Anxious, Fiona sat up, pulling the bed linens high on her chest, waiting to see what he would do next. ’Twas almost a disappointment when he simply climbed back into the bed, until he reached over and flipped her on her side, facing away from him.
“I keep my back to the wall and my head at the door when I sleep,” he declared, pulling her into the curve of his body.
“Even in your own castle?” she asked, feeling an odd sense of pity for him for needing to take such precautions. Was his life truly in such jeopardy?
“I know I’m safe among my clansmen, but ’tis best to keep to the habit at all times.”
He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her back tighter against his chest. She wriggled to get into a more comfortable position, tucking her limbs between his, then realized exactly what the long, hard object was that was pressing so insistently against her buttocks.
“I . . . uhm . . .” She tried to pull away, but his arms were clamped so tightly she could barely move.
“Pay it no mind. Ye’ve worn me out fer now, lass,” he murmured in her ear. “Go to sleep.”
The suggestive stiffness hardly felt
worn out
, but Fiona was not about to argue. She, too, needed sleep, but it was not easily found. Closing her eyes, she started counting the stars, a trick Henry had often employed. It didn’t help. She next tried matching her own breathing with Gavin’s deep and even breaths, but all that did was make her light-headed.
Her thoughts began to wander, with fears and uncertainty over the future surfacing first.
Did I do the right thing coming here? Will the earl keep his word and protect me and my son? I believe so—but what if he does not? What happens then? Where will I go? What will I do?
Stop!
Restlessly struggling to shut down these dangerous thoughts, Fiona shifted her legs. Then her hips. And then her legs again.
Gavin’s steady breathing abruptly ceased and she felt his body tense. “Well, lass, now that ye’ve woken me, ye’ll be needing to do something about this.” Reaching for her hand, he pulled it behind her, placing it on his erect penis.
Ah, more bed sport will surely exhaust me.
Fiona smiled in the darkness, wrapping her palm around him. He shuddered. She smiled again, running her hand languidly up and down the length of him, caressing the round head, marveling at the satin smooth feel of the turgid flesh.
He groaned and arched under her hand. Still holding him in her grasp, Fiona turned, nuzzling her chin in the mat of springy hair on his chest. There was comfort to be found in his strength, pleasure in his arms.
“I shall gladly handle this, my lord,” she whispered, surprised to realize she meant every word.
Ewan Gilroy stood at the top of the craggy hill and watched the sun slowly set in the valley below. The golden hue had turned to a brilliant red, bathing the scene in a crimson glow. From this distance the small cluster of thatched roof cottages were barely visible, blending cleverly into the wooded landscape. Precisely as he intended when he had selected this spot—a hideout built to keep them safe.
Now, wasn’t that a fine laugh.
Despair was an emotion Ewan rarely felt, even managing to conquer it that terrible, harsh winter when he and his mother were on the brink of starvation. But despair had crept into his voice earlier today when he informed the families of the men who had died in the raid that their loved ones had been killed. And failure had touched his soul when the newly widowed Jenny, her belly large with child, had swooned with grief at his feet.
“So, this is where ye’ve been hiding.”
Ewan didn’t need to turn his head to know who had spoken—the voice was nearly as familiar as his own. “I’m not hiding, Mother. I’m thinking.”
“Too much of that will put ye off yer food,” she replied, patting his hand awkwardly. “Best not to dwell on it.”
Ewan resisted the urge to glower at his mother, knowing she would never understand. Compassion was not a word she had ever embraced and she often mocked those who did. Life had been unkind to Lady Moira Gilroy, youngest daughter of the Laird of Gilroy, and she took her resentment out on those around her, including, at times, her only son.
“We lost four men,” Ewan said steadily. “Two of which had families.”
Lady Moira scoffed. “What about the earl? I’m sure ye gave as good as ye got.”
A creeping feeling of unease shivered through him. He had no idea if any of the earl’s men had been killed, making this loss all the more senseless. “A few were wounded, the rest . . .” Ewan’s voice trailed off and he shrugged. “I dinnae know fer sure.”
“Ye’re not gonnae allow him to get away with this, now, are ye?” Lady Moira asked, her brown eyes accusing.
“I attacked him.”
“’Tis what he deserves.”
Was it?
Ewan massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He had been weaned on animosity and resentment, taught to blame the earl and his kin for all the ills that befell him and his mother, raised to fight against the injustice of his fate. Yet even he conceded that the crimes against his mother were not the fault of the current earl.
“I just wish I had more to show fer the loss of my men,” he said. “’Tis a high cost, with little reward.”
Lady Moira huffed, dismissing the sentiment. “They made the choice to follow ye, knowing the risks,” she insisted, unsympathetically.
Her words were not unexpected. As a lad there were times he thought her heart was made of stone. Idly he wondered if she had passed this trait on to him, but the knot twisting his gut told him otherwise. Was her way better?
“We’ll need to lay low fer a while and stay out of sight,” he said. “’Tis the only way to keep safe.”
“Nay! Now is the best time to strike! They willnae expect it.” She tugged sharply at his arm and Ewan turned to face her. “Ye must never forsake yer vengeance. They mock ye, belittle ye. Call ye the McLendon bastard.”
Ewan’s smile was filled with irony. “That’s who I am.”
“Nay! Ye’re more, so much more. Ye’ve got Gilroy blood in ye, too, proud and noble. Dinnae ever forget it.” She took a step closer, her features turning anxious. “I raised ye to have a purpose, Ewan.”
