The Laird's Vow

by Heather Grothaus

  Glenna cried out, and her stiff posture at last broke, but rather than retreat from her in a show of mercy, Tavish Cameron merely turned her toward the bed, urging her into a seat with his hands and his mouth. She braced her hands behind her and Tavish took hold of her right ankle, forcing her foot upward and her bent knee out. He delved fully into her then, and Glenna went back on her elbows, unable to control her passion as she watched him taste her over and over, and she felt her pleasure coming to its peak.

  He pushed her other foot onto the bed and her legs fell open, her back bowed. Her eyes finally closed as she cried out at the powerful vortex that seized her, deafened her, blinded her, and she wanted to bring her knees together but Tavish held them back, pressing her until she writhed to escape him. He crawled up her body then, latching on to her nipple and pressing his swollen breeches between her legs, and Glenna felt her body continue to pulse against his hardened length while he suckled her and she raked her fingers through his hair.

  He released her nipple and crawled farther up her naked body, kissing her neck and her lips, and Glenna tasted her own essence.

  “I didn’t intend for this tonight,” he rasped in her ear and rocked against her. “But each time I see you, I desire you more. I want you more. I canna stop myself.”

  Glenna held his head and kissed him deeply, letting herself go in his embrace, wrapping her legs around his hips. She could not pretend in this moment that she did not desire him, desire the feelings he provoked in her body. Tavish groaned against her mouth and pressed himself against her pubic bone before pulling away slightly and reaching down with one hand to loosen his ties.

  A bit of her recklessness left her then; Tavish Cameron would ruin her in an instant, just as he ruined one of the last articles of clothing that she could call her own. She felt his hot length against her for only a moment, and then he rolled away onto his back and dragged her half onto his chest for another hard kiss before pulling away and urging her down with his hands on her shoulders.

  Glenna understood what he wanted then. She backed into the space between his leather-clad legs and lay over his thigh, taking his heavy manhood into her hand, and then the tip into her mouth. It was marvelously smooth, and as her lips closed over him, Tavish cried out. She realized that she now held the same power over him that he had held over her moments ago, and she suckled him gently, instinctively, as he raised his hips. The sounds her mouth made were so arousing that she felt herself heating again, and her rising passion gave an enthusiasm for pleasuring of Tavish Cameron that in only moments had brought him to his own peak. He pulled her roughly up and against his body just as she tasted his fulfillment, and she could feel his ejaculation pulsing hot against her stomach.

  They kissed, long and leisurely, as the firelight played over their bodies, and neither spoke. After a bit, Glenna shivered in the cold, and Tavish reached across her to drag the coverlets over their bodies before pulling her close once more and placing a kiss on her forehead.

  Glenna laid her head on Tavish Cameron’s chest, and her eyes closed in sleep, the tens of lavish gowns still littering the floor like ribbons from a celebration.

  Chapter 13

  Tavish woke with the dawn and could feel the smile upon his face before he opened his eyes. His body felt alive, refreshed, invigorated—and craving the touch of Glenna Douglas’s soft hands around him. Her perfect pink lips and silky tongue…

  He rolled over with a groan of anticipation but felt only a hard twist of abandoned coverlet in his hands. He opened his eyes, and the gray light of the room revealed that he was alone in the bed. Tavish pushed up on an elbow to look around the chamber, sending a slithering, hissing wash of heretofore neatly laid-out gowns to the floor.

  She had obviously chosen something fine to wear before she left him.

  Tavish fell back onto the mattress, his arms spread wide, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling as they slowly retreated into the corners. He felt a tinge of anger at himself for his eagerness to see her, his disappointment at her absence.

  I should have taken her fully last night when I had her beneath me. Then perhaps my mind would be free of the torment of her, and I would be free to make the right decisions for Roscraig.

