Kissed by the Laird (First Ladies of the Fae Book 1)

by Sydney Sloane

  He waited for the room to clear, as Damon continued to stand in all his pomp on the other side of the study. The earl’s nephew availed himself of another dram of whisky though it was a bit early in the day to imbibe such a strong drink. Ian shook his head as he examined the man’s clothing. He wore a doublet in a powder-blue damask with breeks to match. Very short breeks. The hem of the elaborate trousers tapered just below the knees and the bottom half of the leg beheld white silken hose. The man had taken to aping the bloody English. It pricked a nerve with Ian—and many a proud highlander—that these Scottish nobles could easily toss aside their great plaids, to mimic the very men who’s subtle plans was to strip them of their lands and heritage. It was another fissure enacted by England to influence a division between Scotland and her nobles.

  At the sound of his footfalls, Campbell spied over his shoulder toward him and spoke. “I hope ye do not mind, MacLaine.” He filled his glass with the smoky, amber liquid until it was to the rim.

  “Nay.” Ian started to proceed toward the floor to ceiling bookshelves that made up the entire wall behind his desk. Within three strides, he stood behind it and waited with a dark visage for Damon to explain his presence.

  The study’s décor was as masculine as the man who had commissioned its design. His grandfather, Hector MacLaine. Heavy, dark green draperies framed the only two windows in the room. A golden sash to allow the afternoon sunlight to overcome the normally dank atmosphere pulled each back midway down. It was a rare occasion that the sun’s strong rays burned off the early morning mist, as it did this day. The bright light filtered through the windows and cascaded across the wooden planks for the study.

  It took several minutes for the Argyll and Moy men to filter out of his study. His men would have to wait for their hapless leader in the bailey.

  Feet shuffled out of the study, as men murmured their displeasure. Ian stood behind his desk with his hands upon his hips when his cousin Tam MacLaine’s ribaldry began anew. Tam passed by the unwanted guest and grinned, Ian knew a sarcastic retort was about to be delivered to Campbell.

  Tam stopped before Damon and mocked the Campbell’s haughty tone. “My lord, if I may ask…” It was proving difficult for his cousin to bring forth his jibe as he bit back his building laughter. “Where would one come by such umm…finery? Could I trouble ye for the name of your tailor?”

  It was obvious to Ian, when Damon gave his calm response that this was not the first time the man’s attire had been at the center of scrutiny by another highlander.

  “This attire was quite expensive.” Damon looked down at the brocade sleeve of his doublet and adjusted the cuff. “And no doubt worth several years of your own wages.” Ian didn’t miss the smug smile Damon directed toward his cousin as the man continued. “In Edinburgh, not far from the castle, there is a small shop owned by Pierre Dubois.”

  “Thank ye, m’lord.” Tam’s shoulders shook with pent up laughter, and started to retreat again.

  Ian raised his eyes toward the high timbered ceilings of his study, thankful the bantering was over without the two men coming to blows with one another. Then he heard Argyll’s nephew question his cousin.

  “Do ye not wish to know its location?” Damon gave the warrior a confident sneer.

  Tam would not leave before having the final word. “Nay, m’lord. I am afraid ye misunderstand. I’ve no wish to wear pants made for a wee lad…or clothes made from a fabric best left to the women. A true highlander wears his clan’s colors with pride. Good Scottish wool is worth its weight in gold.”

  His cousin did not give Damon a chance to respond and passed through the exit. The sounds of their laughter faded moments later, leaving Ian and Seamus MacLeod to stare down Damon Campbell, and his lone guard.

  An awkward silence filled the room for a brief moment, but as soon as the door to the study closed behind the warriors, Damon broke the silence. “Ye have an ill-bred lot, MacLaine.

  Refusing to let out the retort that dangled at the tip of his tongue, Ian pinned Damon with a satisfied smirk. The man was a prig, wearing a powdered wig like the bloody Sassenachs. No honorable Highlander would wear such a ridiculous get up, noble or not. True, honorable highlanders wore their clan tartans with pride. Each sett of plaid was unique to its clan, and designed to recognize friend or foe in the heat of battle. Made with the finest Scottish wool, it also offered protection from the unpredictable weather of the Highlands.

