The Highlander's War Prize (The Highland Warlord Series Book 2)

by Tessa Murran

  It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water all over him.

  Chest heaving, he rolled away and sat at the edge of the bed. Behind him, he heard Giselle’s breath catch as she started to cry and tried to hide the sound.

  ‘Is that why you are letting me touch you?’ he hissed. ‘Are you bargaining for your freedom with your body?’

  ‘Please don’t be angry with me,’ she said. ‘I am frightened, that is all.’

  Lyall took a deep, ragged breath to calm down. ‘I am not angry with you. I am angry with myself. Forgive me,’ he said and rushed out of the chamber.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Giselle took the stairs down to the hall with leaden feet. She could scarcely deal with her shame at the events of the night before. There was no excuse for what she had let Lyall do to her. He had not forced her to give him the rights of a husband. All it had taken was a look, from those smouldering green eyes of his, and she had succumbed.

  In that dark room, some madness had made her want to reach out and touch the big Scot, for he was so beautiful in his maleness. His skin, tanned by the sun on his face and neck, begged to be stroked and kissed. She had longed to press her lips to the hollow of his throat, to trace her fingertips along Lyall’s hard chest and run her fingers through that thick hair. But she had done none of those things. Instead she had lain there, like a nervous fool, and let him do what he would. When she had asked Lyall if he cared for her, he had muttered the words she wanted to hear. But how could he possibly want her as anything other than a quick tumble for the night? To him, she was a tiresome English woman, his enemy, an unwanted intrusion into his life.

  How disgusted Lyall had looked as he stormed off. How low he must think her, allowing a man to take such liberties.

  Agnes’ talk of hanging on to a strong man for protection had led her into the trap of having feelings for her captor. Giselle was absolutely certain her captor had only one feeling for her - lust. She was just a distraction, a way for him to take vengeance on the English, by seducing one.

  Today, one way or another, Lyall would have to be faced. If that man came near her again, she would just tell him to leave her alone. Keep him at arm’s length - that was what she must do - for her situation was precarious, and no one at Beharra could be trusted. Once the Buchanans relaxed their guard, she could steal a horse and some coin, and maybe get south on her own. Staying meant more humiliation, and the threat of feeling too much for Lyall Buchanan, when instead, she should hate him with every fibre of her being.

  Last night had been such an ordeal. These Buchanans were overwhelming, unlike any people she had ever met in her sheltered life. Ravenna was fierce, proud and beautiful, and looked at her with such suspicion. Morna was mischievous, like her brother, and she was softly pretty, with a sweet face and dark, knowing eyes. She was far more bold around men than Giselle could ever imagine being. Cormac was so fearsome that she could barely look at him, and he had such a cold, intimidating voice. None of these people wanted her here, she was sure of that. The only one she could rely on was Lyall, and he made her feel safe one minute, and in jeopardy the next.

  In the hall, Giselle found the awful manservant, Ramsay, standing before the fire with a mug of ale in his hand. He gave her a poisonous look, and she backed up and turned to go.

  ‘Where might you be off to, English?’ he said, coming closer.

  ‘I am going outside for a walk, or is that not permitted?’

  ‘Aye, it’s permitted. Walk all you like. Walk south, and keep walking, all the way back to England. That would please me greatly.’

  Giselle turned to go, shocked by the sting in his words, but he was not done with his cruelty.

  ‘Beharra is no place for an English whore,’ he shouted after her.

  ‘I am not a whore,’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t you? Lyall has been alone with you long enough to have had his way by now. And, whore or not, you are still English, and to the Buchanans you are dirt.’ He spat at his feet, and Giselle raced away in disgust. What a worm of a man, so bitter. Surely Lyall had not said anything to him?

  Ravenna was outside, pacing up and down, with her hand in the small of her back. A little boy clung to her skirts and scrabbled behind them as Giselle approached.

  Giselle gave Ravenna a weak smile and was rewarded with a grimace of pain in return.

  ‘The bairn is lying awkwardly, it gives me no rest, and my back is fit to break with the heaviness of it.’ She eyed Giselle steadily. ‘What’s amiss with you?’

