They descended the stairs side by side, making certain they did not touch. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Rupert stood waiting, as patient and long-suffering as the hounds that lay at his feet. The moment Dillon appeared, the dogs leaped up, eager for an affectionate pat of his hand.
With the dogs dancing at their feet, and Rupert trailing behind, they made their way to the great hall. Inside, the room resounded with the voices of the men from the village, who had gathered to make plans for battle.
Leonora glanced around at the men wearing all manner of strange dress, excitedly talking and laughing, and felt a shock of recognition. All her life she had been witness to such gatherings in her father’s keep. Before every battle there was the same air of anticipation. The same heightened sense of adventure. The same feeling of camaraderie.
“Dillon.” Flame, still wearing the tattered breeches and tunic better suited to a stableboy than the sister of the laird, strode across the room and caught her brother’s hand. “I rode to Kilmartin and have been pledged arms by ten and two men of the village.”
Dillon glanced around. “Are they here, then?”
“Nay, not yet. But they have given their word that they will join you within a fortnight.”
He smiled and tousled his sister’s hair. “I should have known you would best both Camus and Graeme, and be first to bring me pledges of arms.”
She beamed at him, clearly overjoyed to win his approval. Her smile faded when she caught sight of Leonora. “Why is the Englishwoman here?”
“Would you deny her food?” Dillon asked.
“If I had my way, I would deny her life,” Flame snapped, turning her back on Leonora. “I do not think we should be forced to look upon the woman whose father holds Sutton and Shaw captive.”
The men standing around them nodded in agreement and began grumbling among themselves about the wicked English.
In a low voice, Dillon admonished, “You will keep a civil tongue, lass. I cannot permit an uprising here in my own home. The blood of this horde is already hot for battle. The simplest word could fan the flame of hatred and unleash an outpouring of violence against the woman.”
“As if I would weep for her loss.”
Dillon caught his sister roughly by the arm. His voice was low, with a barely controlled hint of anger. “Then weep for this. Any harm done to her will assure the same harm to Sutton and Shaw. Do you wish to see them suffer?”
Flame shivered and cast a hateful look at the woman who had caused her brother to speak so to her. “Nay, you know I do not.”
“Then think, lass, before you speak.”
She turned away, sulking.
They both fell silent as Father Anselm crossed the room and made his way to Leonora’s side. “Ah, my dear. I bid you good morrow.”
“Thank you, Father.” Leonora felt herself visibly relax in the old priest’s presence. His smiling face gave her heavy heart a lift.
“I have heard talk among the servants, lass.” The priest accepted a goblet from a serving wench. “They say you made several strange requests.”
“Aye. I…managed to find work for my idle hands,” she remarked.
“Ah. What is it you did?”
“The lady cleaned my chambers.” Dillon clearly intended that such a statement would humiliate her.
Father Anselm arched a shaggy white brow. “You…cleaned, my lady?”
“Aye.” She held herself as proudly as she could manage, knowing that the conversation around them had faded in order to hear what she was saying.
Flame gave a cynical laugh. “Fitting work for an English dog.”
At the girl’s outburst, Father Anselm chided gently, “Hush, lass. You might take heed of this. To serve others, in any manner, is noble work.”
Intrigued, several of the serving wenches paused in their work to listen and observe. They looked at the Englishwoman with new respect. A woman of noble birth had lowered herself to clean the laird’s chambers?
“Did Rupert lend a hand?” the priest asked.
Leonora glanced at the lad, who looked away nervously. Her heart went out to him. One word from her, and he would be shamed in front of his countrymen. She could almost taste his fear, it was so palpable.
“His task was to guard the door so that I could not escape. To that end, he performed admirably.”
Rupert shot her a grateful smile before dropping on one knee to pet the hounds. Relief had him trembling.