  Ian smirked before he replied. “I cannot say as I blame them. Ye look more English than Scots with your foolish attire.” There was a bit of mirth in his response.

  Ian did not have the time for games, and as far as he was concerned, he had no business to conduct with the Earl of Argyll, or his nephew. “I am verra busy, Campbell. Get to your point or get out.” He confidently stood to his full height of six feet, three inch frame, as his bulky arms crossed in front of his chest and waited for the man's reply. His body honed from his many years of sparring in the list and in battle. However, Damon was a formidable warrior known for his skill with a blade. Ian pierced the arrogant man with an intimidating glare, and was pleased when Damon tugged at the collar of his linen shirt. However, his discomfort did not last long.

  Damon shot him a sardonic grin and then took a sip from his dram of whisky. Campbell exuded too much confidence for Ian’s liking, and it set him on edge, but he would sooner cut off his sword arm, before he let Campbell see his concern. Ian motioned with an impatient tilt of his head, and prompted the man to say his peace.

  “It is with deep regret Laird MacLaine I call on you this day. It has come to Uncle Archibald’s attention that your grandsire, and my Uncle John, had some unfinished business.”

  When Ian did not respond, Damon continued. “If I recall, it was a loan to purchase a bit of land just north of Moy.”

  “That debt has been settled between my grandfather and John Campbell for over a year.” Ian drifted back to that night over a year ago. Though he was not laird at the time, Ian himself witnessed his grandfather fulfill the final ten thousand pound payment owed to John Campbell. In exchange, John Campbell placed his waxen seal upon the deed, and deemed it paid in full. They all celebrated with a dram of Lochbuie’s finest whisky, because Moy’s deed was back with its rightful owner, the MacLaine’s, and was no longer held as collateral against the ten year debt.

  John Campbell and his men said their farewells, as the sun was rising that day. Ian and his grandfather returned inside, but his grandfather insisted he follow him back to his study. “I’ve something to show ye.”

  All Ian wanted was to lay his head upon a heather-filled mattress, but he was so weary he would have settled for a pallet in front of the hearth in the great hall. However, no one denied the laird’s orders, not even his own grandson.

  Less than in enthusiastic, Ian followed his grandfather to his study without uttering a complaint and sat in the settee before the heavy oak desk. At the far end of the room stood a hearth, and kneeling beside it was his grandfather. Ian had no clue what the man was about, but at the sound of shifting stone, he turned around. Still on his haunches, his grandfather manipulated one of stones in the wall to the left of the fireplace and placed the loose block onto the floor. Half his arm disappeared as he reached into the hollow cavity, and retrieved a small wooden coffer. His grandfather stood and walked to the desk and set it down. Ian looked on as his grandfather lifted a leather cord over his head that held a key, and unlocked the box.

  Several other parchments lay within, including the one that named, Ian as his grandfather’s heir. His father John MacLaine was the only son of his grandparents, Hector and Hettie MacLaine. When he was lad of only twelve summers, his father was killed in a skirmish with the MacKinnon’s while attempting to retrieve stolen MacLaine cattle. His father was taken from him over a few measly head of cattle. Ian would gladly have forgone the fine beef for the duration of the harsh winter and eat gruel in its stead just to have his father back.

  Intrigued by
his grandfather’s actions, Ian forgot his earlier wariness. He slid to the edge of the upholstered settee, and watched his grandfather replace Moy’s deed back into its rightful place within the wooden box amongst several gold coins.

  “As the future Laird of Moy, Ian ye will need to know where all its important documents are kept.” His grandfather relocked the coffer and motioned for him to take the key from his hand. “It’s time I give this to ye, but guard it with your life.”

  Ian placed the cord around his own neck and examined the lackluster key, and gave a slight dip of his head to let the man know he understood.

  The sound of a clearing throat drew Ian from his thoughts, as Damon lowered himself into the settee that sat before his cumbersome desk, without Ian’s prompting. From across the room, Ian glimpsed at the gray stone to the left of the hearth. He could just show the deed to Campbell and be done. However, something in Damon’s overconfident mien unnerved him and his gut churned, as a menacing burn built low in his belly. Argyll was up to something, and Ian’s gut told him it had to do with Argyll’s alliance with England.

