Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  Ilsa laughed. “Aye, it does.”

  “There, ye look tidy now.” Gay sat down in the chair on the other side of the chest and helped herself to an oatcake. “I suspicion every lass would like to be so beautiful men would risk life and fortune to have them. I am nay sure Lady Anabelle was, precisely. Oh, she was bonny, but I think there was a wild lustiness about her that drew men. Mayhap she drew men by her beauty, too, but I think they also hoped they would be the one who tamed her.” Gay shook her head. “Or, mayhap, she was just a vain whore and men are fools who think with their rods.”

  “That is a strong possibility,” Ilsa drawled and laughed again. “Weel, there is nay kenning what drew men to Lady Anabelle and twas probably something different with near every one of them. I may fret on occasion that I am nay the beauty she was, but naught else. The only ghost she left behind is a vile one, her legacy one of anger, pain, and mistrust. I am certain Diarmot doesnae love the woman any longer. I just fear that she has left him unable to love again.”

  “Nay, I dinnae believe that. Wheesht, if all feeling had been killed, the fool wouldnae have to work so hard to guard his heart, would he?”

  “That is what Gillyanne says.”

  “And tis true, I am certain of it. Aye, his late wife left him filled with bitterness and mistrust, but I think he clings to it now like a shield. He softened to ye once; he will again.”

  “I hope so, Gay.” She smiled faintly. “Ye seem to be giving all of this a great deal of thought.”

  “Weel, I want ye to be happy, dinnae I? I also feel a need now to look closely at the many ways men and women act with each other, the many ways they treat each other. It helps me to start to believe that what happened to me had naught to do with all that, that it was naught but a particularly vicious way to beat me.” She blushed. “I suspicion those bastards felt some odd sort of tainted lust, but nay for me. They would have done the same to any poor lass they got ahold of. They just wanted to stick their rods in some woman, thought it would make them look all big, strong, powerful, and monly. I just happened to be the first poor lass to come within their reach. Slowly, as I watch others, it helps me understand that.”

  “I am so glad, Gay. And ye will continue to heal, I am certain of it. Ye are too strong a lass to let those men rob ye of all spirit and future.” She held up her hand to stop Gay’s response. “Ye will have a future. Whilst ye are noticing so much else, I suggest ye notice that no one shuns ye, and they have all guessed what happened to ye. A good mon, the sort ye could make a future with, will ne’er condemn ye for what happened.”

  Gay nodded. “Each day I begin to believe that more and more. Twill settle firm in my heart soon, I think, for I can see the truth of it in your brothers, your cousins, and the men here at Clachthrom.” She smiled faintly. “And, it helps to be learning how to use the knife Elyas gave me.”

  “As soon as I have finished eating and visit with the bairns, ye shall have another lesson. Best to take advantage of the fact that Odo and Aulay arenae here to pester us to teach them.” She frowned. “I hope they are all right.”

  “Of course they are. They are with their father. I think it verra good that Sir Diarmot is starting to take an interest in them.”

  It was, and by the time they returned, Ilsa told herself she would be over the pinch of jealousy she felt.

  “Who lives in this cottage, Papa?” asked Odo as he peeked into the empty pot hung over the fire.

  “No one now,” replied Diarmot. “The old couple who used to live here died a few years ago.”

  Yet the little house looked remarkably clean, thought Diarmot as he looked around. It had been the sense of occupancy that had caused him to stop and look inside. It was not unusual for someone to take possession of an empty house, but he saw no sign that someone was actually living here. There were no clothes, no food, and no scent of a recent meal or a fire in the hearth. A clean straw mattress was upon the bed, however, a blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

  A trysting place, he thought, and smiled faintly. That made sense, explaining the cleanliness yet no sign of actual residency. Some lovers had stumbled upon the abandoned house and decided it was the perfect place to meet. Diarmot began to look for some clue as to who might be using his cottage. Just as he began to think it a waste of time, he caught sight of something wedged between the rough wooden leg of the bed and the wall. Diarmot got down on his stomach, smiling when Odo and Aulay did the same, flanking him.

