by Paula Quinn
The glint of anger sparking her brother’s eyes belied his calm tone and appearance. “Are ye calling me a lamb, Janet?”
She shrugged her shoulders and arched a scornful brow. “I’ll tell ye what I see, William. Ye allow the goat a union between us rather than give up a castle that isn’t even ours.”
“Once, it was ours,” he reminded her blandly.
“’Twas never ours,” she corrected him.
“We held it in fief fer King Charles.”
“Aye,” she agreed, “along with Connor Stuart, the king’s cousin, who James Buchanan, our late great-uncle, tried to kill. When the king regained the throne, he gave the castle and these lands over to the Stuarts. Ravenglade is not ours.”
“It matters not,” William insisted, going another route. “We’re paid stewards. Malcolm Grant pays me to keep this place impenetrable.”
“So ye would hand over yer sister to see yer duty to Grant done?”
“Nae.” He covered his slightly bearded face with his hands, then ran them down to his chin. Looking at her again, he sighed. “But you are the only thing Menzie wants more than Ravenglade, and he’s agreed to a trade.”
“Aye, because I said nae to his marriage offer last month and now he wants to show me that my will means nothing. He flaunts his power and he despises that I dinna’ fear him.” She stared into William’s eyes. As the only two of their immediate family left after their father died in the River Tay, they’d promised to look out for each other. How could her brother turn her over to a man who wanted her only so he could rule over her?
“’Tis our only hope,” he said, sounding as desperate as he looked. “Grant will answer my letter and come. He’ll be here before any marriage can take place and he will deal with Roddie Menzie.”
“And if he doesn’t come?” she asked him. “What will become of me, then, Will?”
“Then”—he paused and closed his eyes—“I’ll kill Roddie Menzie. I’ll kill him. But I won’t abandon Ravenglade to them.”
“’Tis not yers,” she reminded him again. How many more of their kin would they lose, rather than lose the castle? She knew their history with Ravenglade and she knew that her great-uncle James Buchanan’s obsession with the castle made him offer up the life of his childhood friend. Because of treachery alone, the Buchanans could never be worthy of Ravenglade. And now, her own brother seemed to be bewitched with want of these bricks, even unto betraying her.
“Grant allows us all to live here,” he continued on. “Instead of fighting us and bringing his kin, including the MacGregors, down on our heads fer all the years we fought him over this place, he pays us to keep it fer him while he’s away. And let’s be honest, he’s away often. He left last spring and hasn’t returned yet.
“All I ask ye to do is tell Roddie ye agree to the marriage but ye need time to arrange everything. We need time to regroup and recuperate from his last attack. He may bleat often, but his horns are sharp. He has power in the number of his kin.”
Janet smacked her hands against her thighs. “Then give him what he wants before anyone else is killed!”
“I won’t, Janet. I want to stay here. I won’t be driven out of the place that has become my home because someone else wants it.”
He’d said it. Ravenglade had become his home. He’d let it seduce him with its bright tapestries, rich wood tones, and warm carpets. Hell, it had seduced them all.
“Trust me, sister, please.”
Could she? She always had before. But the stakes had never been this high.
“I don’t mean fer ye to go through with it. I just need time for Malcolm to arrive and presently ye’re the only way I can get it. Please, sister, trust me.”
She glared into his pleading blue eyes and felt her mettle falter. Och, hell, she couldn’t fight him on this, not when he was right. She liked living here, too. Every Buchanan did. Why wouldn’t she prefer a castle, and one absent of drafts, over a cottage? She loved the home her late father had built for his family on the outskirts of Aberfeldy, but it was drafty and small and the roof leaked. It was why she’d agreed to wed John Wallace, Aberfeldy’s master carpenter, before Malcolm Grant and his small band of cousins killed her betrothed the night they had returned to Ravenglade almost seven months ago.
A blessing and a curse, for she hadn’t loved John Wallace. In fact, she hadn’t even liked him. He drank too much whisky and had a loud mouth.
