Judith E French (9 page)

Unsteady on his feet, he knocked against a stool and it went spinning across the room.

Anne bit her lip to keep from whimpering with fear. Ross was drunk. She couldn’t miss the strong stench of barley-bree that clung to his
breacan-feile
. She was at his mercy, and her experience with drunken men had taught her that they were seldom merciful.

“Hinney?” he called. His voice was deep and rumbly. “Hinney? Be ye awake?”

She heard the rustle of wool as he dropped his single garment to the floor and crawled between the sheets. The bed sank under his weight.

Anne’s heart hammered in her chest, and her palms grew damp. Fear curled in the pit of her stomach, igniting a spark of desire where she should have felt only ice.

What was wrong with her? What Ross had done before—stripping off his clothes and exposing his naked body, leaping onto that bull in full view of everyone—was barbaric. It proved he was as much a beast as the creature he’d ridden into submission. Any decent lady would be disgusted—revolted by the sheer savagery of the man.

But she wasn’t . . .

“Hinney?” he repeated.

A lock of damp hair fell across her cheek. Anne flinched. Somewhere, he had bathed. Though his kilt had smelled of whiskey, his squeaky-clean hair belied his drunken state. It felt like silk against her face. Black as midnight on a moonless night, smelling of heather. She stifled an urge to take that lock of hair between her fingers and rub it against her lips.

He chuckled softly, and she felt her skin grow hot, then cold. Her hands were burning up; her mouth was so dry that her tongue felt swollen. She could feel her blood pounding in her head.

“Anne.”

That strange colonial accent gave her shivers. Where had he gotten that slow, lazy lilt to his speech? She had heard other Americans, but they hadn’t sounded anything like Ross. His voice caressed her; it rolled off his tongue like warm honey.

He pressed his palm against her bare arm. Slowly, his hard fingers curled around her, searing her skin, sending her pulse racing. The spark in the pit of her stomach became a flame, and she could no longer hide her trembling.

“Hist, hinney,” he murmured huskily. “I’d nay harm ye.” He rolled over on his side, facing her, and she felt his warm breath on her skin.

She inhaled deeply, trying to clear her head, desperately fighting to keep her reason. Ross’s breath smelled of wild mint. She wondered if his mouth would taste of it.

“Ye need not fear me, lass.”

She found her tongue. “We . . . we had a bargain.”

“Aye.” He chuckled. “So we did.”

Every square inch of her skin tingled. She could feel the texture of the linen sheet under her legs, the scratchy threads of her shift stretched tight over her breasts—a garment that had felt as soft as buttermilk when she’d dropped it over her head. Her breasts ached, her areolas were swollen, her nipples were as hard and erect as if she had run naked in the cold rain.

“I have never known a man.”

“I gave ye my word.”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat, trying to contain the need that tantalized her, the unfamiliar yearning that seemed so natural, so right. “
I . . . I
will hold you to it, colonial.”

His fingers stroked her bare shoulder, sending rivulets of sweet sensation racing through her veins. “How can you be a widow if you’ve not known a man?” he asked.

“
I . . . I
was young,” she stammered. It was hard to form the words when his fingers were doing such tantalizing things to her shoulder, to her throat. “I was young . . . and he was . . . was old.”

“It must be a mortal sin to give a tender lass to one so old,” he murmured. “Your mother—”

“My mother hates me,” she said. “She always has.” It would give her strength if she thought of Barbara—strength enough to fight her own body’s betrayal of her will. “He was kind to me, my old husband.”

Ross moved aside her golden amulet and brushed her throat with his lips. “And you never wanted to cheat on him? Never wanted to take a lover?”

She gave a tiny moan. The fire in her loins had brought with it a deep, sweet aching. Unable to lie still, she squirmed unconsciously, knotting her hands into fists so tight that her nails cut into her palms. “Do you think a woman incapable of honor?” Her breath came in ragged gulps.

“Nay.” He kissed the hollow of her throat where the pulse beat close to the surface. “I’ve known women whose sense of honor would put men to shame.” His warm hand cupped her breast.

She gasped with shock and pleasure. “No! Don’t,” she begged. “You promised . . .”

“Aye, I promised I would not take your maidenhood.” His thumb teased her nipple, and she shuddered with delight. “I said nothing of giving mutual comfort.”