  ‘That man Ramsay said some things. He was unkind.’

  ‘That is his way. Ignore him, and don’t bother trying to make friends, it won’t do you any good with him. Ross let go,’ she said to the boy, who was now peeking around at Giselle with grey eyes, wide and curious. He had black hair and a river of snot coming from his nose, which he wiped with the back of his sleeve.

  ‘This is my son, Ross and, as you see, he does not have the best of manners, like his father. He will not leave me be with his pestering today when he is not off chasing the chickens until they will not lay, or teasing the dogs to distraction. One day he will get bit, and that will teach him.’

  Though the child’s eyes were his mother’s, he was otherwise a miniature of his father and had the same way of quietly scrutinising. The boy narrowed his eyes when Giselle smiled at him. Not one to trust easily, by the looks of him.

  ‘Will your babe come soon?’ asked Giselle.

  ‘Not nearly soon enough. Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know. I cannot just sit in that chamber being useless all day long. It is setting me to worrying. Perhaps I can be of help. What can I do?

  ‘I don’t know. What can you do?’ Ravenna softened the comment with a smile.

  ‘Well, I can embroider and read and write, and I play the lute terribly well. I have the voice of a lark, or so many have told me.’

  ‘Not much call for that around here,’ said Ravenna.

  ‘I can pour wine like a lady, and handle a horse very badly.’ Giselle smiled back.

  ‘Do you have all your wits?’ said Ravenna.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good, then you can learn to be useful. Come on.’

  Ravenna set off briskly, and Giselle followed along with the troublesome Ross. When she turned to look at the boy, he poked his tongue out at her, but then smiled. For an instant, she saw his uncle Lyall’s insolence on his face.

  ***

  A few hours later, when the summer sun had burnt the dew off the grass, Giselle found herself in an outhouse, twisting the handle of a butter churn until she thought her arm would drop off. At Ravensworth, such tasks were done by servants, but Ravenna seemed to oversee virtually everything to do with the running of Beharra and did not seem to mind getting her hands dirty. She didn’t say much as they worked, but Giselle sensed a kindness in Ravenna, and the companionship of another woman eased her a little. Ravenna seemed to understand how she was feeling, and she remembered Lyall’s words about her and Cormac being unwilling to wed. Ravenna had once been alone, unwanted and friendless with strangers, and had survived it. Perhaps she could do the same.

  Morna strode in all fresh-faced, and gave Giselle a hesitant smile. ‘Where are Cormac and Lyall, I’ve been looking everywhere for them?’ she asked.

  ‘They both left, before first light,’ replied Ravenna.

  Giselle’s heart sank. She hadn’t dared ask before, and now, to hear that Lyall had gone, made her heart sink to her toes.

  ‘Where have they gone? When are they coming back?’ demanded Morna.

  ‘Days, or weeks, maybe. Cormac has to visit some of the other clans hereabouts on some business or other, and I suggested Lyall go with him.’ Ravenna glanced sideways in Giselle’s direction.

  ‘Well that is vexing,’ said Morna.

  ‘Ramsay is here to look out for us, Morna,’ replied Ravenna.

  Morna rolled her eyes. ‘I would have thought Lyall would have st
ayed to stop Giselle running away, back to England.’

  ‘Giselle won’t run, for she could never find her way back south through miles and miles of mountains passes and moorland. She would get lost, or fall prey to any cutthroat she happened to meet on the way. No, she will stay here with us, until her ransom is paid and we can send her back safe to her father. Is that not so, Giselle?’

  Her face grew hot. It was as if Ravenna had read her mind, and she was right, how would she ever find her way south on her own? It was not as if there was much to go back to anyway.

  Morna intruded into her thought. ‘So, I can’t even amuse myself watching Lyall mooning around over you, Giselle.’ The girl smiled at her. ‘He does, you know, all the time. Are you sure he’ll give you back once the ransom is paid?’

  ‘He has to,’ she replied.

  ‘Does he? He’s as stubborn as a mule, and clearly smitten with you.’

  Giselle turned her back on them both and concentrated on the task in hand, turning the handle of the churn viciously. Morna’s chatter went over her head, for she was raw with misery. Lyall had gone without so much as a goodbye and Morna was wrong. He was not smitten, he was fed up with the burden of her, and repelled by her lack of restraint.

