“Fàilte gu Dunoon.” Sir Robert descended the stone steps to greet them.
Stephen dismounted and shook the man’s forearm. “I was not sure of our welcome after the disagreement between Alexander and Archibald over the betrothal to Elspeth, but we are in need of lodging this night.”
“Ach, nae worries, lad. We are pleased to accommodate you and your people. ’Twas my granddaughter’s choice to make. Neither man should have tried forcing her into an unwanted marriage. MacLachlans are always welcome here. And you should ken, Alexander is a changed man. As a matter of fact, he was expected to arrive today, but the snowy weather to the north has detained him and his entourage.”
Of that, Stephen was glad. He’d not been fond of Alexander even before the dispute. Although bad weather didn’t fit with his plan to escort Jillian to the faerie knoll.
Sir Robert’s gaze slid over Duncan, the guards, the bairns, landing on Jillian. “And who have you brought with you?”
Stephen hoped Jillian didn’t say or do anything too future-like. “May I present Lady Jillian O'Donnell. She has recently travelled from France and is en route to Castle Lachlan for a wee visit with Lady Isobell MacLachlan before proceeding home to Ireland.”
“Fàilte, my lady.” The man grasped Jillian’s extended hand and kissed the air above her fingers.
“Thank you.” Jillian lowered her gaze demurely, praise the saints.
“May I assist you from your mount?” She nodded, and the gallant Sir Robert placed large work-hardened hands on her hips, lifted her from the roan, and placed her gently on the ground.
A pang of unexpected jealousy sliced through Stephen. He cursed under his breath. He was young and virile and should not be envious of a weathered, gray-haired man.
Sir Robert grinned as if reading his mind. “Let us get Lady Jillian and the bairns out of the cold, shall we?” He clasped Jillian’s elbow and guided her up the steps, leaving Stephen to give orders to the MacLachlan guards and herd the bairns into the keep.
Duncan laughed. “You will need to keep a keen eye on that squirrely old man or lose your lady-love.”
Stephen snorted. By the time he entered the great hall, Duncan and bairns in tow, Jillian was out of sight. Sir Robert signaled to him from across the hall.
“Let Duncan tend the bairns. Come. Sit by the fire, Stephen, and tell me of the devastating events at Branxton.” As they took seats before the hearth, Sir Robert waved over a young ghillie. “Bring whisky.”
Stephen scanned the great hall. There was no sign of Jillian, but the appearance of a familiar man tipping ale, seated at one of the tables below the dais nearly made his heart still. He stiffened. Ciaran, one of Calyn’s brothers, shot him an angry glare.
“I requested a maid take the lass to a guest chamber to rest before the eve’n meal,” Sir Robert said.
Stephen jerked his gaze back to the older man.
Sir Robert raised an eyebrow and continued. “You will bed down with Duncan and the bairns?”
“I thank you, though I believe Lady Jillian will want the wee lass with her.” Stephen said naught more, unwilling to feed the man’s speculation.
Both Sir Robert’s brows rose. “I imagine there is a story there, but for now, tell me of the battle.”
The serving lad arrived with the whisky and poured. Stephen accepted the drink and sank into the chair’s velvet cushion, the warmth of the fire relaxing tired muscles.
Sir Robert lifted his cup. “Slàinte mhòr.”
“Do dheagh slàinte.” Stephen raised his. He swirled the amber liquid, inhaled its unique aroma, and took a sip. Uisge-beatha—water of life—splashed over his tongue, its flavor rich. Damn, it tasted good. With the salutation to good health completed and the brace of good whisky in his gut, he described the events leading up to the fateful day at Branxton. “Mayhap if James hadn’t wasted time at Ford, enjoying the favors of Lady Heron. Ach, well, who kens what might have taken place instead of what did happen.”
Stephen furtively glanced at Ciaran. The lad garnered attention, glaring in Stephen’s direction. Even a village idiot could sense the coming confrontation. Resigning to the inevitable, Stephen returned full attention to Sir Robert and the telling of the tale.