Dillon, who had been watching and listening, caught the look of relief on the lad’s face. With a frown, he handed a goblet of ale to Leonora, then plucked another from the tray for himself. His unconscious gesture of kindness was not lost on the priest. Nor on his sister, who stood beside him glowering at the Englishwoman.
While the servants bearing trays began to circulate among the tables, the men took their places. Leonora found herself seated between Dillon and Father Anselm, and though she kept up a running conversation with the priest, she was uncomfortably aware of the silent man on her other side whose shoulder and thigh brushed hers as she ate.
“Did you do such work in your father’s home?” Father Anselm asked.
“Nay. We had many servants. But I soon learned that the chores were better accomplished if I took an interest in what the servants were doing. Ofttimes I worked alongside them until they knew how I wanted something done. It takes many willing hands to maintain such large quarters, but many of the younger lasses from nearby villages had never performed such duties before. My father used to boast that, though I could be demanding, I was a patient taskmaster.”
Dillon listened to this exchange in silence. He did not know what surprised him more, that the lass knew how to work, or that she was patient. He would have expected neither virtue from the spoiled daughter of an English nobleman.
“Do you live here, Father Anselm?” Leonora deftly changed the subject, hoping to deflect interest from herself. Besides, she had often wondered why the monk spent so much time in this fortress.
“My home is at the monastery of St. Collum,” the old priest said. “But Dillon has built a chapel here at Kinloch House so that the villagers, when they must stay for prolonged periods during a siege, have a place to worship.”
“I should like to see it.” She cast a sideways glance at Dillon, aware that he was listening. “And to worship there, as well, Father.”
Beside her, Dillon scowled. The female was a most clever adversary. The little witch was actually challenging him. Now that he had permitted her to leave his chambers, she would push for more freedom. She knew that he could hardly deny her request to worship.
Father Anselm’s face was wreathed with smiles. “I look forward to seeing you at morning Mass, my child. Perhaps you can persuade Dillon to accompany you.”
Dillon’s frown deepened.
“Dillon’s brother Shaw has long attended daily Mass,” the priest added, “and for years has lived a life of poverty and chastity.”
He could see that he now had the Englishwoman’s complete attention.
“But why?” she asked.
“To prepare himself for a life in service to God. It is his intention to pledge himself to the Church.”
Leonora glanced at Dillon and could see the pain etched on his features, along with the pride. The mere mention of his young brother brought a fresh wave of grief. For the first time, she realized that his pain and suffering were as deep as that of her father. Could it be that these savages actually mourned their losses in the same way as civilized people?
As if reading her mind, Father Anselm murmured, “’Twould be a great loss, not only for Dillon and Flame, but for the Church, if Sutton and Shaw should not be returned to us.”
“My father is an honorable man,” she said fiercely. “They will be returned to you. Unharmed.”
“You had better pray it is so,” Dillon muttered. He tore apart a loaf of bread with a vengeance that sent a tremor of alarm through her.
She watched as h
e ate mechanically. Though she had worked up a hunger, she found she could barely swallow the flavorless food set before her. She managed to choke down several bites before pushing it aside.
“Again you do not eat,” Dillon commented.
“I am not hungry.”
He spoke quietly so the others wouldn’t hear. “Already you grow thinner. You will eat, else your father will accuse me of having starved his child.”
“I am not a child.” She felt her temper rising. This man had a way of making every statement sound like a command from on high. Did he do it deliberately to goad her into a fight? If so, he was succeeding. “And I will not be ordered to eat this swill.”
“You will be still,” he ordered. “To insult our food is to incur the wrath of every man in this hall.”
“They already hate me because I am English. Will they hate me all the more because I will not eat this unpalatable swill?”
His hand, hidden beneath the table, clamped around her wrist in a painful vise. He brought his mouth close to her ear. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “Woman, say not another word to incite my anger. If you will not eat, at least you will keep a civil tongue.”
“Like your sister?” Her face was pressed close to his, her eyes blazing.
