Читать книгу Traitor or Temptress - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 10

Silence lay heavily between them on the ride back to the castle, but each was conscious of the closeness of the other. With her back moulded to the hardened contours of Iain’s body, Lorne was more shaken by what had happened than she had let him see. Her throat ached and her eyes burned, but she would not cry.

They rode into the courtyard where a knot of men stood around waiting for them to return. Iain swung himself on to the ground and roughly pulled Lorne down after him. When she took a step back, his hand clamped down painfully on her forearm. Her face contorted with a new wave of pain, but Iain had his head turned away and didn’t see.

Archie rushed forward, relieved that Lorne appeared to be unhurt, but the same could not be said of his master. ‘My lord, your face is bleeding. It must be tended.’

Iain wiped his beard with the back of his hand, scowling when he saw the blood. He directed a single look at the woman by his side, his rapier-sharp gaze holding hers. ‘It will be tended, Archie, but not by you. Take someone with you to look for your horse. It bolted on hearing the sound of the horn.’

Still gripping Lorne’s wrist and forcibly pulling her behind him, Iain strode with long purposeful strides across the courtyard, through the trees and down to the burn. Once there he let go of her wrist and looked at her coldly. Lorne set her jaw and tried to fight the sudden fear that threatened to engulf her. She knew the folly of her escape effort, and retribution in the form of Iain Monroe had come swiftly for her foolishness.

‘Stay there,’ he snapped, knowing he would have to guard her carefully in the days ahead. She was impulsive and headstrong, and so unpredictable that he never knew what she would do next. Kneeling on one knee, he bent over the water and washed the blood from his beard. Standing and then resting his hips on a large boulder, which brought his face on a level with hers, he produced a small dirk from his belt, testing its sharpness with his thumb. His eyes were merciless when they settled on Lorne.

‘Come here.’

Mutely she obeyed and moved to stand in front of him, her eyes riveted on the knife. When he handed it to her, she took it with trembling hands. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Shave me.’

Her eyes widened until they were two great green orbs, and her soft lips parted in disbelief. ‘Shave you? But—I—I can’t,’ she whispered shakily. ‘Oh, no. Certainly not. I won’t do it.’

‘You can and you will.’

‘But—I’ve never—’

‘Now is the time to learn,’ he bit back, refusing to let her off the hook lightly. He noticed her shaking hands and his eyes narrowed. ‘And if you draw a single drop of my blood you must be prepared to suffer the consequences.’

Lorne’s eyes snapped to his, stormy once more. His tone threatened terrible consequences should she commit such a crime a second time. She did not know him well enough to discern what thoughts and intentions his face was reflecting, and she was unable to imagine what form his reprisals would take. However, hurt that he might believe she truly intended to harm him had the effect of subduing her nerves and reverting her to her former state of proud rebellion.

‘Are you not afraid that I might use this knife to slit your throat?’

Despite the stubborn tilt to her chin and her rebellious tone, there was a tiny quiver of fear in her voice, and when Iain heard it his heart softened. She had shown so much daring and amazing courage, so much indefatigable spirit in running away and fighting him so relentlessly, that he’d actually thought she was fearless. Now, however, as he looked at her, he saw the strain of the last twenty-four hours on her face, the mauve smudges beneath her eyes and her pallor.

‘No. I trust you,’ he said gently, deciding that helping her to relax while she held the knife was in both their best interests. ‘Just stay calm and you’ll do just fine.’

The soft words coming on the heels of his sudden change in persona from captor to carer took Lorne by surprise. It sounded nice, but she continued to glare at him in furious silence.

‘Now—come closer.’

Amazed by his unflappable calm, Lorne moved to stand to one side of him, intending to perform the dreaded task with as little contact as possible between them, but Iain had other ideas. Gently but firmly he took hold of her hand, drawing her closer so that she stood directly in front of him between his thighs. Placing his hands on her hips to prevent her moving away, his eyes laid siege to hers. In the circle of his arms he could feel the alert tension of all her muscles. Her stillness was like that of an animal poised for flight.

‘I want you where I can see you. Now—stop glaring at me and start shaving.’

Conscious of his hands holding her firm, with a militant look in her eyes she tipped his head back with her finger and began to ply the blade carefully to the lean contours of his jaw. Shaving the uninjured side of his face first, she passed the blade over his cheek, wiping it after each stroke on a kerchief which Iain provided.

‘If you cooperate, life will be much easier for you when we reach Norwood,’ he told her, his eyes tracing the classically beautiful lines of her face, thinking that she really was extraordinarily lovely, her skin fine and soft.

Lorne sighed, feeling inclined to do just that. For one thing she was in no fit state to continue sparring with him—not that she wanted to. She was also physically exhausted and her arm was hurting.