  Diarmot was just tugging what appeared to be a message free when a gruff voice said, “Weel, will ye look at the laird with his bonny face in the dirt.”

  A bone-chilling cold flooded Diarmot. He was back in Muirladen, sprawled in the mud, too broken and bloody to move. He flinched, his body remembering the booted foot that had struck him in the side, cracking a rib. For a moment, Diarmot felt caught tightly in his nightmare, could feel the bitter taste of fear in the back of his throat. Sweat broke out all over his body as he waited for another blow.

  “Papa! Are ye stuck?”

  Odo’s childish voice and the feel of four small hands tugging at his clothes pulled Diarmot free of those dark memories. He scrambled out from beneath the bed, covertly shoved the note in a pocket within his doublet, and struggled to smile at his sons. They looked concerned, which touched him, and he wondered how long he had been held in the grip of his memories.

  “I am fine, lads,” he said as he stood up. “Aye, I was a wee bit stuck.”

  Diarmot looked around the cottage for the owner of that voice which had so deeply affected him, but saw only Geordie. The man stood in the doorway of the cottage, his thickly muscled arms crossed over his broad chest. Had the voice come from inside his head or had a harmless remark by Geordie stirred that memory? Diarmot suspected one of the attackers had said something very similar and that was why Geordie’s words had had such an unsettling effect upon him.

  “What were ye doing under there?” Geordie asked as he moved to let Diarmot and the twins walk outside.

  “I thought I saw something, but twas naught,” replied Diarmot, not wanting to reveal his discovery until he was certain no one would suffer for whatever might be written there. “I shall have to find new tenants for this cottage. Tis a waste for it to sit empty, the land about it left fallow, and the fields ungrazed. Ye ken the people hereabout weel, Geordie, so mayhap ye ken someone who would be interested in becoming a crofter here.”

  “Aye, m’laird, I will look about.”

  There was an odd note to Geordie’s voice that caused Diarmot to frown after his man as Geordie walked away. Was he the one trysting at the cottage? Diarmot resisted the urge to immediately study the message he had found. Instead, he turned his attention upon his sons and getting them mounted. Aulay sat before Tom and Odo sat before Diarmot, both untiring in their questions and observations as Diarmot led his men back to the keep.

  A chill still infected his blood and Diarmot struggled to fight it off. He realized he had not suffered from a nightmare since his marriage to Ilsa. Having her lithe, warm body tucked up close to his every night had obviously kept the nightmares away. That seemed odd as she would not be much protection if he was attacked. Diarmot decided that it was simply because he was not alone. He had been starkly aware of being all alone the night he had been attacked and that feeling had clearly lingered.

  It was possible his memory was struggling to return. That would explain suffering his nightmare in the daylight and while he was awake. It would probably explain why Geordie’s words had affected him so deeply. Diarmot hoped that was true, for he was sure some of the answers he needed were locked up with those memories. Even one small clue would be welcome for it would help them direct the search for his enemy more exactly.

  The moment they rode through the gates of Clachthrom, Diarmot looked for Ilsa. He wanted her and doubted he could wait until they retired for the night. It galled him to admit it, but her passion would be the surest cure for the chill that had settled inside of hi
m.

  After leaving the boys with Fraser, Diarmot washed up in a room off the kitchen, and then searched for Ilsa. He was pleased to find her in the first place he looked. Since that was their bedchamber, it was also convenient.

  Ilsa smiled at Diarmot as he entered the room, then frowned a little warily when he shut and latched the door behind him. “Is something wrong?” She set aside the cushion she had been sewing and rose from her seat by the fire as he walked toward her.

  “Another cushion?” he asked, smiling faintly.

  “There are a lot of hard seats in this keep. Are Odo and Aulay all right?”

  “Tired and dirty, nay more.” He ran his hand down her arm, pleased to see her shiver a little in response at his touch. “This gown looks verra fine. The color suits ye.”

