The Laird Read online

  There was a shout, and both men turned to see one end of the scaffold slide and a stonemason leap free just before it came crashing down. The man was unhurt but shaken, and large blocks of stone lay broken on the ground.

  “Grant pardon,” he kept muttering, shaking his head, his leather apron covered in stone dust, “grant pardon.”

  “Take him to the shade,” Rob said, “and give him some ale.”

  The master mason gave directions for new stone to be cut, while the shaken worker was given a jug of ale. Rob surveyed the damage with Simon, his cousin’s attention diverted at last to the waste of coin the accident caused. Once, Simon had been steward to Nigel Bruce, but since that man’s death at the hands of the English, he had remained in Glenlyon with no desire to leave. A brutal death, the same as suffered by William Wallace years before, and it had done for Simon. He’d loved the king’s brother, for all of Nigel Bruce’s reckless foolishness at times, and he grieved for him still.

  It was a grief Rob understood well.

  So many lost, comrades in arms as well as kin. And it was not over, not with Queen Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer the real power behind the boy king on the throne. It was whispered they had murdered Edward II, a foul crime unproven—yet. Now they turned to the Scottish king, with the blood of their own king still on their hands.

  If peace was to last, Robert Bruce must drive home his point with ruthless finality. Edward III was young yet and would likely never be the warrior-king Longshanks had been. King Edward I had died fighting Scotland, not of wounds received but of age and rage for battles lost.

  But God, Glenlyon was weary of war, of the smell of blood and sound of battle. There always seemed to be another battle to fight. Another death to grieve.

  He thought of Lady Lindsay in the first-floor chamber, his own chamber, where he would have glass in the window for his mother’s memory. It seemed oddly fitting for the lady to be there.

  Hostage to Argyll, she was hostage still in Glenlyon, of a different sort, perhaps. To negotiate her release to her family, he risked losing all.

  And in truth, his thoughts of her had changed direction from what once they had been, diverted somehow from terms of her importance as a hostage to memories of grass-green eyes and a tempting smile, of the soft cushion of scented skin beneath his hand. And she knew it.

  That stormy day in the solar had altered more than perceptions. He’d seen that in her eyes, in the heated awareness of him, though no words had passed that gave him reason to think she thought of him as more than captor.

  Restless, he strode into the hall. Soft gloom closed around him, a marked difference from the bright light that was so welcome outside. His eyes adjusted slowly to the change. It was quiet here, the clamor of building a muted sound within these thick stone walls.

  So much yet to do, and the burdens of the days dragged into his nights, leaving him unsettled and sleepless. How did he reconcile his duty with his desires? Abducting the lady from Lochawe and Argyll’s custody ignited trouble, he knew that well enough, yet there had been little choice.

  Gone was the man he knew as Angus Campbell, and in his place was a stranger, a brutal man intent upon his own destruction, it seemed, any fairness vanquished by grief and a misplaced sense of honor. To leave Lady Lindsay there would have meant her death.

  And to bring her here may well mean his own.

  In terms of practical defense, he could count on the MacGregors, MacCallums, and MacNeishes to rally to his cause, should it be required, but Argyll commanded many more men. Rob had not yet been laird of Glenlyon long enough to assess the mood of those who now swore to him, was not certain of their loyalty.

  Christ above, he was not now certain of anything, the order of the world set awry by his own hand. He’d set himself against his father and against Argyll—overlord, for all that he was so treacherous. All for the sake of a woman, an act he once would have sworn he would never commit.

  Not for him the gallant rescues plied by chivalric knights of the minstrels’ lays, idle amusements that had no bearing on truth. Rare was the lady who would inspire men to such foolhardy risks.

  And yet . . . and yet the Lady Lindsay had induced him to her cause without a tender word from her, without the sweet reward of her surrender. He wondered at his own recklessness in taking her from Lochawe. Other means may well have seen her safe, a message to Argyll, perhaps, or even to the king, as the Earl of Wakefield was a powerful adversary to anger.

  Yet he had brought her here, to a keep not yet strong enough to tolerate assault or even a siege. He must have been moon-mad. She wanted to go home. He should send her.

  “Give you good day, sir,” the soft, familiar voice of his dreams said behind him, and he turned, the knot in his belly drawing tight as Lady Lindsay glided across the hall. Her saffron léine was belted around slender hips, falling to her ankles, and she wore a kerchief over her hair.

  “There is ale in the jug,” he said after a moment, with a wave of his hand toward the table, and she smiled.

  “Aye, so there is. I placed it there myself this morn.”

  “Did you?” An answering smile dragged at his mouth. “I should have known you would resort to housewifery.”

  “Idle hands belong to the devil, I was taught as a child. My mother always insisted my sister and I learn all to know about tending a household. It is easier to instruct if one has experience with the task.”

  “Do you black boots as well?”

  “Ah, no, but I have mixed the concoctions for it.” Her smile lingered as she crossed to the hearth, where a fire burned steadily and without smoke. “There is art to even laying a proper fire, but the drawing of it depends upon the stonemasons. If they do not know their task, smoke will fill the hall.”

