Betrayed (12 page)

Regarding him with shrewd eyes, Adam realised that Jardin had misunderstood. The snivelling weasel had arrived at Lochwood, bemoaning his innocence and insisting that the Laird of Wamphray had declared open war. Knowing that Krayne meant to skewer only the king rat did not make Adam feel any better. “Damn ye, Krayne. ’Tis nae a game yer playin’.”

“Ye know me better than that.” But Krayne’s back teeth clamped down on further argument. Adam was chief of the Annandale Johnstones and he’d sworn fealty to him first, King James second. He could argue, swear and fight, but on the occasion when Adam was determined to play God, Krayne was duty-bound to obey. “I’ll lead the Wamphray Johnstones home.”

“They await ye,” Adam said, hugely relieved but not about to show it. “I’ll follow.”

The return journey was too short for Krayne. It was one thing to go one’s own way without seeking permission, another to directly defy an order. Unless he could persuade Adam otherwise, no revenge would be had.

Closeted in the north solar, Krayne poured a whiskey for Adam and himself. Rather than taking the high-backed chair behind his desk, he pulled two stools about a low table.

“I was on my way ta Stirling when Jardin—” Adam started.

“The lily-livered toad. I canna believe he went runnin’ ta—”

“Leave be.” Adam needed give no more than the soft warning. “Jamie wants me at Stirling fer the trial o’ Murdoch and Lennox.”

Krayne’s attention was successfully diverted. “He canna put his own blood on trial.”

“The king can do exactly as he likes,” Adam drawled between sips. “And right now Jamie likes Jardin’s fat arse a little too much fer comfort an’ Jardin kens it well.”

Krayne slammed back his whiskey and stood. “I’m no ninny in need of training, Adam. The nuances of politics are not lost on me.”

“Ye have the brains ta see the warning signs but when it comes ta heeding them, yer balls take o’er.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Krayne took to prowling around the chamber. “Jardin
murdered
him. Stivin wasna even ten and seven.”

“Old enough ta raid, old enough ta pay,” Adam said callously, purposely reminding Krayne of the initial perpetrators. Adam didn’t have the luxury of sewing his eyelids shut whenever he came by something he didn’t wish to see.

“Yer a hard bastard.” Krayne poured himself another whiskey, tossed it down his dry throat, then pushed his back against the wall and folded his arms.

“My responsibilities make me hard.”

Krayne knew all about responsibility. Most of his anger at Adam turned inward. “My responsibility was ta Stivin and I failed. I canna rest until his senseless death has been avenged.”

“I canna allow ye ta bring Jamie’s hammer down on us.”

“Me,” Krayne corrected. “Jamie would be content ta slap a wayward laird in irons without terrorising the clan. Doesna he cherish a good example now and then ta ensure obedience?”

“What o’ Duncan? What o’ the lairdship o’ Wamphray?”

“If ye hadna noticed, Duncan wasna with us.”

Adam raised a brow. He hadn’t noticed.

Then he growled, “Christ, Krayne, I’ll nae have ye sacrifice yerself fer the stupidity o’ others. I canna turn a blind eye.” Adam added in warning, “Jardin has too many witnesses and I’ll be implicated in yer decision either way now.”

Krayne sank onto his stool. He closed his eyes for a long moment before lifting his gaze to Adam. “’Twas why I didna come ta ye.”

“Suspicion will fall on all Johnstones if you’re arrested fer treason. Jamie would hang the first half just ta be sure, then ban the name o’ Johnstone and leave the rest without land ta call their own.”

“Ye have my word,” Krayne muttered, defeat shadowing his eyes. “I willna go after Jardin. Fer now.”

Amber had paced until the soles of her slippers were threadbare. She’d slept, sat and stared. She was going mad. No one came to her except Isla, and that dour woman took delight in ignoring her demand for answers.

What was happening?

Had Stivin been returned?

The familiar rasping sound of the key turning sent Amber flying off the bed. Hands clasped behind her back, she watched Isla dump her daily rations of food and drink on the table. Two nights of having naught but her own thoughts for company took its toll and dampened her pride.

“Where is Krayne?” she asked sweetly in place of her previous demanding tone.