  A compliment, Ilsa thought in surprise, then eyed him with suspicion. In the six weeks she had been his wife, Diarmot had rarely complimented her, except when he was feeling passionate. She could not believe he was thinking of doing that when it was only late in the afternoon, but it would explain the locked door. It would also explain why he was not wearing his doublet.

  “Thank ye,” she murmured, then realized his hair was damp. “Ye have had a bath.”

  “Aye, I smelled too strongly of sweat and horses.” He slowly tugged her into his arms, smiling at the faint scowl she wore. “I didnae wish to offend your wee nose.”

  Diarmot kissed the tip of her nose, then kissed the hollow by her ear. She gasped faintly and clutched his shirt. He traced the delicate shape of her ear with his tongue and felt her tremble. Here was the warmth he needed. Although it troubled him that he did need it, he found consolation in the fact that she did not recognize his weakness.

  “Tis only the middle of the afternoon,” she protested, but could not find the will to pull away.

  Since her protest was so weak, Diarmot ignored it. He kissed her, fighting to keep enough of his wits about him to undo her gown. The moment it slid to the floor, he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. After setting her in the middle of the bed, he removed her shoes, then hastily undressed. Ilsa looked beautifully flushed and a little dazed, but Diarmot did not want to give her enough time to shake free of desire’s grip. Despite six weeks of sharing a bed, Ilsa retained her sense of modesty. He did not want her to become aware of the fact that she was half naked in bed with the sun shining brightly through the window.

  Ilsa watched Diarmot shed his clothes with a speed that revealed a flattering eagerness. She did love to see the man naked and he looked especially glorious in the sunlight. She frowned, pulling free of the stupor his kisses always put her into, and started to look toward the window. Just as she was becoming painfully aware of how much light there was in the room, Diarmot settled himself on top of her, diverting her.

  His kiss banished all concern about the time of the day from her mind. By the time he started to tug her shift down, she was so lost in her desire, she readily pulled her arms free of it. Ilsa clung to him as he followed the descent of her shift with hot kisses and strokes of his tongue. It was not until he tugged it completely off and tossed it aside that she again became aware of how much light shone into the room. When he crouched over her and she saw where he was staring, Ilsa felt as if she were blushing all the way down to her toes.

  “Oh, nay,” she whispered and placed her hands over her groin.

  “Oh, aye,” he said, clasping her hands in his and holding them captive against the bed.

  She tensed with embarrassment when he kissed the inside of each of her thighs then touched his lips to the place that so ached for him. A heartbeat later embarrassment was burnt away by searing need. Ilsa freed her hands and threaded her fingers into his thick hair as she opened herself to his intimate kiss. She tried every trick she could think of to control her passion, even counting backward, so that she could savor the pleasure he gave her, but it was a losing battle. Knowing her release drew near, she tugged on his hair, eager to have him join with her. By the time he had kissed his way back up her body, she was shaking from the force of her need. He kissed her, thrusting his tongue in her mouth at the same time he joined his body to hers.

  Ilsa felt herself shatter. She kissed him as if she were starved for the taste of him. She used her arms and legs to hold him close, to push him deep inside. His movements became fierce, the hard, swift thrusts of his body renewing her passion. When he groaned out her name and filled her womb with the heat of his seed, Ilsa felt herself shatter a second time. Blindly, she clung to him as he collapsed on top of her.

  Unsure of how long she lay there, sated and oblivious, Ilsa slowly became aware of her surroundings. She winced at the bright rays of sunlight spilling in through the window. The sight of Diarmot sprawled on top of her was rather pleasing, but, when she recalled all they had just done, she nearly groaned. Then she caught sight of her legs splayed out on either side of him.

  “Jesu, I am still wearing my hose,” she muttered.

  Diarmot turned onto his side and looked her over, smiling at her blushes. “Ye look verra tempting.”