  Doing his utmost to feign a calm demeanor, Ian pulled back the large chair to his desk, sat down and leaned back and placed his hands on its intricately carved arms, and stared back at Campbell.

  Ian clenched his teeth in an attempt to contain his temper. In his younger years, he would have responded to such slander with a heavy, closed fist to the accusers jaw. As laird, he called upon all his self-control. “Ye speak false. That debt was paid in full more than a year ago. Ye know that, as well I do. Ye were here when hot wax dripped upon the parchment, and the previous earl rendered his seal upon the deed. Your great uncle was trustworthy and returned the deed to Moy upon the final payment. I know that, as well as ye.”

  Damon grasped his chin and tapped his forefinger as he feigned a strained look of thought. “Really? Over a year ago?” He pointed toward the floor. “Here? In this study?” He cocked an eyebrow at Ian. “I don’t recall. However, if ye have a copy of this said deed marked with my late uncle’s seal, as proof the debt was paid, I’m sure Uncle Archibald will be more than satisfied at my word, that ye hold the deed, if ye do indeed have possession of it. Do ye have it—this—deed ye speak of, Laird?” Damon brushed at the light blue brocade of his pant leg, as he waited for his answer.

  The man was a pompous arse. “Aye! I have it.”

  “Well? May I have a look at it?”

  The sound of wood scraping along the stone floor filled the room, as Ian abruptly shoved back the heavy chair and rose to his full height. At his sudden movement, the two men-at-arms in the room latched onto the hilts of their swords. A powerful charge of tension filled the study, but both Ian and Damon ordered their men to halt with a lift of a hand.

  Ian pierced Damon with a hard glare and bellowed. “Are ye insinuating my word is not good, Campbell?”

  “Would ye trust my word, MacLaine?” Campbell was quick with his reply.

  “I will share with ye my grandfather’s words to me, as a lad. Never trust a Sassenach. They would delight in seeing ye hung at the end of their English rope, but most importantly, no true Highlander should ever trust a Campbell. Ever.”

  Ian would have liked to cram the deed down the arrogant man’s throat, but it would not be happening this day. Rounding his desk and stood within inches of the man’s own face. “Seeing as ye were here the day the deed was fulfilled I would say it a waste of my precious time to show it to ye. Now if ye have nothing else ye wished to discuss…”

  Ian could not finish, before Damon cut him off, and if he was not mistaken the man was near to losing his composure. “Nay, that was my only task, though Uncle Archie will be aggrieved that this matter was not resolved.”

  Campbell leaned his face closer and gritted his words under his breath. “This is far from over, MacLaine. Ye have no idea what trouble ye have stirred. Argyll’s army is five times the size of Moy’s. This is your last chance to produce the deed.”

  Ian’s response was to walk away from the affronted Campbell. Within three strides, he stood by the study’s door where his captain, Seamus MacLeod stood on guard. Speaking to Seamus, but loud enough for the entire room to hear Ian said. “It would seem we have concluded matters. “See our guest to the front gate and bid them farewell.”

  Ian pulled the door open, but paused. In a low voice, he spoke for his captain’s ears only. “Keep your eye on this one. My gut tells me Damon and Argyll are up to no good. I just do not know what yet.” With those words, Ian walked through the door.

  With his square chin thrust out, Damon Campbell ordered the men of Argyll to depart from atop his mount. The tension in the atmosphere was unstable and clung on the very wind, as the eyes of the MacLaine clansmen watched them depart. Each of them wore a distrustful glare toward his traitorous lot. He smiled to himself and eyed the stone fortress he coveted, and if all went as planned, he would be the next Lord of Moy and Lochbuie. All he needed to do was retrieve the deed from the fiery-haired witch and destroy it. William of Orange would be none the wiser for the underhanded move. Damon would be doing him a favor by stripping another ill-bred Scot of their power and lands.

  A score of Argyll men and horses began to charge out of the bailey at Damon’s command. “We ride!”

  Once they were a mile from Moy Castle, Damon ordered the men to slow their pace, as he scanned the wooded area near the standing stones in hopes of catching a glimpse of his little traitor.

