Authors: Mageela Troche
Free for a brief moment, Portia smoothed down her pleats to cover the flush of heat spreading from her neck and upward.
Leah and Cairine vanished without a sound. Alone with this man, she anticipated his touch, yearned for it. Why? She couldn’t explain even to herself. Probably in comfort or to let her know that she held more value to him than merely a captive.
He approached her with a loose-limbed walk. Their eyes locked. The amber shoots spread among the green, giving him a fiery look. His eyes were hooded.
He’s going to kiss me.
Every part of her tensed, prepared for his mouth to claim her.
“Your color has returned.” He brushed a calloused finger across her cheek, reminding Portia of the thrill of a man’s touch. She dipped her head, softened by the caress.
“A grand feat since I have none.” Her voice warmed, revealing her hidden response.
“Nonsense, your cheeks are the palest pink like the sunrise meeting the night sky.”
Her lips parted, surprised by his words. He leaned in. His breath breezed across her chin. There was no need to rise to the tips of her toes. He was the perfect height for her. Her lashes drifted down.
Kiss me. Please I need to feel your touch to make me come alive.
“Ask me, Portia.” The carnal plea twisted her with a need to speak those words.
Ask him. Ask him to make her feel like a woman again, a desired one.
The force of his words slammed in to her as well as her vow never to reveal her yearning for his touch. Closing the scant space, she kissed him. Their lips molded together. Nothing, but their mouths and tongue touched, reminding her of the smoldering desire building within her. Every nerve cried out for him, to fuse her body to his. For her, this heady dizziness was all she could handle.
She had forgotten how dizzying a kiss could be. She slipped her tongue between the crease of his lips. His warm mouth tasted of wine and him. She couldn’t describe the masculine taste, but nothing in the world held the same flavor. She controlled the kiss, the soft pressure, languid strokes and its limits. She licked her lips for one last delightful taste of him.
He sucked on his lower lip. “Bad lass, you didn’t ask.”
“You have to ask me next time.” She threw his words back at him. A quick flash of his eyes and he snatched up the challenge.
“You are feeling well,” he said.
“Are you referring to the kiss or the challenge?”
“Both,” he answered. He pinched a lock of hair between his fingers and stroked the strand before he flicked it over her shoulder.
“Why are there guards outside the door?”
Alec gave no reaction.
She searched for a blink, tic, anything to reveal his thoughts. Without hesitation, she went on. “Do you mean to keep me locked in the chamber? Shoving week old-bread and water for me to gnaw?”
“If only I could, but you will discover a way to escape. They are here for your protection.”
Shocked cleared her mind. A grin spread slowly across her face. Alec had spoken the truth. Was he unlike other men? Was he more like her husband than she wished him to be?
“Who is Arthur?”
She curled her arms around herself and strolled away from him. How did he know? Had Arthur arrived here?
Alec stood there, his hands crossed. His brow was pleated and his face darkened from an inner storm. Gone was the passionate man. He would not let the matter rest until he received his answers. There was something else, concern. The man cared for her and protected her. She could not depend on anyone. Last time, she almost died.
“Tell me. I order you.”
“I shall disobey.” He rushed to her and grabbed her by her arms, lifting her to her toes. “Shall you beat me?”
The man growled as he released her. She braced for his reaction, a yell or something else to frighten her to laying out her secrets. Instead, he stood there. Anger shortened his respiration. His nostrils flared.
“Because you are a Sassenach, you are ignorant. I do not beat women. Never besmirch my honor again.” He bit out each word so his burr lost the languid ease. “You lost the wager. Now tell me.”
She scanned the room—to escape or for anything to divert the topic. She had refused to speak of her suffering. It never solved the problems. Action, aye, action was preferable.
“Portia,” he stretched out her name in warning.
“Arthur is the Baron de Mowbray.”
“Your husband?” His tone chilled.
“Nay,” she yelled in a panic. “I was wedded to his brother, Stephen. He became baron almost a twelve-month ago when my husband was killed.”
“Killed, how?”
