Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  Except Ross, the sour-faced, squawking raven.

  The man grumbled more than an increasing fishwife whose foxed husband never cast a net. And he was a lazy cull too.

  Rather than calling on tenants and tending to estate business, he spent his time in the local pubs or at a certain disreputable cottage on the village’s edge.

  Was his behavior new, since Farnsworth fell ill, and neither Lydia nor the laird were aware? Or was Ross’s slacking habitual? If so, then why hadn’t it been addressed or his service severed without character?

  Couldn’t hurt to nose around a trifle and find out. The dour fellow made Alasdair wary. Ross watched Lydia too closely, and behind his hooded eyes, occasional glints of what appeared suspiciously like animosity flickered.

  Alasdair finished downing his ale just as the outer door swung open. Over the tankard’s rim he spotted the subject of his musings.

  Speak of the devil.

  Ross’s beady gaze flitted around the room until his crow eyes rested on Alasdair. Resentment simmered there. He jerked his head. “McTavish. Yer wanted in the solar—”

  “Och, Ross. Ye want to have a go?” Waving his oak-thick arm, Lennox indicated the now vacant chair opposite him. “I promise to go easy on ye.” He tapped his thumb against his forefinger. “I’ll only use me thumb and finger.”

  Undisguised ridicule dripped from each mocking word and resulted in a chorus of guffaws from the other men.

  “Ye’d still snap his bony wrist like a crossbill’s leg,” someone said between snickers.

  Clapping his mouth shut, and without waiting for Alasdair’s response, or answering Lennox, except with a crude gesture—which resulted in a louder round of catcalls and hoots—Ross, his upper lip slightly curled, tromped from the barracks.

  After putting his basket hilt sword away, Alasdair donned his belt and black leather vest then slid his stag antler dirk into his stocking.

  A request this time of night, in the solar, no less, didn’t bode well. He’d thought the laird and Lydia already abed and was soon for his humble, too narrow and too short, cot as well.

  In overly-tired bemusement, he dared let his mind travel down a trepidatious path.

  What did Lydia wear to bed?

  How did she look in slumber?

  Did she plait her shiny, raven hair with its teasing hint of curl, or wear it loose?

  Did she talk in her sleep?

  Enough lewd musings.

  Searón had plaited hers, but she’d always slept nude as a nymph, her plump, white body, on its way to fleshy and fat even at her young age, ever ready for a tryst. With any man who’d promise her a satisfying tumble between the sheets, he’d later learned.

  That rather chafed his young man’s esteem until he understood some women’s carnal urges—much like a glutton’s for food or a tippler’s for spirits—couldn’t ever be satisfied.

  She’d claimed an imaginative and voracious sexual appetite that no innocent miss ought to have knowledge of. No surprise, really, she’d turned to selling her favors to fancy cits in Edinburgh.

  Hell, Alasdair didn’t even know if she still lived.

  He hadn’t had any word about her for over three years now, though rumors had circulated a year and a half ago that she might have been one of several prostitutes who died in a brothel fire.

  A whorehouse that offered every kind of perverse, carnal vice known to men, and for which Searón was a rumored favorite because she enjoyed the more depraved activities.

  He pursed his lips in distaste.

  The proprietor couldn’t be sure she’d been a victim since several of his ladies of the night had assumed fictitious names, and more than one given to stoutness had perished that night.

  Wouldn’t that be a convenient solution?

  Guilt speared his gut. No one deserved to die in such a fashion, even the likes of her. He’d thought he’d loved her once, so a morsel of compassion wouldn’t be amiss. Even if he couldn’t comprehend her choices.

  Alasdair heaved a hefty expanse of air as he planted his dagger-weighted foot on the floor. Perhaps he’d seek Ewan’s council on hiring a man to explore Searón’s whereabouts. If she yet lived, if disease or her depraved existence hadn’t killed her, he’d consider petitioning for a divorce.