Isla glanced at her coldly, saying nothing as she grabbed the pot supplied for ablutions and marched to the door.

“Please, tell me anything. I beg of you. What of Stivin?” Amber threw herself after the silent woman. “Did Krayne bring him back? Was he harmed? I only wish to see Stivin for a moment.”

She grabbed an arm and Isla stumbled just outside the door. The pot went flying, the contents flung clear across the floor. At the crash, an unfamiliar guard rushed up from the adjacent chamber, sword drawn. What had happened to the grey-bearded Andrew? This one was taller and heavier, but Amber identified a vulnerability in his youth, a softness around his mouth and eyes that suggested compassion.

“Dinna fash, Gavin,” Isla growled, looking at the mess. She shoved Amber back inside and locked the door. “I can handle a Jardin well enou’.”

Amber dragged heavy feet to the window. She reasoned they couldn’t keep her locked away forever. One day Krayne would require his bedchamber again and there was no privacy with her tucked in the back room. What was happening with Krayne? Angry and hating his worthless hostage, Amber supposed, but why did he stay away?

She willed him to come to her. She didn’t care what reason or excuse brought him. Punishment. Forgiveness. Curses. So long as he came. And this time she’d make him tell her what was going on.

The sun was a fat glowing ball squatting on the distant mountains. The blade-sharp blue of the clear sky had already dulled to the onset of the gloaming. This would make it three nights. How many more could she take?

Amber jutted her chin high and strolled to the table holding the trencher Isla had brought. She sank to her knees before the food and tore a chunk of warm bread free. She had a choice of ale or wine to wash it down with. As the full-bodied wine blunted the edge of her frustration, she admitted that she wasn’t being manhandled and wondered to whom she owed thanks for the decent fare.

Even so, not knowing Stivin’s fate was in itself a form of torture. She had to get out of this chamber. Anger and self-pity gave way to determination.

Her gaze went to the clay mug in her hand, almost half-f with the pleasant-tasting wine. Amber hiked her skirt and worked the inner seam until she found the leather pouch she’d sewn inside. She scrambled to her feet and hid the pouch beneath the covers on the bed. Then she tiptoed to the door and lowered her eye to the keyhole.

Isla was down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the soiled strips of wood. The guard looked bored, one shoulder resting against the wall as he watched Isla work.

Amber’s pulse raced.

She’d done this before.

She could do this again.

Krayne knew he’d dozed off again when he came to with a start. He stiffened, slowly becoming aware that he was comfortably settled in the leather padded chair in his solar. His hand shot out instinctively and found the pewter mug within easy reach on the table. He quickly threw back a mouthful of whiskey before his head could begin to clear.

“Christ,” he mumbled as pain pierced his temple. His vision blurry, he emptied the mug and tossed it against the wall. The pain dimmed, and the wall opposite swayed a little more.

His hand came up, absently scratching three days of growth at his jaw.

He was sober enough to know that he was falling apart and that he had to pull himself together.

He wasn’t drunk enough to recall why he should bother.

Lurching to his feet with only one miss, he staggered across the uneven stone floor to retrieve and fill his mug. He didn’t make it back to his chair. Slumped on the floor, his back to the wall, his face pressed to his knees, he closed his eyes to block the memories that wouldn’t stay down.

Stivin was neither the first nor the closest kin he’d lost. He’d been a boy of twelve when James Maxwell slew his father. Adam had devised the cunning plan to lure the Maxwell into an ambush and Krayne had thrown the dagger that had ended the bastard’s miserable life. Since then he’d avenged every slight or wrong done to him or one of his.

Tears came unbidden as Krayne’s inebriated mind turned on the images of his mother’s broken body and his newborn sibling. Heavily with child and abandoned by her betrothed, William Jardin’s brother, John, Krayne’s mother had fled her shame in the deep of winter. By the time Krayne had tracked her down, the babe was born and his mother lay half-dead, both exposed to the blistering November storm. He’d swaddled the newborn infant in the shirt off his back, wiping away what blood he could, scared and shaky at the blue tinge to the little one’s skin, and carried both mother and babe to the nearby convent of Auchencass. The babe had probably never drawn his first breath, the nuns had told him. ’Twas a miracle his mother had survived.

