Seducing the Laird
Lauren Marrero
SEDUCING THE LAIRD
Copyright © 2011 by Lauren Marrero
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, events, organizations and conversations in this novel are either the products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used in a fictitious way for the purposes of this story.
ISBN-10: 1-934912-40-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-934912-40-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011938988
Cover Model: Brannon Charles
Written, published and printed in the United States of America.
Black Lyon Historical Romance
To my mother.
Thanks for your unconditional love
and encouragement.
Chapter 1
England, 1502
Laird Cairn McPherson urged his mount to greater speed, ignoring the foam falling from the horse’s mouth. Heavy rain poured around them. They were both nearly blinded by it, crashing wildly though the dark forest, unheeding of the branches that slapped painfully against their sides. Laird McPherson didn’t dare slow his speed for a moment. He bent his head close to the horse’s ear, whispering a litany of encouragement and asking forgiveness for his abuse. He had no choice, for Cairn McPherson was running for his life.
The icy wind from the late autumn storm cut through the fine wool of his tunic. He wore no gloves or cloak to protect him from the elements and the cold turned his fingers and ears to ice. Still Cairn didn’t take his fingers away from the reins for a second lest the beast slacken its speed. He ignored the numbness creeping across his exposed body, ignored the pain as each ungainly stride of his borrowed mount brought a rush of pain from the wounds covering him from head to toe. He ignored everything except what lay ahead and the sweet promise of freedom beyond the trees.
The horse stumbled over the uneven, slippery ground and Cairn McPherson nearly lost his seat. He held on grimly, determined not to fail after he had come so far. Only a few short hours ago he languished in the English Lord Gundy’s dungeon praying for this opportunity to escape and he wasn’t going to waste it.
Lord Gundy’s and Cairn’s holdings sat opposite each other on the border between England and Scotland, but though there had always been animosity between the two, Cairn didn’t expect such treachery. He came at Lord Gundy’s request to negotiate a permanent peace, yet on his arrival Cairn’s party had been attacked and the wounded survivors thrown into a dungeon.
Three men were captured with Cairn yet he was the only one to escape alive. Gundy thought Scotland was weak because of the Scottish King’s defeat after supporting the pretender to the English throne, Perkin Warbeck. He thought the McPhersons were weak because of the recent death of Cairn’s father, but Cairn was determined to prove him wrong. He was free now and nothing would stop him from exacting his revenge.
The ill-kept road was overgrown with weeds, and treacherous stones threatening to trip his exhausted horse. Claw-like tree branches reached for Cairn in the dark, scratching his face and arms. The horse lost its footing again and Cairn allowed it to slow its furious gallop. He was miles from Gundy’s castle and didn’t know if the alarm had yet been raised.
The frightened horse’s eyes rolled wildly at the howling wind. He reared twice as a large branch crashed to the ground behind them. The heavens reflected Cairn’s dark mood and lashed at the earth with all its might. A flash of lightning lit the sky and for a moment Cairn was able to clearly see. The path was briefly illuminated showing a long, dangerous stretch of road that would eventually lead him back to Scotland.
In the two days since his capture Cairn had not eaten or slept and his alerted senses began to play tricks on him. He imagined eyes watching from the shadows ready to pounce and drag him back to Langthorne. He imagined the grim satisfaction of the guard as he told Cairn he was lucky to suffer only light torture by water.
He looked up to see a large shadow dart through the trees beside him. The horse reared once more, catching sight of the sudden movement. Cairn’s frozen hands were barely able to hold on until the terrified animal was under control.
Around him the forest began to shift. Shadows darted through the trees, keeping pace with him. Surely Lord Gundy’s men wouldn’t pursue him so. Gundy’s men would have stopped Cairn with a challenge or a well-placed arrow. Cairn saw neither glint of armor nor the bright colors of livery, only the obscure gloom teasing the edges of his sight.
England was surely driving him mad. Who would watch the roads on such an abysmal night? Cairn blinked rapidly to clear his deceiving eyes. But just as he rounded a sharp bend in the road one of the shadows disengaged from the surrounding forest and slammed painfully into Cairn’s bruised chest.
He could feel himself flying backward off the horse. He felt the impact of his landing on the muddy road and heard a guttural sound that might have been his own grunt of pain. As Cairn drifted in and out of consciousness he was aware of being dragged off the road. He heard the urgent whispering of several voices and felt hands skimming lightly over his body.
Somehow Cairn found the strength to push the hands away and for a moment the whispering ceased. Then the hands returned and Cairn pried his eyes open to see the figure of an old man kneeling above him. He was arguing with someone and Cairn looked up to see a younger man scowling down at him. Cairn scowled in return; too groggy to understand the words of their debate but knowing he was the subject.
Again Cairn lost consciousness and awoke to find another hovering above him. This time it was a woman. Her hair was so black it was almost blue contrasting sharply with luminous sapphire eyes. Her full lips pressed tightly together as she peered down on him with a look of concern.