“The battle turned brutal, nary a Sassenach spared a Scot, nor we, them. James fought valiantly, but should not have been at the front. We lost Duncan’s brother Jamie, too.” Stephen swallowed hard, the loss overwhelming.
Another glance at Ciaran’s clenched jaw and dagger glare proved the man had a bone to pick. Stephen would need keep the lad and his damning tales away from Jillian.
The castle steward approached, leaned forward, and whispered in Sir Robert’s ear. The man stood. “Please excuse me. I must confer with my man.”
Sir Robert and the steward left the hall and Stephen looked to Ciaran, but the lad no longer sat with the other men. There was no sign of him anywhere in the hall.
Stephen rose and headed toward the circular stair to the upper level. He would search out Jillian and confide the sordid details of his life to her before she learned of them from someone else. On the first landing, Ciaran stepped from a tapestry-draped alcove.
“You dare travel with a mistress? Flaunt her, here at Dunoon, for all to see? When your wife, my sweet sister, pines for you in Dunadd, believing you dead?”
“I near lost my life during the battle.” Stephen didn’t believe for a moment Calyn yearned for him. He still didn’t understand why she’d pushed for a handfasting.
“Ha! Where are your battle scars, warrior? Perhaps you are naught but a coward. Did you flee the battlefield before our king was slain?”
“Careful, lad. Dinnae disparage my character with accusations of things of which you dinnae ken.” Stephen swallowed rising anger, not wanting to appear guilty. “Lady Jillian O’Donnell is not my mistress but a gentle woman. A noble woman from Ireland. She is a friend of Patrick MacLachlan and his lady-wife. Lady Jillian’s escort took ill on the crossing. ’Tis my duty, as sworn to the MacLachlan, to see her safely to Castle Lachlan.” Stephen kenned how to stretch the truth.
Ciaran’s hands fisted. Stephen rolled onto the balls of his feet, flexed his knees, ready for an attack.
“I thought you were leaving, Ciaran.” Sir Robert joined them. “Make haste. Your captain plans to sail with the tide, hoping to beat the storm.”
The lad’s jaw clenched. He pushed past Stephen and descended the stairs, the angry pounding of boots rapidly fading.
“Where is Ciaran headed?” Stephen asked.
“Glasgow.”
Great. Stephen should have time to escort Jillian to the Sithichean Sluaigh without the need to burden her with his problems, and then ride like the devil to Dunadd to resolve the matter of his unwanted wife.
“The cook will serve the eve’n meal shortly. Retrieve your lass and dine with me at the head table. Perhaps she could share word of Elspeth and her rascal of a husband.” Sir Robert continued down the stair, and Stephen ascended to the upper level, where a maid directed him to the bedchamber assigned to Jillian.
Jillian brushed fingers over the furs covering the bed, taking pleasure in the luxurious feel. She wouldn’t believe she was in a medieval castle if it wasn’t for the fact there wasn’t a single modern convenience. No central heat. No electricity. No running water. The maid had lit a fire in the hearth along with lighting two braces of candles. One sat on the hearth’s mantel, the other on a large chest next to the enormous four-poster bed, luxuriously curtained in red velvet. As to the water, the maid had left an urn for washing and directed Jillian to a garderobe.
The privy smelled awful.
If they couldn’t travel through the time gate and she remained in the past with Stephen, could she handle the lack of everyday modern things previously taken for granted? The thought that scared her most—the lack of advanced medicines and medical care.
She scanned the room, doubting Stephen possessed this kind of wealth. After all, Dunoon was a royal
stronghold. Though he did have a large emerald in his sword, so he mustn’t be too poor.
Jillian frowned. She didn’t really know all that much about him. He was a good man, of that she was sure. He could have left her wandering aimlessly.
She cringed. She wouldn’t think of what could have happened if she’d not met the children and Stephen.
Seated in one of two velvet-cushioned chairs placed before the hearth, she took off her boots, and warmed her stocking feet by the fire. Leaning her head back, she slipped into a doze. A rapping on the door jerked her awake.
“Jillian, are you there?” She jumped up at the sound of Stephen’s voice and ran to the door. Throwing it wide, she leapt into opened arms.