The tears dried. Krayne’s shoulders heaved with silent grief. He’d left his mother to the care of the nuns and ridden straight for Spedlin, stopping only to collect his men along the way. That day, the Black Burn had run red.

“Christ,” he swore again, tearing both hands through his hair. He couldn’t do this. He’d made mistakes. Some worse than others. Some too enormous to ever undo or rectify. He could live with that.

He couldn’t live with doing nothing at all.

Heavy pounding at the door thudded inside his head.

“Go away,” he slurred, too softly to carry through the thick door. He needed whiskey. He needed to blunt the voices that wouldn’t go away.

His mother’s confession, “The babe I carried was not John Jardin’s. Do not blame him for breaking off the betrothal, for he had every right.”
Too late. By then, Krayne had already begun the feud that continued into the present day.

Amber Jardin’s admission of deceit. “I tried to tell you.”
She’d known that Stivin was dead all along.

Women were treacherous beings with the games they played.

Krayne stumbled across the room, bouncing off the edge of the table and tripping over a stool. When he found the flagon of whiskey, he cursed. The flagon was empty and panic set in.

For three days idleness had taunted him. He burned. He hated. Revenge would be his, one way or another. He reached for the flagon and tipped it to his mouth, forgetting it was empty.

On the other side of the door, Alexander looked to Gayle with a black frown. “I’ll fetch an axe and splinter this door in two.”

“He’ll nae appreciate that,” Gayle said, nudging him aside. “Here, I’ll try, Krayne opened fer me last night.”

Alexander looked at her askew. “Tell me he wanted food and a woman.”

“Whiskey.”

“Dammit.” He didn’t want to have to send for Adam. Not with Amber Jardin locked up and her fate still undecided. “Nae more whiskey ’til he eats.”

“He willna eat and he willna sleep,” Gayle predicted as she hunkered low and called to Krayne through the keyhole.

The door flew open and Gayle jumped back in surprise. The solar beyond was cloaked in darkness with neither a fire lit at the hearth nor rush lights.

Krayne’s tall form blocked the doorway. “Leave me be.”

“Fetch bread an’ ale,” Alexander ordered Gayle. He’d never seen Krayne look this bad. Shadows hung beneath tired eyes that were reddened with the abuse of alcohol and no sleep.

“’Tis whiskey I need,” said Krayne, coming out to push past the pair and down the stairs.

“Krayne!” Gayle screamed when he stumbled.

“Leave,” commanded Krayne. “Both of ye. Let me the hell alone.”

“Wait.”

Recognising the change in his friend’s tone, Krayne turned and waited, if only to give the walls a moment to cease spinning.

Alexander rounded a tight bend in the stairway and came into view. “Let me come wi’ ye.”

“I havena needed my hand held since I was twelve.”

Their eyes locked, sharing pain and truth without words. “Ye dinna have ta be strong all the time, friend.”

Krayne answered by squaring his shoulders and attempting to continue down the stairs with dignity. A moment later he lost his footing and cursed his wooden legs that refused to obey him. Using the wall on his left to guide and support himself, Krayne made it all the way down and along the passage to his bedchamber.

“Where is Andrew?” Krayne demanded of the young guard he found outside.

“Andrew’s w-wife took ill, me laird,” Gavin stammered, going white in the face as he stood aside, fumbling with the key in his hand.

Krayne snatched the key and walked through the outer chamber to the door tucked at the back. When he attempted to fit the key in the lock with clumsy fingers, key and lock came to life, weaving in and out of each other’s way like a magic Celtic knot.

Krayne ceased the struggle and put his forehead to the door. What did he hope to achieve here?

What answers did he suppose Amber Jardin held?

Jardin! That name inside his head was all it took. Revenge and whiskey rushed his blood, and this time he managed to insert the key and turn it.

“Gavin?” a sweet, feminine voice called out when he pushed the door inward. “What took you so…”

The voice trailed off into uneasy silence as green eyes startled wide on him.

Amber posed provocatively on the bed, clad in naught but her cotton shift. Her lips were still parted, frozen on that welcome speech…for another man! Rage clawed through the buzz of alcohol as Krayne stared in disbelief.