She still hated the Grants for killing him though. Just as her kin were taught to hate the Stuarts for taking Ravenglade. To most, James Buchanan was a hero. Even though she believed differently, she still felt the desire to take back the castle.
“Verra’ well, Will.” She smiled slightly when he hauled her into his arms. “But ’tis only to gain us time. I will not marry him.”
“I’ll make certain of it!” he promised, then hurried off to see to the arrangements.
Left alone, Janet looked around the garden. She smiled, thinking about how much it had changed since she moved in. There had been much work to do, pulling dead, tangled roots and planting new shrubs and trees, but it was worth it. Next spring this garden would be glorious, and Janet intended on being here to see it.
She sat on the stone bench and gazed at the small fountain her cousin Henry had built. Her thoughts drifted to the lord of the castle, Malcolm… and to his cousin, Darach—the most insufferable, frustrating, arrogant man she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. If her kin had killed him like they said they were going to do when they attacked him on the road last spring, she wouldn’t have had to tend to him while her brother held him prisoner in their barn. She wouldn’t have relived those days with him bound and beat up and still more fascinating than every man in her holding. She wouldn’t have let him run rampant through her thoughts since they had set him free.
If the whole truth be known, the men she was surrounded by were so dull in comparison to him, there were days she wished him back. His sharp wit had attracted her. He was sure of himself, lacking no confidence in his skills on the field and in the bedchamber. He hadn’t needed to boast to convince her of the latter. He breathed virility, moved with the supple grace of a wolf. His smoky green eyes had invited her into a fire from which she might never escape. The challenging curl of his mouth heated her blood and burned behind her kneecaps, between her breasts, just below her navel.
She looked around the garden and lifted her hand to the blush that was sweeping across the bridge of her nose. Damnation, she’d thought she was rid of him. He’d let seven months pass without so much as a missive. She’d thought… No, it didn’t matter what she’d thought or hoped. She was finally beginning to conquer her memories of him and put them away. But now, all this talk of Malcolm Grant and marriage brought him glaringly, achingly back.
She thought about the last time she saw him, when they’d parted in Killiecrankie, after he’d found out that she would be living at Ravenglade while he was gone. She wondered what he would say if he knew she slept in his bed every night—just as he’d predicted she would.
“Dreamin’ of the man who countered yer blows and will someday return to conquer ye beneath him.”
Damn it all, she still remembered how she’d felt hearing his confident pronouncement. Bastard. He’d made her tremble in her skin.
Aye, she dreamed of him often. She wondered if it had to do with sleeping in his bed. She should leave it, but she never did. He’d said he would someday return. Why the hell had she waited?
She did her best not to think of him, but what was the alternative? Roddie Menzie? Good Lord, there was no way in hell she was marrying him.
As if speaking of the devil invoked him, she heard the blare of his horn from beyond the moat. Oh no! Were the Menzies back for more already? She returned inside and looked around for William. Not finding him, she moved on toward the stairs, to the battlements.
She stepped outside and scowled, looking down. It was Roddie, all right. Oh, how she hated him! She spotted her brother a
long the western parapet and watched him sign his name to a parchment and tie it to an arrow. The marriage agreement. William lifted his eyes and caught her gaze. They shared a subtle nod and a silent promise, and then he nocked the arrow in his bow and let it fly.
Janet’s stomach coiled into knots while she watched the arrow come down. Was that her fate sealed and driven into the thick trunk of a tree? She switched her gaze to Roddie in his saddle. She guessed he was about the same age as Will, but years of overindulgence had made him fat and too much drinking had made him worn. By himself, he had nothing to back up his boastful promise of taking Ravenglade and leaving her kin dead at his feet, but the number of his kin rivaled the stars in the sky.
She’d like to shove her foot straight up his…
He saw her staring at him and he waved. He waved while another rider fetched the message on the arrow and brought it to him.
