The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Seana’s hand glided along his arm and across his shoulder, touching his hair and tangling in its length. She pressed her body against his back, allowing the fullness of her breasts to rest on him. Then she leaned over and whispered in his ear. He could imagine the smile that sat on her full lips as she spoke, confident in her position as his leman, his lover.

  “Come now, Padruig. I am ready for bed,” she said in that sultry voice that usually sent waves of lust through his blood. This time though, the expression on Catriona’s face gave him pause.

  If he did not know better, Padruig would have thought her bothered by Seana’s presence or by her attentions to him. But he did know, the memory of their disastrous wedding night burned fresh within him even these four months later. And her words, filled with loathing and disgust as she demanded he stay away from her from that night on, yet echoed in his head. Padruig had not returned to her bed or even tried to since that night, seeking out comfort in Seana’s warm embrace when he needed the softness of a woman.

  But Padruig Grant was no fool and he knew better than anyone that he would seek out his wife if she gave but a sign that he would be welcomed. His pride and position as laird kept him from pursuing it and the current situation seemed to fulfil everyone’s needs – his, his wife’s, her clan’s and even his leman’s. Seana’s caress was ill-timed though and a blatant attempt on her part to lay some claim on him before the clan. He turned back to shrug off her hand and, when he glanced back, Catriona stood.

  Until now, she knew she’d kept her reactions under control, but being shamed before his entire family was more than even she could bear without a response of some kind. Catriona pulled her emotions back from the brink of complete exposure and looked away from the scene unfolding at the high table between her husband and his whore. If she stood too fast or if her hands shook a bit as she gathered her cloak, surely the women there understood. As she walked out of the large hall where the Grants had gathered for the wedding feast of the laird’s youngest sister, she was not certain which hurt more – being shown how little she mattered to her husband or the pity she saw in the eyes of those who watched.

  Reaching the small chamber she now claimed as her own, Catriona added some peat to the smouldering pile in the small hearth there and waited for some heat to spread out from it before undressing. This room had been an addition to the stone keep, an additional cooking hearth and storage room used for large gatherings or when needed. Once things between her and Padruig had deteriorated the morning after their wedding, she’d moved her belongings into it and no one had questioned or bothered her. Gazing around the chamber, she shuddered. If her father ever learned of her treatment or that she’d been reduced to fleeing her husband’s bed for the safety of an empty one, the fragile peace forced by this arranged marriage would be shattered.

  And that was the only reason she even remained in this marriage, for her father had sworn that though she was the sacrificial lamb in this, she would not be led to slaughter. If she called on him and asked for his protection, Anghous MacDonnell would save his firstborn from the Grants. And war would follow. Catriona would not, could not, allow her family to suffer for her pride. Undressing, she hurried to climb in under the layers of warm bedcovers. Hours later, she lay awake, her pride pricking her over the constant insults to it.

  If she could only claim to hate him for the situation between them, it would be easier to accept. The truth of the matter was that she did not. He had accepted the terms of their marriage as she had – it was never meant to be a love match or more than a simple outward sign of the peace treaty between his family and hers. The only physical relationship demanded of them was to live in the same place and to consummate their vows at least once.

  They did. They had.

  When she demanded that he leave her alone and not seek to continue to do such things, he left her alone, allowing her to live unmolested and as she pleased in the keep. Other than keeping a leman, Padruig treated her respectfully and never raised a hand to her. And usually, she never drew his eye or his attention.

  Until this night.

  She supposed she was out of sorts because of witnessing her only friend in Glenmoriston getting married and knowing that Nairna would leave in but a few days. And from having to watch Nairna and her new husband look at each other with such love in their eyes. Nay, she knew it was because all evening and for days now, she’d watched her own husband, unable to ignore his masculine beauty or the strength in his body.

  Catriona shifted in the small bed, pulling the bedcovers up higher to stay warm, hoping that warmth would draw her into sleep and away from these disturbing thoughts and feelings. After watching his treatment of his leman and his reaction to her many public caresses and even kisses, Catriona recognized lust when she saw it in his dark, green eyes. And tonight, as he met her gaze after arguing with his brother, lust shone there. And something deep within her told her he lusted – for her.

  Another hour or two passed and the glimmer of an idea occurred to her about how to get past both her and Padruig’s pride in the matter of their marriage. After he’d sworn in front of others that he would never ask to come to her bed, she understood he would not, even if she invited him. But something inside her heart wanted him to want her and wanted something more than this inconvenient, impersonal arranged marriage. Something deep in her soul wanted to have a husband like Nairna’s who gazed on her with love in his eyes.

  Damn her foolish heart but she wanted Padruig Grant to look at her that way.

  Two

  The moon rose above, shining enough light down for him to continue his journey home without waiting for dawn. The relentless spring rains had finally given way to drier days and pleasant nights. He was about two miles from the keep when they attacked. Padruig fought with all his strength, but they – four or five warriors – took him prisoner. A hood was tossed over his head, covering his eyes, and a gag tied around that. With his hands bound behind his head, he was trussed up like a roast in the cook’s larder and tossed over the back of his own horse. Though Padruig tried to estimate their direction and distance, he lost track after only a few minutes of hanging upside down over a moving horse.