  But even as he thought those things, he wondered at their truth. Glenna Douglas had managed to pierce his thick skin, wriggle her way between his muscle and bone and become a constant disturbance to both Tavish’s normally cool mind and his well-laid plans. The taste of her he’d had last night, the display of her innocence as she’d fully surrendered to him as a woman even without admitting defeat—it had only made his desire for her grow. She was a mystery to him, not only her presence at Roscraig, but her very heart and mind, and he longed to own her as completely as he boasted.

  And so it vexed him why he had not simply taken his full desire of her last night—and every night—until the king’s arrival.

  Because I am not Thomas Annesley.

  Tavish growled and threw back the coverlet, sliding out of the bed and doing his best to ignore his insistent cock, which had obviously not received the message that Glenna Douglas was present only in memory. He retrieved his discarded breeches but donned a plain shirt in place of the fine tunic he had worn to the feast. His old brown leather vest looked too inviting to pass up, and he relished the familiar feel of it as he laced it over the white linen.

  Tavish was belting on his sword as he descended the shadowed stairs when he saw Muir walk into the hall below him. Tavish paused while he attended properly to the task of securing his weapon.

  Good, he thought. It is well that Muir and I are reconciled this morn. I have regret for the words passed between us last night, and I would put it behind us before he departs Roscraig.

  But just as Tavish looped the tail of the leather strap of his hilt to his leg, Muir emerged from the hall again and turned toward the Tower’s entry, this time with a woman on his arm.

  A woman in a rose-colored gown, newly fashioned by one of the finest tailors in Edinburgh, her blond curls twisted atop her head.

  Glenna.

  Tavish watched from the shadows as the pair turned left into the wide entry passage, toward the courtyard, Muir looking straight ahead but with his ear leaned toward that perfect pink mouth; his large captain’s palm covering the small, soft hand that was hooked in his elbow. When they disappeared around the stone corner, Tavish completed the flight of stairs and turned into the hall, passing by the busy servants and heading for the window on the right side of the hearth. He looked out over the newly thatched and shaked roofs of the buildings in the courtyard until he caught sight of the fresh splash of color that was Glenna’s skirts. The pair was walking along leisurely in the soft morning light, looking quite natural and at home as the flow of animals and keepers swirled past them. Muir’s rolling gait seemed to allow Glenna to float along at his side.

  Tavish watched them until they came to the isolated point of the courtyard that jutted over the rocks and the waves below. It was clear they had sought the location for a private conversation—but why? What could Captain John Muir and Glenna Douglas possibly have to discuss? They were little more than tiny shapes now, and had Glenna not been wearing the bright new gown, Tavish might have never noticed them.

  It seems no one at all notices my absence; your servants, your rich guests, my own father—certainly not you.

  Her words—taken as little more than a taunt before—seemed to carry a much greater significance. Perhaps they had been a warning.

  I have thought much of taking a wife of my own, of late. Waited too long to properly go about it, I reckon.

  Muir was wealthy in his own right, thanks to his keen sailing abilities and experience, and his trustworthiness to his employers. There would be little shame in an impoverished noblewoman marrying a respected man who could afford to keep a wife anywhere in the world, in a comfort and fashion not far beneath that of no
bility—certainly in a better fashion that Glenna Douglas had found herself in the last several years at Roscraig. And a better fashion than what she would encounter should King James formally deny her title.

  A better fashion than the terms under which Tavish was keeping her.

  What man would not wish to boast of a wife of such beauty? Glenna’s passions—whether in anger or desire—were mighty to behold; and Tavish knew himself of their magnetic power. She was no simpering maid, no fortune-seeking shrew the likes of whom had crowded the Tower’s hall of late, but a woman full-grown who still retained her innocence and a measure of dignity through her trials.

  Some of those trials for which Tavish was to blame.

  Tavish left the window and strode through the hall, his boots skipping lightly down the stairs as he swept through the entry hall and beneath the raised portcullis. He told himself he was being ridiculous, paranoid; but something prickled at the back of his neck—pride, perhaps, or fear—that he should not show that he was seeking them out in their meeting. And so he strode behind the row of dwellings on the left—the kitchen, the stables, the lean-to where the smithy’s shop was being rebuilt. And there, behind that last building, he stopped.