  Ilsa growled and turned onto her side, her back to Diarmot. She saw her shift on the floor, grabbed it, and hastily put it on. By the time she had laced it up and turned back to look at Diarmot, he had redonned his hose and shirt. Ilsa prepared herself for his abrupt leave-taking now that he had gotten what he wanted, but he stood there scowling down at what appeared to be a tattered letter. She moved across the bed to kneel at his side.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  For a minute, Diarmot hesitated, then sighed. She had already seen the message he had found at the cottage so there was no sense in trying to hide it again. A clever lie was beyond him at this point. In truth, he no longer believed she would try to kill him. It did not mean she was innocent of all trickery, he sternly reminded hismelf, but if she wanted him dead, she had had numerous occasions to accomplish the deed since coming to Clachthrom. So had her brothers, he thought, then quickly shook that thought away. Someone wants ye dead, Diarmot, he reminded himself for what had to be the hundredth time, and the Camerons are still the ones with the most to gain. Telling Ilsa about the ruined message he had found would make no difference, either in proving her guilt or innocence, or in prompting her to change her plans in any way.

  “I found this in a cottage at the western border of my lands,” he replied. “The cottage should have been empty, dirty, and showing all the other signs of several years of disuse. It did not. Decided it might be a trysting place for some pair of lovers, then found this. It was wedged between the leg of the bed and the wall.” He handed the note to her. “The wall evidently isnae completely free of leaks. Damp has made it nearly illegible.”

  “Aye, it has.” She studied the message. “It was written by a woman.”

  “How can ye tell that from this mess?”

  “Some words are clear enough. Tis the script a woman would use, I am certain of it. And, tis nay verra old. Though soiled and smudged, the paper shows no sign of age and the ink is still dark.” She frowned at it for a moment. “Tis a love letter, I think. The greeting looks to be an endearment, as does the ending. No names, just an endearment. I can see a few words such as ‘meet me,’ ‘must talk,’ and ‘taking too long.’ A tryst, although the words ‘growing impatient’ imply all is nay weel, I should think.”

  Diarmot nodded and tucked the letter into a small carved box on the table by the bed. “I had hoped to find out who was using the cottage. If naught else, the place needs new tenants.” He rose, selected a clean doublet and slipped it on. “It isnae good to have an empty place upon one’s lands and tis a waste to have the land sit unused.”

  “Mayhap ye should look for a couple who are soon to be wed, but will have to live with her family or his. Or some young couple already in such a position. Such ones may be eager to become crofters, would be grateful for the chance.”

  “And their gratitude would be to their laird thus inspiring loyalty.”
<
br />   “Without a doubt.”

  Diarmot kissed her and moved to the door. “A verra good idea, wife.”

  Ilsa stared blindly at the door after it shut behind him. That was definitely a compliment and Diarmot had not been feeling the slightest bit lustful when he had given it. Even though he had hesitated for a telling moment, he had shared his discovery with her. Ilsa felt a stirring of hope concerning their future and she knew it would take a great deal more than lecturing herself to kill it this time.

  Chapter ELEVEN

  “Where is he?”

  Ilsa was almost able to smile at the expression upon Tom’s face, and the way he looked around a little desperately in search of a way to escape her question. She would not allow it. Diarmot was nowhere to be found within the walls of the keep and she had to wonder why. From what she had seen as she had hunted him down, if he had gone outside the walls of Clachthrom, he had done so alone. In the three weeks since the incident at the cave, none of them had been allowed to leave Clachthrom alone.

  Tom sighed. “He is out riding. Tis a fine day and he had an itch for it.”

  “I dinnae suppose he had an itch to take anyone with him.”

  “Geordie went with him.”

  “I just saw Geordie. He was sitting in the great hall drinking ale and talking to Peter.”

  “Ah, weel, he came back a wee while ago. He said the laird would be soon to follow.” Tom scowled at the gates.

  Ilsa wondered if Tom thought that stern expression would cause Diarmot to come running home like a good boy. She could fully understand Diarmot’s need to break free of all constraints for a while. That same urge had been what had driven her to hunt him down. She had thought they could escape those constraints together. It was why she was standing there holding the reins of her mare Rose demanding Tom tell her where Diarmot was. If she had gotten another vague reply, she had intended to ride out on her own. It appeared that was exactly what she was going to do.