are to be Nob’s wife, not mine. I don’t think ye can accomplish your intention in the space of one night. For that matter, not ever. Now, pick up the pipe shards.”

  Her hand jerked, and he warned, "Don't. Should ye strike me, I would have no alternative but to return in kind."

  She sought an unguarded place, hopefully his Achilles heel. "Does not the Bible say turn the other cheek?” she asked, stooping to collect the pieces of clay.

  "It also says an eye for an eye. It is full of such paradoxes.”

  He was a paradox. She would have to unravel this man’s skein of complexities if s
he hoped to best him. For the moment, she ceded him the battle.

  "‘Never seek a fight,’” he told her. “‘If it comes, step back. It is far better to step back than overstep yourself.’’’

  "From the Bible?” she muttered.

  "No. Tis a Chinese admonition. Ye are shaven, mistress?"

  Her hand clenched. Crimson seeped between her fingers. She opened them and stared at her palm. Tiny welling cuts crisscrossed it. Oblivious to the pain, she looked up at him. "Aye, I am shaven."

  He grasped her wrist. His brows met above the bridge of his decidedly Roman nose. "A bloody mess, ye are."

  He rose, tugging her along behind him to the commode, where he poured the ewer’s water into the chipped basin and dipped her hand. Scarlet swirled the water. Removing her hand, he gingerly probed the cuts.

  “Oh!” she gasped as his big fingers found a tender place.

  He peered at her through his dense lashes. "Tonight, it will be not only your hand that bleeds, I trust."

  Grasping his meaning, she yanked his hand from hers. "You are merciless!” With a swipe of her hand, she toppled the basin of bloodied water onto his robe. Blood red was stark against the robe's white.

  His eyes narrowed. “On this night, this robe will also be smeared with virgin’s blood."

  He yanked her by her wrist toward the curtained bed. Released, she fell atop it. Dispassionately, he gazed down at her. "Disrobe. Or shall I call the village women to assist ye?”

  Her lips formed a taunting smile. "Do you need someone else to accomplish your purpose, my laird Kincairn? Tell me, how many betrothed lasses have lost their maidenhood to you?”

  "Dozens."

  She tried not to wince. Keeping her eyes on his brooding countenance, she sat upright and began unlacing her stays. “You must be proud." Off came her garters and yellow ribbed stockings. "A grand stud horse, you are. How many brats have you sired?"

  "I may recant giving ye to Nob. Better Simon Murdock endure your waspish tongue.” He blew out the candle. Only the fire’s embers lit the room. “Alas, Murdock’s life span is due to be shortened drastically.”

  With only her ivory satin shift to hide her nakedness, she tugged off the mobcap. Like a red flag, she let her flaming hair tumble out and cascade over her white shoulders and breasts, thrusting against the shift’s thin material. Her heart was pounding, but she squared her shoulders and said in a tone of indifference, “Have done with it then. I am tired and desire to sleep."

  He stared at her. "The shift, mistress."

  True, he had seen her naked. Still, peeling off the shift’s straps and letting it fall around her ankles was probably the most difficult thing she had ever done.

  The first time he had beheld her nudity had been an accident. This time, what he was requiring of her was a violation of herself that was nigh as painful emotionally as a physical violation would be.

  His eyes traveled from her wild red curls to that smoothly bare mound at the apex of her thighs. After a moment he said, "I told you. Your red hair leaves me indifferent. Go on to sleep."

  Her expression betrayed utter surprise.

  He laughed. "Ye had prepared yourself for martyrdom, hadn’t you?” He drew the curtain about the bed, then flopped down beside her and closed his eyes. "I, too, desire sleep."

  She felt like smacking him. Because of him, her energy was running high, her thoughts were scrambled, her nerves were stressed.

  Lips compressed, she fell back onto the bed next to him and turned on her side, away from him. Without clothes she was chilled, but because of his weight she could not tug the fur coverlet over her.

  She rolled back over and nudged his shoulder. "You are no better than a beggar, Kincairn, sleeping with your clothes on.”

  Without opening his eyes, he ordered, “Go to sleep."

  "I’m cold."

  He sighed, grabbed one end of the coverlet and wrapped the two of them in it. His heavier weight created a valley in the feather mattress, and she rolled down and against him.

  Breathing shallowly, silent and unyielding, she lay trapped along his length. Maybe half an hour passed. At one point he slung a heavily muscled arm across the indentation between her hip and her rib cage. His warm breath fanned her ear. Gradually the coverlet and his own body heat drove the chill from her.

  When, in his sleep, he cupped her breast with one hand, she stiffened. Nothing happened. Then, without her volition, her nipple began to harden. She shifted so that her breast was not thrusting into his palm.

  "Quiet," he murmured, his hand slipping down to palm her belly, as if a most natural act between him and her.

  “I can t.”

