The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bibiana watched her stepdaughters dance. They were young, lissome, and lovely, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright. She licked her lips. She did love giving joy and pleasure—almost as much as she enjoyed taking it. Her manicured fingers tightened on the stem of her own glass for a moment as she watched them drink the spiced wine. A thrill of power rushed through her, stronger and truer than any potion.

  She glanced at Donal. He paid no attention to his daughters. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, could barely keep his hands to himself. He was utterly besotted. She smiled at him, her eyes heavy-lidded with sexual promise. Donal’s pupils widened to blot out the color of his eyes, and he reached for her though he’d left her bed well satisfied not two hours earlier. She turned away, left him panting with lust. He was a good man, and his clan loved him. He was feared by his enemies and respected by his allies. He was wealthy, elegant, and clever. He simply had the misfortune of having twelve lovely daughters. It would be the ruin of him. She smiled at him, and he chuckled, deeply in love. Bibiana turned good men like Donal into useful men. She offered them a taste of their darkest desires, and most couldn’t resist. She discovered what they wanted and dangled it in front of them like a carrot. Donal wanted a son, and the pleasure of getting it. She’d promised him that. She had no intention of making good on that promise. Soon, he wouldn’t mind. He’d be dazed by lust, drugged, and he would forget all else but rutting, and the terrible craving for the potion . . .

  It was always that way—it worked with every man she wanted.

  Except one.

  She looked at Iain Lindsay, standing by the door watching the dancing dispassionately. He was the hardest man she’d ever met, carved from the very granite of this harsh, cold land. Her huntsman, her sealgair, as he called himself. She’d seen the desire in him from the moment she set eyes on him, the obsession with one lass, a woman he could not have—not her, but a milk-and-water miss who was unworthy of a man like Iain. Bibiana had beguiled him, tricked him. She thought she had him and could bring him to heel, control him.

  But she’d underestimated him. His honor was stronger than lust.

  She drew circles on the tablecloth with the sharp point of her fingernail. It was regrettable, but it didn’t matter. She’d turned his honor to something dark, and used it against him. She’d won in the end, and he served her out of guilt and obligation. She let her gaze roam over the lean length of his hard body, the broad shoulders, strong arms, long legs, his cold eyes.

  Had she killed any emotion, any love or kindness in his soul? He was better off without such things. Not that his feelings mattered to Bibiana, as long as he did what he was told. And he did, without question. He had secrets he thought she didn’t know about. Still, his disapproval, his self-loathing, made her grit her teeth. At least he didn’t blame her. He blamed himself and the moment of weakness that had brought him so low he could never go home again.

  He was handsome, in a hard way. He’d be rough and dangerous in bed—exciting, demanding. She felt a flush rise over her breasts and tighten her nipples. Her sealgair wasn’t affected by her beauty the way other men were. Perhaps he still pined for the insipid chit who had chosen his brother over him, or perhaps it was regret that unmanned him. She’d never seen him with a woman—a living one—in all the seven years she’d known him. She stroked a lock of her golden hair, imagined it rusty red. She could make him believe she was someone else if she wished, bring him to her bed, have him in all the ways she wanted him. Her fingers tightened on the linen tablecloth, picturing him gloriously naked, his hard body poised above her . . .

  She forced herself to loosen her grip, sighed, and sipped her wine. No, there were better ways to bind the huntsman to her. She knew his weakness, his secret. It was her trump card. She’d been saving it all these years for the moment she needed it most. But he was loyal to a fault. She’d taken everything from him—almost—and he’d had no other choice but to devote himself to her. Still, she wouldn’t hesitate to take more.

  The moment his love had breathed her last, dying in treachery and sin, he’d ceased to be Iain Lindsay. He’d cast off his plaid, left his holding and his clan. The terrible look in his eyes, all the pain and guilt and self-loathing, had told her she had him from that moment . . . all hers. She preened now, in Donal’s hall. See? She always knew how to play a man to get what she wanted from him. But Iain’s anguish had died, replaced by silent rage and hatred. For her.

  She watched his face now, so hard and cold, though he was surrounded by beauty, light, and merriment. He was utterly alone, separate. He enjoyed none of the pleasures she offered him—not wine, or gold, or woman.

