Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  Being outdoors, surrounded by nature, had always soothed her, though as she grew older, the time to indulge that whim diminished. Maybe in America, she’d have the time once more. Except it wouldn’t be the same as Scotland, and Esme lived in the city, didn’t she?

  Lydia squinted, trying to remember.

  Esme’s family had a country house too. Lydia was certain of it.

  A startled rabbit dashed across the path as squirrels scolded and chattered in the tree tops. Spring budded in the Highlands, and soon heather’s lavender and pink hues would cover the hillsides and scent the air.

  “Lydia, wait.” Alasdair called in the distance.

  Bother and blast.

  She hadn’t expected him to seek her quite so soon. The business with the will and Gwyers must have been swiftly seen to. Not a surprise, since Da had already told the grim solicitor what he’d intended.

  Determined to have this time by herself, she quickened her steps. Nearly running, she rounded the last corner before the embankment dipped to the river’s shore.

  Or what used to be the embankment.

  Winter’s high waters had washed the shoreline away, leaving a low cliff instead of the much trodden, gradual slope to the river.

  A startled scream escaped her as she tumbled down the overhang, landing in a bruised and muddy heap at the bottom.

  “Lydia!” The ground shook with Alasdair’s heavy running. “Where be ye, lass?”

  Groaning, she rolled over on the gravel.

  Bloody perfect.

  What else could go wrong today?

  Shoving her tangled, debris riddled hair off her face, she stared at the azure sky. Her cheek stung, and her right ribs and shoulder felt like they’d been kicked by a cow. She held her breath and gingerly flexed her limbs, waiting for any painful twinges.

  A watery chuckle burbled upward. She surely had the worst luck.

  A massive, manly, indecently broad-shouldered shadow blocked the sun warming her face.

  “Tryin’ to run away from yer groom?”

  That was the wrong thing to say, even if he had meant to lighten her mood.

  Lydia sat up, pushing away the hand Alasdair extended. She scrambled to her feet, refusing to look at him. One glance from his gorgeous eyes, and she’d forget her resolve.

  His gaze dipped to her throbbing cheek, and he made a soft noise in the back of his throat, reaching to cradle her face.

  “Don’t.”

  Swiftly angling toward the rippling river, she brushed her fingertips over the scratch. She fished her handkerchief from her spencer pocket, and after soaking it in the icy water and wringing it dry, patted her face.

  “Lydia. Ye must believe me. I dinna ken yer father’s intent,” Alasdair said, directly behind her, so close his breath warmed her nape.

  “He’s made his choice, Alasdair. And it wasn’t me.” She passed the cloth over her heated face again, grateful for the coolness and the chance to compose herself underneath the frilly scrap.

  Da never would’ve chosen her.

  She knew that now.

  And the irrefutable knowledge hurt. Abominably. More than she would’ve thought possible.

  Deep inside, she’d always feared that truth, had shoved aside her misgivings, convinced herself Da had seriously considered her as his replacement.

  What an utter, blind fool.

  Lydia swallowed the lump constricting her throat, and faced him. “I suppose I ought to congratulate you.”

  “I willnae accept the position.” Alasdair shook his head, his overly long blond hair held back by a short, black ribbon today.

  Not the first style of elegance, even in the Highlands. However, she rather favored the unruly tendrils. The fair mane suited him.

  He stared at her, so stern and serious, not the mocking, playful flirt any longer.

  Shading her eyes against the sun, she curved her mouth upward into a small, hopefully not pitiful, smile. “Yes. You will accept. I may be crushed that Da didn’t pick me, but I won’t have our estate absorbed by one as large as your cousin’s. I’m sure Ewan would manage Tornbury magnificently, but she warrants her own laird, and if I cannot be chief, there’s no one I would prefer more than you.”

  She meant it too, though each word was another well-placed dagger stab to her dying dream.

  Had it truly been her dream or a convenient escape from a heart once broken?

  Not broken anymore.

  Not by Flynn, in any event.

