Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  “Aye, ye’ll have yer pick. I’ll see to it. I give ye my word.”

  Alasdair mightn’t be able to claim her for himself. After all, the kirk frowned strongly on bigamy, but he could grant her the right to select her husband.

  If, and when, she decided she was ready.

  The hopeful, watery gaze she turned on him tumbled his heart arse over head. He was a bloody, besotted fool about to commit to a much longer stay at Tornbury than a mere fortnight.

  “How can you possibly promise that?” She idly pushed a glazed carrot around her plate.

  He smiled and winked. “I’ll win the contest, and then gallantly decline to marry ye.”

  Chapter 9

  Tornbury Fortress

  One Month Later

  Absorbed in the sparring men in the courtyard below, Lydia narrowed her eyes and snorted loudly. Tugging her berry and charcoal plaid shawl snugger, she rested a shoulder against the south solar’s oak window sash.

  Pathetic.

  God help Tornbury if anything larger than brounies or fairies or mice decided to attack.

  She snorted again as a Tornbury warrior’s sword went flying, clanging along the worn stones. She’d seen doddering village crones fight over a bread loaf with more enthusiasm and skill than her clumsy, out-of-shape clan.

  How had they become so unfit in a few months?

  No one to drive or challenge them, that’s why.

  Oh, a few exceptions stood out. Very few.

  With a critical eye, she scrutinized Farnsworth’s warriors.

  Mayhap two dozen in all still nudged her chieftain’s pride upward.

  Not chieftain yet.

  But Da had hinted just this morning, he planned to make the announcement soon. Just after he’d doggedly insisted she must marry and produce an heir.

  Or two. Or three.

  “Ye did say ye wanted eight bairns.” His jest carried more than a little seriousness.

  She elevated a skeptical brow. “Like a brood mare?”

  No, a prize sow. Birth an entire litter and be done with the matter.

  “Ye’ll marry the man who wins the tournament, or I’ll name another me successor, Liddie lass.”

  Pig-headed, obstinate, mulish—

  Behind the hard glint of his whisky-tinted eyes, irrefutable love glinted. He worried for her future as much as he did Tornbury’s.

  She drew part of her lower lip into her mouth.

  If Alasdair did win the contest, and she prayed he would, how would Da react when her champion refused to marry her? Would the disappointment further jeopardize his already frail health? And, God help her if Alasdair didn’t triumph.

  What then?

  Hadn’t Da considered that whomever she married—particularly if the Scot wasn’t of her choosing—the man quite likely would attempt to wrest the lairdship from her? Perchance even plunder and pillage the estate, peasants, and village?

  Then where would Tornbury Fortress and its people be?

  Lydia’s practiced gaze skimmed the feinting scrappers again. Slower, less finesse with their weapons—and from what she’d witnessed, tiring far sooner—Tornbury’s fighters, even after three weeks of rigorous, daily training, stood little chance against the adept McTavish warriors.

  One of her clansman stumbled and fell to his knees, his shoulders rising and falling with his labored breathing.

  Or anyone else, for that matter.

  She exhaled a frustrated sigh. Should she suggest longer practices? Would that make any difference or only serve to stir resentment?

  It wasn’t her place, in any event. Alasdair knew what he was about. She’d just have to trust him in this area.

  What would she have done if he’d kept to their original plan and left after a fortnight?

  Lydia shifted, transferring her weight to her other leg while rubbing her sore arm. Lucky she hadn’t broken it during her tumble from her gelding two days ago. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been thrown.

  Poor Liath.

  He hated the new saddle’s fit, and only after being tossed on her arse, did Lydia discover the horse’s sore withers.

  Despite Uncle Gordon’s objection that future lairds had an image to protect, she’d instructed the groom to use her old saddle in the future. Gordon had insisted the dated saddle was hazardous—complete rubbish, of course—and had ordered new tack for her, Da, and himself.

  Another foolish waste of funds.