How had she done it?

How had she convinced him that she was yet an innocent maid?

“Krayne.” Recovering from the shock, Amber slammed her legs together and brought them over the edge of the bed to sit upright.

She’d prayed for him to come, but this was one prayer she wished God had ignored. Krayne looked wild and grim and dark. His eyes were bloodshot. His hair hung lank and knotted to his shoulders. And there was a smell to him. The strong odour of alcohol. He reeked of the stuff.

He took a slow, menacing walk up to the bed and she shrank back. Something was terribly wrong.

Her heart jumped when he suddenly spun about and barked, “Lock the door, Gavin.”

“Laird?” Drops of sweat gathered on the guard’s brow.

“Ye heard me,” Krayne said. “Lock the door and dinna open until I command ye so.”

Amber watched in dismay as the young guard yanked the door closed and turned the key.

“What—what are you doing?” she demanded faintly.

“Finishing what ye were about ta start, it would seem.”

Amber slid off the bed, all coherent thought lost. His gaze was hard enough to strike her down. Indeed, it felt as if he had. “Is this because of Gavin?”

His eyes slid down her thin shift and she felt naked. One arm across her chest, the other hand tugging at the wrinkled cotton to ensure it covered her ankles, Amber fled to the window.

He’d warned her after Red John.

Warned her to stay away from his men.

Was it possible that distracting his men a few times could build into this consuming rage?

Krayne said nothing, approaching the window now in that agonisingly slow and overcareful gait.

Relying on anything she knew and trusted about Krayne would be sheer folly. Not when he was in this state. “You’re drunk.”

His twisted grin matched the emptiness in his eyes.

Then he was upon her.

She shrank back into the wall, unable to turn her eyes from his, her knees threatening to buckle. He reached for her, grabbed her wrist, effortlessly bringing her protective arm down to her side again.

“You—you’re scaring me, Krayne.” She barely recognised her small, shaky voice.

“Ye’ve every reason ta be scared, lass.” His eyes lifted to hold her with contempt as he moved closer and cupped one breast within his palm, fondling hard and unrelenting with no fondness at all.

Every little thing, from the way he looked at her to the reek of the alcohol that had turned him into a stranger, told her that Krayne was out to hurt her. Slaking the fury in his eyes the same way a berserker might slake his bloodlust in the heat of battle.

Amber swallowed past the panic lodged in her throat. “Is—is this about Stivin?”

“Do not.” He brought his hand up from her breast. “Dinna use that name ever again.”

She dodged instinctively, knocking the back of her head on the wall. Her eyes blinked wide in horror as she recalled the last time he’d made to slap her. This time she knew nothing would stop him. The rest of her body stiffened, braced for the blow.

“Do not,” Krayne repeated, frowning his confusion as he tried to consolidate his goals.

He’d been drawn to seek Amber out in some desperate need for resolution, to do what, he hadn’t known…until he’d walked in to the reminder of who and what she was: The seductress responsible for Stivin’s death. Here was the revenge he’d been denied. He would teach this woman what it felt like to be on the receiving end of dangerous sexual games.

Looking at her now, though, he couldn’t quite remember just what he’d had in mind. Her face was white, her body trembling from top to toe, the threat of tears on her lips. And in this moment, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to gather her to him and rid her fears.

“Where is Stivin?” whispered Amber. “Have you brought him back?”

“Aye,” he said, his blurred mind speeding off to Stivin’s body slung limply over his horse and fusing with those wayward thoughts of concern for Amber.

“I want to see him. Take me to Stivin—”

“Christ, woman,” roared Krayne, hearing his cousin’s name on treacherous lips and nothing else. Stivin. Over and over. Why did she continue to taunt him? All tender thoughts dried up. “Do ye
want
yer head spiked afore dawn?”

“You wouldn’t.”

His eyes narrowed on her. Stivin was all that mattered. Righting the wrong brought on by this woman. Forcing her to taste the bite of her own cruelty.

His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Dinna think ye know anything of me at all. ’Tis time ye were taught the pitfalls of callous games played on a whim.”