Anne opened her mouth to protest, and he kissed her full on the lips. He did taste of mint, with only the faintest bite of whiskey. Not unpleasant . . . definitely not unpleasant . . . His strong arms tightened around her. She could feel his power, could tell how hard he was fighting to hold his desire in check.

Her mind spun as she was caught up in his slow, tender caress. She tried to pull away, but her body refused to obey. Her lips returned the warm pressure of his kiss; her fingers traced the chiseled lines of his beautiful face.

“Ah, hinney.” His voice was strained and throaty. “It should be a mortal sin for a lass such as ye not to know love.”

“Love has nothing to do with what we’re about,” she replied, pulling away. She was breathless with excitement, scared and bold at the same time. Another moment and she would have opened her legs for him. Reluctantly, she gathered her wits. How could she have been so stupid? Men talked of love when they meant lust. She had no doubt she would have liked his lovemaking, but she wasn’t ready to give him that power over her—not yet. “You’ve the wiles of the devil, Ross Campbell,” she accused, but the amusement in her tone took the sting from her words.

“Aye,” he agreed, “and I’m a little drunk. I’d not have made that mistake and frightened you away if I was cold sober.”

It was her turn to chuckle. She rose up on one elbow. “We have a bargain. I’ll not hold this against you if you keep your word.”

“You liked it.”

She blushed.

He chuckled. “Admit it, hinney. A bed be not only for sleeping.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Where is that brave wench that broke a cup on my skull?”

“I liked it when you touched me . . . when you kissed me,” she answered softly.

“Good, ye had me worried. I’ve been without the warmth of a lass so long I was afraid I’d forgotten how.”

“I said I liked it—not you. I’ve had little experience with men. How do I know it wouldn’t have felt the same with any gentleman?”

“At least I’m a gentleman now,” he teased. “I remember when you called me a common thief.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I’d not call you a gentleman. Savage, perhaps, or colonial woodsman. It would cause a scandal if my friends knew I was here like this with someone like you.”

He beat his pillow into a lump and laid back on it with his hands behind his head. His thick hair fell down around his shoulders; it was nearly as long as her own. This time she couldn’t resist running a strand between her fingers.

“We could hardly cause a scandal, being newly wed,” he said.

“No wedding at all,” she reminded him, “and one I was forced into.”

“And one you’ll pay to get out of.”

She sighed. “You are the most exasperating man. I’d not be shocked to learn you’d escaped from Bedlam.”

He grinned, and Anne’s heart flip-flopped in her breast. Firelight illuminated his rugged features, making him seem younger, less threatening.

“You’ll get your money,” she said. “I’ll send a message to my family telling them of our wedding and asking them to release my funds. Just tell me how much you want.”

He named a sum. To her surprise, it was less than she’d expected. It didn’t make sense. Nothing about Ross Campbell made sense. The memory of his close brush with death when he’d taunted the bull rose behind her eyelids. “Why did you do it?” she asked suddenly. “What made you take on that bull by yourself? Why didn’t you just have him shot?”

“He was too good a breeding animal to be killed for meat. All he needed was ringing.” He reached out and touched her amulet. “I never stole this from you, did I?”

“Not yet you haven’t.” His fingertips brushed her throat, and the warm sensations started again. She pulled back. “Why? Why did you make a spectacle of yourself? Was it necessary to strip yourself mother-naked?”

Ross chuckled. “Aye, hinney, it was. I tried to ride an elk once with my clothes on, and he hung me in a tree. Clothes get in your way. Bare skin is safer if you mean to ride a wild creature.”

“Only a madman would try.”

Ross scratched her shoulder lazily. “Would ye mind if I kissed you again? You’re a bonny sight with your shift down around your breasts and your lips all soft and pouty.”

“No more kissing,” she said firmly.

He caught her hand and raised it to his mouth, nibbled first the tip of one finger and then another until she went all shivery. “Not even a friendly kiss to seal a bargain?” he asked. Capturing her index finger between his sharp white teeth, he bit down teasingly.

She jerked her hand away. “No kissing,” she repeated, “and no biting.”

“You’re an unforgiving lass, and that’s certain.”

“I’ll get you your money, and you can be on your way back to America.”

