Authors: Allison Butler
Not only could her clansmen be in danger, her husband might be, too. What if Jeanne had returned home and trouble had followed her? If Lachlan met Jeanne, would he be enchanted by her beauty as most men were? He could seek the annulment Kenzie had asked for when they were first wed, toss her aside and then petition to wed Jeanne.
Kenzie shivered as a cold hand of fear clutched her heart.
***
Lachlan rode out of Castle Redheugh’s gates and acknowledged one of the guards standing watch over his herd’s winter enclosure. He hunched his shoulders against the chill of the driving rain and sought the safest path to lead his score of men. He held De Brus at a steady pace, cursing the clouds blanketing the moon, cursing Lennox Irvine’s ill timing; cursing for the sake of cursing.
Christ! He should be sitting by his hearth with his bride’s innocent touch scorching his thigh instead of riding across the sodden hills toward Irvine Keep. He ached to taste Kenzie’s sweetness, wanted to feed her awakening desire, encourage her to explore every inch of him. He burned to make her his.
His groan was lost in the rumble of hooves on soggy ground.
The trouble at Irvine had to be dealt with first. Had reivers left their fires to lift Lennox’s cattle on such a foul night? Part of him hoped there’d be a need to draw his sword to alleviate the restlessness clawing at his gut.
Keep Irvine’s dark visage sat like a black smudge on a charred parchment. Twin flames, suppressed by iron covers against the rain, marked the entrance high on the wall.
As he and his men approached the closed gates, Lachlan strained to hear any sign of preparations from within. Nothing. The skin across his shoulders tightened, rippled with unease.
‘Who goes there?’
‘I am Lachlan Elliot, from Castle Redheugh.’
One of the huge timber gates slowly creaked open.
‘Be ready,’ he warned in a low voice. Duff and Lundy passed the command on to the men gathered behind.
Lachlan grasped the hilt of his sword and nudged De Brus through the opening into the deserted bailey. Drawing rein close to the steps leading into the keep, he dismounted, irritation creeping up his spine with every indrawn breath. His clansmen sat atop their horses, ducking their heads in a useless attempt to ward off the deluge.
‘Duff, Lundy, Cal and Dair with me. The rest of you wait here. I’ll not be long.’ He spun on his heel, climbed the steps and pounded on the door.
The portal opened and Parlan glanced at Lachlan, and then away as he ushered them into the cold, dim hall. Many wide, round eyes peered up from the pallets littering the floor near the entrance. The very stones of the fortress seemed to ooze misery.
His chest swelled with relief, knowing Kenzie no longer resided here.
Lennox sat sprawled before the hearth, the feeble fire offering no warmth to anyone but the glutton blocking its heat. He didn’t get up.
Lachlan stopped on the opposite side of the long trestle, his sodden mantle twice the weight it should be, a puddle fast forming about his feet.
‘Welcome, Lachlan. Or should I call you son-in-law?’ Irvine’s fat cheeks bulged in a smile.
Lachlan swallowed the bile in his throat. ‘I’d prefer Lachlan.’
‘Sit then, Lachlan.’
‘Your messenger said there was trouble.’ Lachlan remained standing and glanced about the gloomy chamber. ‘Has it been resolved?’
‘Trouble? Oh, aye. Only a minor problem. The fool messenger must have misunderstood—’
‘Why send him at all then?’
‘Forget the messenger. Parlan informed me you married my youngest daughter.’
‘I wed Kenzie with your blessing.’
Lennox nodded. ‘You wasted nae time.’
‘I’m not a patient man.’
‘Aye. I am curious as to how well … suited you are. Parlan did tell you of Jeanne’s unfortunate loss.’
‘He did. But what has Douglas Johnstone’s death have to do with me?’
Lennox sat forward in his chair. ‘You were once interested in wedding my daughter Jeanne.’
‘That was before I married your daughter Kenzie.’
Lennox waved a pudgy hand, as if to dismiss what Lachlan had said. ‘You surely remember Jeanne, don’t you? Her beauty is well known and hard to forget.’
‘Enough.’
‘I only suggest—’
‘What? For me to set Kenzie aside and settle for used—’
‘Ah, here’s my beauty, now.’
Lachlan fisted his hands to contain his fury at Irvine’s deception, and dragged in a tight breath.
‘Come, Jeanne, and greet our visitor.’
‘Oh. Forgive me, Father. If I’d known you had company I wouldn’t have dared to interrupt.’