  Despite her smile and apparent composure, she betrayed tension with the restless motions of her hands, the self-aware touch of her fingers to her brow, to the white kerchief folded over her hair, then the flutter of her hand as she gave a swift stroke along the table’s surface. She prowled like a nervous feline, moving from hearth to table to the stack of benches against the wall.

  “I will not send you to Argyll, my lady,” he said, and she grew still, half turned from him, one hand lying upon the edge of a bench.

  “Will you not?”

  “You are more useful to me here.”

  She turned then, eyes wide. “Useful?”

  “Aye, there are few here who know how to black boots and lay fires.”

  He’d expected a smile at his jest, but she did not. A strange expression marked her face, and hot color rose in her cheeks.

  “Is that all you think of me, laird of Glenlyon, that I am useful?”

  Unexpected anger flashed in her eyes, and he frowned. “What would you have me say? That I will not release you to Argyll or Lochawe because I would rather send you to your father?”

  “Is that the reason?”

  “It has occurred to me. Do you not want to go home? Is that not what you said to me in the tower of Lochawe? Christ above, woman, you are as changeable as the wind.”

  “I have not changed in what I want, Glenlyon,” she said as she came toward him, halting within a hand’s breadth to stare up at him with surprising ferocity. “I want now what I wanted then, what I wanted six years ago.”

  At a loss in the face of her fierce emotion, he shook his head. “It is not my duty to know what you want, nor your privilege to demand it.”

  “Oh aye, it has never been my privilege to demand the courtesy of consideration for my desires, but only that of men to dictate my actions, what I do or say, or even what I think or feel! I weary of it, by God, weary of being a pawn for the idle amusement or convoluted schemes of men. It seems I misjudged you, Robert Campbell, for you did not take me from Lochawe to save me but for reasons of your own that have little to do w
ith my welfare.”

  It was so inherently unjust that he did not reply for a moment, only stared at her with his temper rising.

  “Aye, lady,” he said softly after a moment, and saw her take a step back, “you have certainly misjudged me if you think I will tolerate unfounded accusations.”

  “How are they unfounded?”

  He’d mistaken her backward step for a retreat, it seemed, for she launched another assault.

  “Was I consulted before I was dragged the breadth of all Scotland to appease the greed of a baron? Nay, nor was I asked if I had a defense against an accusation of witchcraft by an old woman given to practicing her own spells—”

  “That has nothing to do with me.”

  “No, but I do not recall your asking if I wished to leave Mairi behind and come with you.”

  “You prefer drowning or burning?” He set his jaw and said through clenched teeth, “By hell, lady, if you prefer death to my company, tell me now, and I’ll oblige you quick enough!”

  There was an instant of silence before she said softly, “Were I given the choice, I would have chosen to be with you over any other, Campbell of Glenlyon.”

  It shocked him. The implications of her words sank into him like a stone, and he stared at her with narrowed eyes. A hush descended upon the hall. He was aware of workmen on the far side, trapped by their battle, caught between escape and notice. It was the time but not the place to continue this discussion, and he had no intention of abandoning it.

  His arm flashed out, his hand curling around her wrist to pull her with him across the hall. There was a soft gasp from her, and behind him he heard Simon’s startled curse.

  “Sweet Christ! There is mischief afoot!”

  “Nay, Simon, no mischief,” he said as he drew the lady with him to the staircase that spiraled upward, “only a pleasant conversation we wish to continue in privacy instead of within hearing of half of Glenlyon.”

  Resistance trembled in the tensed muscles of her arm as he pulled her up the steps, but she made no sound. It was just as well. He would not have heeded any protests she made now.

  Torches batted shadows into the corners, the first-floor corridor dim and cool. The oaken door to his chamber was ajar; it was much brighter there, the window embracing soft breezes and sunshine. Dust motes rode hazy bars of light that picked out details on the stone mantel over the hearth. Carved lions, fleeing hinds, woodsmen captured for all eternity in stone were the only witnesses when he closed the door behind them. Rare privacy.

  He released her arm. Dignity marred by anger stared back at him, the window light a relentless inquisitor.

  “What did you mean, Lady Lindsay?”

  Her chin lifted, a gesture he had come to recognize. “I meant that you need not have imposed your desires on me without my permission.”

  “Nay, lady, that is not what you said.”

  She looked away, the flush on her cheeks an eloquent admission. Her lips flattened, and her husky voice was so low he had to lean close when she said, “I said I would be with you over any other by my own choice.”

  “Yea,” he said, “so you did.” He drew in a deep breath. An unfamiliar warmth that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with softer emotion eased into him to leave him uncertain. He had wanted verification, and now he had it. But he was at a loss about how to respond.

  He wanted to touch her, to put his hand against her cheek and feel her warmth; he wanted to take off her ugly kerchief and unbind her hair so that it spread over her shoulders in a gleaming cape like silk. He wanted, he thought fiercely, to hold her through as many long nights as the world would grant them.

  God, life was inherently precarious and uncertain, and this lady who stood before him in eloquent and vulnerable dignity was an unexpected gift.