“I don’t play…’Tis not what you think. Krayne,” she cried out. “I only want to know what’s going on.”

Anger seeped from his veins to scowl his face. “When my hands roam yer flesh, ye will feel the hands of every man ye ever cuckolded and betrayed, fingers of revenge fer every man ye ever seduced.”

Her legs gave in and his hand shot out to hold her up against the wall.

Krayne’s inner rage tried to command his slow mind to do it now. To take this woman, with no warmth or emotion, to take that phantom maidenhead she teased and taunted young lads to their death with.

His limbs refused to co-operate.

“P-please,” Amber whimpered. “Please…don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Krayne sneered. “Why should I not use yer body fer my revenge when yer so quick ta wield it as a powerful weapon?”

She stared at him; a scared, fragile lass of tender years.

And Krayne knew he could not do it.

She pushed him away and Krayne allowed it. He gave up any hope of revenge tonight. Amber deserved to suffer for her sins, by God she deserved much more, but apparently he was not the man capable of seeing to it.

Amber darted to the side and across the room. Her heart thudded much too fast. She couldn’t think, could barely breathe.

He’d gone mad.

When my hands roam yer flesh…

fingers of revenge…

He intended to ravish her. As bad as that was, she feared that in his present state, he would likely kill her in the process too. Or leave her wishing that he had.

A shiver chased down her spine and didn’t stop until it hit her toes. She ran blindly. When she knocked against the small table and reached out to steady herself, her fingers touched on something cold and rough. Just before the clay mug spilled, she grabbed it. Not taking a moment to reconsider, she brought the mug to her lips unsteadily and drank deeply of the potent brew she’d prepared to use on Gavin.

Once she was unconscious, let Krayne do whatever he wanted to. If she were lucky, she wouldn’t remember a thing come morning.

Before she could take another sip, a pair of hands settled at her hips and whirled her about.

Krayne tore the mug from her grasp and sniffed suspiciously. “By God, Amber, what have ye done?”

“’Tis only wine,” she said.

“Dinna lie ta me.”

“Spiced wine,” she quickly corrected.

Krayne slumped against the wall. He’d neither slept nor eaten. Both his body and mind were slack from alcohol. One whiff of that foreign-smelling wine and he’d dreaded poison. The sense of loss had almost sent him to his knees. The aftershock cut through his raging stupor and he saw past the object of his revenge to the woman beneath.

She looked so young and innocent, her thin shift revealing the promise of upthrust breasts, a slim waist and flare of narrow hips. Her black hair was loose and brushed, falling either side her face to her shoulders and halfway down her back in loose curls.

Lust swelled his manhood for the first time this night. Krayne brought the mug up and threw back the entire contents, his alcohol-doused blood welcoming the familiar heat. He had to get out of here. Before he swept her in his arms.

Unsteady on her feet, Amber watched as Krayne finished off the potion that was already affecting her. She waited for his reaction, poised to attack if he guessed that he’d just been drugged. Some of her courage returned, now that the odds were better suited.

“Amber,” he slurred.

His arm reached for her shoulder and missed, slapping down against his thigh, mumbling other words she could not make out. He spoke as if his tongue were thick and lolling inside his mouth. Relief broke through. The potion was working. He’d pass out before he could touch her.

Krayne staggered toward the bed, weaving off course a couple of times before he made it. He dropped face down on the covers, arms and legs spread-eagled with his feet scraping the floor.

She edged closer to the bed, collapsing into a sobbing heap when he didn’t stir. Her tears were as much relief as sadness.

How could he do this?

She wiped at her eyes, her lids becoming heavy and refusing to stay open.

“Dear Lord,” she moaned aloud, worried as she realised what was happening. With the relief came the instant effects of the potion she’d imbibed. No longer fighting for her life and sanity, her body was succumbing to the drug.

And why not? With sleep came blissful nothing. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to feel. She yearned for black, stretching nothing. She allowed her lids to slide closed as she curled into a ball and rolled to the other side of the bed, as far from Krayne as she could get.

Not yet.

She forced her eyes open and pushed up on her elbows. She swung her heavy head to peer at the unconscious bulk at her side.

He wasn’t finished.

