Passion and Plunder

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Passion and Plunder Page 10

by Cameron, Collette


  How well she understood that.

  Her love for Flynn hadn’t died a violent death, brutally abused and neglected as Alasdair’s, yet her heart had bled for months afterward. Still ached wretchedly at times, truth be told. Usually when she lay, alone and lonely in her silent bed, dwelling on her losses.

  Of late, those moments had come more infrequently, partially because she’d been too weary to stay awake after climbing between her heather-scented sheets, and also because of Alasdair’s presence.

  She’d been wrong to criticize him for his cynicism regarding love. He’d experienced the heartache and irreparable, lasting harm of infidelity, and she’d no right to judge him when she hadn’t suffered the same.

  No one did unless they’d experienced the like themselves.

  “I thought I knew what love was.” Lydia offered a self-conscious half-smile.

  “Ye mean Bretheridge?”

  “Yes. His lordship snared my girlish affection, and I’d convinced myself he meant to propose. I think, too, he thought himself enamored of me, until he met his wife. His feelings for me paled in comparison. I saw that at once.” The truth of it had been glaringly, humiliatingly obvious. A blow to her pride and self-esteem as well. “I’m glad he found true love, even though it meant I hurt bloody awful for a time.”

  A long, long time.

  “Yer unusually unselfish, Lydia, yet I canna help but think Bretheridge an imbecile fer choosin’ another over ye.”

  “Ah, but his heart made the decision for him, long before his brain realized what had happened.” Not an uncommon occurrence with men from her observations. “I’ll not deny I was crushed in the beginning. But time has healed the worst, and now other than my battered pride, I have recovered.”

  Mostly.

  “Nae, ye haven’t. Any more than I have. Ye’ve learned to cope.” He shook his head, and several strands of honey-blond hair fell forward. “Ye willna be over him ’til another claims yer heart.”

  “I imagine the same can be said of you, Alasdair.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “Nae, I realize what I felt fer my wife was more youthful lust than unconditional love. My parents should’ve locked me in the Keep’s dungeon until my randy days were behind me.”

  Lydia snorted, loud enough to rouse Bernard. After giving her a haughty look through green-eyed slits, he twitched his nose, put a paw across it, and went back to sleep.

  “You’d still be there then, I fear.” She giggled at Alasdair’s affronted expression. “Your romantic escapades are quite er, shall we say, legendary?”

  “Legendary, be they?” He waggled his eyebrows, a distinctly naughty, almost lecherous, grin bending his mouth.

  A frisson pelted along her skin, raising the flesh.

  “Aye.” Dare she voice what she’d heard whispered?

  His smug, unrepentant expression decided for her.

  She gathered her hair into a rope and smiled naughtily. “Known for your stamina. According to the absolutely delighted maids sighing in Craiglocky’s corridors and abundant nooks.”

  Throwing her hair over her shoulder, Lydia giggled again when his face flushed. She’d made him color. Interesting.

  “Women talk too much and exaggerate too.” His peeved mutter caused Bernard to open a sleepy eye again. “See, even that scraggly excuse fer a cat agrees.”

  Laughter burbled upward from her chest. Only he could make her laugh at a moment like this. “Why not petition the church for a divorce? Surely there are provisions for such situations as yours. Abandonment and adultery?”

  He stared over her head for an extended moment before drawing his gaze to her face.

  “Pride. At first, I be convinced she’d return. When she realized how brutal life fer a woman without means could be. Afterward, when I heard she’d taken up with one rich protector after another, I decided I’d never marry again. So there wisna a need to have the union dissolved. Protected me from all the lasses settin’ their caps fer me.”

  Ah, that smug remark was for her benefit.

  He jabbed a pickle-sized thumb at his chest, a charmer’s smile twitching his lips. “I dinna need to produce an heir, after all.”

  Lydia slid her feet into her slippers then raised on her toes and blew out one set of candles. The fire burned low, and after banking the coals, she pushed the tall screen back into place. Hands behind her, she leaned against the mantel. “But what if someday you meet a woman who’s worth risking marriage again?”

  He encircled her upper arm with his large hand, tenderness softening his rugged features.

  What kind of dimwitted nincompoop left a man like Alasdair?