Stephen lifted her off her feet, carried her into the room, and kicked shut the heavy oak door. His lips crashed against hers in a sinfully delicious kiss that sent a thrill down her body to curl her toes.
“I missed you,” he said.
Her thought exactly. She’d hated even the very short separation. How would she be able to leave him for the rest of their lives?
“Sir Robert has invited us to dine with him.”
“What if I trip up? Make a mistake?”
“Dinnae fear, but keep in mind, the castle walls have ears, so check your tongue.”
Jillian’s spine stiffened even though his meaning was clear and she shouldn’t take offence. He softened the blow by kissing her again, and she forgot the misplaced indignation.
Stephen descended the awkward circular stair in front of her. Still, she feared tripping and falling in the long gown. She raised the hem with her right hand while leaning into the wall to her left with a palm against the gray stone, keeping as far from the drop on the right as possible. She understood the rationale from a security perspective. Patrick and his father Iain had once explained that since most men were righties and you wanted enemies to be at a disadvantage if they breeched the castle walls and ascended the stairs, with the wall to the right, the attackers would be forced to wield a sword with their less dominant hand. But it made the steps precarious for woman expected to wear long gowns. Perhaps she could find a lad to lend her some clothes. Wouldn’t that shock the castle inhabitants?
She released a sharp breath when her booted foot took the last step, and they entered the noisy great hall. Young lads carried trenchers heaped with bread to the many tables.
Stephen guided her to the head table where he seated her two chairs away from Sir Robert, and then sat between them to the older man’s right in the seat of honor. Once they sat, the room became silent, the servers stilled, and everyone stared. Jillian worried her bottom lip, wishing they hadn’t drawn so much attention.
Sir Robert clapped his hands and activity resumed. She supposed they were the topic of discussion among many of the castle folk. She was glad when the meal arrived shortly thereafter consisting of a heavily seasoned roast—which Jillian overheard was deer meat—and vegetables. She’d tried venison before and liked it very much. This roast tasted of rosemary and garlic and perhaps some spices or herbs of which she was unaware. Delicious.
After making a report on the health of Elspeth and her family, the conversation turned to a discussion of the weather and an anticipated storm expected from the north. That didn’t bode well for the continuation of their travels. Jillian shifted her weight on the hard chair. She hoped they wouldn’t be stranded here.
After the meal finished, Sir Robert rose. “Stephen, I would like a word in private. Lady Jillian, please excuse us, a maid will provide escort above stairs. I am afraid the men are not used to having a highborn woman at the castle. They can be rather rowdy. I am sure you will be more comfortable in your chamber.”
“No need to bother a maid, I can find my way.” She curtsied as Stephen had instructed and left the hall.
Jillian made her way along a passageway in search of the chamber she was given, looking forward to spending the evening with Stephen in a real, authentic castle. How cool was that? But she’d gotten twisted around and wasn’t sure which way to turn. Taking a right around a corner, she stopped short. A blond man blocked the way. She moved to the left. He moved with her. She stepped to the right, as did he. “Excuse me.”
“Nae.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why should I let the whore who sleeps with my sister’s husband pass?”
“What?” She leaned forward. She must have heard wrong.
“Ignore him.” Keita popped out from behind a tapestry and clasped Jillian’s hand, tugging her in the opposite direction. “He is a drunk. Hurry. We need to stay away from him.”
They hustled along another passageway. Jillian glanced back. They were alone in the corridor. The man hadn’t followed. Perhaps he was too drunk. Maybe that’s the kind of behavior to which Sir Robert alluded.
Keita opened a door and, sure enough, it was to the room Jillian had been in earlier.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“Naught but a drunk. Dinnae worry about him.” The little girl slid home a metal lock on the door. “Stephen said I can sleep with you.”
As much as she loved Keita, Jillian had wanted to sleep alone with Stephen. Guess he had other plans. Her chest ached with disappointment.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Castle Lachlan
Caitrina awoke to a slow awareness of sensation—the warmth of the linen sheets from her body heat, the smooth velvet of the coverlet against bare skin, and the plush feel of fur delighting sensitive fingers.