  She wished he’d at least smile now and then. His bond to her wasn’t forever. She’d been quite reasonable and had only asked for seven years in payment for her help.

  He had less than a twelvemonth to go. Mere months.

  But then, when spring came to this bleak, miserable land, he’d know no other life. He’d be hers, and he’d stay forever. She smiled quietly and sipped her wine, let the rich sweetness flow down her throat. She reveled in the dark aftertaste, felt it sing in her veins. She felt the bloom fill her cheeks, quicken in her breasts, her womb, her limbs. She parted her lips and sighed with pleasure, and Donal squeezed her knee urgently. She caressed his hand playfully.

  “You must wait, my love,” she whispered in a low, smoky voice. He took her hand, put it on the hard jut that tented his kilt.

  “Does it appear to ye that I want to wait, wife?”

  She laughed, gripped him, teased until he groaned, his cock harder still. “Have more wine,” she said, beckoning Terza, who filled the laird’s cup to the brim. She made sure he drank deeply, watched his eyes glaze.

  Bibiana turned to look again at Donal’s lovely daughters. Most were even virgins, the very essence of youth and beauty. Sweet, untried perfection—and that force was hers to control. Come spring, when they were ripe and ready, she’d feast.

  She lifted her glass to her lips once more, not to drink, but to admire her reflection in the wine, the beauty of her own face, as young and lovely as any girl’s, the fairest of them all . . .

  But then the door opened and Laire stood in the portal, her dark hair unbound, her eyes wide hollows of shock. Bibiana set the cup down again and waited.

  Laire looked around her father’s hall. The lingering effects of her nightmare made her feel jittery, fearful, sleepy. Her stomach was knotted tight, and her hands shook. The hall was as full of merriment as if it had been on Papa’s wedding day. Her sisters danced and laughed with abandon while Papa stared at his bride, bewitched. She willed him to raise his eyes and look at her, to see, but he continued to smile at Bibiana as if they were alone.

  Her sisters wore their finest gowns—brocades and silks and velvets, a rainbow of whirling color in the gray stone hall. Snowflakes seemed to fill the air, floating around the dancers, catching the light.

  Nay, it wasn’t snow. It was hundreds of soft white feathers. How odd—Then she looked more closely at her sisters. Isobel’s red gown was trimmed with swansdown at the bodice and hem. Cait wore blue feathers in her hair. Meggie wore a collar of glossy black feathers. The rest wore gray feathers, the plumage of a dove . . .

  Laire’s throat closed in horror.

  Papa . . . She plunged into the crowd and moved toward her father.

  Bibiana saw the girl coming, her eyes bright with unshed tears, her brow furrowed. Her eyes were clear, not glazed by the potion. She looked at the happy sight of her sisters and clansmen with dismay, trembling.

  Bibiana felt her belly tighten. The girl could ruin everything.

  She summoned Terza and nodded to Rafael, then turned back to watch the girl. She had a sweet face, but it was as pale as snow. She had wide, luminous eyes and the kind of lush mouth that made men dream of sex and sin. Her eyes were on Donal, fierce and determined.

  Bibiana felt her smile falter. She recognized Laire MacLeod, the family be
auty, the fairest of them all. She was also a flaw in Bibiana’s plan, a problem.

  In a moment she’d reach Donal, make a scene, tell him there was something wrong with the joy Bibiana had brought to Glen Iolair. He may not see it now, blinded by drink and lust, but later he might wake in the dark and remember his daughter’s plea and wonder . . . Bibiana felt irritation make her sweat. Did an untried, sheltered, foolish child think she could outwit her? This had to nipped in the bud, snuffed out, at once. Laire had to drink, be forced if necessary.

  Where the devil was Terza? She was slow coming forward with the cup . . . and the girl had almost reached her father’s side. Once Laire drank the potion—just one cup, one small sip—she’d be dancing with her sisters, as happy as a lark, her worries, fears, and suspicions all vanquished. What was taking the old woman so long? But it was too late. Laire was reaching for her father’s hand.

  “Papa?” Laire put her hand on her father’s arm and shook him gently when he didn’t immediately turn. He looked up at her, his eyes bleary. His brow furrowed as if he couldn’t quite recall who she was. “It’s Laire, Papa,” she reminded him.