Her sickly-sweet voice grated like the clash of a blade on stone. Lachlan clenched his jaw and battled to find a measure of civility within his seething anger. He must have found a trace for he heard himself say, ‘Do not fret. If there is nae trouble here, we are leaving. Lennox. Lady Johnstone.’ He turned to go.
‘Please, Laird Elliot. Lachlan, isn’t it?’
Her soft footsteps trailed him. He stopped, his honour demanding he acknowledge her query, despite her knowing exactly whom she addressed. He inhaled deeply and turned.
‘Aye.’
‘It is lovely to see you again.’
Her plump lips were curved in a sweet smile, a smile at odds with the generous breasts threatening to tumble out of her low-cut gown. Rich, honeyed tresses framed a face blessed with smooth, creamy skin. Long gold lashes fluttered over deep blue eyes that hosted more shadows than a forest on a summer’s day.
An image of dark brown eyes flashed into his mind. Dark pools, endless depths. Innocent. True. A flicker of heat flared in his chest. His heartbeat grew sluggish.
The image disappeared. He once again peered into Jeanne’s cool, now narrowed, blue eyes.
‘Lady Johnstone. I’m sorry for your loss.’ He offered a brisk nod.
Wood scraped on stone. ‘Surely you can spare a few moments to share a cup to celebrate marrying my daughter.’
Lachlan halted. The undeserving cur finally remembered he had another daughter. He turned back to see the ill-mannered fool had finally deemed it polite to stand, now Lachlan was leaving.
‘My wife awaits me, and my men are braving the foul night’s elements for nae apparent reason.’ His angry gaze left Lennox and brushed Jeanne. ‘I bid you goodnight.’ He spun away and strode from the keep.
The downpour eased to a fine drizzle as Lachlan and his men rode for home. On its downward arc, the half-moon showed its face now and again to light their way. The journey seemed endless, but wrapped in his outrage Lachlan didn’t feel the cold.
Lennox Irvine wouldn’t understand the meaning of honour if it rose up and clubbed him on his thick head. To even suggest he abandon Kenzie to wed Jeanne was …
Christ! Douglas Johnstone must still lie warm beneath the ground and the two were stalking their next victim. He’d sooner invite the English king to dine than lay a hand on Kenzie’s sister.
But their greed had been his salvation. The only good deed Lennox Irvine had ever done was to decline Lachlan’s hasty offer and wed Jeanne to a higher bidder. How had his caring, if stubborn, bride escaped the scheming manipulations of both father and older sister? Kenzie might be of their blood, but she was as different from them as fire was to ice.
Lachlan didn’t doubt Jeanne had played a significant part in tonight’s deception. A beauty she might be, but ugliness and falsehoods lurked beneath the comeliness. There’d been no mistaking the hardness and calculation sharpening her frosty, blue eyes. Would Jeanne be different if her father hadn’t shaped her with his grasping, greedy hands?
Thank the Almighty he hadn’t waited to wed Kenzie. His impatience had finally done him a service.
He thundered over the rise and stiffened at the bustling activity about his herd’s winter enclosure. The hiss and flare of damp torches being held high was drowned out by men’s shouts and the fearful cries of distressed cattle.
Heart racing, teeth clenched, he drew rein and leapt from his mount.
‘What in God’s name happened?’
‘Reivers, laird,’ said one of the men, holding a burning torch aloft to give light to those repairing the enclosure.
His stomach tightened. ‘Any wounded?’
‘Some. They be inside the keep.’
Lachlan’s gut hardened to granite. ‘See to De Brus,’ he said to one of the men who’d accompanied him to Irvine Keep. He strode for the gates, his four most trusted men hard on his heels.
The guards on the battlements peered down at him, their rage and disappointment matched his own. He acknowledged them with a nod before entering the bailey where women were fetching water from the well, no doubt to be boiled and used to tend the wounded. He ground his teeth. Two raids within a sennight was unusual. He’d ridden into the fray of the first, but had missed the second entirely. Unacceptable. The thought of his absence grated like the white-hot points of a hundred swords scoring his flesh.
He should have been here. Should have fought alongside his men. But instead he’d been called away on a fool’s errand to Irvine Keep.
‘Duff and Cal, speak with the guards. Lundy and Dair with me.’