  Under his breath Damon said, “Where are ye Diana?”

  As their mounts passed by the standing stones, he heard her sultry voice. “Have ye forgot something, my lord?” She leaned against one of the erected pillars of rock that had stood for centuries. In invitation, she played with the laces of her bodice. He gave immediate orders for the men to continue, and assured them he would catch up with them soon.

  Seductively poised before him, the breeze blew Diana’s wild, copper tresses away from her face, and exposed her delicate shoulders. An unknowing person would think her as harmless a kitten, but Damon knew better than most how quick her sharp claws would retract if threatened. He needed only to look at the scars upon his back to prove it. The thought pulled a tight grin across his face.

  Diana welcomed his advances, and Damon had no qualms of sating his lust upon her lithe body for the last few months. The Campbell’s were not the only ones to have a grudge with the MacLaine’s, and, Diana fit in quite well with his plans to gain Moy, and all of Lochbuie.

  Damon’s cock stirred as the siren seductively retrieved the yellow, folded parchment from between her plump breasts. He longed to taste the tender prize beneath the tight bodice as it pushed out the full, rounded treasure he sought. For now, he needed to re-direct his attention from his nefarious sexual desires, and worry about his plan to bring down the MacLaine’s. With his palm up, he motioned with his fingers for Diana to approach. “Give me the deed.” There was no emotion when he spoke the words.

  “I want my gold coin?”

  The question tried Damon’s patience.

  The Fae woman and her fraternal twin sister were the product of a MacKinnon father and Moy’s healer. Though the sisters shared similar physical attributes that is where the comparisons ended. As far as Damon was concerned, Delilah held the advantage over Diana’s jealous, blackened heart. However, Diana’s lack of conscience is what he needed.

  Legend said that their great, great grandmother, Fenella was the MacKinnon witch. The magical woman was a renowned beauty. On more than one occasion, the servants in the keep talked amongst themselves about the MacKinnon’s roaming eye. Although, some said the accusations were false, it mattered not one wit to the laird’s jealous wife, who ordered the woman banished. Fenella lived out the remainder of her days, as a recluse in a cave near Cranigure. Not long after, rumors spread throughout Mull that the witch called upon the Fae queen, Nichneven one Samhain night seeking revenge against her clan, and was gifted with a magical tome.

  “Well
, do ye have it?” she purred. “I will not part with the deed until ye have given me what I want, Damon.”

  In a clipped tone, he said. “If ye want your gold, Diana, I need the deed.” There was no need for him to let her know he never intended on letting her have even a shilling.

  When she did not move forward to hand him the deed, Damon gave a deep sigh of annoyance, and replied to Diana as though she were a simpleton. “How many times must I explain this to ye? Ye will get your gold…when I get Moy, and not a moment beforehand.”

  Damon put his hand out again and motioned her forward. The moment the parchment touched the palm of his left hand, he grasped Diana’s slender wrist along with the deed toward him. He swung back his right hand and slapped her hard across the face. She flew to the ground from the strength of the blow.

  Still composed, Damon said. “Sorry lass. Ye know I hate it when ye question my motives.” He sneered down at the little temptress. Now he held the upper hand, and the shocked look on Diana’s face told him she knew it. Oh, how he loved to turn the tables on these fools. When would they ever learn he could not be trusted?

  Diana’s shocked look turned feral, as she lifted a hand to her cheek and stood. A distinct imprint of his hand now marred the ivory color of her skin. Still mounted upon his horse, Damon continued to rake her with a confident look. When they first met, she said she found his confidence alluring. Now that he had wronged the witch, he doubted Diana was impressed with his cool demeanor.

  Rage filled her eyes as she spewed out her protest. “I want my gold, Damon! I will not wait! We had a deal!”

  Diana may claim to have Fae blood running through her spiteful veins, but even Fae blood could be spilled. They were only half Fae compliments of their now deceased mother. Their Fae hertiage helped them maintain their youthful visage and gave them a limited amount of magical abilities. However, that all changed the first time Diana willingly tossed her skirts up for him. She was no longer a virgin, what magic she was born with was near to non-existent. If not for her devious mind and willingness to do whatever he bid, Damon would have disposed of her long ago.