  He stirred, nestled his head in the pool of her hair. "Why not?”

  "You are touching me."

  He didn’t say anything, but she knew he was fully awake now. His palm stayed where it was.

  She squirmed. "I canna sleep like this."

  "Then leave me bed."

  "No."

  He raised on one elbow and glared at her. The firelight glinted green in his eyes. "God’s blood, but ye are an argumentative wench."

  She pushed herself upright, holding the covers over her bare breasts. Why she did so made no sense to her, since he by this time doubtlessly knew every freckle on her body. "If I leave now, the people below will know you did not find favor with me. It will make my position just that more untenable in the castle.”

  Then, too, Nob was waiting below. At the moment, he seemed the worse of the two men.

  "God," he groaned and rolled over to his other side. “Stay then."

  She had only to figure out how to stay here— and stay safe until rescue came. Besides, she had a promise yet to keep: to make Ranald Kincairn fall in love with her.

  The south end of Loch Siel was shallow and reedy and, from Kathryn’s vantage point, she could see the garish flats of cluttered fish cages. An old cattle-drive trail passed within sight of the coaching inn. Its view was depressing, with a steady afternoon drizzle and lowering gray skies. Herons stood muffled and miserable on the shoreline.

  Kathryn deserted the single window in her room to pace the red-and-green-plaid carpet. All the while she rubbed her chilblained hands. Since Arch had trod off into the mist earlier that morning the mantle clock had ticked off more than four hours.

  The mantle clock was one of the few amenities offered by the half-timbered coaching inn of Acharacle. The village had little to recommend it beyond the nearby Castle Tioram. The ruins were once the home of the chief of the Clan Ranald, who burned it in order to keep it from killing into the hands of his enemies, the Camerons, during the 1715 Jacobite rebellion.

  Her concern must have summoned Arch, because at that moment the door swung open. "I may have a lead!” he said, shedding his drenched cloak on the plank floor.

  “Oh, Arch, I’ve been worried. You were gone so long!”

  He slapped his floppy, black felt hat against his knee. Rain droplets splattered everywhere, reminding her of a wet dog shaking the water from its coat. "By accident I found a clue to Kincairn, Kathryn.” He crossed to the fire to warm his hands.

  She poured the fragrant green tea she had induced the innkeeper’s wife to bring up. “So many leads, so many tales, with none having any substantial results.”

  "This one may prove out. An old man, mayhap all of seventy-five years, lay dying along the roadside. I half-carried him, half-dragged him, to a close-by tithe barn. I tell you, the thatched roof was leaking like a sieve. Anyway—”

  "You’re shivering, Arch. Here, let me get you my blanket.”

  He crossed to the wheel-back chair and eased his frame into it “As I was saying, I laid the old man on a bed of straw and covered him with my cloak. I was trying to ease his last moments. Without thinking—I hope to God I don’t burn in hell for this—I began murmuring, administering the Last Rites.”

  She laid the blanket over Arch's long legs. It was the least she could do to comfort him. One of the few things he allow
ed her to do. He had become so self-sufficient. Maybe he always had been. She really knew so little about him after he left Ayrshire to study at the Benedictine monastery across the channel in Normandy.

  "At that,” Arch continued, "the old farmer opened one eye and said, 'Ye be a priest.’”

  "Oh, God, Arch. You take too many chances!”

  "I thought this might have been my last chance at anything. In a country that has become staunchly Protestant, my head would fit nicely on a pike.”

  She knelt at his feet. Her black taffeta dress pooled around her. "What happened?”

  "I was half off the mark before his next words stopped me. He said he wanted to die with the chief of the Ranald clan. I thought the old man had gone daft, and told him the last chief had died in ’15.”

  He paused to sip the tea, which had bits of leaf swirling through the liquid. She thought he would never swallow. “Well?”

  "The old man insisted that a descendant of the Ranald chief is head of the Camerons."

  "How can that be?”

  "According to him, a warrior of the Clan Cameron, with a family name of Kincairn, carried off a Ranald lass. One of their eight offspring was endowed with his mother's maiden name as his own given name. It seems we’re looking for a Ranald Kincairn.”

  "So this Ranald Kincairn is the man we’re seeking? Of Ranald’s Reivers?"

  "Aye, so it would appear."

  “Were you able to find out anything else about him?”

  “His men, it seems, are cat-footed Highlanders, swift in movement, apt in concealment, artful in stalking, silent in execution.

  “The hallmark of his attacks, Kathryn, are forest ambushes, sudden raids, night attacks, and the total destruction of anything of possible use to the enemy.”

  "Including the enemy’s wife," she whispered.

  He put the cup down and took her hand. "Apparently, Ranald Kincairn is laird of the Camerons into the bargain.”

  Her shoulders sagged. "Now we have the Cameron rebels to track down as well."