  ’Twas clear to him that whoever they were, they wanted him alive, for once they got his sword away from him, they could have killed him. So, Padruig decided to wait before taking any action. Though laird of the clan, he had brothers to step into that chair if something happened to him, so he did not fear for the clan or its future. Even Catriona would be cared for. But why kidnap a laird? Only retribution and destruction could follow and who would gain?

  They travelled for some time, up hills and down, near rushing water, until they drew to a halt and he was dragged from the horse. His legs shook and his head spun as they pulled him along a path, through a doorway that was too low for his height and into some kind of croft or cottage. His arms were untied and he was forced to sit on the dirt floor. Padruig grabbed the nearest kidnapper and pulled him down, too, but he was quickly subdued, this time chains replacing the ropes.

  Padruig could not tell how many were present or who they were. They efficiently chained him to the wall, his arms separated and placed on either side of him. The chains were low enough and long enough only to let him sit or stand, but not to move more than a half-pace from the wall itself. Once he was secured, he heard his captors speaking, both inside and outside the building, but again in voices too low and too muffled to identify. The conversation continued for some minutes and he took advantage of their inattention to shift around and get some idea of how much movement he could accomplish in spite of the chains.

  The door slammed, surprising him, and he heard hammers pounding nails into the frame around the door. He tried to yell against the gag, demanding answers, but between the noise of the hammering and the gag and hood, Padruig knew no one could hear him. Then, as quickly as this escapade had begun, he could hear them leaving – leaving him chained to a wall, and gagged. Padruig struggled then, pul
ling against the chains and trying to reach the knot in the gag to get free of it.

  Who would do this? Who would take him prisoner and leave him so? Did they think to ransom him? Ha! The Grants could call many to their sides in a dispute or war, but they were not a wealthy clan. There would be no ransom for him. If he got free, he would beat the truth out of someone.

  He twisted around and finally reached the knot behind his head and tugged it loose. Padruig loosened the canvas hood and drew it off. He expected not to be able to see anything in the dark, so the lamp burning on the table surprised him.

  But the sight of Catriona standing there shocked him more.

  Catriona swallowed against the fear and tried to meet his gaze. She had begun to reconsider this rash plan before she’d taken the first step, but now she knew it had been a mistake. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as though he did not believe what he was seeing and she recognized the moment when he accepted it was her before him.

  Husband or not, Padruig Grant was a formidable man to have as an enemy. Even chained to a wall, the power in his arms was evident – his muscles rippled as he tested the resistance of the chains. A bruise darkened the edge of his jaw even now. Catriona fisted her hands and fought the urge to touch it. It must be the tension of this plot that made her notice such things now, when she’d rarely done so during the last four months.

  “What is this, Catriona?” he asked her, his voice milder than she dreamed possible.

  All of the words, all of the possible explanations she’d planned in the weeks while she laid her plans and none came to mind in this moment.

  “Tell me!” he yelled louder than, his demand echoing around them both as his anger grew and the chains rattled against the stone wall behind him. Catriona trembled for a moment and then regained control over herself.

  “Do you do your father’s bidding? Who were your accomplices?” he asked again.

  He pulled against the chains and she jumped back a step in reaction. Cat raised her hand and rubbed her forehead. Why had she ever thought this would work? Padruig somehow managed to climb to his feet. Now he used his height to intimidate her since his loud voice had not. Dougal had warned her of what to expect when Padruig lost his temper and so far, he knew his brother well. What had he advised? Oh, hold her ground. Let him yell. Then negotiate. She’d done that the morning after their wedding and it had worked, so Cat had every expectation that it would again … but this time with much different results.

  Laughter bubbled inside her at this inappropriate time. From the anger in his eyes, the clenching of his jaws and the way he pulled against the chains, Cat understood there would be no negotiating with him for a while. She would be lucky to leave here alive, let alone with a husband. His brothers had not seemed worried over their safety, but that gave her no comfort – they were blood, she was a MacDonnell. She sighed and shook her head and, crossing her arms over her chest and standing as tall as possible, she spoke the words that entered her mind.

  “I want a husband.”

  And then he responded as all Grants did – to her name, her family’s history and based on the animosity that existed between their clans – with anger. If anyone remained behind after bringing him here and securing him, they would have heard his rants in spite of the boarded-up door and windows and in spite of the thick, stone walls of this house. He rained down curses on her and her clan. He fought against the chains until his wrists bled. Cat attempted to interrupt him several times to explain, but he did not stop …

  Until he did.

  Collapsing against the wall and sliding down to the floor, Padruig pulled in one ragged breath after another trying to regain his control. He’d always been lauded as the even-tempered of Micheil Grant’s sons, but clearly he had inherited his father’s ability to lose his self-control without warning. Though being attacked, beaten, kidnapped and threatened with death was more reason than most would expect. Now, he wiped across his face with his arm and tried to catch his breath.

  “Another husband?” he asked in a voice hoarse from shouting. “There are far easier ways than this to get a new one.” He jangled the chains for emphasis.

