The Laird's Daughter

by Temple Hogan

  Why should she feel this way, she chastised herself. His clan had destroyed hers and stolen MacDougall lands and castles. True, they’d been given leave by Robert the Bruce himself, as punishment to Ewan MacDougall for his failure to support the king.

  Should she not feel some anger toward her father for his choice? Should he not have been more prudent in his decision, protected his clan, his daughter? Nay, she could not in good conscience blame her father. He’d acted on his convictions, true and unwavering. He was not a man to swear his fealty to a man he did not believe in.

  Tears filled her eyes as she thought of her father, dim though his memory had become over the years, and she was forced to turn onto her stomach rather than drown in her tears. In so doing, she heard her father call to her, his voice clear and joyful, his laughter quick and hearty. So real did the sound seem that she turned quickly this way and that, expecting him to come up behind her and dunk her as he was wont to do.

  She cried then, her sobs unchecked, her heart that of an eight year old who’d never resolved the loss of her father. She cried for his laughter and his strong arms as he heaved her on his shoulder and pranced around the bailey until she squealed with delight. She cried for the comfort and security she’d known as the laird’s daughter and for the hardships she and Father Cowan had endured since. She cried until it seemed her heart could bear no more. Drawing a shaky breath, she straightened herself and gazed around at the woods.

  She refused to shed more tears over her plight. She must play the role of a poor, mute cripple for the good of her people and if the man she fancied turned his eyes to another. So be it. He was her enemy. He’d never been anything else. Bryce was right. She must hold her heart true to their cause.

  Exhausted and drained from her emotional purging, she swam to shore in slow, lazy strokes that formed silvered arcs of water. When she reached the shallows, she stood and waded to shore. She heard a gasp and looked up. Rafe Campbell stood watching her.

  She might have felt anger at him for spying on her at such a moment, but she was too startled by his presence and by the expression on his face. He made no effort to avert his gaze, but neither was there anything lewd or lustful in it. Rather, he seemed awestruck as if he hadn’t really expected to see her and now that he did, he was entranced by the whole of her. Nonetheless, to cover her own joy at seeing him, she took him to task.

  “Sir, I beg you,” she cried in a low voice, drawing her arm across her chest and cupping a hand over her mons. “Don’t dishonor me by gazing at my nakedness.”

  “I could never dishonor such beauty as yours,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “Don’t ask me to look away. I’ve searched these many weeks since first we met, and I fear if I turn my gaze away, you’ll disappear again. Are you real or a figment of my own demented imagination? If I touch you, will I feel flesh beneath my fingers?”

  He took a step forward and held out his hand, but she drew away.

  “I’ve heard this very day you’ve brought your betrothed to Dunollie.”

  “You’ve heard wrong, beautiful lady. I am not betrothed to anyone except perhaps to you.” Lightly he touched her shoulder and drew in his breath. “Aye, you’re real enough. Your flesh is soft and warm to my touch.” His eyes held her mesmerized.

  She wanted to pull away and run through the woods, but she was held as captive as a rabbit caught in his snare. “I must go.”

  She breathed the words. They trembled on the air like the muted song of a nightingale. She willed herself to move, but she could not. He stepped closer to her, so she felt his breath against her cheek, felt the brush of his shirt against her nipples.

  “May I kiss you?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head, the slightest of denials, even as her lips parted. Her gaze dropped to his firm, chiseled mouth and shadow of a beard along his jaw. He lowered his head, and she felt his lips settle on hers, soft and tentative at first as if he feared she’d yet disappear in a poof of air, then more fiercely as he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her waist and hips to hold her firm. She made no move out of his embrace. She was too caught up in the wonder of his mouth against hers, of his tongue, hot and possessive, slanting across her lips, effecting entry, setting her blood on fire. She swayed and leaned against him, least she fall. His arms held her tighter, his kiss deepening until she felt she might faint like some maiden of old. She returned his kiss. She had no experience with how to answer such passion as he aroused but opened her mouth farther, dancing her tongue to meet his. The taste of him was intoxicating, the heat of his mouth, the strength of his body melded to her own. Sensations swept through her. Of their own accord, her arms came up to slide around his neck and her body arched automatically.