  The southerly spring wind blew warm and fragrant over the firth, carrying John Muir’s words to his ears.

  “…depart at dawn with the cargo. One needs no permission in that port to marry. Although…” There was a pause, and Tavish knew John Muir was considering his thoughts carefully before he spoke, as was his way. “The king may side with you, milady. I doona dare boast to know his mind.”

  “He may,” Glenna conceded, but her tone was thin and hesitant. “But even if he would affirm that Roscraig belonged to my father, I do not think Laird Douglas to live long. And then I know not what I would do. You saw the state of the Tower when you arrived; to say that I am impoverished is kind.”

  Another pause. “You have another option, come the morrow. Would that you consider my offer.”

  A heavy weight settled upon Tavish’s chest, like a slab of granite placed ever so carefully.

  “Aye, consider it I will. Your suggestion has given me hope, Captain. Hope that I could promise myself to a man who would honor me and value me, and with whom I can perhaps put the nightmare of this life in my past. Should I leave Roscraig, it matters little to me where I call home. Any country, any port that you choose. Perhaps even Edinburgh—none know of me there.”

  “Nae Edinburgh. I am ashamed to say that I have spoken to some of your beauty. And—God, forgive me—your obligation to Roscraig,” John advised gravely. “You would find no peace there.”

  Tavish’s heart began to smolder, twist, with black anger. So this was the reason behind the captain’s sudden chastisement for not announcing a betrothal: He wanted Glenna for his own. John Muir had always possessed a keen eye for fine goods to be had at a bargain, and there before him now was a lady abandoned, deserted, desperate—and dressed in the garb of a princess. John Muir had no need of any dowry with a prize such as that.

  Tavish might as well have tied a ribbon about her and placed her aboard the Stygian himself.

  “Perhaps, though, it is best that I take you far from Roscraig. Tavish will be furious with us all when he discovers what we have done,” Muir said. “In truth, I didna imagine you to consider my suggestion with any gravity.”

  “Captain,” Glenna said gently and reached out to place her hand on John Muir’s forearm and look up into his face. Tavish could see her earnest and tearful expression even from this distance, her skin luminous in the morning light as the wind blew stray ringlets across her forehead and cheeks. “I am honored that you thought to help me. Honored,” she repeated and Tavish saw her fingers flex around the man’s arm. Her voice broke when next she spoke. “I would owe you a debt for the rest of my life.”

  “Doona cry—we’ve nae gone yet.” The captain covered her hand with his own, and Tavish could not stop the tide of fire-lit memories from flooding his mind of Glenna’s naked body, her passionate surrender to him, her easy slumber at his side.

  It should have been Tavish who had rescued her. He should have been her champion—Glenna had given him every opportunity, and he had squandered it, playing the gentrified cock.

  Tavish thought his teeth might crack. He trembled with the desire to leap from his coward’s hiding spot and run at Muir, sending him to the rocks below. And Glenna…

  His heart seized in a queer manner so that he winced.

  The captain dropped his hand. “I’ll not take you without your da’s blessing, lass,” he said, abandoning the proper address he’d always used. “’Tis not right, for a man to go behind a father’s back in such a way with his only child—and a wee daughter, at that. I’ll do my best to take him with us, of course, should he wish it.”

  The betrayal was doubled now, hearing Muir’s damnation and feeling the shame it implied. The scene before Tavish vibrated in his vision, his rage building up inside him like the molten scorn of a volcano.

  He hated them both in that moment.

  Glenna stared into the captain’s face, and Tavish could see that she was fighting to contain her emotion. “I’ll speak to him this morning,” Glenna promised. “I’ll make him understand, somehow.”

  “Well, doona stand there looking all cow-eyed at me then, lass,” Muir ordered gruffly and offered his elbow. “I’ve duties to attend to in readying the Stygian to depart—the wool and hides willna load themselves.”