She lifted her shoulder with a lightness she didn’t feel. “As knights do. The baron wishes to wed me before he kills me.” His unspoken question showed on the pleat of his skin between his eyes.
“My husband and I were married less than a twelve-month. According to the marriage contract, if he perished before the twelve-month then my dowry returns to me. He covets it but not a wife. He shall torment me for that, then kill me…off the battlements, actually. It seems I am clumsy.”
A darkness waved across his face. “What happens to your dowry if you die?”
“It returns to the estate and my father’s heir will receive it.”
“Your sister receives nothing?”
“Nay, we share a mother not a father. Why?”
Alec gave a curt nod and departed, leaving her question hanging in the air. She remained in the middle of the chamber, unsure of what to do next…unsure of what he planned to do.
* * * *
Alec swore the guards weren’t to keep her inside. Yet, the guards might have changed, but they remained outside. At first, she hadn’t minded, being too weak to do more than to spare a glance. Each day that passed, Portia began to feel like herself again. Too bad, boredom settled in its place. She had ceased staring out the windows since she knew the rugged vista better than she had known her childhood home. Worse, she started timing her day to the activities of the castle. The kitchen ovens fired before the sun came up. The stable boy then began to muck out the building when she knew her noon meal would come. When the same stable boy snuck away to nap, when the ladies went to the well, she knew the hours had been lost to her. The nights were no better. She knew when the beacons were lit, when the night guards took position even when they went for a break.
She dared not venture outside to see more of the lands. Walking with two burly highlanders would set her apart more than she already was. She snatched her pouch from the table and shook out her dice. Gambling with herself stopped being a diversion.
She peered over her shoulder. Could she do it? Aye, otherwise, she just might leap from the window. Being confined in a small space would turn anyone daft. In two steps, she was at the door and swung it open. The guards stared at her as if she was crazed.
“What are you two called?”
Both men gaped at her as if they had forgotten their names. The brown-eyed one answered first. “Callum.”
The one with the hook nose said, “Patrick.”
“Good day, Callum and Patrick. I am in need of company. Do either of you gamble?” She held out her hand. The dice rested in the center of her open palm. She gave a little shake, letting the dice tap against each other and raise their temptation.
Patrick looked to Callum, ready to follow his lead. “Aye, we do.”
“Good.” Portia pushed open the door and knelt on the floor.
“My lady, you have no funds to wager,” Callum said while Patrick dipped his head in support.
“True, what if I wager my bread? The bread placed on the high table against your funds.”
Patrick nodded. “Sounds fine,” Callum said.
Portia placed her bet that her number would come out. She lost. Patrick won. Another roll and she won. Time seemed to pass as her winning rose and fell. She cheered or hung her head, depending on the roll of the dice.
“My lady, you canna win and I have your bread for two days,” Patrick boasted.
“I may win it all back. Do not doubt me.”
Taking another roll, she watched as one dice landed on six while the other teetered on the edge. She gaped, her inhale locked in her chest and her hands clutched in anticipation. Her hands fisted. It landed.
She let out a blasphemy that would have stung an alewife’s ears. She lost.
“Lady Portia de Mowbray.”
She knew the voice laced with shock. So did Patrick and Callum. Both jumped to their feet and stood lance straight. Portia, meanwhile, snatched up her dice and slowly rose. She hid her hands among the pleats. She cleared her throat and fixed her face in to the most saintly visage she could.
“Laird Cameron, you have come to visit? So kind.”
He glanced down to where her hands hid. “I’m glad to see you well enough to step outside the chamber and partake of activities.”
“Oh, aye.”
“Good, in the morn we ride for MacLean lands. I
wager
you are well enough for the journey.”
“You would win for I am.”
He spun around and disappeared down the corridor. Portia swore she saw his shoulders shake.
When he started down the steps, she stayed on the chamber’s threshold and spotted Hurley cornering his wife. He kissed her for a long moment. Portia smiled. When Hurley released her, he spotted her standing there and winked. Leah, meanwhile, walked in the opposite direction, humming.
Maybe Alec would corner her.
