Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  Fierce protectiveness gripped him.

  She made a contented noise and snuggled nearer, murmuring drowsily, “I fear, I’m half frozen.”

  No wonder either, since angry sleet now mixed with the unrelenting rain. “Aye, my toes be complainin’ too, but we’ll be at the Keep soon enough, lass.”

  He’d never met a more courageous woman, or one he admired more. Yet, he couldn’t do a hellfired thing about his attraction. Just as well since he knew she’d been desperately in love with Bretheridge before the marquis threw her over.

  The months Lydia had lived at Craiglocky last fall had extracted a toll on Alasdair’s studiously built buffers, and he didn’t relish the idea of suffering more of the same sense-battering assault if he resided at Tornbury.

  Precisely how long would he be expected to stay and train the Farnsworth clan members?

  He screwed his face into a frown.

  When had her brothers and Lundy drowned?

  Five—no, six months ago?

  Hell, Tornbury’s men had really gone half a year without regular training? With daily practice, make that two sessions, morn and afternoon, it would take that long to bring the undisciplined men up to battle readiness once more.

  And living with Lydia all that time?

  God help him.

  And it wasn’t as if he could avail himself of willing females at Tornbury. It seemed a betrayal of her in some perverse way. Besides, he’d also heard Farnsworth strictly forbid shagging the servants.

  Mulling over Lydia’s impossible request, he flexed his back. True, he’d could sleep in the barracks. Still, he’d have to report to Farnsworth regularly. Why hadn’t the laird just sent Ewan a letter rather than require Lydia deliver the message?

  She shifted restlessly, and her sweet fragrance billowed upward, tormenting him. Something musky and floral, blended with a spice he couldn’t quite name, but which tantalized unmercifully.

  He sniffed lightly, and his groin pulled in response.

  Blast, he couldn’t even adjust his position to relieve the pressure. Pray God Lydia couldn’t feel the telling lump beneath her taut buttocks.

  Nae.

  He bloody well wasn’t putting himself in the torturous position of having her nearby for months. Farnsworth would have to find another man to train his men. Surely there must be a Scot or two amongst his clan capable of the task.

  Alasdair’s attention gravitated to Ross hunkered in his saddle, still occasionally grumbling about the blacksmith’s ineptitude.

  Not him. Never.

  McLeon could do it though.

  Alasdair sought out the object of his ruminations.

  A bemused expression on his craggy face, McLeon tenderly embraced Miss Adams. Indeed, the perfect solution.

  He might suggest the notion to Ewan and give McLeon a little nudge in the romance department too.

  A guffaw bubbled up Alasdair’s throat.

  Ye gods. Now he played Cupid?

  He, who’d failed so miserably at being a husband, his wife had left him after a humiliatingly short time?

  At once a mixture of relief and remorseful longing assailed him. Relief Searón hadn’t stayed and disrupted his life further, and yearning he’d never know a woman’s—a wife’s—love.

  Make up yer bloody mind.

  His thoughts swung back and forth like a flag in a storm.

  Ye ken what would happen if ye went to Tornbury.

  Aye, he’d end up a smitten buffoon. Again.

  Besides, he’d been discontent with his lot, hankered for a change, and had been on the verge of announcing his departure from the clan for a spell. Somewhere out of Scotland. Perhaps America or Rome. Wasn’t that where wrestling—his favorite pastime besides whisky and wenches—originated?

  Damned poor luck to discover his dead heart could still feel. He’d preferred enjoying what a woman’s soft curves offered in the way of comfort and physical release without the entanglement of emotions.

  As a young, gullible lad of nineteen, he’d indulged his softer sentiments and stupidly married a tailwag, though he hadn’t known her whorish ways at the time.

  Searón’s desertion after two scant months of marriage, scarcely long enough to conceive the child she brutally aborted when she decided she didn’t want to be a wife and mother after all, had left him a scarred and bitter man.

  For the past eight years, his carefree manner and bawdy humor hid the burbling woundedness he’d buried. But he’d forbidden anyone to so much as mention Searón’s name or his disastrous nuptials—in and out of his presence.