  “If I were a free man, ye can bet yer lairdship,” he whispered fiercely, “I’d not only win the contest and claim ye as my wife, but I’d plunder yer sweet body from dusk to dawn.”

  Outrageous!

  That wicked image nearly buckled her knees, and she clutched the mantel.

  “I’m far from immune to ye, Lydia. But I ken my place. And yers. I’d not disgrace or insult ye with anythin’ but a ring on yer finger.” He lifted her chin, regret evident in his lowered eyes and the crease between his brows. “And that, ye ken, I canna offer ye.”

  Yes, he could. “Alasdair—”

  “Lydia, ye—”

  Without preamble, Uncle Gordon plowed into the room. “What be ye doin’ here, McTavish?” Disapproval hardened his angular features. “Lydia, yer entertainin’ in yer nightclothes? That be indecent.”

  He had a knack for stating the obvious.

  Lydia scooped Bernard into her arms. Hopefully Uncle Gordon hadn’t heard Alasdair’s declaration. “Yes, Uncle. I am, and if you’d properly delivered my message, Alasdair would’ve come tomorrow and saved both of us a great deal of awkwardness.”

  “Never mind that. Ye’ve other more pressin’ worries.” Frazzled, Gordon cupped the back of his head and paced to a window to peer out nervously.

  She paused in nuzzling the cat and sliced Alasdair a questioning glance. “Whatever has you so agitated, Uncle Gordon?”

  He spun around. “Four of Sir Gwaine’s men arrived tonight. They mean to compete fer yer hand on his behalf.”

  “Nae!” The startled cry escaped, as fear slammed into her with a Highland bull’s force.

  Hadn’t Father or Gordon considered the possibility when they dreamed up the confounded competition?

  Fiend seize it.

  Sir Gwaine MacHardy, a loathsome feudal baron, had attempted to abduct her and force her to marry him for Tornbury’s lands. More precisely, the gold discovered a few months past. “I thought MacHardy and his cohorts were still imprisoned.”

  Ye Gods. This, along with everything else?

  “MacHardy boasts a few high connections and managed to arrange his release and that of his men,” Uncle Gordon said.

  “He knows who to bribe, you mean.” Father would have apoplexy when he heard. She had to keep the news from him, but how?

  “I suppose, Ross, ye be goin’ to claim you hadn’t considered this possibility.” Alasdair looked as if he wanted to snap Uncle Gordon’s neck. One of his large hands could easily encircle her uncle’s thin throat, and with a quick jerk—

  Stop it, Lydia. Uncle Gordon didn’t know this would happen.

  “I . . .” Uncle gulped and took a reflexive step backward. “I didna think they’d dare.”

  Lydia swallowed her fear and drew a deep breath. “Well, they have. Now what do we do about it? How do we know they won’t attempt to abduct me again?”

  Chapter 14

  “I’ll crack their skulls like quail eggs if they so much as look at ye cockeyed.” Alasdair joined Gordon by the window. Nothing remotely untoward went on below.

  “That I’d like to see.” Flint echoed in Ly
dia’s voice. She had no love for the MacHardys.

  “But, we let them compete,” Alasdair said, glancing over his shoulder. “Just like all the other entrants. The gesture will be a powerful testament to the Farnsworth’s fairness and power by showin’ ye dinna fear yer enemies.”

  But Lydia did dread them.

  Her firmed mouth and rapid breath gave her away. However, the brave lass kept her chin up and shoulders squared. Small in stature, she possessed gumption aplenty.

  “Very well, but I insist both of you,” she pointed between him and Ross, “keep them away from me. And that means making sure they’re never alone in my presence. Assign extra guards if need be. In fact, do that anyway. I want MacHardy’s men watched day and night. I don’t trust them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day, and I wish to seek my bed.”

  “I bid ye guid night.” Alasdair bent into a half bow as she passed while Ross, much like a nervous crow, kept darting peeks toward the square.

  Did the man have a single courageous bone in his spindly body? Amazing that with a spine and character as weak as a cooked noodle, he could stand upright at all.

  “I look forward to my lesson tomorrow, Alasdair. ’Till then.” The cat tucked beneath one arm, Lydia glided from the solar.