  He was breathless when he released her mouth, and she realized she’d forgotten the need to breathe herself. She opened her eyes to gaze into his.

  “What is your name?” he whispered, running his lips along her jaw to her ear. His breath was hot, bringing tingles that reached all the way to the juncture between her legs.

  “A—I have no name,” she whispered, catching herself in time.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, returning to her lips where he planted fervent kisses. “I’ll call you Annabella, which was my mother’s name and means beauty.”

  He swept her up in his arms and carried her to a patch of moss along the bank. Laying her down gently, he gazed down at her then quickly disrobed. She should protest, she thought dimly, then seeing his body emerge bit by bit from his discarded garments, she realized the moment to protest was long over if it had ever been. From the first time he’d found her and stood gazing at her, when she’d made no move to cover herself, she’d sensed he held some special power over her. Now she raised her lashes and looked at him without shame.

  He was a beautiful man, well made with wide shoulders, sleek torso and long powerful legs. His aroused cock jutted from a nest of black curls, long and smooth, ending in a rounded bulb with a cleft. Mesmerized, she stared at it. For ten years, she’d lived the life of a peasant and was aware of such things among man and beast and never thought anything of it, but now, she felt a terrible need building inside of her.

  She could feel the heat of her flush. The desire so new and wondrous, she was awed by it. He knelt on one knee beside her and lowered his head to kiss her once again, his tongue devastating in its thoroughness. When it seemed she could no longer breathe, he lowered his head and kiss her jaw and throat, then slid down to capture a nipple between his lips and teeth. His tongue, raspy and hot, raked across the sensitive nub. She jerked and cried out then held his head and arched so he might have greater access.

  She was lost to the pleasure he wrought and wished they could stay that way forever, but she knew there was more and made no protest when he rained kisses across her flat belly down to her mound. His fingers explored, sweeping across her clitoris in a way that nearly brought her to screams of pleasure, then he lowered his head and brushed his tongue to the sensitive button. She cried out then, a sound of pleasure so intense he didn’t hesitate to continue his kisses and licks on the rest of her tingling flesh. She felt his tongue delve deep inside her, and it wasn’t deep enough. She rolled from side to side, wanting more, wanting the ultimate act between a man and woman, wanting Rafe to be the one to do it.

  He rose above her, opening her knees and raising them, then plunging himself deep inside. She felt a tearing pain and cried out.

  “Christ,” he cried, holding himself still. “I gave no thought that you might be untried,” he said. “’Tis sorry, I am, Annabella. I would not hurt you.”

  “It’s all right. The pain is gone now,” she whispered against her tears and indeed, when he began to move inside her, she found the pain was replaced by sensations that swept all others from her.

  He took his time, going slowly until she was beyond any discomfort, kissing and caressing her until she was once again hot and breathless, then he raised her knees higher and moved against h
er with increasing quickness and strength until she felt a power building. She tried to move with him, to ride the high wave he created within her. He waited until he felt her quickness, then he carried them to the final culmination. Their cries mingled, startling the birds and small woodland creatures into stillness before they chattered and went their way.

  “You can’t be real,” he said softly. “A fairy come to catch me in your beauteous snare.”

  Annie chuckled, remembering her own earlier fancy.

  “Then I shall never let you go,” she whispered, then the world around her and reality returned.

  “I must go,” she said, pushing him aside.

  “Stay awhile longer,” he begged.

  “I can’t. I’ll be missed.” She scrambled up and gathered her clothing, and without pausing to put it on, for it might give away her true identity, she moved into the woods.

  “Wait, how will I find you again?” he demanded, standing naked, his dusky body like a statue against the deep green of the glade.

  “You can’t,” she said hastily and turned away from him.

  “Will you come again tomorrow?” he called after her.