  Just an excuse for Uncle Gordon to gain himself a fancier saddle.

  She knew perfectly well what he’d been up to. As estate steward, oughtn’t he to be more thrifty and mindful of unnecessary expenditures instead of plundering the coffers?

  A hoarse shout rose to her jolting her from her reveries.

  Alasdair pointed and gave directions to one of her men, struggling against his McTavish opponent.

  Though she loathed the idea of a tournament for her hand, at least Alasdair’s promise to participate guaranteed additional training for her men for several weeks yet.

  Da had set the contest date for May first, and absolutely wouldn’t hear a word about cancelling the event.

  Lydia had scarcely spoken to him for a week upon her return, she was so incensed. Then another attack laid him low, and fear of losing him had softened her heart.

  Some laird she’d make if she went soft and malleable every time her emotions were tweaked.

  “I only wish to see ye and Tornbury cared for, lass,” Da had wheezed between harsh coughs. “I still ken what’s best fer ye both.”

  He thought he did, but within the past few days, her misgiving had arisen more than once as to his continued competency. Moments of confusion seized him, and his patience, none too abundant to begin with, had diminished too.

  Dr. Wedderburn had warned Da would fail rapidly if he refused to heed the doctor’s instructions—which he had, blast his blessed soul—and his deteriorating health substantiated his folly.

  Expressions intense, and arms folded across their broad chests, Alasdair and Douglas stood to one side observing the score of cursing, lunging, and thrusting men.

  Sweat drenched the fighters’ fierce faces and once-clean shirts.

  Alasdair made a sharp gesture, cutting the air with his arm, and yelled something.

  At once the men stilled.

  Unbuckling his belt, he spoke to them. Despite the mid-morning winter’s grudging sunlight, the wind whipping across the Highlands stole his words.

  The men mopped their faces and moved to the sides. Several gulped the water an eager lad offered.

  Alasdair swiftly disrobed to his waist, and then pointing at one of Tornbury’s few burly chaps, Lennox, took a defensive stance.

  Lydia straightened, her mouth gone dry as mowed August hay.

  Above Alasdair’s rippled torso, a fine matting of golden curls dusted his sculpted chest. His cudgel-like arms bulged with muscles, as did his massive shoulders.

  Lord, but the man boasted a beautiful physique.

  Power and protection.

  If only he could remain Tornbury’s war chief.

  Forever.

  Shaking her head, she stepped farther into the curtain folds. Gads, she mooned over him like an enamored chit. Her conscience gave her an annoying prod.

  Flynn hadn’t intruded upon her thoughts in . . .?

  She puckered her brow and hugged herself.

  Well, truth be told, she couldn’t quite recall when her old love had last distracted her.

  Alasdair raised his sword, and his muscles flexed.

  Of their own accord, her fingers clenched on the woolen shawl. An instinctive reaction, duplicating gripping his manly form, which every part of her yearned to do.

&
nbsp; Over and over. And over.

  Astonishing, and not a little troubling, that she should be so physically drawn to him when her heart held another’s image dear.

  She splayed her fingers over the soft wool.

  How would Alasdair’s flesh feel beneath her fingertips?

  Would it also be warm and smooth?

  Velvety? Firm?

  What about that tantalizing hair carpeting his glorious chest? Crisp and wiry or soft and silky?

  As he and his opponent warily circled each other, Lydia squinted. Even at this distance, she could make out whitish ridges and raised, irregular ribbons revealing scars.

  From battles?

  Uncle Gordon strolled from the house, munching on what looked to be a handful of shortbread biscuits. Would do him good to participate in the twice daily training, and it would earn him a degree of respect with the clan that he badly needed.

  She’d suggested as much to Da, and though he’d heartily agreed, Gordon had yet to set foot in a session.

  In his typical fashion, he disappeared into the study or library, or toddled off to the village, rather than partake in the exercises. Perching his left hip on a barrel, he continued to eat, his expression mocking and bored.

