Surrender (3 page)

Graemme stood in the dim solar, a guard on
either side, and eyed the large, heavy man sitting in near-shadow
across from him. A brace of candles stood no more than five paces
behind the chief. Their weak light accented the stubborn set of the
lord's jaw on the right side of his face. Graemme knew from earlier
this eve when he had entered the keep, that the man's hair was dark
brown or near-black like his eyes. For certs, his neck looked
strong enough to support the head of a bull.

This angry Scot was not unlike Graemme's own
father in coloring. Huh. Not unlike in body build, either. They
both could be mistaken for Zeus in human form.

"Ye'd best tell me how ye lured my daughter
to swive with ye right out in the open where any randy bastard
could watch!"

Chief Broccin slammed his fist down on the
table, causing the pewter cup to tilt and splash near half the ale
onto the wood.

"I have told ye times aplenty that we
were not swiving
. She fell out of the tree and landed atop
me." Graemme's jaw snapped together.

Just mentioning it, Graemme remembered the
feel of her soft body stretched atop his own hard flesh. With
little thought, he could also see her wet smock revealing ivory
skin and small, beautiful breasts—and the dark triangle guarding
that honeyed place when Domnall snatched her away. Feeling his
shaft stirring, he shifted the helmet over his sex.

"Ye expect me to believe ye walked up to the
well, got yerself nekid and a beautiful young woman fell from the
tree like a ripe apple and splattered on ye?" Broccin's glare at
Graemme showed he wanted to sever his cock and stick it on a spear
as a warning to all men.

Shite! He'd best keep to the edge of truth in
case the girl lacked sense and told him all. Agh! Hopefully, not
all
.

"Not quite fell. A foot dangled near in front
of my eyes. I grabbed it, thinking to prevent having my throat slit
in the dark. I didn't know it was your daughter until you called
her such."

Broccin snorted in disgust.

"That's just rat-brained enough to be true.
What think ye, Domnall?"

"We have found the lady in far stranger
places, my lord. She didn't look to be too distressed. Not enough
for you to maim or disfigure a man."

"Distressed? Humph. Looked to be enjoying
herself, to my eye." He scowled at his commander. "What think ye to
twenty lashes?"

"Ye canna thrash yer own daughter!" Graemme
was sick at the thought.

"Not her, dumb wit. Ye."

He swallowed and tried not to flinch.

"I dinna think yer son Ranald would forgive
ye if that were to happen. He's sensitive to that, ye know,"
Domnall said.

"Mayhap take a finger or two? Or the toes on
one foot?"

"Nay. No maiming. The lasses dinna take
kindly to men leaving trails of blood when they run from the
keep."

"Well, then. I'll think of something that
will satisfy me in another way." He snorted and jutted his chin at
Graemme's bare sex peeping below the helmet. "And get him a kilt
out of the chest!

Domnall jerked open the wooden chest beside
the fireplace and tossed Graemme a wide length of wool cloth.

Keeping his back to the Chief, Graemme
quickly changed his clothing. Once he'd draped the kilt over his
shoulder, he tucked the end beneath the belt. He didn't know
whether he was over the worst of it or not.

Eying his sword, he could forget about asking
for its return.

For now.

Broccin motioned for him to sit in a chair
opposite him and spoke again as if he had not stopped before. "But
I'll not have Ranald's temper disrupting things if he finds a new
bastard at Raptor next summer."

'Twas
not
the end of it. The worst
was coming.

"He'll wed her."

"What?' Graemme sprang upright. Suddenly the
thought that mayhap twenty lashes would have been easier, entered
his mind.

"Dinna play like ye have no ears. Ye heard me
aright. Sit!"

He stood as still as stone until Domnall
shoved the chair to brush the back of Graemme's legs. He sat.

"You may go," Domnall said to the two guards
patiently waiting, and grinning, behind Graemme. "Check on his men
in the stable. Make sure they have pallets for the remainder of the
night."

After the door closed behind them, Chief
Broccin poured three cups with ale, slapped one down in front of
Graemme then pulled his seat closer to the table opposite him.

"Give me yer family name and holdings."