He winced. How was it that he could control hundreds of men, but could not control two clawing, spitting females? His sister and this Englishwoman were so dissimilar, and yet, in temperament, so alike. Both were headstrong. And both knew how to try the patience of saints and men.
“Not another word.” He released her wrist and lifted a goblet to his lips, drinking deeply.
Beside him, Leonora rubbed her tender wrist and soothed herself by imagining that it was poison in Dillon Campbell’s goblet. Glancing around, she saw the dark, baleful stares from his countrymen, and realized that this man might be the only one standing between her and death. What strange irony. This man constantly threatened to harm her. Yet, without Dillon’s protection, she would find herself in a den of vipers.
She was reminded of the incident in the forest. Was she willing to trade a known danger for an unknown one?
If it killed her, she would placate him. She bent her head and managed to consume several more bites of bread dipped in gruel before pushing it aside. Through it all she maintained a discreet silence.
Beside her, Dillon drained another goblet of ale, his thoughts in turmoil. Every day that Sutton and Shaw remained in an English dungeon, the danger to them grew. Though he trusted Lord Waltham to do the honorable thing and release them in exchange for his daughter’s safe return, there were others who would benefit from their deaths, thereby destroying any hope of peace between England and Scotland. If such men proved stronger than Waltham, all would be lost.
Time. His hand clenched around the stem of the goblet. So little time. To raise an army. To fight off the anticipated English attack. To ride back to England and free his brothers in exchange for the woman.
The woman. He preferred to think of her as the woman instead of Leonora. A beautiful name. A beautiful woman. Damn her for being beautiful. He hated the way the mere thought of her distracted him from important duties. With a snort of disgust, he pushed back from the table.
“It is time to return you to my chambers. There is work to be done, and I have no more time to waste.”
“Goodbye, Father Anselm,” Leonora said as she got to her feet.
“Goodbye, my dear.” The aged monk gave her the benediction of his smile. “I look forward to seeing you at chapel.”
Her gaze slid over Flame, and the girl returned her look without a word. Leonora turned away to walk beside Dillon, taking care not to touch him. The hounds milled around them, and Rupert scrambled to his feet to follow along behind.
After climbing the stairs, they stepped into Dillon’s chambers and paused in midstride. Inside, Mistress MacCallum and more than a dozen serving wenches looked up in surprise. Several of them were on their knees, inspecting the rushes and evergreen boughs that covered the floors.
Dillon’s tone was stern. “What is the meaning of this, Mistress MacCallum?”
The housekeeper blushed in embarrassment. “We wanted to see the sort of work the English lady had done, m’lord.” She turned to Leonora. “How is it that these chambers smell so fresh, m’lady?”
“The rushes must be freshly cut,” Leonora said, “and mingled with evergreen and sprinkled with sage and thyme. Not only will the herbs smell sweet, they will also repel vermin.”
The old woman seemed greatly relieved. “Ye sprinkled the herbs on the floor?”
“Aye. Why else would I have asked for them?”
“Why indeed?” Mistress MacCallum looked aside, and muttered to the servants, “Evil spells indeed.”
“What is this about evil spells?” Dillon asked.
“Nothing, m’lord.” The old woman’s jowls wiggled from side to side as she shook her head. “Just a foolish notion one of the wenches had. Now about the wooden tables, m’lady. I have ne’er seen them shine so.”
“Beeswax,” Leonora explained. “And endless polishing.” A bold plan leaped into her mind. Dare she try it? Without taking time to think it through, she asked, “Would you like me to show the servants?”
“Ye would do that?” Mistress MacCallum’s brows shot up in astonishment.
“I would be happy to. It would help me to pass the lonely hours.” Leonora turned to Dillon. “That is, if your laird does not object.”
“M’lord?” Mistress MacCallum asked hopefully.