  Careful there, Uncle, lest you fall even lower in the men’s estimation.

  For the most part, the men ignored him, their attention locked on the pair taking each other’s measure in the courtyard’s center.

  Built similarly, Lennox and Alasdair were fairly evenly matched.

  Alasdair boasted a couple of inches on Lennox, but the latter weighed at least a stone more. The biggest difference, which soon became increasingly noticeable, was the manner in which they moved.

  Alasdair was light and agile, a concert of grace on his feet, swiftly gliding or dancing away, twisting and turning with elegance and ease.

  Lennox lumbered, heavy and awkward. Giving a skin-prickling shout, he swung his sword, repeatedly striking Alasdair’s, only to have each powerful, bone-jarring blow deterred.

  Lennox thought to use brute strength, but Alasdair fought with keen cleverness and fleetness of foot. Alasdair made his move, and in a flash, Lennox lay on his back, a sword tip tickling his flexing Adam’s apple.

  Lydia leaned in, smiling her approval.

  Alasdair would have to teach her that nifty trick.

  His finesse even took her by surprise.

  Rather than erupt in rage, Lennox grinned and accepted the hand Alasdair offered. Talking animatedly, he slapped Alasdair’s back before tossing a remark over his shoulder at the onlookers.

  A few nodded and smiled, some men looked skeptical, and others shook their heads in apparent rejection or disbelief of whatever he’d said.

  Dratted wind. Why must it pick up now?

  She pressed closer to the cool glass, as Alasdair and Lennox chatted. Her movement, or perchance her bright wrap, caught Alasdair’s attention.

  He raised his head, his captivating gaze spearing straight to her.

  Something in her middle turned squishy and flopped about clumsily.

  Must be hunger.

  To take advantage of the charitable weather and also enjoy a brisk walk, she’d skipped breaking her fast this morning. The exercise helped clear her head and often, a solution to a problem came to her while striding along the crags.

  Alasdair acknowledged her small, self-conscious wave with a nod before redonning his shirt and addressing the warriors.

  The men promptly fell into parallel lines.

  A shiver, more of a long-fingered icy nudge, shook her, and she shifted toward the source.

  Uncle Gordon, his face turned upward and an obstinate scowl contorting his features, glowered at her. He tossed his remaining biscuits onto the ground, and a pair of hounds immediately gulped them down. With a final withering glare at her, he swiveled and stomped in the stables’ direction.

  Hands on his hips, Alasdair watched him tramp away. He scratched his head as he directed a contemplative glance at her.

  Across the distance, their gazes meshed, and Lydia couldn’t break the magnetic hold.

  Her attraction to him, for even she was honest enough to admit that was what she felt, grew stronger daily.

  Douglas said something, and Alasdair broke their visual bond.

  “There ye be, lass.” Leaning heavily on a cane, Da shuffled into the solar.

  His once vibrant hair seemed to have dimmed in recent weeks. Hollows emphasized his cheekbones, and eyes.

  “Watchin’ the men, are ye? Good.” He nodded his approval. “McTavish approached me yesterday about givin’ ye lessons. He said ye’d asked him to train ye.”

  Lydia slid her hand through her father’s crooked elbow. So frail. Even more so than a mere week ago.

  Not long now.

  “I did. I think it wise for me to be able to defend myself.” She left off the If I’m to be laird part. The implication hovered between them, and her father wasn’t a fool.

  “Here, Da, sit beside me on the window seat. The view isn’t quite as good, but you can still see most of the maneuvers.”

  She guided him to the window where a pair of stone seats faced each other. Long, bottle green velvet cushions padded them, but he still winced as he settled his feeble form.

  He truly hadn’t much time left, and grief twisted her stomach.

  Every day he faded a bit more. She prayed that when the time came, he’d slip away peacefully in his sleep, as Mum had.

  “I’ll agree to allow yer trainin’ under one condition.” Both bony hands gripping the cane’s silver lion’s head handle, he rocked forward slightly as he peered at her, his cheekbones clearly defined beneath his papery skin.