"I am Graemme, the youngest son of Angus, The
Morgan of Clibrick Castle in the Highlands."

Broccin nodded, looking satisfied.

Shock began to leave Graemme, replaced by
cold anger. Had they been playing with him this entire time? He
scraped the chair sideways and stretched out on it. Slowly
sprawling his legs in a comfortable way, he swigged the ale
pretending he had known they bluffed about the whipping and the
maiming.

He had no recourse but to marry. No one would
believe he had not been ramming his cock into her when they had
witnesses aplenty that he was nekid beneath her. With his hands on
her bare arse as further proof.

"Ye wish me to marry yer only daughter when
ye know nothing about me?"

"Aye. I wish it. I know enough. Ye are sprung
from the loins of The Morgan of Clibrick."

"Huh! Being The Morgan's son makes me a
worthy husband for yer daughter?"

"Nay. Dinna be a gowk. Ye are the first man
she canna refuse to wed for her usual silly reasons."

He thought Graemme a fool? Was the man dafty?
From the sounds of it, this Elyne had suitors aplenty. He wondered
what those
silly
reasons were. Mayhap he could use one of
them himself.

Graemme had no wish to wed. Had no time for
it, either. If not for his brother Magnus' inflexible quest for
revenge, Gramme would never have stopped at Raptor. He should have
paid heed to the tales of strange happenings at the castle. Huh!
He'd thought it naught but fanciful thinking. What man could turn
into a black raptor at will? Nor did he believe if the lass didn't
favor a suitor, she called on a frightful crone to roam the halls
at the midnight hour to protect her.

He cleared his throat, hoping to clear his
mind.

"When yer daughter has naught but foolish
dreams, how can she refuse to wed where ye wish?"

"Did ye not talk to my daughter afore ye
swived her?"

"I did not..."

He groaned hearing Domnall smother a laugh
with a cough. Seeing the rage build in Broccin's face, he sought to
cool it.

"I meant to deny that I took advantage of yer
dear daughter. It was a strange accident and nothing more."

"Still, ye have ruined the girl. She must wed
and even she canna deny that." Chief Broccin turned to Domnall and
scowled. "Send for the little fool afore she has time to make up
some ridiculous dream to get herself out of this scrape."

Domnall was up and lifting the latch before
he finished speaking. Graemme rolled his shoulders, wishing he was
anywhere but here. A cold draft of air from the opening door blew
between his bare legs and up beneath his kilt, tickling the hairs
on his stones. He'd always thought Lowland Scots were soft as their
neighbors in Northumbria. Not so this family. The window shutters
stood open letting the cold night air gust into the room. The
candlelight flickered and all but two lost their flames as Domnall
returned.

"Relight the cursed things. Too bad Ranald
isna here to see to it properly."

A strange thing to say. Domnall frowned at
his lord and gave a slight shake of his head at the chief then bent
to light a twig.

The room was large, even compared to Clibrick
Castle. They sat at a sturdy table, centered in the room. A vivid
tapestry warmed the long wall behind Chief Broccin. It caught him
up in it. It was so vivid he felt he was standing atop a hill
gazing across a lush, green valley where an abbey or convent stood
in the distance. He could not tell which, but the stone cross above
the entrance signaled it was either one or the other.

The wall opposite held naught but several
battle weapons. A mace, a war hammer, a much-used bow and a
broadsword flanked a shield. Two shiny, black eagles flew on a
field of yellow; a red bar, painted diagonally across, divided it.
There were dents in the shield. A rusty stain...

He didn't ask about it.

He had walked by a small table when he'd
entered and saw what looked to be maps or parchments of some kind.
One lying open showed sketches of hills, trees, castles and
such.

A man's room. He would relish hearing what
went on within that room over the years. Huh! It would likely turn
his straight, black hair to curly gray.

The door burst open and Elyne hurtled in,
stirring the air in the room enough to snuff out more candles. The
lady Joneta followed at a more dignified pace. The guard started to
go toward the hearth, but Broccin threw up his hands and gave a
disgusted look.

"Dinna bother. She'll flutter around and put
them out faster than we can keep them alight."