‘Have you never shaved your brothers?’ Iain asked conversationally, liking the feel of having her close. His gaze was able to dwell on her hairline, on the fine bloom of pale blonde hair, which was like a newborn babe’s.

Preoccupied with her task and gnawing on her bottom lip in deep concentration as she carefully applied the blade to that vulnerable area beneath his nose, she shook her head slowly. ‘I told you, I was sent to England to live with my grandmother. I haven’t seen either of my brothers for seven years.’

She paused in her task and frowned irately when she felt his hands slide further around her hips and tighten slightly on her bottom with the practised ease of a born seducer. The movement shocked her to the depths of her virginal innocence and made her heart pound in her chest.

‘I think you’re beginning to enjoy this. Do you have to hold me in quite that way? Please remove your hands,’ she said, meeting the enigmatic gaze of the man who was nine years older than her in years but centuries older than her in experience, who had done and seen everything there was to do and see, and who knew exactly the effect his intimate hold was having on her.

Her prim reprimand brought a reluctant smile to Iain’s lips and urged him to draw her a bit closer, settling her thighs intimately against his loins, the action flicking a fiery brand across his senses. ‘Not a chance. Not until you’ve performed your task to my satisfaction. I don’t want you taking off before you’ve finished removing my beard,’ he murmured teasingly, his warm breath touching her face.

Lorne began again, oddly relaxed by the low timbre of his voice and the steadiness of his gaze. ‘Do you always wear a beard?’ she asked softly.

‘No. Only when my military duties keep me away from home for any length of time—or when I’m hunting, as now. I find it tedious always having to shave.’

‘You have a manservant. Couldn’t he do that?’

He chuckled at that. ‘I wouldn’t trust Archie anywhere near my face with a sharp blade. I prefer to do it myself—unless there happens to be a pretty maid with a steady hand willing to perform the task for me.’

The softening of his voice caused Lorne’s heart to skip a beat. ‘I seem to recall you gave me little choice,’ she replied, avoiding his eyes by wiping the blade once more. ‘You—you are a soldier?’ she asked, not really surprised, for there was an aura about him of a man who had often confronted danger—and derived pleasure from it.

‘Was. When peace was restored between England and France, I returned to Norwood and vowed to live an untroubled life running my estate and pursuing life’s simple pleasures—which I was doing nicely until you came crashing into my life with all the force of a tribe of Highlanders. Unfortunately, peace at Norwood will not be restored until this business with your father is settled.’

‘I didn’t ask to be kidnapped,’ she retorted sharply. After a moment’s silence in which she was uneasily conscious of his eyes perusing every detail of her face, she said, ‘During the war with France, did you serve in Flanders?’

‘I did.’

‘Robert, my brother, was there, too.’

Iain scowled with derision. ‘I know—fighting for King Louis.’

Lorne was quick to defend her brother. ‘To be fair to Robert, he fights for what he believes to be right—just as you do—and his prime concern is for the Highlands and the Highlanders’ way of life. But I remember what you said when you came to Kinlochalen that day. You spoke the truth when you said the Highlanders were enmeshed in the ways of the past, settling scores by the old methods. You also said that the world is changing, that Scotland is changing, but Robert’s obstinate and independent spirit will never accept change.’

Iain regarded her in amazement. ‘Considering the short time you spent with your brother before you were sent to live with your grandmother, you appear to know him well. You also remember a great deal about that day I rode into Kinlochalen, Lorne McBryde.’

‘I remember everything about that day,’ she said quietly, meaningfully, a faraway look entering her eyes as she paused in her task. Her eyes settled on his. ‘I may have lived in England for the past seven years, but I was born a Highlander and my memory is long. Both Robert and James wrote to me on a regular basis at Astley Priory.’

Iain caught her gaze, and regarded her intently. ‘But when your father was sentenced to hang, to prevent the forfeiture of Drumgow and his estate, your brother signed an oath of allegiance before the start of ’92, submitting himself and his dependents to King William and his indemnity.’

‘Robert swore that oath in shame and bitterness in the presence of the Sheriffs at Inveraray, where my father will hang if he is caught. It is no secret that Robert is prepared to work towards a second Stewart restoration. For the most part he keeps his thoughts to himself, but his hatred of being ruled by an alien Protestant southern government is shared by many West Highland clans who, as you will be aware, form a hard core of implacable, obstinate dissent and remain loyal to the Stewart cause.’

Having removed most of his beard, Lorne paused to gaze at the face that was beginning to emerge. She saw arrogance in the jut of her captor’s jaw, and an indomitable pride and strength etched in every finely moulded feature. She was also beginning to sense a powerful charisma that had nothing to do with his handsome looks and powerful physique, or that mocking smile of his and brilliant flashing eyes.

Unbidden, another face floated before her eyes, a face so like this one, but without the arrogance and hard-bitten edge of experience and age. It was the face of his brother David, with features so fair and so perfect. She realised that David would have looked like the boy Iain had once been. Tears misted her eyes and a hard lump appeared in her throat.