  “What lesson?” A scowl contorted Ross’s face.

  “Not that it be any of yer business, but I mean to teach Lydia how to wield a blade.” Alasdair patted his leg, a dirk nestled in the stocking. “We be startin’ with the Sgian Dubh.”

  “Bloody waste of time fer a woman,” Ross muttered, still darting leery glances out the window.

  Why did MacHardy’s men’s presence have him as nervous as a trull whose monthlies were late? They weren’t a threat to him.

  Alasdair followed Lydia to the exit, expecting to hear the subtle slap of her slippers gradually fading along the corridor. Instead, only a cloak of silence met his trained ears. “I expect to see ye in the courtyard at four of the clock tomorrow, too, Ross. Ye need to be able to defend the laird. The men be mutterin’ yer a craven.”

  Ross, his stance wide and belligerent, crossed his arms. “I be afraid my duties—”

  “Shaggin’ the village whores ’till dawn? Then sleepin’ the morn away when ye should be attendin’ to yer responsibilities?” Brows arched knowingly, Alasdair shook his head. “Nae, ye’ll be there, or I’ll inform the laird what ye really be doin’ all day. Time to start earnin’ yer wages, but more importantly, the Farnsworth clan’s respect.”

  “Mind yer own bloody business, McTavish,” Ross said through clenched teeth.

  “It be my business, and I winna hesitate to suggest Farnsworth and Lydia replace ye immediately if yer arse isnae in the courtyard tomorrow with the other men.”

  Ross cut the air with an angry gesture. “To hell with ye. Ye have nae right to interfere. Ye be an outsider, and ye’ll be gone in a few weeks. If we be lucky.”

  “Aye, ye’d like that, wouldn’t ye? But I didna plan on leavin’ until a new war chief be selected.” And given the Farnsworth troops’ inadequacies, that wouldn’t be for weeks yet.

  So much for Rome. Or Greece.

  Or anywhere but Scotland for a goodly while.

  Pretty hazelnut eyes flecked with moss green, rimmed in amber and framed by lush lashes, sprang to mind.

  Dammit.

  Lydia couldn’t be his.

  He needed to hurl all romantic notions, even his remotest, most secret dreams, off the nearest crag into the roiling waves.

  Ross rattled on, whining and complaining like a bairn. “Ye dinna belong here. But the laird has grown so weak and feeble-minded, he’s makin’ piss-poor decisions. Like considerin’ Lydia as laird.”

  “She’d be a far sight better laird than ye.”

  How could Lydia, anyone, for that matter, stand his constant sniveling? Did the man possess ballocks? Maybe someone needed to peek beneath his kilt and make sure he possessed a pair bigger than a newborn mouse’s.

  Alasdair retraced his steps until he stood over Ross. He’d no doubt he could break the defiant little twig with scarcely any effort, but the Farnsworths didn’t need any more drama or division.

  His chin thrust upward and animosity flaring in his eyes, Ross attempted bravado. “Nae woman can hope to lead this clan properly. They need a mon as chief.”

  “I may nae be a Farnsworth, Ross, but make nae mistake. While I am on Tornbury soil, my loyalty be to Farnsworth and his daughter. If ye dare to speak ill of either again, ye’ll answer to me and my blade. And I winna hesitate to tell them of yer treachery.”

  Quite enjoying the terror-induced moisture beading Ross’s forehead and upper lip, Alasdair lifted his dagger and feathered his fingers atop his dirk’s bone handle.

  Ross gulped loudly, his goggle-eyed gaze riveted on the blade.

  Alasdair curved his mouth, more of superior smirk than a warm or humorous smile. “Och, and ye should ken, I didna trust ye, so I’ll be watchin’ ye closely. I winna hesitate to gut ye like the cowardly cur ye be if ye brin’ any more grief to Lydia.”

  Ross’s mouth worked, and his eyes bulged for an instant before a sly glint entered them. He cast a brief glance to the empty doorway before eyeing Alasdair. “Lydia, be it now? Ye care fer the chit then?”

  “Yer off yer head.” One blow would wipe the superior look form Ross’s weaselly face. “I only be vowin’ what any dedicated war chief would.”

  Careful there lad, or ye’ll give yer secret away.