His expression hardened. “It’s all I ever wanted from you.”

She stared at him as he turned his back and pulled the covers to his neck. In minutes he was sleeping soundly while she lay awake wondering what she had refused, and if she would spend the rest of her life regretting her decision.

 

C
ursing the pools of stagnant water that soaked his expensive German boots and added to the misery of his headcold, Colonel Fitzhugh Murrane, the Baron Murrane, followed his lieutenant deeper and deeper into the bowels of Edinburgh Castle.

Since his bride had been snatched from his grasp two months ago, Murrane’s luck had turned sour. The story had spread through London in hours and to the far-flung counties within days. He had become an object of ridicule—the colonel who let a Scot outlaw rob him of his betrothed and make fools of his soldiers. The bandit’s impossible leap off London Bridge into the Thames was still being discussed in taverns across the land.

A military man, Murrane had given more attention to his career than to his estates. He was no country squire. The Barons of Murrrane had always put duty to the crown ahead of personal gain. As a result, he had inherited huge debts from his father, and he had continued to accrue bills for his own needs and for the maintenance of his private army. A man of his status had to keep up appearances; blooded horses, fine weapons, even these imported German boots were necessary to the image he maintained.

Twice before he had shored up his crumbling finances by marrying heiresses. The first had been a hag twice his age—she’d lived only six months after their wedding. The second had been a sickly slut with a harelip. Murrane’s mouth hardened as he remembered Agnes. She’d been six months pregnant when he’d come home unexpectedly to find her in the arms of his falconer. Both Agnes and her lover had taken a nasty tumble from the castle walls. Their bodies had lain in the dry moat until they were bloated and unrecognizable before he’d given the order to have them dragged out and buried in the pigsty.

He’d supposed his marriage to Anne Fielding, Lady Scarbrough, would be different. Not only rich, Anne was young and comely. He’d been assured that in spite of her mother’s reputation, the daughter was pious and obedient. Damn her to a fiery hell! He’d even given serious thought to getting sons of her body to follow in his footsteps and inherit the barony. Now all those plans were ruined.

“Watch the steps, sir,” the lieutenant said. “They’re steep and slippery as grease.”

A guard saluted and slid the bar on a low board and batten door studded with iron nails. Murrane’s man took a lantern from a hook on the wall and led the way down the winding stone steps into the blackness of the lower dungeon.

Murrane sneezed again and wiped his nose on his coat sleeve. He swore foully as his left foot slipped and he was forced to catch himself against a rough wall.

“You all right, sir?”

“By the Pope’s balls! Why did you put him down here? Do you know what I paid for these boots? They’ll be fit for nothing! This place smells worse than a battlefield in August.”

“Your orders, sir. The man’s a cleric, a dominie. These heathen Scots put great store on a man like him. You said to keep him safe and out of sight.”

Murrane grunted. The cleric had fallen into his hands by sheer accident the day after he’d received word from Lord Langstone that the girl had been married. One of his foot soldiers had been drinking in a pub and had overheard the prisoner boasting about the wedding ceremony he’d performed for the Master of Castle Strathmar. An hour later, the loose-mouthed dominie had found himself a guest in Edinburgh Castle.

Brown, his lieutenant, had been thorough in his questioning. Murrane pursed his lips. John Brown had been born the son of a tanner. He climbed to his rank by wit and courage. Brown attended to all of his duties well. If he hadn’t, he’d have been dismissed long ago. Brown had no family, no friends. His loyalty was unquestioned. It was an arrangement that Murrane found acceptable.

As if reading his mind, Brown spoke. “He was most cooperative, sir. He gave details of Strathmar’s defenses, inner and outer walls, number of soldiers and cannon. Strathmar won’t be easy to take, Lord Murrane. The castle is built on an island in a loch. There’s a narrow causeway which can be cut by dropping three wooden bridges. And when you reach the outer wall, the stone is fifteen inches thick. He says the Campbell men are known to be fierce fighters.”

“Hmmpt. I’ve faced Campbells before. They’re no better and no worse than any other Scot.”

The lieutenant grinned. “Right you are, sir. They piss themselves when they die like any other man. But this Master of Strathmar is no true Scot. He’s a colonial.”