  The few who knew of his impulsive marriage in Edinburgh remained loyally tight-lipped.

  So, now he found himself with a tempting armful; a brave, steadfast woman whose spirit equaled his own. But she loved another.

  Fate, most definitely, was a malevolent, coldhearted bitch.

  In the distance, Craiglocky Keep rose majestically against the steely, foreboding horizon. He had lived his entire life there, hadn’t even gone off to university. God knew he loved the place and her people, but for months now, a restlessness had pricked him.

  Actually, since Lydia had departed for Tornbury months ago.

  Savoring the last few moments with her enfolded in his embrace, something he wasn’t likely to be gifted again, he redirected his musings.

  “How fares yer father, Lydia?”

  Her sudden tenseness answered as surely as if she’d shouted the news. Tilting her head, her pain-filled greenish gaze roved his face, lingering a jot too long on his mouth.

  “Not well.” Lips pursed, she exhaled softly but audibly. “However, I’ve given my word not to speak of it. Even Gordon doesn’t know, and I must beg you to keep my confidence.”

  “Aye, lass. I winna breathe a word.”

  Though, little good it would do.

  Rumors regarding Farnsworth’s deteriorating health had reached Craiglocky weeks ago, and Alasdair had worried for Lydia, particularly given the clan unrest of a few months prior. If the gossip proved true, her father hadn’t long for this world.

  She’d soon be alone with no one to protect or advise her.

  Ross didn’t count any more than a midge in that regard.

  Her focus gravitated back to Alasdair’s lips before she slanted a sideways look at her uncle. “Uncle Gordon is none too pleased Da may name me laird. This,” she made a little circle in the air, “asking you to oversee our warfare training, is my first official task. I cannot fail.”

  Jesus.

  How could Alasdair say nae?

  How could he say aye?

  He couldn’t. So he did neither.

  Instead, as the horses and wagon clattered across the drawbridge, he scrambled for a distraction.

  “Have ye heard Seonaid be betrothed?” Another love match for a Craiglocky Keep resident. So far, he was the only sot whose nuptial had ended disastrously.

  Lydia twisted to stare at him, her battered face wreathed in a huge smile. She winced and touched her swollen lower lip. “I didn’t know. I’m thrilled for her. Who’s the fortunate man?”

  Alasdair chuckled and released her waist long enough to wipe a strand of her wet hair off his cheek. “Monsieur le baron de Devaux-Rousset.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and her lush lashes fluttered a few times as she digested the information.

  “No? Truly? I quite thought they loathed each other.” Brow elevated and skepticism scrunching her pert nose, she poked his chest. “You’re teasing me. Who is he really?”

  Though wholly inappropriate, he hugged her to him for a fraction, and bending his neck, whispered in her ear. “I’m nae teasin’ ye. They’ll announce their betrothal at the Valentine ball. It’s almost enough to make me believe in that inane, fools�
�� adage, love conquers all.”

  “My, for someone who’s never been in love you sound most cynical.” Her countenance grew solemn, and she presented her profile. “There’s something to be said for being spared that heartache.”

  Despondency resonated in her now husky voice as if she struggled against tears, and Alasdair wanted to kick himself in the arse for his thoughtlessness. She still wasn’t over Bretheridge, and why the knowledge lay heavily in his gut, like tainted meat, he didn’t know.

  Hard to be jealous of a chap so confounded likeable. Which chafed Alasdair’s arse all the more.

  Lydia had a valid point, nevertheless.

  He’d suspected from the beginning Searón didn’t love him as much as he cherished her, but his young, pompous, randy self had been convinced that in time, his wife would grow to love him. All he had to do was shower her with affection and gifts—cater to her needs.

  He’d been bloody damned wrong.

  His pride still stung at moments like this when his stupidity—superior and taunting—glared him straight in the face.

  Ten minutes later, the weary travelers entered the Keep. The injured men and exhausted ladies were promptly hustled off to their bedchambers with promises of a visit from Doctor Paterson, hot baths, and dinner trays.

