by Sabrina York
How long did a woman remain unconscious when she fainted? He didn’t know. He’d never made a woman faint before.
The fragile beauty of her face haunted him. God, she was gorgeous. Like an alabaster statue. Cold and unmoving.
He frowned and picked up her hand. It was like ice. He noticed the damp stain her slippers had made on the coverlet. Damn. Of course they were wet. She’d leapt into the water, for Christ’s sake. He slipped them off, and then her stockings, draping them over the chair by the fire. Her hem was damp and cold as well, so he removed her dress, but he left her petticoats on because frankly he didn’t need the temptation.
He wrapped several stones from the hearth in a cloth and tucked them around her feet and covered her with a quilt. Then he stood back and watched her. The slight rise and fall of her chest relieved him. Still, he added another blanket. And threw a few more logs on the blaze.
He sat in a chair by the table, poured himself a cup of ale and cut off a slice of cheese. And he ate. And drank. And stared at the woman in his bed. Wondering if the vengeance would be worth the price.
God, he hoped so.
* * * * *
Violet awoke in a cozy, toasty nest. A heavy weight held her down but she liked it. She nuzzled deeper into the pillows as the trails of a sweet dream danced just out of reach.
A deep snore rumbled in her ear, along with a hot huff of air.
Her eyes flew open.
She was in a bed in a strange room, a stony chamber kissed by the light of the dawning sun. And someone was sleeping beside her.
The events of the previous day came flooding back and her heart plunged.
That man. That horrible, beastly man was sleeping beside her.
She held her breath. Tried to stay as still as she could while she planned her escape. She certainly didn’t want to wake him. He had removed her gag—thank God—but her mouth was dry and filled with an acrid taste. And her wrists were free. That was a blessing. If only she could ease out from under him.
She tried to make herself as small as she could and slip from his grasp, but he muttered and tightened his hold. Blast! She shifted again, slowly this time, and nudged herself to the left, picking up his arm and carefully moving it off her. He grumbled a bit but allowed her to do so.
Cautiously, she slid from the bed.
And gasped out loud. She clapped her hands over her mouth, too late to keep the sound in, but for mercy sake, he had stripped her down to her petticoats.
She spun on the bed to glare at him—and found his gray eyes open and trained on her. The light in them was unmistakable.
“Good morning.” He smiled—a sleepy, sultry offering—and his face was transformed. Mercy. A man like him had no right being so handsome. Heat sliced through her. A hot tide rose on her cheeks.
Had she really thought him horrifying yesterday? He was much more menacing now.
One thought rode high in her mind. Escape.
She whirled and ran for the door.
The hell she would run from him.
That she tried got Ewan’s dander up. His lust was already riding pretty high. It had been exquisite waking up to find Violet Wyeth nestled up against him with the weight of her buttocks pressing into his cock. He’d been lying there talking himself out of seducing her when she’d awoken.
And escaped.
She couldn’t go far—they were on an island after all—but he didn’t want her to get hurt in her headlong flight. Besides, he rather fancied the idea of giving chase.
And she had run from him.
So he flung back the covers and took off after her.
The keep dated from medieval times, though it had been updated over the years, but the Laird’s solar was in the high tower, accessible by a curling staircase. That slowed her down. By the time she reached the main hallway on the second floor, he was only a few feet behind her.
She threw a glance over her shoulder, saw him coming and let out a little screech. And increased her pace. She flew down the hall, rounded the banister and pattered down the grand staircase with Ewan hard on her heels. He caught her when she reached the bottom and swept her up in his arms—snarling and snapping and howling as she was.
It was glorious to catch her. The resounding cheers and claps echoing in the hall didn’t hurt.
Violet stilled. Ewan turned. The great hall teemed with his men, and all of them with their attention trained on him…and his captive. Who was wearing only petticoats.
He could only imagine the sight they made.
He gave a courtly bow—the best he could manage with a woman in his arms—and headed back up the stairs.
For once, Violet didn’t protest.
“You’d better get dressed.” The McCloud tossed her dress at her, the brute.
Violet glared at him.
“Go on. You don’t want my men to get ideas.”
“They already have ideas,” she muttered under her breath but she hunted for her dress.
Oh. Her pretty frock was ruined. Somewhere along the way it had become stained and torn. The neckline was ripped and the lace was in tatters.
“Come along. Don’t dally. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
She glared at him again. “Go to hell.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest and grinned. “Ach. Such language. And from a lady.” The way he said the word made his opinion of ladies quite clear. She tipped up her chin and favored him with the haughtiest glare she could manage. A muscle in his cheek bunched. “Go on,” he snapped. “Get dressed. I wasn’t joking when I said the Cloud could use a maid. I fancy seeing you on your knees scrubbing the floor.”
“I will not.”
His smirk was chilling. “Then you won’t eat.”
“You’re an animal. No wonder Kaitlin ran from you.” This, she spat. She shivered as his expression changed.
His eyes narrowed. His voice dropped an octave. “Have a care what insults you hurl at my head, Violet Wyeth. Never forget I hold your fate in my hands.”