  Something he should’ve done years ago, though God only knew why he hadn’t. He’d known she wouldn’t return, and he hadn’t wanted her to. His pride stung, but not enough to prevent him from seeking a divorce, and he readily admitted his mistake in wedding her.

  At the door, he swung back to face the jovial men. “Be in the bailey at half past four in the morn.”

  Grinning and ducking as several men groaned and McLean tossed a leftover oat roll from dinner at his head, Alasdair dashed out the door.

  A few minutes later, he strode into the solar’s open entrance, and faltered to a stop.

  Lydia sat in a fern green high back chair, her feet tucked beneath her as she drowsily stared into a hearty fire. An open book, its charcoal-hued spine facing upward, balanced on the chair’s arm, and a pair of bedroom slippers, hastily kicked off from their haphazard appearance, lay on their sides.

  The muted rumbling purr of the black, gray, and orange patched cat curled in her lap mixed with the fire’s crackling and popping. Lydia’s hair, a shiny sable cloud, hung about her slim shoulders, covering her velveteen cerulean robe.

  Had she sent for him? In her nightclothes?

  He’d have expected as much from Searón. Actually, he’d heard she entertained stark naked.

  Lydia generally exhibited much more modesty. However, she thought of him as a brother or cousin, so mayhap receiving him in her bedclothes didn’t concern her overly much.

  Then again, perhaps she deemed the matter urgent, or given the late hour—the great clock in the corridor had chimed half past the tenth hour as he passed—she hadn’t wanted to redress for a few moments of conversation.

  Alasdair couldn’t blame her.

  He’d be hard pressed to drag his sorry arse from his too-small bed before dawn tomorrow. Served him right for making a point with the men earlier and demanding their presence before the birds left their nests.

  So why had he been summoned?

  Perhaps she wanted to discuss her weaponry training. He’d managed to put her off, claiming the troops were his first priority, but she’d grown quite persistent in recent days.

  Other than two double tapers burning atop the elaborate, carved mantle, darkness shrouded the comfortable room. Shades of green, soft browns, and poppy red added to the solar’s welcoming ambiance.

  He’d never been invited to the family’s private chamber before. Most audiences took place in the long study, Tornbury’s meeting hall, or the laird’s sitting room.

  “Ye sent fer me, Lydia?”

  Chapter 11

  Alasdair really ought to address her as Miss Farnsworth, but the social formality added a barrier he didn’t want, despite the impropriety.

  And hypocrisy.

  He was married to a light-skirt. Couldn’t get much more scandalous than that.

  Lydia started and yanked her focus from the flames, her expressive eyes rounding in surprise as she pressed a hand to her breast.

  A soft, self-conscious laugh escaped her as she drew her neckline closed.

  “No. Yes. That is, I asked Uncle Gordon to tell you I wished to speak with you in the morn after the clan’s drills.” She looked behind him before her gaze drifted back to his face. “Did he retire already?”

  Probably pelting his way to the village whore’s cottage.

  After rising from his brief bow, Alasdair lifted a shoulder. “I’m not sure. Once he delivered the message, he left the barracks.”

  In a girlish huff.

  �
�I apologize for the confusion, Alasdair. You needn’t have come tonight. The matter isn’t pressing.”

  Her soft voice caressed his weary senses and aching body.

  Truth to tell, he was sore as hell from the pounding he’d taken sparring with a dozen men eager to show him their prowess. Or lack thereof. He’d have welcomed a long soak, but instead had settled for a quick dip in the icy river bordering the meadows.

  Edging farther into the chamber, he searched the shadowy corners again. Neither Miss Adams nor a maid sat sewing in a discreet nook.

  He and Lydia were entirely alone.

  Not exactly proper. Not wise either.

  At least on Alasdair’s part.

  “Ross failed to mention the appointment was fer tomorrow. I came straightaway, fearin’ somethin’ had arisen that caused you or the laird alarm.” He scrubbed a hand across his stubbly chin.