  Lydia angled her head and smiled. Lord, she loved the stubborn, crusty man. “And what might that be?”

  His keen gaze bored into her. “Ye give me your word, you’ll marry the tournament winner without a fuss.”

  Impossible.

  Alasdair had agreed to compete only so that she could choose her husband. A spark of irritation flickered, but as fast as it jumped to life, it fluttered and died.

  How could she say no to her dying da’s request, if it brought him a degree of peace?

  But what if Alasdair didn’t win?

  What if he did?

  What a pickle.

  “Da, shouldn’t we wait to see the contest’s outcome?”

  “Lass, ye must think of the clan first. Always. Ye canna have what ye want when ye are laird. I need to ken ye be strong enough fer the position, that ye be willin’ to sacrifice all fer yer clan, ye ken?”

  I know, and I am.

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners lovingly before giving her a secretive wink. “And I be fairly certain I ken who the winnin’ contender will be. A man I heartily approve of.”

  Alasdair?

  Had Da another, a more duplicitous, reason for specifically requesting Alasdair’s presence at Tornbury?

  Did Alasdair know? Had they discussed it? He met with Da daily, so the notion wasn’t absurd.

  Yes. It was.

  Alasdair wasn’t conniving, nor was he dishonest. His reluctance to travel here had been real.

  Maybe he’d been offered an incentive he couldn’t refuse.

  Cease your mental prattling this instant, Lydia Alline Therese Farnsworth.

  As Da observed the tussling men below, he rubbed his jaw, and his shoulders slumped. A raspy chuckle rattled against his chest, sounding hollow against the rock wall behind him. “There be a day when I could’ve whipped the lot of ‘em.”

  “I remember, Da.”

  He’d been a fierce warrior, as had her brothers.

  “What say ye then, daughter?” His crepey
hand covered hers, and he gave it a firm, but gentle squeeze. “Will ye give me yer word, so I may go to me grave in peace? Ye’ll marry the victor?”

  Chapter 10

  In the crowded, smelly barracks late that evening, Alasdair polished his sword and subtly studied his men. Only for Lydia would he endure these accommodations, and he’d be a liar if he didn’t acknowledge a comfortably appointed bedchamber in the mansion didn’t tempt mightily.

  He’d declined a room in the Keep, preferring the company of the troops rather than a comfortable bed which he’d lay upon, awake, pondering Lydia.

  Legs spread, his sword lying atop his bare knees, and a half tankard of dark ale within arm’s reach, he ran an oiled cloth along his blade’s sharp edge.

  Around him, the boisterous men, made more so by full stomachs and plentiful drink, joked, played cards or chess, or like him, attended their weapons.

  McLeon, staring into the fire’s flames, coaxed mournful tunes from his bagpipe, which in truth sounded more like a bawling Highland heifer.

  Miss Adams had refused his request for a walk earlier today, and he moped about like a lovelorn lad.

  On the long room’s opposite side, a small crowd had gathered around Lennox and the Scot he arm-wrestled. Alasdair hadn’t been challenged to a match since his first night at Tornbury—after easily winning a half dozen contests and the unfortunate last chap had suffered a fractured arm.

  The Farnsworth’s clan might not be the fiercest or mightiest fighters, yet—or ever—but they diligently tended their weapons as well as kept their barracks fairly tidy. However, regular bathing wasn’t a priority for more than a few, and the place stank more than a little.

  His nostrils switched as a particularly malodorous chap, his trews stiff from filth, strode past. Wouldn’t surprise Alasdair if some of the men weren’t harboring vermin in their untamed beards and oily, untrimmed hair either.

  He hadn’t broached that subject yet, but he wasn’t commanding a regiment of ripe Scots in dingy plaids either. Still, they were an amiable lot with ready smiles and always quick to extend a hand; even quicker to offer a flask.