To Cairn’s delirious mind the woman’s beauty seemed unearthly. He wanted to touch her to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He wanted to brush her hair aside, pull her lips to his and taste their softness. As if reading his thoughts the woman licked her lips and Cairn’s pulse quickened. He wondered if they were as soft as they looked and if she would taste like strawberries or cherries or some exotic flavor all her own.
"Don’t worry," she said in a soft, low voice. It was the tone one uses to calm an injured beast or frightened child. "You are safe now."
Cairn wanted to believe her, but there was something in the woman’s voice that worried him, some strange inflection he couldn’t fully grasp. He didn’t know if she were real or a vision or perhaps an angel sent to carry his soul away. Once again he felt oblivion calling him. Cairn fought to keep his tired eyes focused, not wanting his vision of this creature to fade, but the last few days had taken their toll.
Her tiny hand closed gently around Cairn’s and he grasped it tightly. Despite the autumn cold her fingers were warm and solid in his grip. He squeezed her hand as the darkness once again overtook his sight. Cairn didn’t know who this creature was, but he suddenly knew with the solid pressure of her hand that he would survive.
Chapter 2
"This will never work," Owen predicted as he glowered at his two companion
s.
"Hush!" Verena cautioned. "You’ll wake him."
By "him" she referred to the unconscious man who imprisoned her hand in his vice-like grip. She didn’t know what prompted her to place her work-roughened fingers in his. She thought he was unconscious—he certainly should have been after that fall from his horse. His eyes drifted open for a moment and when he looked at her, he smiled. It was hard to believe this was the man she was sent to capture.
"Wake him?" Owen asked. "We shouldn’t be anywhere near him. For all we know this is a lost traveler."
Verena studied the man critically. Though his leonine features were puffy with bruises there was no disguising the sooty eyelashes and high cheekbones that cut a steep line to his firm mouth. When he opened his eyes she felt pierced by their amber depths which sparkled like jewels. His hair was the most intriguing shade of brown, but Verena suspected it would appear golden in the full light of the sun, with deep waves that her fingers itched to trace.
Judging by the length of his frame and the muscles bulging beneath the fine wool of his tunic, this man had an impressive size. He was easily as tall as Owen, though he lacked Owen’s muscular girth. At three times her size and more than a head taller than her, Owen was definitely the muscle of their operation—a position he held with pride.
"Look at his clothes," said their other companion, Hadran, a gruff older man with surprisingly intelligent eyes despite the many wrinkles and age spots covering his withered frame. "A red tunic, a chestnut mare …"
"All of which he could have exchanged between here and the castle," insisted Owen. "As we would have."
"Yes," agreed Hadran. "But not everyone is like us."
The three conspirators shared a look of solidarity. They had worked together for many years, fulfilling the dark ambitions of their Lord Gundy. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, but most importantly they knew their value. Hadran’s small family of spies had turned Lord Gundy into one of the most powerful nobles in England.
"I will check his wounds," Verena said to pacify her friend. "If we have the wrong man we will know soon enough."
She gently used her knife to cut his shirt at the seams and wet the cloth where the dried blood caused it to stick to the wounds. Lord Gundy had left no chances; describing everything from the clothes Laird McPherson would be wearing to the horse he ‘stole’ during his staged escape from the Langthorne prison. And just in case the McPherson was able to change before Verena and her crew found him, they also had a description of his wounds in detail including the distinctive cross-shaped scar below his right rib. She even knew of the tiny mole on the Laird’s left buttock.
"There is so much blood," she said in wonder. Looking at the ghastly scars she would have a hard enough job keeping the man alive.
"It is him," Hadran said soberly. "This is much worse than we were told. We could have killed him knocking him from his horse like that."
She agreed, but they didn’t have a choice. The man rode as if Satan was chasing him and looking at his injuries Verena understood why. It was a painful reminder of the kind of man they worked for. Though she didn’t put him in Gundy’s dungeon, Verena couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for this man’s fate. It was her team that made this possible. All too soon the McPherson would realize he had escaped one trap only to fall neatly into another.
"He will survive," she said with conviction. She was sure of it. Verena had seen the strength in his eyes. She remembered the strong pressure of his hand and his smile.
Gathering their hidden supplies Owen quickly started a fire, hanging a small pot of water over it to boil. Hadran prepared a healing poultice of herbs and fat while Verena cleaned and sewed the most dangerous wounds shut. They worked with silent efficiency over Laird McPherson’s unconscious form, each praying for his recovery.
This man held the key to a fortune beyond her wildest dreams, and Gundy coveted it like nothing else. It was believed that no one alive knew its location, but Verena knew where and how to look. She just needed a way into the Scotsman’s castle.
Hadran had trained them incessantly for this assignment but all of that planning would be in vain if the Laird died in the forest. Somehow she would keep him alive. She would find the Scotsman’s treasure and return with it to England.
Chapter 3
Pale sunlight streamed through an open window and caressed Cairn’s cheek. The feeling of warmth was so unusual after the last few days he was instantly awake, distrustful of the reprieve. Too much had happened since crossing the border into England and Cairn wouldn’t feel safe until he was home.
The young woman he had glimpsed earlier sat beside the bed on an ancient stool, observing him with concern. He had somehow been transported to a small cottage, but the girl was alone. How had she managed to carry him to this place? Even in his weakened state she looked too frail to lift one of his legs.