Dillon’s eyes narrowed. He had to admit that his rooms had never been quite so pleasant. They put the rest of Kinloch House to shame. A pity to keep such talent locked away. Besides, it would keep the woman busy and out of his way, since he had to be away from Kinloch House for several days recruiting soldiers. And the servants might gain some knowledge. Why not learn some of the ways of the English while the woman was his prisoner?
“So long as Rupert remains by your side every minute of the day, I suppose you can be allowed to move freely about Kinloch House. But be warned, my lady, if you should attempt to escape you will be confined to my chambers, and bound hand and foot, as well. Is that understood?”
Leonora felt the bile rise to her throat, not only because of his threatening words, but because he chose to say them in front of so many curious servants. By evening, everyone in the keep would be aware of the insults she had been forced to endure. Still, she cautioned herself to swallow her pride. More freedom meant more chances to escape.
Dillon saw the flash of fire in her eyes before she lowered her gaze and said softly, “Aye, I understand.”
“The woman will be below stairs shortly, Mistress MacCallum. Now leave us. And fetch my sister. I would have her learn the English ways along with the others.”
The housekeeper waddled to the door, followed meekly by her serving wenches. When Rupert held the door for them, Dillon said to him, “You may wait in the hallway, as well. I would have a word with the woman alone.”
When the door closed behind him, Dillon turned to the woman who had strolled to the fireplace, where she stood warming herself.
His voice, as cutting as the blade of a knife, sliced through the silence. “I am not fooled by your innocent face, woman. I know the game you play.”
She turned to him, her chin lifted, and braced herself for what was to come. She knew that Dillon held on to his temper by a tenuous thread.
“Game? I merely wish to fill the long, lonely hours. Would you prefer that I remain in your chambers, lying abed, weeping over my lost freedom?”
He walked closer, fists clenched by his sides. “Somehow, that is not how I envision you, woman. Weeping and wailing does not become you.”
“Nor idle threats you, my lord.”
“Idle?” He grabbed her and hauled her up against him. Caught by surprise, she was unable to wedge her fists between them. Instead, her hands hung limply at her sides.
“I am laird,” he said th
rough clenched teeth. “If I ordered you flogged, it would be done without question.”
She struggled against the fear that welled up and threatened to paralyze her. She must never permit this brute to see what effect his words had on her. “If you dared to have me flogged, you would answer to my father.”
“I answer to no man. Least of all, the English tyrant who holds my brothers prisoner.”
“Tyrant?” She tossed her head. “Look to yourself. You are no better.”
“Aye. Remember that, woman.” His thumbs dug into the soft flesh of her upper arms as he drew her fractionally closer, until she was forced to stand on tiptoe, staring into eyes as dark as the night. His scar stood out in pale relief against sun-bronzed skin. His lips twisted into a dangerous smile. “There are other ways to punish a woman. Ways that would break your spirit, and wrench your father’s heart from his chest.”
When the horror of his words dawned, fear lodged in her throat, threatening to choke the breath from her. “You are a savage.”
“Aye.” His gaze fastened on her mouth. His burr thickened with anger. “As wild, as untamed as the land that spawned me.”
His mouth claimed hers in a harsh, brutal kiss.
The moment their lips met, heat poured through him, turning his blood to liquid fire. And even though he loosened his grip on her arms, he remained lost in the kiss, unable to pull back from the heat that drew him closer, closer, until he knew he would be burned.
He had not intended any of this. He had planned only to warn the woman, to frighten her into submission. But now, holding her, breathing in the heady woman scent of her, tasting the clean, freshness of her, he forgot everything except the need for more.
He took the kiss deeper and felt the slight trembling of her lips. Could it be that the little wildcat was trembling over a simple kiss? Simple? Nay. What he felt, and struggled to resist, was far from simple. And though he had fully intended to punish her, he found himself moved by her fear. Though he had not planned a seduction, he found his hands moving gently along her back, soothing, arousing, as his mouth nibbled and tasted and rubbed over hers with sweet invitation.
The Highlander Page 14