  A perky crested tit swooped onto an old pine stump and tilted its head back and forth, its tiny black eyes curious.

  Alasdair watched the bird for a moment, then he too cocked his head endearingly. The gentle entreaty in his bluish gaze pulled at her heart strings. “What about us, lass? Please tell me ye haven’t given up. We can work things out.”

  His gaze hovered on her mouth for before making the slow trek to her eyes. His voice feather-soft, he brushed a fingertip along her jaw. “I dinna want ye to leave. I want ye to spend the rest of yer days with me. If ye’ll still have me.”

  Even now, he charmed and beguiled her, when she had steadfastly determined to not let him woo her into his web again. Easier planned than carried out, especially since she couldn’t feign indifference.

  Silly, weak, gullible female.

  She shut her eyes, as much to obscure his handsome, concerned face as to shield her thoughts.

  “I don’t know, Alasdair. Last night, even this morning, I was prepared to tell Da we’d agreed to marry after your divorce became final.” She cracked an eye open, and the crested tit gave a cheerful trill, uplifting her soul despite her doldrums. “But everything has changed now. His stipulation about wedding within a week does rather tilt the tea pot head over bum. And I’m serious about leaving Tornbury after he dies. I cannot remain now.”

  Not to watch someone else rule her beloved tribe.

  His voice rang with resolve rather than resignation. “I told him I be married and that I sought a divorce, but it would be months until I ken whether my wife lived or the marriage had been dissolved.”

  Da didn’t have months.

  She opened her eyes wide. “And how did he take it?”

  Alasdair shrugged, and then crouched and gathered a handful of colored stones. “As well as anyone in his position would, I suppose. He wisna happy, but he be more concerned that we make a match and lead his clan together. I left him to plot with his solicitor, so I dinna ken what he decided.”

  “You will lead the clan. Not I.”

  She wandered to a frog-shaped boulder shaded by Scots pines, beneath which, a deep pool had formed. Placing her hands behind her, she leaned against the rock’s cool expanse, and her stomach rumbled and gurgled.

  In her haste to escape the house, she’d forfeited her picnic, and poor Esme undoubtedly wondered where in the world she’d disappeared to. “I think he’d intended to appoint you even before he sent me to Craiglocky on his behalf. The tournament was a distraction Uncle Gordon concocted, though we’ll probably never know why. Or why Da agreed, in the first place.”

  “That be nae why I came to Tornbury, and I think in yer heart ye ken it.” He angled so that his shoulder rested against the rock. A tender smile played about the corners of his mouth.

  At Craiglocky, he’d not wanted to come here. He’d told her so himself, and he hadn’t been playacting. Only the bribe promising him time away from Scotland had motivated him to accept. And as laird, chances were that would never happen now.

  Chiefs didn’t gallivant around the world for months on end.

  His dream would die too, and somehow that was worse given all he’d suffered already with his despicable wife.

  A tear escaped, slowly tracking down Lydia’s face.

  Why
couldn’t she hate him? Or at least remain impassive?

  This traitorous tenderness and compassion left her too vulnerable. Two more fat tears slithered over her cheek, and she swiped them away. At this moment, she wanted to curl in a ball and wail like an infant.

  Alasdair caught a tear on his forefinger, his face etched with sympathy. “I’d take yer pain from ye, lass, if’n I could. I wish yer father wisna dyin’ and had more faith in ye. That ye’d nae lost yer mum and brothers. And I’d give my sword arm to see ye smile with joy once more. To hear yer musical laugh and yer eyes sparklin’ with mirth.”

  He gathered her hands in his then raised them to his mouth, pressing a warm, ardent kiss to each row of knuckles. “I swear by my dead bairn, I didna conspire to steal the chieftain’s position from ye. How can I make ye believe me?”

  She sighed and looked beyond his shoulder to the pines waving in the breeze.

  Thinking straight while his captivating gaze snared hers proved nigh on to impossible. “I want to believe you. I do. I’m still too raw from Da’s decision to make sense of anything right now.”