“You are a brigand and a beast. A common criminal.”
“Hardly common. And again, have a care. I have no compunction about turning you over my knee.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Oh heavens. The realization sank in. He would. He would indeed.
“I promise you this. If I don’t like what I hear coming out of your mouth, I will gag you again.”
She shuddered. She’d hated that gag.
“So. Be a good girl and put on that dress. Go downstairs and help Morna and Pippin prepare my breakfast. You will do whatever you are told. You will work from dawn to dusk. And you’d better hope your friend Kaitlin cares enough about you to return home soon or you’ll spend your life in my scullery. Do you understand?”
Violet didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat was clogged with tears.
The McCloud didn’t care. He nodded in her direction, a dark frown on his face. “Come along, my lady. Get dressed or I may assume you’d rather serve me in some other fashion. A service that doesn’t require clothing…”
She was dressed in a trice.
Chapter Four
If the McCloud was an animal, a beast and a brigand, his men were worse. There were fifteen of them, all large and rough and raucous. Some of them had teeth.
Several of them made lewd comments and suggestions as she moved around the table—most of which she didn’t understand but which elicited riotous guffaws from the others. One man, a particularly crass fellow with a displeasing aroma, pinched her bottom as she brought him his ale. Another—the only quiet one of the bunch—sat in the corner, picking his teeth with a knife and staring at her with a predatory glint in his eyes.
The only one who was remotely kind was the hideous-faced driver she’d met the day before. And even then, it was a grudging kindness. More than once, he stepped in to smack away a wandering hand or rebuke one of the other men for a rude remark in the presence of a lady.
The men laughed off his remonstrations. Taking their cue from their leader, the McCloud, they saw no reason to show her any deference. They treated her just as they treated Jessie, the other serving wench.
The difference was, Jessie didn’t seem to mind.
She leaned into their caresses and laughed at their jests.
But they treated her better than they treated Pippin, the young boy who served in the scullery. Most of them were fairly decent but Craig, the mountainous man with the lingering odor of onions, cuffed the child and boxed his ears with horrifying frequency.
Ah, but only when the McCloud wasn’t there.
Morna, an older woman, a motherly type who served as the housekeeper and cook, set Violet to work assisting with the baking and the washing and helping Pippin load food into the pantry. The castle wasn’t used much, she explained, but the McCloud had decided to move his operations here for the time being.
Violet could tell from Morna’s expression she considered it Violet’s fault she’d been wrenched from her comfortable station to work on this desolate rock. The tasks she assigned her were onerous but not unmanageable. And at least she hadn’t commanded Violet to scrub the floor.
That task fell to Pip.
The first day was exhausting to Violet, who had never done a whit of manual labor. Carrying wood and water, kneading bread, rolling barrels—it was all much more than she was used to. She didn’t mind—because it kept her away from the McCloud—but by the time supper was ready to be served, she was nearly asleep on her feet.
In a fog, she carried a heavy platter piled with sliced meat from the kitchen into the great hall. She rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt.
An enormous black hound stood between her and the men in the hall. Its lips curled, showing sharp fangs. A low, guttural growl resonated through the room.
Violet‘s breath wedged in her throat. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. Her vision wavered.
The beast took a step closer. Her gaze fixated on its huge paws, larger than a man’s hand and tipped with lethal claws. Claws that could rip flesh like a hot knife through butter.
She stepped back. And back again.
The beast advanced.
“He wants some meat,” Pip, at her side, whispered. “Just feed him.”
Violet quickly tossed a chunk of ham onto the floor and as the creature gobbled it up, she skirted around him to the table.
He followed, padding along behind her with glinting eyes. When she set the tray on the table and backed away, his attention stayed fixed on the platter and not on her, for which she was thankful.
She escaped to the kitchen, where she collapsed on the bench beside the fire, heart flailing, knees shaking.
Pip tipped his head to the side and studied her. “It’s just a dog,” he said.
Violet pressed her palm to her chest to still the tremors. “It’s e-enormous.”
“Aw, he’s harmless. Once you get to know him.” The boy puttered at the counter, loading bread into a basket and scooping butter onto a dish. He shot her a scornful glance. “Why don’t you stay here while I finish serving?”
“Would you?” Violet gushed with relief. She really shouldn’t be a coward but she’d been attacked by an enormous hunting dog once in the woods and if it hadn’t been for—she shook her head in an attempt to dislodge the memory. “I’m so tired.”
Pip snorted and carried the rest of the food out to the men at the table. His disgust was plain but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Her feet hurt, her back ached and her dress had somehow acquired several more mysterious stains. She longed for a bath and a soft, warm bed. She was physically exhausted, emotionally spent and this last altercation had drained her completely. She rested her head against the warm bricks of the cook fires and closed her eyes, trying very hard not to let the tears leak out.
She wasn’t a coward and she wasn’t a crier.
But she was very, very afraid.
* * * * *
Dinner had been over for a while when Ewan emerged from his office with Wolfe padding at his heels. The men were chatting quietly around the crackling fire in the great room, sipping ale. Jessie and Pip were playing cards at the table and Morna was knitting in the corner. Of Violet, there was no sign.