Oh, aye. She remembered. She’d traveled to Castle Lachlan, arriving late during the night and had fallen asleep in Elspeth’s old bedchamber, now used for those visitors of highest rank. To Caitrina’s mind, that included her, as the daughter of an ancient Sithichean prince.
Dull light filtered through slots in the shuttered window, marking dawn. She stretched languorously. A familiar smell tickled her nose. She must have dreamt of Douglas and conjured his unique, masculine scent. An ache at the core of her womanhood proved as much. She missed her human lover. She could almost taste his satiny lips.
Urgh. Caitrina rolled to the side seeking cooler sheeting.
What is that? Her fae hearing detected a subtle sound, a swish of heavy fabric, soft as a breeze. She froze, pupils dilating, fae vision adjusting to the dimness with speed. She wasn’t alone in the richly appointed chamber. A large figure draped in a hooded cloak stepped back into the shadows, impenetrable to even her gaze.
Why hadn’t she been aware of his entrance? How long had he stood there, watching her, undetected? Was she losing her fae gifts? Couldn’t be. She grew stronger with each day closer to achieving her goal.
She slid to a sitting position, dragging a fur pelt up to her chin, as she’d slept nude beneath the covers. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir, for I cannot see your face.”
The annoying man remained mute.
“Who are you?” she asked, more curious than frightened.
“I am known as the Prince of the Dark River.” The Dark Prince. Oonagh’s son. His voice, of a spicy dialect that heightened sexual desire, slipped over her defenses and coiled deep into her soul.
Her heart sputtered then raced—intrigued. Had his mother sent him? Or might he be interested in a tryst with her?
“Why are you here?”
Dugaid stood frozen in place. Enthralled. First light cast a gentle glow, enhancing Caitrina’s beauty. How had he forgotten the effect she had on him? He’d been obsessed from the first time he’d seen her shortly after her flowering.
One foot edged forward of its own volition to take a step out of the darkness, but he curbed the desire to go to her. He didn’t want to be recognized.
Dugaid drew the voluminous hood of his cloak farther over his face, hiding his features.
He’d misled himself. Planned to punish her for recklessness. Instead, he received the punishment. Desperate need gnawed at his insides, hardened his loins. He inhaled sharply. The allure of her fae scent—p
eony and freesia and sandalwood—almost had him tossing away caution and revealing his secret.
Too soon. He must have her within his control first.
She rose from the bed, teasing him with luscious breasts and…
The desire to bury his cock deep within her core made him dizzy.
“Do you plan to stare at me all morning or will you answer my question?” Caitrina inquired, tone sharp.
That acid voice snapped him out of the stupefaction possessing him. He hardened himself against her allure. “Clothe yourself.”
“Dinnae growl at me. You are the intruder here.”
“Your father would be appalled by your whorish display.”
“I doubt that. And what do you ken of my father?” She stepped toward him. With a wave of her fingertips, a gauzy green gown floated over her curves, sparing him further distraction.
“’Tis of nae consequence at the moment.” He moved deeper into the gloom. “Why are you allowing my mother to win?”
Caitrina’s eyes narrowed. “She is not winning.”
“Oh, but she might. Her last move placed your victory in peril.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oonagh removed her protection from the lost bairns of the wood. Maclay had his filthy hands on Jillian’s things. And—”
She clutched his arm, and with a thought, he slipped a silk mask over his face, ignoring the thrill from her touch. “I handled the matter, but not before Maclay learned Jillian is from the future. Will not take him long to deduce the secret of the Sithichean Sluaigh.”
Caitrina laughed. “Only centuries. And he will not live that long.”
“You can only hope.”
She shrugged a graceful shoulder. “I am not worried.”
“You should be. Take care, Caitrina. As you ken, my mother is a gifted adversary. Would be in your best interest to pay better attention to the chess pieces in play on the board.”
“How dare you chastise me?” Her hands fisted. Emerald eyes smoldered.
Just Wait For Me (Highland Gardens Book 3) Page 11