  She didn’t answer but ran away through the trees.

  “Will you come?” His voice was faint now, but she could hear the pleading in it. She paused.

  “Yes,” she cried out joyously, then sprinted quickly through the woods toward the castle. Before she left the cover of the trees, she paused and pulled on her clothes. Her thighs were stained with blood. She hurried down to her hut, took out a pan of water and a cloth and set about washing away the blood. So bemused was she by all that had happened, she didn’t hear the door open until it was too late.

  “You’ve lain with him,” a deep voice said fiercely.

  Gasping, she spun around and saw Father Cowan glaring at her. His craggy face was filled with anger. She couldn’t deny his words, if she’d been so inclined, for the red-stained cloth in one hand and her skirts lifted in the other spoke too clearly of what she’d been about. Letting her skirts fall, she dropped the telltale cloth into the water basin and turned to face him.

  “You’ve lain with the devil,” Father Cowan roared again when she remained silent.

  “He’s not a devil. He’s a good man. Look at all he’s done to better life for the villagers” she reasoned.

  “He’s a Campbell,” Cowan said implacably.

  “Can’t there be good and bad Campbells as there are in every clan?” she demanded.

  “Not with the Campbells. And you, you can’t serve two masters. Who are you, a Campbell or a MacDougall?”

  “You know where my loyalties lie.”

  “Do I?” He glared at her then turned toward the door.

  “Da?” she cried, using the title she’d been taught to use as part of their disguise.

  He hesitated, one gnarled hand holding the door open, the other gripping his walking cane. He studied her for a while then nodded his head.

  “I’ll not tell anyone of your treachery,” he said stonily.

  “Is it treachery when you love someone?” she demanded, taking a step toward him, silently imploring him to understand.

  Such a look of bleakness crossed his face that her heart ached for him before he went out, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Shaken by his words and her admission of love for Rafe, Annie sank down on the hearth. In spite of his condemnation, she couldn’t regret that she’d given herself to Rafe. She thought about their lovemaking. She’d never known, never guessed what transpired between a man and woman. She’d come upon a servant girl and stable hand now and then, heard the giggles and sweet talk, had even imagined the mating of their bodies, but she’d never understood the giving up of a part of oneself. It wasn’t just her maidenhead she’d given this day. It was her heart and soul. No wonder Father Cowan was worried. She was no longer the Annie he knew. She was something more, and he feared for her.

  Chapter Five

  That evening there was much gaiety at the castle, Rafe observed. With reinforcements on hand, everyone relaxed. The presence of Macarill MacIntyre’s daughter lent weight to the alliance between the two clans and many speculated on her status with Laird Archibald’s handsome young nephew. Rumors swirled. Everyone seemed taken by the possibility of a romance between the two, everyone that is, except Dianne who, the servants whispered within Rafe’s hearing, in the privacy of her chambers, raged, screaming and slapping every servant who came near and tearing her clothes and hair. Sheer exhaustion had ended her tirade, followed close behind by a period of sly conniving to make the ‘horse-faced’ newcomer, Dianne’s words, look as inept and unattractive as possible. With renewed enthusiasm, she’d apparently set about making herself more beautiful than ever.

  Archibald, on the other hand, seemed delighted to have Jean MacIntyre as a guest.

  “My boy, you did well,” he said to Rafe. “Does not the fact that Jean has come to Dunollie show that Macarill has forgiven us for our previous misunderstanding?”

  Happily, he bestirred himself to see to her comfort, ordering the servants to prepare first her chambers, then the great hall. He was determined to show her every hospitality, so a feast was planned to welcome her with jugglers and fortunetellers from a traveling band of gypsies hired to entertain. Fresh rushes were laid in the hall, and fragrant herbs burned to sweeten the air. The long tables and benches were washed and arranged, so all was in readiness.