  Morna sidled up to her. ‘You will overdo it, Giselle, and it will turn to cheese!’

  ‘Oh, I had not realised.’

  ‘You have lovely hair, you know,’ said Morna. ‘It glows red, like a sunset.’

  ‘I have always hated it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It catches the eye and makes people stare.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, or perhaps you don’t want Lyall to stare. He looks at you often, the fool. Perhaps you have claimed a wee place in his heart.’

  ‘I don’t think I have his heart, Morna.’

  ‘Aye, well, my brother does not follow his heart, he follows something else entirely. Best beware English, in case he breaks yours. Listen, Ravenna has gone to take rest, and I need to speak to you, in secret, about that man you met on the road, Will O’Neill.’

  ‘I don’t think I should speak of him, they will not like it.’

  ‘Ravenna will not know, for I shall not tell her. Please Giselle, how did he look, what was your impression of him?’

  ‘He was terrifying. He caught us unawares, and he threatened your brother.’

  ‘Aye, but what I mean is, how did he look?’

  ‘Rough, big, vicious, and his fingers - there were two missing, on his left hand.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Morna’s eyes widened.

  ‘They were just stumps, the little finger and the one beside it gone. And there was a scar on his face.’

  ‘Was it bad?’

  ‘No, a crescent-shaped one, from his temple, down his cheek.’

  ‘It has been years since I last saw him. Is he still handsome?’ asked Morna, a blush warming her face.

  ‘Some women would find him so, I suppose. He had an arrogance about him, a clever way of speaking, but I did not care for it.’

  ‘You like safer men, like my brother.’

  ‘I don’t think I like men at all, and there is nothing safe about your brother,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Lyall said you were betrothed. What about this man you were to marry?’ asked Morna, curiosity bright in her eyes. ‘Do you care for him still? Do you hope he’ll come for you?’

  ‘No, Edric de Mawpas was hateful and did not want to wed me. I hope I never see him again. Being wife to that man would have been misery, Morna, and he would have been a cruel husband.’

  ‘Lyall is not like that.’

  ‘No. I suppose, in his way, he has tried to protect me.’

  ‘Aye, he would do, for he has a good heart, though I fear it has grown colder these past years. I am sorry that you find yourself here, Giselle, a prisoner, and so far from home. I was like you once, and God knows what would have happened to me had Will not set me free.’

  ‘Lyall said you were taken by a band of outlaws.’

  ‘Aye, Will was an outlaw then and, if Lyall is to be believed, he is an outlaw now. But you have to admit, he looks well.’

  ‘I don’t know much about men, Morna, God knows, but I am sure of this. Will O’Neill has danger written all over him. You should pray you never set eyes on him again, no matter how fine his face and no matter how sweet his tongue.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lyall surveyed the great hall at Strathgryfe Castle with disdain. What a shabby place. The castle sat on a cliff over the ocean, and seemed to have been situated to catch every gust of icy wind that blew across it. Filthy rushes littered the floor, not changed in months, he reckoned. The whole place smelled of piss and dogs, and the fire was belching smoke out into the room, making his eyes water. The wood hissed and crackled in the hearth, and there wasn’t nearly enough of it to warm the room and drive the misery from his bones. Moist air from the sea mildewed the walls with swathes of green. A body would never be able to feel clean and dry in this place. Worse still, the ale was watery and had a bitter taste, just when he was in the mood to drink himself to a stupor on it.

  They would move on tomorrow, once Cormac had bullied what he wanted out of Laird Hugh Gordon, a disreputable, and not entirely dependable, ally. They had come to raise support for King Robert and his planned assault on Berwick. Recapturing the town would be a bold move for a King who had always favoured ambush tactics, a swift attack followed by an equally swift withdrawal, before his forces could be depleted in an all-out, pitched battle.

  Berwick would be an altogether more daunting prospect, involving a lengthy siege, with huge potential for loss of men, and so the King wanted as many as possible in his army, to throw at its walls. The assault on Wulversmeade had been much easier. Fight, inflict damage on the enemy, and then grab what you can and get out. He had grabbed Giselle.