  Alasdair wrapped fingers around the knife’s hilt. He’d welcome driving the blade into the coward, but now wasn’t the time. Instead, he returned it to his stocking.

  Ross rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowed to shrewd slits as craftiness replaced his fright. “Aye. Ye do care. Yet I distinctly heard ye say ye cudna offer fer her.”

  Damnation. The little, whoremongering turd had heard his declaration to Lydia.

  What else had he eavesdropped on?

  Sloppy on Alasdair’s part.

  “Why nae, I wonder?” An exaggerated contemplative look upon his face, Ross tapped his fingertips atop his folded arms. “Does my uncle ken? I suspect he’d welcome a match between ye. Would encourage it. In fact, I think that be the real reason ye be here. He’ll have a fit when he finds out his schemin’ has been fer naught.”

  His mocking chuckle set Alasdair’s teeth on edge, and rather than wipe the gloating sneer from Ross’s smug face, as his flexing fingers itched to do, he curled his toes in his boots until they screamed for reprieve.

  “That be none of yer business.” Interfering whelp. “What be yer concern, however, be attendin’ to estate business on the laird’s behalf. I think perhaps a thorough examination of Tornbury’s books be in order as well.”

  That ought to deter the conniving wretch.

  For a moment, Ross looked like he might hurl his haggis onto Alasdair’s dusty boots, and Ross took a wide step backward.

  “How, then, do ye intend to compete in the contest?” Ross laughed, another derisive crow. “Ye be disqualified. Ye canna contend.”

  Awfully happy about that misconception, wasn’t he?

  “My God,” Gordon snickered. “What if a MacHardy wins? She’ll have to marry Sir Gwaine. Oh, that be rich revenge. And Old Farnsworth will have to name me laird.”

  Alasdair seized Ross’s lapels, yanking him off his feet.

  Fear glinted in the silver shards of Ross’s eyes, mere inches away, as tremors riddled the runtling from thin shoulder to his dangling legs.

  “I qualify. Read the entry form. And I shall win against Sir Gwaine’s mewlin’ milksops.” Alasdair gave Ross a satisfying, teeth-rattling shake.

  “Cease, damn ye.” Ross clawed at Alasdair’s hands, but he wasn’t ready to release the cull just yet.

&nb
sp; “There nae be anythin’ that says the winner has to offer fer her or that the winner canna be married. A careless oversight on the part of the person draftin’ the entry form.” No doubt Ross had himself to blame for bungling that bit. “It only stipulates Lydia be the prize. A prize that can be declined, which I intend to do.”

  He thrust Ross away so violently, he stumbled and would’ve fallen if he hadn’t grabbed a nearby table.

  The small gold-framed likenesses of Lydia’s brothers atop the table rattled and tilted before one toppled over with a hollow thunk, then the other followed. The distinct sound of glass cracking rent the air.

  “But why win at all then if Tornbury isnae goin’ to be yers?” Ross’s expression of sincere bafflement earned him a full grin.

  Lydia’s freedom was reward enough.

  Alasdair folded his arms, mindful the movement emphasized his biceps and chest. “I nae be aware Tornbury ever be part of the bargain.”

  “I, erm, I misspoke.” Chagrin blanketed Ross’s features, and his sly gaze slid away.

  “I’m sure ye did.”

  With visible effort, Ross collected himself and scraped a hand across his bristly face. “I’d best be to bed myself if’n I’m to obey yer dictates.”

  Alasdair stepped aside, permitting him to pass.

  Ross’s clipped speech rang with resentment. “Ken this, McTavish, I nae be a fool, nor as weak and incompetent as ye and the other Scots think I be. I wadna be a bit surprised if the old laird disna name someone else his successor in the end.”

  “And we both ken who ye want that to be, didna we?” One knee cocked, Alasdair rested a hand on his hip.

  Ross was such a transparent, envious arse.

  “I wadna hold my breath waitin’ fer Farnsworth to change his mind. He’d prefer the seed of his loins lead his clan, even if it be a woman.” Alasdair righted the fallen frames, revealing jagged cracks across the fronts. He’d see to their repair at his expense, of course. “Yer covetin’ the position grows tedious and be as obvious and offensive as a loud fart in small cupboard.”

 

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