  She did not say anything. Padruig could see that he’d frightened her out of saying anything now. Good. He could not ever remember displaying his anger like this, not even when faced with a wife who did not want him. That morning, he may have raised his voice, but that was more about the affront to his clan than to himself.

  A pang of guilt touched him just then, reminding him of the way her words had indeed hurt him. And in a way that had nothing to do with his clan or hers, but in every way it was about him. His pride over his position in his clan had been offended. Worse, her words that morning had called his honour into question.

  He watched as she silently walked around the chamber, gathering things he only now noticed and putting them on a wooden tray. She walked towards him and he stood, not wanting to miss the chance to get hold of her and force her to give over the key to the chains. It was then that he realized where they were, where she’d had him taken … and the implications of it.

  Long ago his father had built a small house for his mother. Not one to live in, but one that sat on the stream that fed into the loch nearby. Her “lady’s house” his father had called it and it became a place of refuge for his mother, a place of quiet and a place of privacy. From the far-away expression in their eyes whenever this place was mentioned, Padruig could only imagine, and did not want to, the time spent and the things done here. The sound of wood scraping along the floor drew his attention back and he saw Catriona pushing the tray nearer to him. She remained just far enough back so that he could not reach her, but close enough to manoeuvre the tray to sit within his reach.

  A bowl of water. Some cloth scraps. A small jug. A piece of bread and another of cheese.

  “You must be hungry,” she said, walking across the room and sitting in the chair there. “You missed both the noon and evening meal.”

  He wanted to deny it, but his stomach chose that exact moment to rumble loudly, enough that he witnessed a fleeting smile pass over her mouth. Padruig slid back down and pulled the tray closer. She’d had him kidnapped but offered him food and water … and the small comforts to clean himself of the blood that now trickled down his arms and hands from his wrists. In the midst of planning such a radical thing, she’d taken time to notice he’d missed meals and had food ready for him.

  Her eyelids began to flutter as she watched him eat. By the time he’d consumed the last crumb of food and drop of ale, she sat asleep in the chair, her head leaning to one side. Padruig would wait, not that he had any choice in the matter, and get his answers in the morn. Thinking on the implications of all of this, he realized something else.

  She might want a new husband, but she did not wish him dead.

  Or, at the least, not dead yet.

  Three

  Catriona woke with a start, forgetting where she was and why she was sleeping in a chair. Scant daylight entered through the one small window left uncovered near the doorway, revealing that morn had broken. She rubbed her neck as she straightened her head, easing the pain of sleeping with her head leaning to one side. Only as she did so did she remember … everything. “Good morn, Catriona,” he said.

  His tone was so pleasant she could have believed them meeting in the hall of the keep to break their fast. Glancing over at him, she gathered her loose hair back into its braid and stood, her arms and legs screaming in protest after hours spent in one position. He’d cleaned his wounds and wrapped some of the cloth rags around them to protect them from further injury. Cat stumbled as she stood and he moved against his chains. Had he tried to help her? She met his gaze and nodded at him.

  “Padruig.”

  They lived separately, though under the same roof, so she had no experience with him in the mornings. Or the nights, though she knew, as did everyone in Clan Grant, how he spent those. Cat walked to the small hearth, stretching her arms and legs as she move
d, and found the kindling there and started a fire.

  Dougal and Jamie had been thorough in stocking this house for her use – the storage room below held weeks worth of food and supplies, a cistern fed fresh water through a pipe, and wood and peat stood waiting to be burned. She thought about the room above her head and felt her cheeks warm from a blush at the thought of the unusually large bed with its plush furs and bedcovers that sat waiting there. Cat turned back and found him watching her every move.

  “I will have some porridge ready soon,” she told him. This casual chatter would be difficult between them.

  “So, you need me alive then?” he asked. His question was posed quietly, but it did not fool her – he was probing for information about her plans. Not that it surprised her.

  Padruig had become laird a few years back and was accustomed to being in charge. He oversaw every aspect of the clan – its people, its farms, its lands and its future – and was considered, even by her father, to be one of the canniest men in Scotland. She tried to gather her thoughts and her arguments, but they remained scattered. Cat ignored him, or attempted to, and was successful in her attempts until he interrupted her again.

  “I need to …”

  He paused and so she was forced to face him. With a few gestures he indicated his need to take care of a personal task and Cat found herself with the heat rising in her cheeks at the thought of such a thing. She found a pot and slid it over to him, turning back to cooking, blushing even more when the sound of it reached her. Worse, he whistled throughout!

  Cat focused on her task and soon the porridge bubbled in the cooking pot. She avoided looking over her shoulder at Padruig. Cat prepared the meal, scooping some into two bowls, adding a spoon in each, and then pouring some watered ale in cups. As the eldest sibling in a large group of them, cooking was something familiar to her. Though he probably knew it not, she’d been cooking meals at the keep for months, bringing with her the favourite recipes of her mother and her mother’s mother and helping in ways that made her feel useful … especially since she was not fulfilling any wifely duties. She carried his bowl and cup over to him.