  His brow cleared, and he took her hand. “Ach, of course ye are. Laire. Come and sit down, lass.”

  “Yes, do join us,” Bibiana said, smiling brightly, though her eyes remained as cold as an empty hearth. Laire swallowed, her belly coiling.

  Terza reached the table with a cup of wine in her hands and passed it to Bibiana. Her stepmother held it out to Laire. “Have some wine,” she said, her voice hard-edged with command.

  Laire glanced at the cup her stepmother held out to her. She remembered the sweetness, the exotic scent, knew how tempting it was, but she tore her gaze away. “I’m not thirsty. Papa, I had the most terrible dream . . .”

  But Bibiana gripped Donal’s other arm, distracting him. “Donal, my love, convince her to toast to our happiness,” she purred.

  Papa turned to his new wife, his eyes hot. Laire could feel the rapid beat of his pulse.

  “Papa, where’s Ada?”

  He looked at her fully then. “Ada? Why do you ask, lass? Are ye feeling poorly?” he reached out and laid his palm on her forehead, the way he used to do, checking for fever. Laire closed her eyes, enjoyed the first affectionate touch he’d bestowed on her in the days since he’d wed Bibiana. She put her hand over his, felt tears welling, and he clasped her hand in his own. “Och, now. Don’t take on so. I’ll ask Bibi to fix ye a draught to make ye better.”

  Laire didn’t dare glance at her stepmother. “Perhaps we can go out, walk in the hills—” she began, but Bibiana laughed, and her father’s attention swung.

  “It’s dark outside, Laire,” Bibiana said.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Laire said, squeezing her father’s hand, tugging on it, but Bibiana smiled at her husband and leaned in for a long, lingering kiss.

  “Papa?” Laire said, barely able to breathe.

  “Isn’t your new stepmother bonny, Laire?” her father asked. “She’ll bear me sons, fine strapping lads to follow after me, braw lads to wield my great claymore in battle. The long line of MacLeods of Iolair will not end with me.”

  Laire felt a twinge of guilt. “She’s very lovely, Papa but—”

  “She’s the fairest woman I’ve ever set eyes on—and I’ve been wed eight times before.”

  “I know, Papa,” Laire said. “Will you eat some bread and cheese, drink some water?”

  He looked at the fare before him and frowned. “Nay. Bring me more of the spiced wine. I like it better than ale, or even whisky.”

  Bibiana took the pitcher from Terza and filled her husband’s cup herself. Donal drank deeply.

  He winked at Laire. “Bibiana says it gives a bridegroom fortitude.” He blushed slightly, tried to focus his bleary gaze on her. “Though that’s not for your tender ears. You’d like a wee brother, though, would ye not?”

  “Aye, of course,” she said.

  “Let us toast to it,” Bibiana said. She pressed a cup of wine into Laire’s hands. “You’ll drink with us, won’t you Laire? To our happiness?”

  Iain watched as the violet-eyed lass entered the hall. He felt the same leap in his chest, the same tightening of his body that he’d felt in the wood. But then he saw the grim dread in her eyes, in every line of her slender body, and felt his gut tense. She wasn’t drugged.

  Now why was that? She was as sober as he was, her eyes wary, her face pale rather than flushed. She was more afraid now than she’d been in the wood, with him. Clever lass . . . Iain felt a moment’s panic. He very nearly grabbed her arm as she passed by him, intent on whispering a warning, sending her away, but he slid a sideways glance at the head table, saw it was already too late. Bibiana’s eyes were fixed on the girl, and her triumphant smile had faded. She swept a poisonous glare over the lass’s slender figure, the gloss of her loose hair. It was too late.

  His hand tensed on the hilt of his sword, and he forced himself to let go. If she expected a rescue, it wouldn’t come from him. He could not save her. He looked around the room, at the drunken clansmen whose sworn duty was to protect the laird and his family. She’d find no help there, either.