She lifted her fingers first, forcing her will on her reluctant hand. When she waved back, he smiled, exposing more empty space than teeth. She closed her eyes and turned away. William would have to kill him. If he didn’t, she would. She didn’t care if Ravenglade was carved out of gold, being Roddie’s wife wasn’t worth it.
Turning away, she hurried back inside the castle, terrified that they had just signed away her life. She prayed as she raced down the stairs to her bedchamber—Darach Grant’s bedchamber—for Malcolm Grant to make haste and get there.
Chapter Three
The last time Darach was at Ravenglade there was an army of the Duke of Queensberry’s men camped in the fields beyond the moat. They were there to take back the duke’s niece, Amelia Bell, whom he and his cousins had kidnapped, and to deny their demands of dissolving the Treaty of Union.
Now, another, smaller army waited in the same spot. Menzies. Darach watched them from his hiding place in the trees. He recognized their chief, Roderick Menzie, from a few rows with him and his troublesome kin in the past. The rogue was communicating with Will Buchanan by arrow. They didn’t look to be feuding. Not surprising, since both clans were good for nothing but target practice. They were most likely planning on taking over Ravenglade and killing Malcolm when he got here. The Menzies were longtime enemies—since the days of Callum MacGregor and Darach’s grandfather, Graham Grant. The Buchanans were more recent adversaries, but dishonest and cowardly nevertheless.
Another reason to forget Janet.
He watched the communication go on for a little over an hour. He’d make a point of getting his hands on those notes when he entered the castle. At least, for now, the ones Menzies shot over to this side. He’d get the others on another day.
He was glad to see the drawbridge up, at least. If the Buchanans were in league with the Menzies, William wouldn’t have kept them out. Still, he’d use caution around the Buchanan chief and find out what he could before he took action.
When the Menzies finally left, mollified, it seemed, by their correspondence, Darach backtracked into the woods and searched for what he knew was there. A cave, hidden behind brambles and thorny bushes thick enough to conceal the league-long tunnel leading into Ravenglade. A tunnel the Buchanans had dug out over the last score of years in their many attempts to take over the fortress.
He left his horse in a small glade a few feet from the cave. The beast wouldn’t run off without him, and Darach would come back for him tomorrow after he lowered the drawbridge.
He went to the cave opening and, moving the foliage aside, he entered the shadows, then carefully set everything back into place.
Damnation, he didn’t appreciate having to sneak into his kin’s castle like a common thief.
Moonlight followed him for about ten breaths and then the tunnel grew dark, until it became too black to see his hand in front of him. The Buchanans hadn’t used the tunnel in a long time, evidenced by the absence of fire on the many torches that had been lit the last time he was in here.
To keep his mind off the distance and the suffocating lack of air, he hummed a quick melody he’d composed to go along with a tale about a sharp-tongued wench who had almost captured his heart. Of course, no one would ever hear it being sung, so his confession was safe… and so was his heart. It was natural to think about her since he was here again and would likely see her, he told himself. It meant nothing.
Was she wed? Had her husband strangled her? Darach smiled, remembering her vow that he would never win her. No lass had ever made such a bold claim. He couldn’t deny that part of him wanted to discover if she could indeed withstand his assault on her senses, her emotions, her heart. The other part of him wasn’t so certain he could withstand her, and it scared the hell out of him. Darach liked being the master of his life. He lived among enough men in Camlochlin to know and understand full well what loving a lass does to a man. He believed he could resist it and now he was going to get the chance to prove he could.
Ah, light, finally! He’d come to the trap door below the kitchen and looked up. Was a cook still working? He sniffed and didn’t smell any food cooking. He waited for a few minutes, listening for sounds of movement or voices. When he heard nothing, he reached up, unhooked the latch, and pulled himself up through the opening.
A quick look around proved that he was alone. How many Buchanans resided here? he wondered. It was still too early in the eve to be in bed. Where was everyone? Where was the chief?