  How easily she crept into his mind, and she had been keeping him from a good night’s sleep for these last two weeks since they’d been on the road. How did she fare at Beharra? Did she miss his presence, as he missed her unwilling company? No matter that he fought the memory, it came at him again, making his loins burn. Her mouth responding to his, small hands clutching at his back, the bronze hair between her legs, soft as down under his fingers, tears in her eyes as she asked to go home. Christ’s blood, she put an ache in his belly. Perhaps he should find a way to ease it and banish her from his thoughts.

  A hand came to rest on his forearm. Hugh’s eldest daughter was smiling up at him and pawing him again, like a pet. It was irritating. Lyall longed to fling her hand off, but he couldn’t be discourteous. Surely her father would not approve of such behaviour, but he seemed indifferent to it so far.

  Isla Gordon was buxom, blonde and pink-cheeked, all thrusting bosoms and wide, swaying hips. She was comely, in a fleshy sort of way, and she was certainly friendly. She’d been hanging on his every word since they had sat down to supper, constantly staring at him, like a slavering wolf eyeing a juicy haunch of pork. Hugh’s other daughters hadn’t taken their eyes off him either, and there were many of them, at least five more, as far as he could tell. He shifted uncomfortably under their adoring gaze.

  Hugh Gordon was droning on, at great length, about the sacrifices he had already made for the cause of a free Scotland. The wily, old goat had sent some men and arms, along with coin and grain, to feed Robert’s army, but it was like getting blood out of a stone. The miserly rascal wanted freedom, but he wasn’t prepared to pay a penny more than he had to, in order to get it. His own sons could not be spared for the re-taking of Berwick, he kept insisting.

  A vein was pulsing in Cormac’s temple as a sign of his anger, though he kept his tone reasonable and calm. ‘This could be the tipping point for us,’ Cormac said to Hugh. ‘If Berwick falls to us, we will have a great port from which to bring the war to the English forces. But we need every man, every sword, to do it.’

  ‘I cannot spare men, and certainly not my own sons, who are needed here.’ />
  ‘Lead your clansmen then, Hugh, for the glory of Scotland.’

  ‘Clan Drummond, Clan Lamont, they are not to be trusted, you know this Cormac, and they constantly nip at my heels. If I deplete my strength for the King’s cause, they will take advantage. Once the farmer’s back is turned, the fox raids the henhouse and slaughters all.’

  ‘So, you are happy for Buchanan blood to be spilt, but not your own,’ said Lyall.

  Cormac shot him a sour look, but Hugh did not seem to care. ‘Insult me all you like, Lyall Buchanan, but until you have a clan of your own and people to feed and protect, don’t seek to school me in matters of politics or warfare or courage.’

  ‘What my brother means,’ said Cormac, ‘is that every clan has to make a sacrifice and pledge. This war is dragging on. We must strike a decisive blow against England to force the Pope to recognise our own King. Those who pledge now will be rewarded, with lands in England. Those who do not, well, the King will turn his back on them, and you know what that means.’

  ‘Is that a threat, Cormac Buchanan, in my own hall?’

  ‘No, it is a promise. You haven’t survived this long without knowing that.’

  Hugh leaned forward in his chair. ‘Aye, ‘tis true, but I also know this. Never make a bargain without squeezing out an extra drop for yourself.’

  Hugh glanced over at Lyall. ‘How do you like my daughter, Isla, Lyall? A bonnie lass, is she not?’

  Lyall smiled at the girl. ‘Aye, she’s very bonnie. A man would have to go a long way through the Highlands to find such a face.’ May as well show some courtesy to the poor girl in return for Hugh’s hospitality, he thought.

  Isla’s cleavage swelled as she took in a prideful breath.

  ‘I am glad she meets with your approval. I remember when your father, Fearghas, used to bring you here as lads. We always said that it would be a fine thing one day, to join our two houses by marriage.’

  Lyall froze. What the hell was the old fool getting at?

  ‘If I am to pledge and sacrifice men at your behest, Cormac Buchanan, then I need something in return.’