A thread of panic coiled. Had she escaped? Why hadn’t he though to secure her after the meal?
He stormed over to Morna’s chair and barked, “Where is she?”
His housekeeper surveyed him with a steady, unblinking stare. “You have no call to speak to me in that tone of voice, young man.”
Good God. In his panic he’d forgotten.
Morna took no grief from anyone. And she shouldn’t have to take it from him. Not the woman who’d taken him under her wing when his mother passed. Shown him how to care for a baby. Fed him. Kept him warm.
He was an ass.
Ewan raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Morna. It’s been a long day and I fancy a bath. Where is the new serving girl?”
Morna tossed back her head and cackled a laugh. “You won’t be getting a bath from that one tonight.”
His brows came down. “Why?” Because she’d fled?
With a sigh, Morna dropped her knitting into the basket by her chair and stood, a great creaking of old bones—but dear ones. She led Ewan to the kitchen and pointed to a bundle in the corner by the fire.
Violet. Curled up in a tight ball. Fast asleep. A dainty snore rumbled.
She seemed so frail and fragile and delicate.
He hardened his heart. She was getting no more than she deserved. Because of her, his mother had had to endure worse than this. Much worse.
“She’s all in, that one.” Morna perched her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Will you still be wanting that bath?”
Ewan glanced at the buckets on the hearth. Calculated how many it would take to fill his tub. How many trips Violet would have to make up to the tower to do it. He should wake her up. He should wake her up and make her prepare his bath and bathe him—just as he had dreamed about all day. But he didn’t.
And it wasn’t because he was going soft. It wasn’t. It was because, well, he just didn’t want a bath after all. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.
Yes. Tomorrow would be better. He was busy tonight.
“Yer lairdship? Do you still want a bath?”
Ewan sighed. “Not tonight, Morna. Maybe tomorrow.”
She mumbled something under her breath and went back to her knitting. Ewan bent and gently lifted Violet into his arms, being careful not to jostle her. With Wolfe at his heels, he carried her through the great room and up to the tower and settled her in his bed.
The candlelight flickered over her face in a tender caress.
God, she was lovely. Lovely and wan and… Lord, her dress was a horror. He covered her with a blanket and sat on the other side of the bed to pull off his boots. He would have to find her some clothes, he supposed. And another room. Having her in his bed was a temptation—and a potential disaster—he couldn’t afford.
But his thoughts stalled there.
He didn’t really want her sleeping anywhere else.
And he wasn’t sure why.
* * * * *
Holy heaven. She would never take a bath for granted again.
Violet stumbled on the stairs and the contents of the heavy bucket sloshed, dousing her with hot water. She sucked in a breath as pain seared. She set the bucket on the landing and pulled her skirts up. Her skin was red. She ruffled the tatters of her petticoats, waiting for the sting to subside.
The door to the laird’s solar swung open. She stepped back so it wouldn’t hit her and it slammed into the wall. The McCloud glowered down at her. His gaze stalled on her bare legs.
It was riveted—until she dropped her skirts—then he snapped, “What the hell is taking so long?” He glanced back at her damp skirts and his frown darkened. He picked up the last bucket and carried it to the tub, dumping it in hims
elf. “For God’s sake. How long does it take to bring a few buckets up from the kitchen?”
A few buckets? It had taken twelve trips, each with a bucket that weighed near as much as she. Violet glared at him. “Is that enough?” She probably didn’t need to clip the words quite so much but she had already worked for hours. She was tired and sweaty and her skin ached and Morna was waiting for her to help prepare dinner.
He swished his hand in the water. “Yes. I suppose that will do.”
Not a thank you. Not a smile. Nothing.
Beast.
She whirled and started for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice rumbled, a deep tenor. Her steps slowed.
“Back to the kitchen.” She frowned at him over her shoulder. “I have work to do.”
“You have work to do here.”
“I beg your pardon?” What did he want her to do now, wash his bottom?
“You’re going to bathe me.”
Her heart stilled at his words, his intent and especially his expression. “Wh-what?”
“Come now, Violet. The laird of the manor can’t be expected to scrub his own back, can he now? Be a good girl, close the door and come over here.”
She gaped at him. Gaped. He expected her to remain in a room with a naked man? He expected her to touch him?
“Close your mouth. You look like a trout.”
“But…I c-can’t. I can’t b-bathe you.”
“You can. And you will.” His eyes glimmered with something other than humor. The unspoken threat hummed in the stony chamber. “You may want to turn around while I undress, unless you want an early education.” He began to unbutton his shirt.
With an undignified eep, Violet whirled and showed him her back until she heard the splash and his gusty sigh.
“All right, girl. Get to work. Scrub my back.” He gestured to a chunk of soap and a sponge on a small table.
She picked them up, approached the tub and knelt behind him, trying not to stare at the bunching muscles, the broad expanse of tanned skin. She couldn’t help but notice it was covered with scars. Long and short, crisscrossing over one another. As though he’d been brutally beaten and lashed time after time after—