Chapter Six
Riding up the rocky tract, the MacLean castle rose over the vista. A thick towering wall surrounded the round towers. Castle guards stood at the battlements, appearing as if their heads were stuck on spikes. Once they rode into the bailey, the sounds of castle life filled the space. Castle folk moved about, their conversations sounding joyful. Animals bleated and cried.
Soldiers gathered around as two men sat upon the shoulders of two others, each trying to push the other off. Men cheered and laid bets. Portia wagered the one on the left would win, for no other reason than the man he sat upon had a better stance, offering more support.
“I will not take that bet,” Alec said.
Standing at the keep’s door was a dark haired man who, if Portia was right, wore a smirk. Halting, Portia was the last to dismount and was surrounded by Alec’s men.
“Laird,” the man said sarcastically.
“Lachlan.”
“Who is the lovely lass?” Lachlan tilted his neck for a better look and smiled at her.
“Mine.” Alec stepped in front of the flirting man.
He laughed and winked at Portia. This was the man who the ladies chased. He appeared mysterious yet with enough charm and playfulness that ladies couldn’t help but be drawn in. Aye, he was handsome and Portia might have flirted. Yet, he was no Alec.
From the keep, out flew a redheaded woman. Her hair spread out behind her and caught the light, revealing various hues of red from the lightest to the darkest fiery reds. Her beautiful face was alight with joy. She threw herself into Alec’s arms. Her feet dangled in the air and she was so happy that she fluttered them about.
The handsome man bent down and without lowering his volume, he said, “My lady, you shouldn’t hug another man.”
“Nonsense, Lachlan, he’s my brother.” She patted Alec on the chest.
A relaxed air circled Alec. The tension seemed to slip from him. The most shocking was the gentle countenance gracing his face. He cared for his sister. Nay, he loved her.
“And a Cameron.”
“I was a Cameron too.”
“MacLean fixed that.”
She waved away his words then turned her green gaze on Portia. Cairine had said Ailsa was small but she hadn’t realized how petite she was. There was a stubbornness about her that gave her backbone. It might have been the fiery hair but one thing was sure, Ailsa was a happy, well-loved woman with a warm heart that Portia had seen in Alec. They shared similar features. Portia hoped she liked her. Her stomach dropped at the shocking idea.
“Ailsa, step away from him.” A resigned voice came from behind Portia. She did as the man said. “I suppose you want to come inside.”
“Unless I must fight you for entry.” Alec crossed his arms over his chest, daring the man to land a blow.
“That would make me very happy but my wife wouldn’t be pleased,” he retorted.
“Aye, I wouldn’t be and you don’t like me unhappy.”
The dark man spun on his feet and led the way inside.
Two tables lined the great hall since the noonday meal had ceased only moments ago. Wildflowers graced the tables, adding color to the mess of cups, flagons and trestles. At the end of one table, a castle dog stood on its hind legs and chomped down the leftovers, while another licked at the floor.
The dais was cleared but for a pitcher of wildflowers. Portia, though, had eyes for the horns overhead that dominated the space.
“I see you admiring the horns.” Portia had the feeling that Ailsa was being kind with her word.
“Aye,” Portia said when she wished to ask why they graced a place of honor.
“Tradition,” she answered with a twinge of dislike.
Alec guided her to a seat beside him. Only Alec looked away from her. Portia sat on her hands to stop from squirming.
“This is the Sassenach you kidnapped?” Ailsa propped her elbow on the table. She smiled at Portia.
“How did you—”
“Nothing occurs in the highlands without every clan knowing about it. You are very beautiful.”
“Ailsa.”
She patted Duncan’s hand and took a breath, ready to blurt out her next words.
“Where’s Caelen?” Alec cut her off.
She pursed her lips.
“He’s been called back to his clan,” Duncan answered, a scowl on his face.
“His father is near his death. We’ve been praying for him.”
The men didn’t appear to be praying for him.
“And his wife should be arriving soon.”
“His wife,” Alec sputtered.
“Aye, he has been married since boyhood.” Lachlan shook his head as if the state of marriage was a punishment, yet his dark eyes twinkled.
“The women should leave us to our talk.”