They reached the bottom of the staircase and turned left down a narrow corridor. The roof grew lower and lower, the walls closer together as they walked down the sloping passageway. It seemed to Murrane as though the weight of the castle was pressing down on him. It was hard to breathe, and the air tasted foul. Something scurried away from his feet and disappeared into the shadows. Murrane shuddered. Damn, but he hated rats!

John Brown stopped by a door. “This is the cell, sir.” He fumbled with the rusty iron bolt and opened the door, then ducked inside and held the lantern at arm’s length.

Malcolm Campbell uncurled himself from his pile of damp straw and squinted against the light. He was naked; his face was battered and swollen, his hands devoid of fingernails on most of his fingers. He blinked and tried to stand, but his legs were too weak.

“You are the man who married Lady Scarbrough to this . . . this Ross Campbell?” Murrane demanded.

The prisoner’s pale blue eyes glowed with defiance. “Aye,” he croaked through broken lips. “Wedded and bedded they be, according to the laws of God and man.”

“You witnessed the bedding?”

Malcolm grinned, a terrible smile of shattered teeth and blood-caked tongue. “I and a score of others.”

“Was the lady forced? Did she protest the ceremony?”

The dominie tried to laugh, but it came out a choking gargle. “If . . . if ye saw the bridegroom, ye’d not ask. He’s twice the man ye be, and as beautiful as the Prince of Darkness.”

Brown raised a meaty fist to strike the prisoner, but Murrane stopped him.

“Don’t bother,” he said. He turned away, trying to control his seething fury. Anne had lain beneath the colonial dog while he pounded between her soft white thighs. She’d welcomed his rutting. Murrane felt sick to his stomach as a familiar pain knifed through his chest and radiated down his arm.

The whore! No better than her mother! He should have guessed. Murrane took a deep breath and turned back toward the shriveled cleric.

“If you want to leave here alive, you’ll answer my questions without offering insults to your betters.”

“Rot in hell, butcher of Sheriffmuir!” Malcolm Campbell flung back.

Murrane shrugged and walked out of the cell. Brown hurried after him. Murrane was silent until they reached the foot of the stairs.

“Send for another—” A violent fit of sneezing wracked Murrane. “Damn this cold,” he complained. He coughed up a lump of phlegm and spit. “Another hundred men,” he instructed. “Strathmar may be a tough nut to crack, but I have the time and the patience.”

“Cannon, sir?”

Murrane nodded and started up the steps. The Lady Anne had been widowed once; a second time should be no shock to her. Murrane would have her fortune and put an end to the laughter at his expense before the month was out. And once they were legally wed . . . He smiled coldly. He’d lost two wives already—would a third cause undue gossip?

Murrane’s fist struck the door twice before the guard opened it. Brown followed his master into the lighted corridor and hung the lantern back on its hook.

“What about the prisoner, sir?” the lieutenant asked.

“Kill him.”

“You want the body disposed of in the usual way, sir?”

Murrane shrugged again. “Why not? The pigs don’t mind.” He dismissed the dominie from his mind and continued toward the upper levels of Edinburgh Castle and a hot breakfast.

 

Anne wiped her sweaty brow and stepped back to look at the interior of Strathmar’s dairy with great satisfaction. No one who had seen the filthy dependency that morning would have believed that this clean, airy room was the same building!

The serving women had swept the birds’ nests and cobwebs from the rafters, and they’d scoured the stone troughs with sand until they shone silver-white. Mavis, elevated from her position of castle whore to housekeeper, had scraped and scrubbed the wooden floor until she complained that it was cleaner than the table in her hut. Boys had coated the walls with whitewash, and Hurley had fitted real glass panes into the tiny windows.

“God Almighty, Lady Anne,” Jeanne protested. “I ain’t never seen no dairy this bonny. ’Tis only for the making of cheese and butter, not fer laying out the dead.”

“This place looked as though the dead had been lying in it,” Anne retorted. “No wonder the butter was rancid and the cheese tasted like old stockings.” She looked down at her dirty hands with their broken fingernails and tried to keep a stern face. It was impossible; she began to laugh, and soon Mavis and Jeanne and the two boys were laughing with her.