  Lydia had entrusted the letter for Ewan into Alasdair’s keeping. “Please convey this to the laird. Tell him I’ll seek an audience in the morning when I’m presentable and my head doesn’t ache quite so unbearably.”

  “Aye lass. I’ll see it delivered fer ye.”

  She’d disappeared up the stairs, and yet, he remained staring at the cold stones where moments before she’d stood exhausted and shivering. And never looking lovelier.

  Think of something else.

  Giving himself a mental shake, he heaved a sigh and pivoted toward the great hall. A much-anticipated long soak and a leisurely bottle awaited Alasdair as soon as he’d reported to Ewan.

  “You’ve had quite an adventuresome day, and a successful hunt too.” Tankard raised, Ewan beckoned him to the great hall’s trestle table. “I saw the stags earlier. They’re fat as hogs this year.”

  “Aye, they be good eatin’.” After arching his back in a welcome stretch, Alasdair accepted the ale-filled tankard Ewan offered then jerked his head toward the hall’s entrance. “Lydia be damned lucky to have survived the coach overturnin’. If the accident occurred a few feet in either direction, the lot would’ve plunged to their deaths.”

  All except Ross.

  Hooking an ankle across his knee, Ewan scrunched his forehead and toyed with the mug’s handle. “I’m surprised to see anyone from Tornbury, actually. Naturally, Mother insisted they be invited, but so soon after Lady Tornbury’s death?” He leveled Alasdair a sidelong glance. “Though I suspect you don’t mind Lydia’s arrival in the least.”

  What exactly did he imply? Did he suspect Alasdair’s interest in Lydia? Better put him off that trail. “Nae more than any other guest to Craiglocky.”

  Ewan cocked his head and, eyes narrowed, made a pretense of thoroughly scrutinizing Alasdair.

  Alasdair returned his perusal with a bland stare. Ewan couldn’t possibly have guessed his interest in Lydia.

  “You have a rather cow-eyed, woebegone, down-in-the-mouth, I’ve-been-kicked-in-the-ribs look about your eyes every time you glance at her, Dair. Which is whenever you can sneak a peek. About every two seconds or so. Perhaps it’s time you sought a divorce—”

  Alasdair’s infuriated growl muffled the rest of Ewan’s words. Itching to wipe the sardonic grin from his cousin’s mouth, he balled his hands. “I’ve bade ye not to speak of that. Ever.”

  “True.” Ewan took a deep drink. “But, as your cousin and friend, I have opted to override your wishes.” Once more his keen gaze skimmed Alasdair, then he shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with opening your heart to another woman, Dair.”

  Rather than make an uncouth suggestion about what smallish, dark recess Ewan could shove his preposterous suggestion into, Alasdair gulped his ale, trying to cool his temper.

  Ewan’s knowing chuckle vaulted it upward again. Swiftly.

  Deliver Lydia’s letter and depart your brattish cousin’s prattling advice.

  That was what he’d do before drowning his feelings in Ewan’s fine Scotch.

  “Farnsworth dispatched Lydia to deliver this to ye.” Alasdair fished the letter from inside his plaid. “They want our help. Specifically, me to return and stand in as war chief.”

  “What say ye?” Ross’s strident voice grated from the entrance. Still wearing his sodden traveling clothes, he marched across the stone floor, his heels reverberating with each angry stomp.

  Dismay flickered across a maid’s pretty face at his muddy footprints trailing the stone floor she’d just swept.

  Ewan leisurely raised his gaze to Alasdair’s before murmuring, “I presume he wasn’t privy to the letter’s contents?”

  Alasdair barely had time for a subtle head shake before Ross was upon them. Shoulders hunched, ready for confrontation, fury lined his face and shook his voice.

  “Did ye say McTavish may be Tornbury’s war chief?” He shot Alasdair a contemptuous glare. “I should’ve been consulted. I be steward after all. There be nae need to brin’ in outsiders.”

  “But you aren’t laird, Ross, and your chieftain has every right to make such a request, however unusual it might be. And perchance you need reminding, he doesn’t need to consult you. Ever.” Frost at dawn held more warmth than Ewan’s mien.