  Rafe paid little attention to the preparations nor did he give much thought to Jean’s comfort although he knew he should have. He truly liked and admired Jean, but his mind and heart were too preoccupied by the beautiful nymph by the pool. He was heartsick with the thought of her and realized if Gare and his men knew of his condition they would, indeed, taunt him for his mawkishness. He could do nothing for it. His senses were inflamed by the memory of her, the sweet heady scent of her golden hair, the warm, sleek, softness of her skin, the depth of her eyes.

  He relived their last encounter over in his mind. She had given herself to him wholeheartedly. Yet she’d been a virgin. He was humbled by the magnitude of her gift. She’d asked nothing in return from him. He must find her. He would claim her as his own. To possess such a woman was a man’s greatest fantasy.

  “What’s happened to you, man?” Gare demanded that night as they took their places in the great hall. “You’ve the look of a mangy, wounded bear ready to snarl and snap at any who approach.”

  “’Tis naught but fatigue and worry,” Rafe answered, signaling for a cup of wine. The ladies had not yet put in an appearance, and so the men gathered to relax, quaff their mead, and bend their minds to concerns of men. “Did you see to the comfort of the MacIntyre men?”

  “Aye, the best comfort we could give under the circumstances,” Gare answered. “I’m afraid your orders for the cleaning and furbishing of the barracks were largely ignored, not a good showing for our guests.”

  “Then I’ll see they’re done tomorrow,” Rafe snapped, though his anger had nothing to do with recalcitrant servants. “Tonight, the clansmen are tired from their ride. Wine, food and willing wenches will make them forget the shortcomings of their accommodations.”

  “Aye, ‘tis so,” Gare agreed laconically and raised his cup.

  They were soon joined by Captain Aindreas and his officers. Rafe rose to greet them.

  “Are your men being well cared for?” he asked politely, motioning a servant to bring wine.

  “Well enough,” Aindreas replied, looking around the hall. He seemed disappointed not to see Jean and quickly turned his attention back to Rafe. “They’ve ale aplenty and a stoat is roasting. There seemed to be enough comely lasses to go around.” He chuckled. “My men are good lads, hard fighting and brave. They’ll soon make short work of Baen. None have any love for the blackguard.”

  “Nor here,” Rafe said. “He did not serve my uncle well.”

  “Is Sir Archibald fallen ill? I haven’t seen him since our arrival.” />
  “He’ll join us soon,” Rafe assured him. “Can you tell me of the trouble you had with Baen stealing your cattle last year?”

  The men lounged and talked, warmed by the fire and wine, enjoying this time of male companionship. Some of the peasants crept in to settle on the floor at the edge of the hall to await the discarded trenchers and watch the rare entertainment. Rafe noticed their appearance and looked for the goose girl. He didn’t see her, but he sensed her presence.

  Lord Archibald soon joined them, cursing and complaining about his gout, but ordering wine anyway. Though his mental acuity was not as it once had been, his memory of past glories was still intact, and he regaled them all with tales of great battles won and lost, and of beautiful lassies loved and bedded. By the time the ladies appeared, the faces of the men had grown flushed from the wine, their manner more expansive and their laughter more boisterous.

  Jean arrived first. Her gown of blue velvet and fur-trimmed surcoat were simple, yet showed her tall, lithe figure well. She’d dressed her rich brown hair in plaits coiled on either side of her head and neatly covered by a wimple. When she saw Aindreas, her plain features lit to a real beauty, and she crossed the rush floor with a light step to hold out her hand. He bowed and placed a lingering kiss on the back of it, then straightened to gaze ardently into her clear hazel eyes.

  “You’re looking bonnie this evening, lass,” he said, his voice a rumble in his chest.

  Amused, Rafe watched as Jean flushed. She glanced up and caught sight of his smirk then bowed before him elaborately.

  “’Tis most good to see you, Rafe,” she declared softly.

  At that moment, Dianne chose to put in her appearance and caught the play between Rafe and Jean. Her lips tightened in anger, but she raised her chin and swept across the hall until she stood before the men. She ignored Jean and sank nearly to her knees in an elaborate bow.