Elyne took in the scene the minute she
entered the room. The Highlander sat across from her father, his
body relaxed as he leaned back in the chair, his long, hairy legs
sprawled comfortably in front of him. A kilt covered his pertinent
parts, but it left from his knees downward bare.

A soft repetitious sound drew her gaze to his
left hand. 'Twas fisted until the knuckles were white, striking
against his knee. Hm. The kilt slung over his shoulder sagged open
and revealed the mat of crisp black curls that covered his chest.
The pulse jumped in his neck, fast and strong.

Agitated.

His chin was far stronger than she remembered
from her first glance of him. It was deeply shadowed as were his
cheeks. His thick hair was a mess. Probably dealing with her father
made him near pull it out in frustration.

He looked tired and irritated. More than
irritated. He glared at her as if he blamed her for his dire
straits.

She scowled back and rubbed her fingers over
the soft kilt folded in her arms to keep herself from sniffing it
one more time afore she returned it to him.

As she dropped the kilt unceremoniously onto
his lap, she glanced aside at her father and held her head
high.

"Ye suggested I flutter? I ne'er
flutter."

"Next ye'll be sayin' ye are sure-footed as a
barn owl walkin' the rafters."

"That I am."

Why did the Highlander stiffen?

Her father pounced on her answer quick as a
hawk seizing a plump grouse.

"Ha! Then ye didna fall out of the tree like
a rotten apple. 'Tis good ye took a fancy to Graemme here since
ye'll be weddin' him once we settle the time."

Lady Joneta spoke quickly. "Brother, do not
decide in haste. Perchance there is a good reason for what we saw
this night?"

"Aye. I canna marry him! He will...he
will...," she spluttered, not knowing what he would do to cause
disaster in a marriage since she had not as yet had a final dream
about him. Most revealed themselves sooner, but the dreams of the
black wolf, though frequent, had not been complete enough to know
the danger that awaited.

"He will what? Bring his leman to live with
ye at his keep? Throw ye from the battlements when ye dinna produce
an heir? Will he show himself to prefer young boys over ye after ye
wed?" Broccin's brows lifted.

"They were all good reasons, Father!"

"Hm. Mayhap. But ye have no good reason not
to wed Graemme here and a very good one for marrying."

"Pfft. What good reason could that be?" Elyne
shrugged.

Lord Broccin's face hardened, his chin thrust
forward.

"If ye dinna, I am tempted to relieve yer
friend here of his stones...." His voice trailed off as he leaned
back in his chair and waited for her reaction.

The Highlander bolted upright in his chair.
Elyne tapped a finger on her chin and rolled her eyes upward to
study the ceiling, wondering if she should consider defying him
further.

Broccin's lids lowered. His back eyes
smoldered with menace. In a slow, silky voice, he continued. "Now,
then. Afore I am through cleanin' my blade, I will have Domnall
here get coins apleanty from my money chest. He will use them to
pay the good sisters at Mary Magdalen to keep ye there for the rest
of yer hapless life."

Domnall, casually leaning one shoulder
against the side of the fireplace, clamped his lips together so
tightly they lost color. Lady Joneta gave a low cry of fear.

"For shame, brother. You canna mean such
cruelty." Lady Joneta moved to stand between Elyne and the
chief.

"Ye think not?" He snarled low in his throat.
"Did no one learn from the last time a child of mine sought to
thwart me?"

Terror filled Elyne. Her throat closed and
her heart pumped as though she had raced up the stairwell clear to
the top of the corner tower. She folded her arms across her chest,
her hands clenching her forearms to hide their trembling.

She didn't doubt him, had good reason not to.
Her sire had ordered Domnall to abandon her brother Ranald at Kelso
Abbey. How could a father yell he didna care whether his son lived
or died as long as he never returned to Raptor Castle?

One thing she knew full well. A man valued
his sons far more than he did any daughter. Her only worth was in
marrying well and providing him with a good alliance and extra
land.

Graemme surged to his feet, spilling the
carefully folded kilt to the floor. Never had he known a father to
cause such fear equal to what he sensed in Elyne. Her face turned
ashen, her eyes took on a hunted look and he had no doubt her knees
quaked. But for all that, her chin lifted. For certs, the lass had
a warrior's courage!