  Her soft mouth bent into a smile, and she shook her head, her loose raven tendrils caressing her shoulders like giant glossy fingertips. “Partially true, but it certainly might have waited until the morrow.”

  He’d intended to avoid seeing Lydia like this.

  Her long neck glowed ivory pale in the dimly lit room, and his imagination needed no encouragement picturing what she wore, or didn’t wear, beneath her simple robe. Nonetheless, his curious gaze probed the fabric, seeking the treasures hidden within.

  Her intelligent eyes met his squarely. She trusted him, and he’d never give her cause to regret that trust.

  The task her father had set for her was difficult for a man, and Alasdair couldn’t fathom how hard it must be for a young woman. A grieving lass still reeling from multiple losses, to boot.

  Eyes half-closed, she petted the cat, her long, delicate fingers gliding through the calico fur. “Father’s made an impossible request of me. I couldn’t say no outright. He’s quite weak and tires so easily now. I’m not sure how much longer—”

  Her throat worked as she struggled to control her emotions, and Alasdair longed to gather her in his arms, tell her he’d make sure she never had to worry or be afraid again. She could rule her people, and he’d stand behind her—beside her—ready to lay low anyone who dared look at her crossly.

  “Well, I be here now, lass, so what do ye need?”

  A long sigh whispered past her lips and, resting her head against the chair’s back, she closed her eyes all the way. Her lashes, dark and thick, feathered across her cheekbones, a glaring contrast to her smooth, pale skin.

  Defeat radiated from her.

  “Father demands I marry the tournament winner within a fortnight. If I refuse, he’s threatened to either not name me laird or else pick another man. One he deems worthy. He wants my word I’ll comply.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Lydia kept her eyes firmly shut, not wanting to see Alasdair’s expression.

  He’d vowed he’d be the victor, but that was before Father had extracted the blasted half-promise from her. How she longed to defy him, tell him she’d marry who she wanted when she wanted.

  Why must women always be subjugated to men’s authority?

  Perhaps if illness hadn’t weakened him so, she might have summoned the nerve. However, dread, that he might suffer a fatal attack, had stilled her rebellious tongue.

  The same couldn’t be said for her defiant thoughts.

  She hadn’t exactly agreed, but neither had she adamantly disagreed to his ultimatum. Changing the subject seemed wiser, but Father knew she’d conform. ’Til now, she always had, and he’d have the oath from her lips before the tournament.

  Unless by some grand, unfeasible miracle she were betrothed by then. Fustian codswollop. Dragons attired in ribbon and lace trimmed petticoats would call for tea first. And bring shortbread too.

  “Och, that dis throw a blasted wrench in the cog, disna it?” Alasdair’s mouth tipped upward as he slanted his head.

  He looked particularly dashing. Though, in her groggy state, perhaps she but imagined his increased allure.

  Marrying Alasdair wasn’t as objectionable as being shackled to a stranger, or worse, one of the unsavory Scots that had started trickling into Tornbury over the past few days.

  True, attractive men numbered amongst the eager, early arrivals, but outward appearances didn’t reveal a man’s heart or character. God forbid she wed and weeks, months, perhaps even years into the marriage, her husband’s true nature emerged.

  Her carefully calculated plans for the contest’s outcome had been tossed noggin over bum. This whole affair was unjust and infuriating, and though she loved Da dearly, his manipulation had stirred deep resentment. She might not have refused him verbally, but in her thoughts she screamed no, over and over.

  She gestured toward the adjacent chair. Hopefully, Bernard’s fur didn’t litter it too awfully. “Have a seat, Alasdair, and warm yourself. I know the room’s parameters are cold, though you may be accustomed to the chilliness. Craiglocky is always far colder than Tornbury.”

  He joined her before the fire, but instead of taking the chair she waved him to, he rested his forearm on the mantel and drummed his large, rough fingers atop the polished wood. His strong profile, straight nose and chiseled jaw, stood out vividly from the reddish-golden glow silhouetting his large frame.