He’d come to rape her, and he wouldn’t leave before he’d done exactly that. The potion had earned her a short reprieve, and that was all. As soon as Krayne awoke, he’d finish what he’d started.

She glanced at the door, but knew that enlisting Gavin’s aid now was impossible. He wouldn’t come near that door until he heard Krayne’s command.

The true horror of her situation became clear. Far better that he’d raped her at once than left her to a night of fear as she anticipated morning and the frightening deed it would bring.

Amber scrambled clumsily into a sitting position. Her body was struggling now, limbs and mind shutting down. She had little time left to do what must be done. Whatever that was.

She cast a frenzied look about the room, not willing to accept her fate without a fight. Steel glinted off his thigh in the weak glow of the tallow candle. She fell across the bed and yanked the dagger from its sheath. The edge was smooth and the point sharp. An image of plunging that steel tip through Krayne’s chest flashed through her mind. Abhorrence shuddered down her spine. Even had she the strength, she could not take Krayne’s life in cold blood.

She was about to fling the dagger aside when yet another notion pierced the drugged fur inside her head. All was not lost. She could save herself yet.

Already her fingers were thickening, making it difficult to hold the dagger correctly. Without wasting more time to think through the details, Amber cut a slit near the neckline of her shift, then dropped the dagger and used both hands to rip a gaping tear in the cotton. The torn flap exposed one breast, but she couldn’t think of modesty now. She put her hands in her hair and shook madly. With her clothes and hair in disarray, she prayed that she looked sufficiently abused.

The fur inside her head grew thicker and thicker. Her vision was blurred and keeping her eyes open was nigh impossible. Succumbing to the darkness, she rolled away from Krayne and onto her back. A painful sting just below her knee made her cry out. She rubbed at the burning skin and, when she brought her hand back, the smeared blood was a thunderbolt to her bleary wits. Krayne knew she was a virgin.

With clumsy fingers, Amber groped for the dagger. After a few failed attempts, she bit down on her lip and made a slice across the pad of her thumb. Blood trickled out instantly and she didn’t care where it went. Using the last of her strength, she crawled closer toward Krayne to resheathe the dagger.

Now, surely, she was done.

Amber rolled away, purposely bringing her hand up between her thighs, hitching her shift to her belly, allowing the blood from her thumb to stain wherever she touched as she closed her eyes and gave in to the quiet of nothing.

The sounds of scattered pebbles and bandied greetings reached Krayne through the haze of hell. His tongue was thick and it felt as if someone was hacking at the back of his head with a battle-axe. He tried to lift his eyelids against the unnatural heaviness, then gave up and listened.

The activity in the bailey indicated visitors.

A small group of riders, he reckoned, no more than five. Then he heard none other than Adam’s booming voice ordering his men to seek food and ale within the hall.

Cursing, Krayne rolled onto his stomach and pushed up on his elbows, thinking to do this one slow step at a time. He opened one eye, then the other, ignoring the pain shooting into the back of his eyeballs. Instinct pricked his senses. He knew at once that something wasn’t right. Where was his leather chair and the easy reach of his whiskey? Why was the floor so soft? Where was all that damn light coming from?

His head slanted to the side and his gaze froze on the unwelcome sight that let loose the flood of memories.

Only, the picture was all wrong.

He’d planned to take her in the same dispassionate and crude manner as which she seduced men and boys, some stronger than her, none able to defend themselves against such a practised, deceitful seductress. He’d been determined to teach her what it felt like to be held powerless while another used their body as a weapon, what it felt like to be cut down on a whim.

But he hadn’t.

Krayne blinked hard, then looked again.

Nothing had changed.

Her eyes were closed, black lashes a strong contrast to the deathly pallor of her cheeks. Her lower lip was cut…or bitten. The front of her ripped shift exposed a creamy breast with a delicate dark nipple. His back teeth clamped down when he saw a fading bruise on the underside of that breast.

He was upright in a flash, the alcohol-induced stupor rapidly evaporating as he took in the ravaged sight, from the tangled raven cloud about her shoulders to the blood streaking her thigh.

“Christ Almighty.” Her shift was around her waist, and he saw that the blood reached the mound of silky black curls.