  Alasdair leaned in and carefully kissed her damaged cheek then picked a couple of leaves and twigs from the hair tumbling over her shoulder. A crooked grin bent his mouth. “Ye look like a forest nymph, except yer nae naked.”

  Despite her upset state, a sensual flush swept her.

  “I look a wretched mess.” Lydia brushed at her ruined dress, the torn braiding on her cuff swinging from her movements. A long slash from forearm to elbow split the rose velvet.

  The garment might be salvaged, but a talented seamstress’s most skillful stiches couldn’t hide the repair. The spencer would never be good for anything more than the humblest tasks.

  Much like her lacerated heart.

  “Ye’ve dirt on yer chin and neck yet.” Alasdair rummaged inside his vest, and after a moment, withdrew a kerchief and the letter he’d slipped there earlier. He set the missive atop the stone.

  “Here, use mine. Yers be stained with blood and soil.” He wetted the cloth then stood uncertainly. “May I help?”

  “I can manage.” She wasn’t ready for his touch quite yet. “Just tell me where most of the dirt remains.” She nodded toward the note as she accepted his clean handkerchief. “Why don’t you read your letter? Is it from your cousin?”

  “Aye.”

  Not that it was any of her business, but she suddenly felt nervous, all warm and squishy, and a change of subject seemed prudent.

  Lifting the starched cloth, she hesitated. “Where’s most of the dirt?”

  “Yer chin, along yer left jaw, and the right side of yer neck. Och, and yer ear.” He pointed to a spot below her ear before he stepped away and slipped his big thumb underneath the letter’s crimson seal, breaking it.

  Lydia attended to her face once more, and after rinsing the cloth, made her way to Alasdair.

  He stood, staring into the shadowy forest, the letter dangling from one hand. At her approach, he partially turned, and the devastation ravaging his profile stole her breath.

  “Alasdair? What is it? Please tell me.” She rushed to him, forgetting her own troubles in that moment.

  He didn’t look at her, but she clearly saw a tear’s damp trail down his rugged cheek.

  Clasping his arm, she prodded. “You’ve had bad news?”

  Had there been an accident or death at the Craiglocky?

  “The worst and the best at once.” He laughed, a sound so laden with pain, she winced.

  “My God. What’s happened?” She wrapped her arms around his trim waist, desperate to soothe him.

  He finally met her gaze, devastation having turned his eyes cobalt with misery. “Searón be at Craiglocky. She be verra ill.”

  Lydia crinkled her forehead. Which of the two, pray tell, did he consider the worst and which the best?

  Revelation struck.

  Ah, he was too decent to divorce a sick, possibly dying woman. The situation became more convoluted and intolerable by the minute.

  A fish jumped, rippling the tranquil pool. Odd that the water lay in that nook so peaceful and serene, while just inches away, the river gurgled and splashed playfully on its southward journey to the sea.

  Well, that was that, then. “I see.”

  “Nae, ye dinna.” He blew out a long breath. “She nae be alone.”

  “She’s not? Who’s with her?” Unlikely a loose woman required a traveling companion, unless her infirmity was so disabling, she’d hired someone to see her to Craiglocky.

  “A lad she claims be my son.”

  Chapter 24

  Alasdair had thought Lydia’s countenance ravaged when she’d heard her father named him his successor, but that expression had been joyful compared to the utter and complete desolation contorting her features now.

  A child complicated the situation.

  Tremendously.

  She shoved a fist to her mouth, shaking her head back and forth, her tasseled curls bouncing from her exuberance. “A son? But how can that be? I thought she rid herself of the child.”

  “So she told me.”

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair, dislodging several strands from the ribbon at his nape. Was the child really his or a by-blow? And why bring the lad to Craiglocky now, after all this time? He’d have expected her kind to exploit the child, demand money from him long ago.

  His attention slipped to the letter, and he tapped it against his thigh. “I must be away to Craiglocky at once to sort this out.”