  “Tell me about the ports. Belgium, perhaps.” Glenna slipped her hand around his arm and interlaced her fingers, and they began walking back up the point of the courtyard. Their voices were muffled as they passed in front of the smithy’s building, and when they emerged they were both laughing.

  Had Tavish ever made Glenna Douglas laugh?

  Had he ever heard her laugh before that moment?

  Tavish turned his back to the rough wall behind him, his boots feeling mired in the rocky soil among the straggling tufts of weeds. He stared out over the firth.

  The breeze had turned cold.

  * * * *

  Glenna pushed open her father’s door and peeked inside. Harriet Cameron was seated in a familiar-looking piece of furniture next to the window, chattering away as she took in the view. The old, ornate chair had still been in her own chamber this morning, as far as she could recall; before that it had lived for years in the old guest chamber, along with the damning portrait now hanging above the hearth.

  Apparently the chair had been moved here, to die alongside the other ancient artifacts of Glenna’s life after Tavish Cameron’s invasion: a small wooden table, a dented metal basin, Iain Douglas. They had all been relegated to this highest tower chamber, imprisoned together for the crime of steadfastness, of daring to remain loyal to Roscraig all these many years. She’d never asked why her father had kept such seemingly arbitrary furnishings when he’d sold most everything else, and now she thought that if she had only guessed at their implications, she would have burned the lot.

  Iain Douglas appeared to be staring at the handsome old woman, and Glenna hoped that he was in fact lucid, although his mouth still pulled dumbly to the right and the room smelled of sour sweat.

  “Good morning,” Glenna said and entered the room fully, leaving the door standing open to encourage the breeze from the window.

  “Oh, good morning, milady.” Harriet stood with a warm smile. She held a small hoop in her hand, the stitchery obviously forgotten in her cheerful monologue to her captive audience.

  Glenna walked to her father’s side and smoothed her palm over his forehead. “How are we today, Da?”

  His eyes jittered to the left to find her, a good sign of his mental clarity, but the whites were sickly yellow today, and the sight of them shocked her.

  “I’ve likely talked him deaf,” Harriet admitted and joined Glenna at the bedside. “But
he’s taken quite a bit of broth and some mead. What man refuses mead, though, I ask you? The likes of none that I’ve ever met.”

  Glenna smiled at her father and turned to Tavish’s mother. “Da does fancy a”—her words faltered as she looked into Harriet Cameron’s face and saw the deep tears glistening in her eyes above her smile—“he fancies a mug of good mead.”

  Harriet was nodding enthusiastically. “And he should have all that he wants, I say.”

  A thorny lump grew in Glenna’s throat. What the old woman had feared, what she had warned Glenna of when first taking over Iain’s care, was manifesting; had manifested in the night. While Glenna had been sating her erotic curiosity of Tavish Cameron in her bed, her father had begun dying in earnest.

  She forced down the lump and gave her own nod, but she had to clear her throat before the words could struggle through that scratchy cocoon. “I will stand at the ready,” she said.

  “Well, then,” Harriet said briskly while gathering up a tray of discarded bowls and linens, “I’ll just pop down to the kitchen and see about things. Is there aught I can fetch you, milady?”

  “Nay,” Glenna said. “I—I haven’t any need at all. Thank you, Harriet.”

  Tavish’s mother paused, the tray in her hands, as she looked to Glenna with an expression of pained sympathy. “Very well, milady.” Then she whirled and left Glenna alone with her father.

  She turned back to the man who still watched her with his yellowed, bloodshot eyes, the flesh of his face sagging on his skull. She opened her mouth to speak some inanity—what, she couldn’t say—but then closed it again as her father’s eyes beheld her. His gaze was more intense, more purposeful than it had been since he’d fallen ill—almost fever-bright—and yet his forehead had been cool to her touch.

  He was listening, she realized. He was listening for what she would tell him. And now she must tell him all.

  “I think I’ll steal Mistress Harriet’s chair,” she said to him with a small smile and squeezed his stick-thin forearm gently.