‘What is it?’ Iain asked warily, seeing her distress and suspecting the reason for it.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat and whispered, ‘You—you look like—’

Iain’s features tightened and he stiffened, embracing her in a glance that was ice cold. ‘Don’t say it,’ he warned quietly.

Heeding the warning note in his voice, Lorne lowered her gaze and, resigning herself with a little sigh, continued with her task in thoughtful silence. Unwilling to let her stop talking and in an attempt to relieve the awkward moment, with his eyes fixed compellingly on her sweet, downcast face, Iain asked, ‘Did you enjoy living with your grandmother?’

She nodded, glad that he was no longer angry with her for reminding him of his brother. The mood of conviviality between them was a relief and she welcomed it. ‘I love her dearly. It may surprise you to know that my grandmother is Scottish by birth. Her family lived in Leith—but they’re all dead now. When my grandfather came to Edinburgh during the Civil War, he met and married her and took her to live at Astley Priory—his home near York.’

‘And your mother? How did she come to meet Edgar McBryde?’

‘When she came to Scotland with my grandmother on a rare visit to her family. She met my father in Edinburgh.’

Iain shifted his position to make himself more comfortable on the rock, his arms still folded around her in what had almost become an intimate embrace. ‘When this is over, will you ever forgive me for kidnapping you, Lorne McBryde?’

His question was so unexpected that Lorne searched for something to say. After a moment she shook her head, her hair rippling down her back like water from a pump, and she slanted him a smile so wide it was like the sun rising over the Scottish mountains. ‘Well,’ she said, trying to sound severe despite the mirth shimmering in her eyes. ‘I might forgive you for kidnapping me, because I understand why you are doing it, you see—but it’s a hanging offence to make me shave you.’

Iain laughed out loud at that, and the unexpected charm of his white smile that followed did treacherous things to Lorne’s heart. She was glad to discover he had a sense of humour.

‘Then I may repeat the offence by asking you to shave me again tomorrow—and each day after that while you remain at Norwood. Now—continue telling me how your parents met.’ Iain was amazed by his own curiosity to know everything about her, and sublimely content to let her beauty feed his gaze, creating within his being a sweet, hungering ache.

‘They were attracted to each other from the start, but my grandparents were against them forming any attachment. They did everything they could to keep them apart, but my mother was determined to have her way.’ Lorne smiled wistfully. ‘For all his blusterings, my father loved her deeply, and he was quietly proud of the way she would stand up to him and speak her mind. I recall him telling me how stubborn she could be—that she was as hot-headed as any man, and that she had a temper that could make a mountain tremble.’

‘She must have been a rare jewel, your mother.’

Lorne met his gaze, seeing his eyes were warm and smiling. ‘Yes, she was, although I don’t remember her very well.’

‘And she had traits that have been inherited by her daughter.’

‘It looks that way, I suppose. Anyway, she was set on marrying my father and in the end my grandparents gave in—but it broke their hearts. They never saw her again—or Robert and James. When my mother died I was three years old. Determined to abide by my mother’s wishes, my father made sure my education was taken care of and that I was taught English, although for most of the time I was virtually ignored and left to do very much as I pleased. If I had been a boy, it would have been different,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way, having accepted the truth of this at an early age.

About to attack the tuft of hair growing around the cut on his cheek, which she had left until last, she said, ‘After—after what happened—when my father was outlawed, as I have already told you I was sent to live with my grandmother.’

‘And now? Is there a reason for your return?’

She nodded, growing cold on being reminded of what awaited her at Drumgow.

Iain’s brows drew together into a slight frown as he looked at her, seeing her eyes were tinged with sadness. ‘Is it so very terrible?’ he asked gently.

‘It is to me,’ she replied quietly. ‘It is Robert’s wish for me to marry one of his neighbours.’

‘I see.’ His expression sombre, Iain considered her for a space, then asked, ‘And is this prospective bridegroom known to you?’

‘Yes—and to you, too, I believe. It is Duncan Galbraith.’

There was a moment’s silence as Iain digested this news and then he looked deep into her eyes. ‘So that’s the way of things. And do I detect a reluctance on your part?’

She nodded, seeing something in his eyes akin to compassion. ‘Because I was so far away I was unable to participate in the betrothal negotiations. With my father’s permission Robert proceeded without me. Duncan is Laird of Kinlochalen now. His older brothers were killed in a skirmish with a rival clan. Both Robert and Duncan welcome a union between our families and are eager for the wedding to take place as soon as I arrive at Drumgow.’

‘What I see in your eyes tells me that the bride is not so eager to sacrifice herself on the altar of matrimony merely to unite two ancient bloodlines. Why don’t you want to marry Duncan Galbraith?’