Darach moved around quietly, knowing all the chambers and where every corridor led. He was drawn to the faint light of a candle coming from the private solar, the door slightly ajar. He stood against the wall for a moment, taking in any sounds coming from inside. A man’s slow sigh and muttered oath. William Buchanan. Was his sister in there with him?
Darach didn’t wait to find out but stepped forward and gave the door a push. It’s creaking drew William’s somber gaze from the letter in his hands to Darach.
He leaped from his chair. “How did ye…? The tunnels?” He guessed on his own. “Where’s Malcolm?” he asked, stepping around Darach to look at the door after Darach confirmed his way inside.
“Somewhere in the North Atlantic by now, I’d wager,” Darach told him, making his way to the table where William had been sitting. “An urgent matter arose and he had to see to it with his faither.” He looked at the parchments scattered about the surface of the table, some crumpled, some folded.
William turned on him. “More urgent than losing his castle to the Menzies?”
Darach nodded and picked up one of the letters. “His sister was kidnapped by a pirate.”
“Oh…” William said, sounding sick to his stomach. His color drained until Darach moved to help him if he stumbled. “Then he’s not coming. Oh my…” His gaze dipped to the parchment in Darach’s hand. “He has to come.”
Darach didn’t ask him why. He read the correspondence, then read it again. Finally, he looked at the chief with a flash of anger sparking his eyes. “Ye promised yer sister to Roddie Menzie? Why?”
“To bide time. I refused to give up the castle. Once someone else takes possession, especially the Menzies, it’s much harder to get it back. I thought once Grant got my letters, he would return and take care of the Menzies. They’ve stormed the walls more than once and I cannot risk losing any more of my kin. I’m their chief. ’Tis my duty to protect them.”
Darach believed him. The man looked like he’d just sold his mother into slavery. He wanted to ask William why he stayed and fought for Ravenglade so tenaciously, but the chief ran his hand over his pale face and reached for a chair.
“I’d hoped Malcolm would come and help us. Now I’ll have to kill him.”
“Who?”
“Roddie Menzie.”
“Well,” Darach said as he sat in the chair behind the table, “one must do what he can to save his sister. ’Tis why I’m happy to be an only bairn.”
“Ye don’t understand,” the Buchanan chief said in a low voice. “If I kill him war will go beyond this castle and will follow my kin wherever we go.”
Darach stared at him, trying to figure him out. “Why did ye no’ take them oot of here already?”
“And leave Ravenglade to Menzies?”
A slight smile curled Darach’s lips. William Buchanan spoke like a man who loved this castle. Darach guessed all the Buchanans felt the same way. Their late patriarch James had brought many of his kin here to live and train with his childhood friend Connor Stuart. When they were driven out after James tried, and failed, to have Connor killed, they never gave up their misguided notion that Ravenglade was partially theirs. But how much did Will Buchanan love Ravenglade? How far would he go to save it?
Whatever William’s motives were, Darach liked his answer. He would do his best to save them all. To do that though, he needed to know how many Menzies they might be up against in a fight, and whether he needed to begin recruiting help. It didn’t matter how many men William had at the ready, the chief didn’t want to lose any more of his kin. Darach would see that he didn’t. He would devise his plan tonight and hopefully begin carrying it out by morning.
Hopefully, there would be fighting.
“Well,” he promised the Buchanan, “ye need no’ fret over it any longer. I’m here now, just as good, mayhap even better, than Malcolm.”
“Oh Lord, nae,” said a voice in tune with the wind scraping along the castle walls outside. “Not ye!”
There it was; that thing that made his teeth clench and made him want to smile in equal measure. He never could decide if he wanted to throttle her or smile like a lost waif with his damned insides held in his hands as an offering to her.
He turned and chose to smile at her.
She looked almost exactly as he remembered, fair skinned, with a small, pert nose and full mouth… all those tight golden curls framing her face, and eyes like glaciers belying her angelic features.
Stunning.