Lachlan relieved one of the women of the two pails she carried and marched inside the keep. The wounded lined the left side of the Great Hall, their moans softened by sheer will and determination. He strode for the kitchens as he scanned the occupants, desperate to find one woman in particular. His gaze brushed Iona’s hunched shoulders, hunched further as she bowed over the injured clansman she tended. Ailsa’s hands were busy steadying the slashed arm the older woman stitched. Davina looked on, the candle she held lighting the healer’s work.
Geneen rushed toward him, nodded, took the water he carried and dashed back through the archway to the kitchens as he continued his search.
‘You’re back.’
Lachlan turned and found Murdoch bearing cups on a tray. ‘How bad?’ Lachlan asked, following his steward to the rear corner of the hall.
‘None too grievous, but bad enough.’
‘My wife?’ But even as the words slipped free, he found her. Relief that she was here and safe stole his breath. The sight of her sitting on the flagstone floor, supporting one of his wounded men as she fed him sips from a cup, set his jaw to clenching and tightened his chest.
He loathed seeing her amidst the aftermath of a bloody skirmish, yet suffered a rush of pride that she was offering her assistance. Her expression appeared serene, but the angle of her chin revealed her concern. Stepping nearer, he heard her firm words of encouragement.
‘A little more, Dorrell. It will help you rest.’
The cup tilted and as Dorrell drank, Lachlan studied the older man’s injuries. A fat line of stitches ran the length of his exposed thigh from knee to hip. The limb had been cleaned and no trace of blood remained, but the puckered flesh surrounding the wound flared an angry red. Infection was more lethal than the wound itself.
‘You are a wise man to do as she bids, Dorrell.’ Two sets of eyes turned on him. Lachlan stared into pain-filled blue. ‘Else you risk the sharp side of her tongue.’
‘My lady has given … naught but … gentle care.’
Lachlan lifted one brow and glanced at his wife, allowing his appreciation for her efforts to briefly show. ‘Then you must be deserving, Dorrell.’
‘Nae more … than any … other, laird.’
‘Enough talk,’ Kenzie said, easing Dorrell’s head from her shoulder to the bolster. ‘Sleep now, Dorrell. I will check on you in little while.’
‘Thank … you, my—’
‘Hush, now. Sleep.’
Lachlan listened to the exchange and watched in silence as his wife fussed over his clansman, and then began to rise. He offered his hand. Cool fingers settled on his palm a moment before he closed his grip and pulled her to her feet.
‘What happened at Irvine?’ Her eyes left his and wandered over his body as if to ensure he was whole.
‘Naught happened,’ he said, fighting to hide his anger about her father’s deception. ‘The trouble was minor and had been resolved before we arrived.’
‘Good.’ She sighed, ‘Thank you.’
‘Hmm! Methinks ‘tis I who should be grateful to you for assisting my men.’
‘Why? Simply offering them Iona’s sleeping draught is hardly worthy of gratitude.’ Her fingers tensed within his as she looked to where his healer worked. She swiftly looked away. ‘Even Ailsa’s efforts are greater than mine.’
Lachlan spied the twin flags of frustration suffusing her too-pale cheeks. He caught a swift glimpse of self-disgust before her dark lashes lowered to hide her eyes. Looking up, he measured the distance between where Iona did her duty and where Kenzie had performed hers. A memory flashed as quickly as his blade.
‘So it isn’t only the sight of
my
blood that sets you to swoon?’
Her lips thinned. Her fingers began sliding from his grasp. His hold firmed about hers. He lifted his other hand, placed one finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his.
‘You do not offer them a sleeping draught alone,’ he said softly. ‘I saw you sitting on the cold stone floor, supporting Dorrell, talking to him, reassuring him.’ His fingers cupped the underside of her face. ‘Iona may heal their flesh, but you ease their suffering with your gentle touch and caring manner. You, my wife, give them hope.’ The pad of his thumb skimmed her lower lip. ‘Hope eases and heals more wounds than any potion or carefully laid stitches.’
Her wide brown eyes stared into his as if she searched for the truth of his words there. Her dark eyes lightened and the strain robbing the softness from her mouth lessened.
‘Aye. Well.’ She lifted her chin from his grasp. ‘There are still others I must bestow my hope upon.’
Lachlan’s hand dropped to his side as she walked to where Murdoch stood conversing with Lundy and Dair. She retrieved one of the cups his steward balanced on a tray and knelt beside the injured man Iona had seen to before moving on to the next.
He too had work to do.
Lundy and Dair approached, but had little to tell of the raid after speaking with Murdoch.
‘Seven injured,’ Lundy said.
‘Two worse than scrapes and bruising,’ Dair added.