Lorne’s eyes fell from his. ‘I have my reasons. I am not obliged to share them with you,’ she answered quietly, wondering what his reaction would be if she told him that it was Duncan who had betrayed the whereabouts of Iain’s brother that day to Ewan Galbraith, and that because of it she had sworn an oath never to speak to Duncan again for as long as she lived. She could never forgive him, but nor could she convey the knowledge of what he had done to Iain Monroe either.

‘I don’t want to marry him—and I will beg my brothers’ understanding, but I fear my protests will be to no avail against Robert’s determination—and my father’s, if, as you say, he has returned to Scotland. In fact, I strongly suspect that it is my father who is behind it.’

Iain gave the proud young woman within the circle of his arms a long, assessing look. By kidnapping her he had inadvertently, but effectively, ruined all her chances of acquiring a decent husband in her grandmother’s genteel world—unless the scandal her liaison with Rupert Ogleby had caused had already put paid to that—but his instinct told him that these things would not concern Duncan Galbraith.

She was the precious property of Edgar McBryde, and—if young Ogleby was to be believed, at least in part, which he was inclined to do, for he strongly believed there was never smoke without fire—had already been enjoyed by one man. A lazy grin suddenly swept over his rugged face, for he would derive immense satisfaction and a good deal of pleasure in tasting for himself the delights of Galbraith’s lovely young bride before she reached the marital bed. It was the most exciting thought he had entertained in many months.

‘If you were hoping for a turn of fate, then perhaps I have inadvertently brought it about,’ he said, his iron-thewed arms tightening slightly about her slender waist and a slumberous expression appearing in his heavy-lidded eyes.

‘Oh? In what way?’ Lorne asked, becoming much too conscious of being held too close, and the magnetism of his powerful frame, that made her heart leap into her throat.

‘The way I see it, I may have done you a favour by kidnapping you. I may be saving you from a fate worse than death. Perhaps Galbraith will not be so eager to wed you when he knows I—his sworn enemy—am keeping you, since I am the one responsible for bringing his father to the gallows. He may even find someone else to marry.’

Lorne sighed, shaking her head slowly. ‘No, he won’t. Duncan and I were friends once. He was fiercely protective of me and always there. I was grateful to him—in fact, if it hadn’t been for Duncan and Rory, his younger brother, I don’t know how I would have survived when my mother died. But I remember him as an arrogant, possessive youth, and when he made up his mind about something, he would not let go easily.’

Iain looked down at her, his gaze attentive. ‘You have an interesting past, Lorne McBryde.’

‘I’m glad you think so, my lord. I would call it extraordinary.’ She focused her attention on the few remaining hairs around the cut on Iain’s cheek, eager to complete her task so she could break free of his hold, for she was aware of a gnawing disquiet settling on her at being held too close for too long. Somewhere deep within her a spark flickered and flared, setting her skin ablaze and filling her body with liquid fire. Despite her rioting nerves, outwardly she remained calm.

‘Now, hold still,’ she breathed. ‘Apart from the hairs around the wound I’m almost finished.’

A slow smile curved his lips. ‘Are you sure you have the stomach for it?’

A rueful smile brought up the corners of her lips. ‘I have a cast-iron stomach, my lord—although I must warn you that if you do not hold yourself still, it will hurt more before I’m through with you. I might even be tempted to mar your features permanently and make you look like Lucifer, as recompense for kidnapping me—which would certainly put paid to your handsome looks and amours with the ladies.’

‘Or enhance them,’ Iain countered softly, his eyes capturing hers with an intimacy that made Lorne’s blood run warm. ‘To be so disfigured might intrigue them—and make them wonder what it would be like to bed with the devil.’

As Lorne gazed at his proud aristocratic face, unable to conceal her naïveté, visions of such a thing happening brought two bright flags of scarlet to her cheeks and an uneasiness coursing through her. He was speaking to her as if he had ceased to think of her as his enemy, but as a lover, almost, and she was at a loss to know how to react. Deciding it was best to make light of the situation, which she always did when she was presented with an awkward moment, she gave him a beguiling smile.

‘And it will be their hell to pay if they do. Still—I’m sure you know what’s what.’

He gazed at her, eyes amused, a smile curving on his lower lip. ‘I’ve never had any complaints.’

‘I’m sure you’ve had a lot of practice. Maybe you and the devil aren’t so very different after all—and I must consider myself fortunate that our relationship is already established.’

‘And what is our relationship?’

She cocked her head to one side and looked at him squarely. ‘We are enemies, of course. What else?’

His eyes glowed wickedly. ‘What else indeed. I do not claim to hold your family in any esteem—but you—you are a different matter, Lorne McBryde. You intrigue me and I have a yearning to get to know you better. For the time we are together, can we not, in common agreement, strive to be as gracious and mannerly as it is possible for enemies to be towards each other?’