The more Anne tried to control her amusement, the funnier it all seemed to her. “Lady Scarbrough,” she gasped. “Marchioness of Scarbrough . . .” If my family could only see me, she thought. I look like a scullery maid. Her gaze dropped to her left shoe, one of the shapeless leather slippers she had borrowed from Jeanne—it was soaking wet, and cobwebs were gobbed on the toe. “I look worse,” she managed between giggles. Tears of glee rolled down her cheeks as she dropped down on the stone steps and dissolved into peals of unrestrained laughter.

When she finally stopped, she looked up to see her grinning assistants staring at her as if she had suddenly taken leave of her senses. “Well,” she said, affecting her great-lady tone. “What are you waiting for? You lads start moving the clean butter churns and the milk buckets back into the dairy. Jeanne, you may open the pipe and let the water in.”

Despite Anne’s approving smile, they jumped to obey her orders. Jeanne pulled a china plug, and cold water from the loch ran down the stone trough into the soapstone sink and out through a hole in the far wall. Outside the stone-walled building, a water wheel powered by a crude windmill creaked and groaned as the steady stream of water continued to gush through the dairy.

“’Tis a miracle, lady,” Jeanne cried. Her blue eyes widened in delight. “Lidikins, but ’tis easier than lugging buckets of water up from the lake!”

“And the dairy will keep cooler in summer. The milk won’t sour so quickly,” Anne said, wiping her hands on her homespun skirt. “You’re in charge here,” she reminded Jeanne. “No one is to enter without clean hands and clothing. You and the other girls are to tie your hair up and cover it with cloths. If I find so much as a fly in the butter or a hair in the cheese, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Aye, m’lady,” Jeanne replied. “Whatever ye say.” The admiration in Jeanne’s eyes told Anne that if she’d asked the wench to fly off the top of the west tower, she’d have attempted it without hesitation.

“Mavis.” Anne turned her attention to the new housekeeper. New clothing and a decent cap hadn’t altered her lush attributes a whit. Mavis’s full breasts still strained the bosom of her dress, and her black hair continued to curl untidily around her sensuous face. Her half-closed eyelids and full pouting mouth always made the wench look to Anne as though she had just climbed out of bed . . . or was about to climb into one.

“Ma’am?”

“Go to the kitchen and tell cook to prepare pigeon pie tomorrow. The leftover lamb will do well enough for today, but I want fresh oatcakes for breakfast. Those we had today were fit only for the pigs.”

“Geordie cooks what he pleases, lady.” Mavis scratched her neck, and Anne made a mental note to order baths for all the castle servants on the first warm day.

“You tell him he’ll cook what I say, or he can find other employment. And tell him that if he ever tries to serve donkey to the lord’s table again, he’ll rue the day he was born.”

Mavis bobbed a curtsy and dashed off to follow her mistress’s instructions.

Anne stepped into the pale April sunshine and squinted up at the sky. It was late afternoon, and still chilly. The sun felt good on her face after the long damp winter. She took a deep breath and rubbed the small of her back, not wanting to think about what the sun and wind must be doing to her once flawless complexion. She was tired, but it was a good tired.

She had risen at dawn that morning, breaking her fast in the great hall with only the servants for company. Ross had gotten up even earlier and had ridden out with Rob and two other clansmen to hunt for deer. Foodstores were running low, and they needed meat to break the monotony of fish and oat gruel. Winter food was always less appetizing than that in summer and fall, but Anne had never had such poor choices at table as she had in the weeks she’d been held at Castle Strathmar.

But if the high table was bare, at least the dishes and the board were clean. Anne had kept her promises to Ross. She’d sent word of her marriage to her mother and asked for money, and she’d turned the great hall of the castle from a pigsty to a presentable chamber.

The servants had been unwilling, at first, to give up their slovenly ways and do as she bid them. Ross had cured the malcontents by throwing three men and one cursing woman—Mavis—into the loch. After that, they had given Anne the respect due the Mistress of Strathmar.

She had attacked the castle filth with a vengeance. She’d ordered the servants to drag out the filthy rushes and burn them. The bare stone floors looked as though they hadn’t been scrubbed in centuries; they were limed to kill insects in the crevices and then swept and washed down by the women. She had driven the dogs out of the great hall with a broom and forbidden anyone to bring them back until they were washed and brushed and free of fleas.