  Ross drew himself upright, notched his considerable nose in the air, and puffed out his thin chest, which unfortunately, made him rather resemble a starved raven. “The men winna like it.” The hostile glower he sliced Alasdair would’ve withered a lesser man. “They winna take to ye.”

  Alasdair plopped his tankard down a more forcefully than he’d meant to. Ross was a prickly spur in a bruised arse. He slapped Ross on the back, grinning when the blow sent the smaller man stumbling sideways a couple of steps.

  “Ach, sure they will, my friend. Ye ken everybody loves me, dinna they, Ewan?” Except Searón. She loved cock—more. “Besides, I haven’t agreed to the task.”

  “Aye, but I suggest you do. The McTavishes have always sworn allegiance to the Farnsworths, and if I had a need, I’ve not a doubt Farnsworth would be the first to volunteer his clan’s help.” Ewan stood, his piercing turquoise eyes sending a clear message. “You and a dozen other McTavish clan’s members will accompany Ross and Miss Farnsworth on their return to Tornbury.”

  Like hell I shall.

  Alasdair scratched his nose while drawing in a steadying breath, and all too aware Ross watched the exchange with acute interest. Ewan only suspected Alasdair’s interest in Lydia, and probably couldn’t conceive why the notion of trundling off to Tornbury would disturb him.

  “I’d rather nae go, Ewan.” That ought to give Ross fits. “Send McNeal. He’s more than capable. In fact, I’m convinced he’d enjoy it.”

  Ewan examined a fingernail. Too casual, by far. “Aye, he’s a wise choice, but I must insist you go too, cousin.”

  God’s blood.

  Ewan only called him cousin when the hammer was about to drop.

  Hard and heavy.

  And inflexible.

  Crossing his arms, Alasdair notched a brow upward in challenge and spoke very softly. “Och? And if I refuse?”

  Chapter 6

  Excitement shining in her eyes, Lydia straightened a burnished curl beside her right ear as she gazed at her reflection in the floor length oval mirror. An amethyst and diamond teardrop earring winked at her between the dark strands.

  The set had been her mum’s, and were her most cherished jewels.

  Though she wore a gown of deep violet edged in ebony
lace with a black gauze overskirt, she barely conformed to mourning protocol.

  “Ye look just like a princess, Miss.” The maid Bradana, assigned to her and Esme, beamed, justly proud of her workmanship in styling Lydia’s thick, and at times, unruly hair.

  Arthritic Grizelda didn’t possess the same skill, but the dear had been Mum’s abigail before she became Lydia’s. It didn’t seem right to trundle her off to a retirement cottage and retain a younger lady’s maid. Not yet, anyway.

  Grizelda’s unfortunate tumble down the stairs the week before their intended departure for Craiglocky had almost been a relief since Lydia had already determined the journey too rugged for the aged woman.

  She just hadn’t told anyone else of her decision yet.

  Afterward, confined to her bed with three broken toes, there’d been no question of Grizelda accompanying Lydia and Esme.

  The abigail had been contentedly knitting a fifth pair of nubby stockings when Lydia bade her farewell.

  Neither she nor Esme required a lady’s maid, and rather than tote an untrained servant with them, they’d opted to assist one another. However, Lady McTavish insisted they permit Bradana to serve them, and rather than insult their hostess, Lydia and her cousin had agreed.

  Bradana proved sweet and capable, and her sunny disposition soon had Lydia in lighter spirits. She welcomed that more than any assistance the competent maid provided.

  Tonight’s dinner officially launched the house party, and her stomach periodically knotted in nervous anticipation. A surprising number of guests had braved the rutty roads and shrewish weather for the four days of entertainment.

  All told, an additional four-and-twenty gentlemen and six-and-thirty ladies now flitted about the austere castle.

  Lydia knew none of them.

  Other than in her chamber, she hadn’t had a moment alone since her arrival. She’d spent the better part of the morning attempting to avoid a young whelp, who’d presented her with a rather syrupy, poorly rhymed sonnet. Not to mention an overly-cologned Frenchman who’d hinted, quite frequently and lewdly, he’d like a private tete-a-tete.