"I’m glad you’re awake," she said in the same soft voice from before. "I was worried."
Her accent was English and though nervous, she didn’t appear afraid of being alone with a strange man.
Cairn examined her as best he could through the painful throbbing in his head. She was beautiful with full lips and mysterious, cat-like blue eyes. Her raven-black hair hung loose about her shoulders and he could see the deep waves left by the braids he remembered her wearing.
With her unfashionably dark skin and exotic features she reminded Cairn of a gypsy girl he had seen long ago that trespassed on his lands. The girl regarded Cairn frankly and without fear, just like the woman before him.
"Where am I?" Cairn rasped through a parched throat.
The woman held a mug of honeyed tea to his lips after a long spell of dry coughs wracked his frame. He could feel the warmth of her body through the thick woolen gown the wretched northern weather forced its inhabitants to wear.
"A few miles from the border," she replied. "What is your name?"
Cairn didn’t answer. He was still in England, still within reach of Lord Gundy’s malevolent hand. That made this beautiful woman his enemy.
"My name is Verena," she said to encourage him. "I found you on the road not far from here."
"I was attacked."
He remembered the two men arguing over him. They unseated him, took the horse and left Cairn for dead. They must have been bandits, for Lord Gundy’s men would have returned him to Langthorne.
"I surmised as much. Don’t worry. You are safe now."
Cairn could feel himself being pulled back into the dark unconsciousness where the pain in his body no longer tormented him. There would be time enough for the cold political reality to return. Outside a dangerous storm brewed, waiting for Cairn to emerge, but inside the tiny cottage he was reluctant to shatter the tenuous peace. When he was strong enough to travel Cairn would tell her the truth. But not yet.
When she was sure the McPherson slept, Verena quietly rose from her seat. She almost felt sorry for the man. The last few weeks had not been kind to him. Until recently he had lived a privileged life traveling around France with his brother Andreu and making a name for himself in many tournaments. Then with the sudden death of his father, Cairn was summoned home to take control of a clan he barely knew.
The ever-resourceful Gundy was quick to take advantage of Cairn’s inexperience. She didn’t know how Cairn was lured to England, but he was a fool to trust a man like Gundy. He wouldn’t sleep so peacefully if the laird knew what awaited him.
The old hunting lodge was located in a secluded region of the forests surrounding Langthorne. Hadran believed it was the perfect spot to hide their Scottish prisoner while Verena began her work. Owen remained hidden in the woods nearby to discourage the locals from stumbling onto their operation. He would be quick to Verena’s defense should the Scot become uncontrollable. She didn’t fear the laird, but she was grateful to have Owen silently watching to make sure everything was all right.
Using her body to block the cool wind so it didn’t disturb h
er prisoner, Verena cracked open the door to the cottage. She saw Owen’s hulking shape emerge from the shadows of the trees like a child’s nightmare. She nodded to him silently before turning back to the cottage. The Scot had awoken and was recovering well. They could only watch and wait.
Chapter 4
"We have him," Hadran announced in Gundy’s private chambers.
For years he had worked as Lord Gundy’s shadow, silently trailing him and leaving a gruesome path in his wake. Here in Gundy’s chambers Hadran felt important. He had a private audience with the Lord of Langthorne. Though the rich surroundings might intimidate one with Hadran’s humble roots, the old spy knew it was the man and not the gold which held the power. The furs, silks and tapestries were paid for by the sweat and blood of peasants just like him. Those people would never own the riches their labors paid for; Gundy was shrewd and miserly enough to see to that.
"How can you be sure?" Gundy asked.
Hadran stared into the man’s cold grey eyes and mentally sighed. He was familiar enough with the lord to know the question was rhetorical. After years of service Hadran and his crew had not once failed in an assignment. Nevertheless he answered the question.
"A chestnut mare with two white forelegs, a red woolen tunic with black embroidery, one knife wound just below the right rib …" answered Hadran in an ever-patient voice, ticking the list off his fingers. "And several bruises."
"I trust he survived the ordeal?" Gundy asked without a trace of remorse. The wounds were much worse than planned, however Hadran knew his lord and prided himself on being prepared for anything. That was why he had Verena and Owen ready with enough medicines to treat a battlefield and a warm cottage nearby where the Scottish laird could recover.
"Barely. Our schedule will have to be adjusted."
"That is unacceptable!"
Gundy reached for his goblet and refilled it for the third time. As the years passed the old lord started to feel his age and had lost the edge that had made him one of the most feared men in the land. He still possessed a razor sharp wit and his network of spies and assassins, but the old warrior’s muscles had long ago turned soft. The once-tanned flesh was ruddy with too much ale. Gundy was becoming aware of his mortality, a feeling Hadran understood only too well, but he didn’t sympathize with the lord. Where age had made Hadran cautious, it turned Gundy reckless. The imprisonment of the McPherson laird was bolder than anything Gundy had done in his younger days. He seemed desperate to prove he still retained the strength of his youth. Hadran prayed his spies wouldn’t suffer for Gundy’s arrogance.
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