  He was not the man to refuse such bounty.

  When he put out his hand, she hesitated only an instant before placing her slim white fingers into his palm, and he had to curb the impulse to move too swiftly. Slowly, he drew her closer, turned her hand over, lifted it to his lips. He heard the soft inhalation of her breath when his mouth moved from the hill of her palm to her wrist, his tongue flicking out to tease the delicate blue tracery of veins visible beneath her pale skin. The faint scent of heather drifted toward him, struck him with all the potency of a blow, and he held tightly to restraint.

  “You smell,” he murmured against the cushion of her wrist, “like a Highland heath.”

  Faintly, “’Tis heather”—her voice caught when his lips worked up her arm, the loose sleeve of her garment offering scant barrier—“put into chests to keep”—another catch in her voice when his tongue washed over the bend in her arm and moved higher—“moths away . . . oh my . . .”

  He glanced up, burning with growing desire. Her lips were parted, eyes a shadowed green, and the pulse in the hollow of her throat was a faint throb beneath soft skin.

  Jesu! His need grew apace with the delay, and he fought the urge to take her standing against the wall. This was a lady, not some village trull, and he was no greenling unable to master his need.

  He put his hand beneath her chin, pressed his forehead against hers, breathing her in as he gave her the chance to refuse him.

  “Lady, should you yield, you are compromised. There may be no ransom of you if your father learns you have lain in my bed.”

  “What of you?” she whispered. “Is the ransom what you wish most?”

  “Ah, no. It is not.” He spread his fingers under the kerchief atop her head, pulling it free and loosening the pins that held her hair. “What I hold in my arms is treasure enough for me.”

  Chapter 16

  TIME SPUN, SHIMMERED with the echoes of his words. No man had ever thought of her as a treasure. Emotion closed her throat so that she could not speak, could only pause for what seemed an eternity. So many doubts, fears, and longings coursed through her, and overriding all was the dawning of hope, sparked by the simple words of this Highland laird.

  A shiver swirled through her. He looked so intense, the light from the window bright on his shadowed jaw, gleaming in the smoky gray of his eyes.

  “Ah lass,” he murmured when the silence stretched so long she ached from it, “you do not have to answer me now if it is not what you want.”

  Her hand lifted to cup over his, over the strong brown sinews and corded muscle, holding his palm still against her cheek. Blood pounded loudly in her ears, and the breath was scant in her lungs.

  “How . . .” She paused, licked lips that were dry and trembling, tried again. “How will I know what I want? You have made no vows, and I have not asked for any.”

  Would he pledge to her? Would he say that he wanted her to stay with him for love and not reward?

  “I brought you here.” His finger circled her ear, a light touch that ignited heat. “That is pledge enough that I mean to see you safe.”

  A knot formed in the pit of her stomach; tension pulled it tight as she shook her head.

  “Nay, I would have the words.” She looked away, tried to stifle the rising surge of disappointment and distress, but she knew that she could never yield until she heard them. It was more than honor that stayed her. It was the knowledge that she required allegiance before she could give her heart, and that is what it would be with this man. To yield her body alone was not enough.

  He blew out a soft sigh of exasperation. “Sweet lady, I can vow to protect you, to keep you safe from your enemies and mine to the best of my skill and intention, but I warn you that your family will not approve any binding vows.”

  “It is not their approval that concerns me.” She looked back at him, studied his face, the handsome features that she saw even in her dreams, so dear to her.

  His brow shot up. “You want the blessing of the church? All of Scotland is under an inte
rdict by the pope that bans priests from performing marriages or even prayers for the dead—”

  “’Tis not the blessing of my family nor the priests, nor even God, that I ask now, Robert Campbell, but of your own intent.”

  Warm window light caught in his hair, gleamed in the sudden spark in his eyes. She recognized a struggle in him, in the shadows that rose to drown the light. He did not love her. He may want her, but he did not love her. . . . How foolish she had been to think he might, to think that she would find love in this Highland laird.

  His silence lengthened. She watched window light shift while the bleak shadows of old grief swooped to claim her. He would say he could not, would say that her value as a treasure lay in her worth to earls and kings.

  It was not unexpected.

  Yet, for a brief span of time, a bright hope had flared inside her that had turned her days to light instead of dark. It was difficult to extinguish it.

  “Lady mine,” he said softly, “I have little enough to offer. All I have is this tower and a few tenants, and even that coveted by Argyll. I can promise you nothing but great toil ahead and the possibility of total ruin always lurking outside my gates.”

  “And you believe that I wish your lands instead of your vow?” She stared at him, shook her head slowly. “How little you know of me, Glenlyon. It is not that which lures me to you, for I have lands enough of my own, albeit English and not Scots.” She put her hand on his arm, felt his muscles tense beneath her touch, saw the gathering frown on his brow, and knew he did not understand. “Lands matter, yea, and ’tis all I have had to count my worth these past years. But it is lately come to me that there are things far greater in value than fields and cattle.”

  “Easy enough to say when one owns fields and cattle,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “Far less easy to say when it is a fight to gain and hold even a sprig of heather to call your own.”