  He cursed the fact that Bibiana had decided to come here, to Scotland, to bring him into the midst of a clan so similar to his own. The family bonds here were achingly familiar—the language, the music, the whisky, and the manners were all his own. Had she chosen this place on purpose, a final test meant to bind him to her forever? If he could betray his own people, he was truly doomed. He hardened his heart. The MacLeods were not his people—and the lass was none of his concern. He looked away, told himself he didn’t care. But he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  He saw Bibiana hold out the cup, saw the lass lick her lips—and refuse. He kept his relief from showing on his face. But it was short-lived. She didn’t understand what was happening, and that she was powerless to stop it. Bibiana brooked no resistance. It would simply go harder for the girl if she didn’t drink. He saw the subtle signals Bibiana made to Terza and Rafael—and to him, and he knew he had to obey.

  He set his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip and cursed himself for not warning her when he found her in the wood. Guilt pricked at him like the point of a dirk. His throat closed on a moment’s regret for the lass’s fate, but he squelched it at once. It was not his affair. He was just the lady’s servant, her sealgair. He’d always turned a blind eye to the drugged wine and the secret potions Terza blended from the blood of the birds he caught and other darker ingredients he wanted no part of. He’d told himself that the men Bibiana seduced and the lasses she destroyed all went to their fate willingly. The MacLeods were no different. Still, the knot in his chest would not ease. This lass was different than her sisters, different from the all the rest.

  But the cup was thrust into her hands again, and he read the insistence in Bibiana’s cold eyes. Now, he thought, the lass would do what they all did and give in.

  “A toast!” Donal cried, rising to his feet. “To a fine, strong son!”

  “To a son!” the clan roared back, and drank deeply.

  Iain held his breath and waited for her to sip. Her throat worked, and her lips parted. Her fingers tightened on the stem, and she began to raise the glass.

  “Drink, Laire,” Bibiana said, her voice as sharp edged as a dagger. “Drink to our happiness.” Laire looked into eyes that were chips of blue ice.

  She looked at her father’s vacant smile. She looked out over the swaying ranks of her father’s clansmen, at the glittering eyes of her sisters, each one flushed and lovely. They looked like a flock of exotic birds . . . She remembered the tiny, bare bodies, ready for the pot, their fine plumage plucked.

  She felt her stomach rise. She looked around for a friend, for someone who would help. She met Terza’s obedient gaze. She saw Rafael’s boyish smile fade to something dark. He set aside his fiddle and moved toward her. There was no charm in his face now. The candlelight and shadows made him look wicke
d and dangerous. Laire felt her limbs turn to water.

  She cast a desperate glance at her father, but he was staring at Bibiana, had forgotten Laire was even there. Terza was right behind her now.

  “Drink,” Bibiana said again, with malevolence in her eyes. Laire felt fear rush through her like a river. Her family was in danger, her whole clan. She was in danger . . .

  The delicate wine glass dropped from Laire’s shaking fingers. She heard it shatter, heard Terza’s muttered oath as the wine spread like a bloodstain across the white tablecloth. Laire felt the breath leave her body, felt her empty, anxious belly churn.

  Rafael’s smirk was replaced by a baleful, determined scowl, fixed upon her. He picked up a full cup from a tray and held it in his fist, his knuckles white, and stalked toward her. Terza reached for a pitcher . . . Laire’s gorge rose. They’d make her to drink, force the wine down her throat if they had to. She looked again at her father, but he was smiling benignly, noticing nothing. Bibiana’s flawless face was reflected in his eyes.

  She was on her own.

  Rafael was close now, scarcely a dozen steps away, but hemmed in by the dancers. In an instant they’d part, move aside, and he’d be upon her . . .

  She backed away from the table, looked frantically at the door. It was all the way across the room, past her dreamy-eyed sisters, the drunken clansmen, and Rafael . . . Could she reach the door before he caught her?

  It was dark outside, and she was so afraid of the dark . . . but Terza was coming around the table toward her, another cup in her gnarled hand.

  Run. Every fiber of her being screamed it. She drew in a great gulp of air and turned to flee.

  She pushed her sisters aside, shoved unsteady clansmen out of the way. Behind her, Terza was screeching. Rafael dodged, made straight for her, his hands outstretched, the cup in his fist. Terror gave her feet wings, but it wouldn’t be enough . . .

  She felt Rafael’s fingers brush her shoulder, and she jerked away, crying out. He lunged again, and his fingers tightened on the lace edge of her sleeve. He yanked on it, hard, and she stumbled, heard the delicate lace tear. She felt desperation close her throat, stop her heart, but it was too late.