  His stark manliness drew Lydia as surely as if he’d been a magnet and she a sewing pin. Warm permeated her which couldn’t be attributed to the fire. Beleaguered annoyance and desire battled for supremacy. Best to redirect her wayward thoughts before she said or did something foolish.

  Or humiliating.

  “It’s rather a larger pickle this time, isn’t it?” Her pathetic attempt at humor met with a dry chuckle.

  “It be rather more than a pickle, Lydia.” Alasdair slid her a mocking look beneath his bent arm. “I made ye a promise too, one which I intend to keep.”

  She lifted Bernard and placed him on the floor before standing and touching Alasdair’s back. “You cannot. I winna hold you to the commitment. Besides, how can you be so certain you would be the victor?”

  He elevated an incredulous brow.

  Not unjustly cocky, only self-assured.

  She crossed her arms and ducked her head.

  Of course he would. She’d seen his physical prowess.

  His confidence wasn’t undeserved.

  No opponent came close to matching his skill, and unless some foreign behemoth appeared, Alasdair would seize the day. How could she expect him to give up his desire to escape Scotland, for a time at least?

  He dropped his arm as he faced her. The aroma of soap and the leather he wore wafted downward. He tenderly touched her cheek, the gentle, one-fingered stroke stealing her breath and sending a spark of sensation streaking along her face.

  And lower.

  Mustering her courage, she reluctantly raised her focus from the soft, worn leather encompassing his ridiculously broad chest.

  “Dinna look so woebegone, lass.”

  “What are we to do?” She stared up at him, refusing to permit her surge of tears to fall. “Da wouldn’t have forced either of my brothers to marry before assuming the lairdship. This stipulation reveals his lack of faith in me. In my gender.”

  “Nae, he wouldn’t, but I think he believes he be protectin’ ye.” A throaty quality deepened his voice as he drew her into his arms. One large hand framing a shoulder and the other cupping her waist, he pressed her near.

  God help her, his strong, comforting embrace felt splendid, like a long overdue homecoming. So secure and safe.

  And a bit terrifying too.

  She wanted to wrap her hands around his large frame, bury her head in his shoulder, and stay snuggled there for hours.

  Perchance days.

  Forever.

  Desire blazed in his eyes as
he tilted her chin upward at the same moment he dipped his lower. Her woman’s intuition recognized the passion bubbling beneath his composed demeanor.

  She inhaled a short, quick breath.

  Would he kiss her? No man had ever kissed her. Well, no man she didn’t share blood with and who made her flesh pucker in anticipation.

  Her breath hung suspended, and when she didn’t voice an objection or pull away—why would she when she’d wanted his mouth on hers for weeks?—Alasdair brushed her lips with his.

  Amazingly petal soft and firm at once.

  Lord Almighty. Sagging into him, her knees came unhinged, and she clutched his vest in order to remain standing.

  Lifting her higher, he groaned, and his tongue edged between her parted lips.

  If he hadn’t been holding her upright, she would’ve melted into a pool at his feet.

  Who knew a kiss could turn your bones to pudding?

  He tasted slightly of ale, and the warmth of his full mouth sent her senses spinning every which direction, making thinking impossible.

  His breathing ragged, he broke their kiss, but kept her tucked into his embrace. “Och, ye be a heady distraction, Lydia Farnsworth. I beg yer forgiveness fer takin’ liberties.”

  “I kissed you too.” No sense pretending false modesty. She had and she’d quite enjoyed the experience. So much so, she’d have liked to continue.

  Why had he stopped anyway?

  Was she too inept and untried for a man of the world such as Alasdair?

  Despite the flush heating her face, she forced her gaze to meet his. He still held her in his unyielding embrace, and she could no more find the strength to move away, than the snapping flames in the hearth could turn to straw. “I wanted to know what it would be like. Just once.”

  To kiss a man she found desirable, for Flynn had never kissed her.