  Lydia wadded his handkerchief in her hands, torturing the poor scrap. “Of course, you must. You—” She closed her eyes for a moment, her breast rising as she inhaled deeply. “You must be overjoyed to know you’ve a child.”

  He cupped her shoulders, drawing her near.

  She trembled slightly in his embrace, burying her face against his chest, and his shoulder pinched a bit when she bumped his wound.

  The cheerful bird eavesdropping on their conversation bobbed its black crested head and chirruped.

  In approval?

  Alasdair and Lydia had suffered dual emotional blows today, fierce enough to lay even the most stalwart of heart out flat.

  He smoothed a strand from her forehead then kissed her satiny brow. Roses and spice surrounded him. “I’m still intent on a divorce, but I dinna have to send someone to locate Searón anymore.”

  “I’m glad for you, I truly am. And I’m happy she’s brought him to you at last. But now that you have a son, well, that changes everything.” Lydia peered up at him through still spikey lashes.

  “There be no proof the child be mine, but if he be, then I shall do right by him.” A son. Despite his misgivings—Searón was a consummate liar, after all—a jot of anticipation swept him.

  How did she intend to prove her claim?

  His expectancy evaporated as reality struck him full on.

  This news would surely kill Farnsworth, no matter what he’d ultimately decided about his successor after Alasdair left the solar.

  If he’d gone ahead and named Alasdair laird against his wishes, Alasdair would still refuse the role. Especially now that no guarantee existed he’d be granted a divorce.

  If Farnsworth appointed Lydia the chief, with the provision she marry Alasdair in order to inherit, she’d be forced to forfeit the position too.

  Perhaps, in the end, the best course was to let Ewan have the estate. Then he could turn around and sell it to Lydia for a pence.

  That notion wasn’t altogether insane.

  In fact, the idea could bloody well be the solution to what had seemed intolerable situation mere minutes ago.

  Ewan would do it, too.

  He had no wish for the encumbrance of another estate. Not with his dual roles a
s Craiglocky’s laird and his English title, Viscount Sethwick.

  At first opportunity, Alasdair would discuss the situation with Ewan, and hopefully, bring good tidings to Lydia when he returned. Best to not mention his plan just yet, on the slim chance Ewan wasn’t receptive to the idea.

  Alasdair would worry about what to do with the lad after he’d determined if the child was his.

  Lydia had missed a dab of dirt near her nostril, and he wiped the small fleck away with his forefinger. Such trust simmered in the gaze she lifted to his; such faith, perhaps even devotion, and deep abiding sorrow as well.

  Damn, to be able to erase her hurt, and give her new, happy memories to help mute the prior ones’ pain.

  A cloud drifted across the sun, casting a brief shadow over them. A golden eagle screamed above, and she glanced at the sky, her pink mouth sweeping upward upon spying the majestic bird.

  True, she’d need a season to recover from all she’d been dealt today, but she was strong, resilient, not at all given to womanly ploys and tricks. She didn’t abuse her gender’s weaknesses. No doubt because she’d been trained as a chief and thought and reasoned like a laird.

  He’d do everything within his power, exploit every connection, to ensure she took her rightful place as Tornbury Fortress’s laird.

  “Alasdair, I know you, and I know you won’t forsake the child, even if he isn’t yours. But if he is, won’t that make acquiring a divorce that much more difficult?”

  If she worried about his divorce, didn’t that mean she still considered marrying him? That perchance, hope yet existed she’d be his for all time?

  “Aye, but nae impossible.” Just lengthy as hell. How could he expect Lydia to wait, years perhaps, for his divorce?

  Didn’t that make him a selfish, unfair arse?

  Absolutely, but how could he let her go?

  He loved her, craved her presence, needed her every bit as much as food, air, and water. Life without her would be empty, meaningless, a hollow existence. Far worse than when he’d thought Searón had cuckolded him, as well as the ensuing years since.