“To hate.”
“Aye, to hate—those who treated us unfairly, as though we had no worth, no value.” Her eyes got a faraway look. Lady Moira was nearing fifty, but looked older. The lean years and hard living had taken the sparkle from her eyes, the glow from her complexion. “Yer father could have married me and had a legitimate son. He was a cruel, hard man, taking advantage of a girl’s tender heart. But even more of a fool to toss aside such a fine lad as yerself.”
With an inward oath, Ewan held his tongue. His mother could drive a saint to sin, make no mistake. Especially when she was in the mood to harp on her favorite tirade—the Earl of Kirkland.
“Ye’re my mother. Ye’re supposed to sing my praises.”
“Not all women would have done the same in my position. I stood by ye.” Her eyes narrowed with emotion. “And now I expect ye to stand on yer own and avenge the wrongs done to us both.”
Ewan gave her a pained expression. Aye, she had stood by him. When the earl had denied the babe she carried was his, when her family tossed her out, pregnant and unwed. She hadn’t abandoned her bastard infant son at the gates of the castle, or placed him on the steps of the chapel, or set him in the woods to be carried off by wild animals. But she had raised him to seek the vengeance she was unable to achieve on her own, and he feared the cost of that was too high.
“Is my death truly what ye seek?” he asked.
Lady Moira paled. “Never,” she replied in a low, trembling voice. “’Tis McLendon blood I want spilled on the ground.”
“In all likelihood, if I meet the earl in open combat, ’tis my blood that will be shed. He has more men, all better trained than mine, finer weapons, faster horses. He’d cut me to ribbons in a fair fight.”
Lady Moira’s brow wrinkled. Was it imagination or did his mother’s vehemence fade a wee bit?
“Then dinnae fight fair. Cease yer raiding and direct yer actions at him. Track him, follow him, catch him off guard. Or better still, alone. Slit his throat, then hide the body. The loch is wide and deep. Ye can easily slip his corpse into the dark waters where it will sink to the murky bottom, never to be seen again.”
Ewan barely contained his shudder. Even after all these years, the depth of his mother’s hate still had the power to startle him.
“As much as it would bring ye joy, I willnae kill my brother in such a cowardly manner.”
Clearly displeased, Lady Moira crossed her arms and pursed her lips into a hard, thin line. Ewan let her stew in her anger for a few moments, the sight easing some of his own distress.
“Smile, Mother. I willnae be able to easily kill the earl, but I vow to do everything I can to make his life a living hell.”
A sudden movement at the door woke Gavin from a sound sleep. Stark naked, he leapt from the comfort of the bed, reaching for his dirk.
“No, don’t hurt him!” Fiona squealed, grabbing Gavin’s arm. “He’s harmless.”
He
was a large, mangy, rather dirty-looking dog, with scruffy fur and an enormous head. At the sound of Fiona’s voice, the beast raised his head and moved clumsily into the chamber. Gavin backed up, but refused to relax his stance or put down his weapon. He didn’t recognize this particular hound and he certainly didn’t like the look of him. Especially since the animal was heading straight toward them.
But before he reached them, the dog suddenly stopped, sniffed, then bent his head in the tub and began lapping at the water energetically.
“Christ! Willnae that soapy water make him sick?” Gavin asked.
“It might,” Fiona conceded, sounding concerned. “Naughty boy! Shoo, shoo. Now get away from there!”
Naughty boy?
Gavin raised his brow. “Aye, now that will get his attention, make no mistake.”
Fiona bounced to her feet, making no comment as she pulled on her linen chemise. Disappointed to see her clothed, Gavin watched curiously as she stomped across the chamber and hauled the dog away from the tub by the scruff of the neck.
She dragged the reluctant beast to the door, wrinkling her nose with each step. “It might be a good idea to dunk him in the tub,” she remarked. “He smells rank.”
“There’s no need for him to be clean. He should only be coming indoors when the weather is vile.”
Fiona glanced down at the dog, looking somewhat guilty. The beast began wagging his tail enthusiastically, bestowing a look upon her that could only be described as adoring. “I’m afraid I’ve broken that rule. This mangy fellow has been my most faithful companion while you were away.”
Gavin didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “I would have thought ye’d be spending yer time with Spencer.”
Fiona’s hand moved down and she absently began stroking the dog’s head, causing his tail to move faster. “I’ve seen Spencer a few times, but he’s busy learning his duties. He appears to have taken well to his new surroundings.”
“And that displeases ye?”
Her hand stopped. “Why would you say that?”
“Yer brow is wrinkled and yer mouth is turned down on the corners,” Gavin answered, pleased that he was able to so easily read her emotions. “’Tis obvious ye aren’t happy.”
She gave a dainty, resigned shrug. “I suppose no mother likes to realize that she is no longer an essential part of her child’s life.”
“A lad needs to think fer himself, especially if he hopes to one day lead other men. A lass, now, that’s an entirely different kettle of fish. She does well learning to take orders.”
As Gavin hoped, that remark brought a flash of fighting spirit to Fiona’s eyes. Pleased, he reached out and rubbed the dog behind the ears. The animal sighed with gratitude, leaning close. So much for loyalty. The beast could easily be bribed with a bit of affection and most likely a large soup bone.
“You are wrong about women,” Fiona said. “Being able to think for themselves might one day save a female’s life.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but was quickly distracted. Gavin tensed and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The heavy sound of running footsteps outside the chamber was unmistakable. Beside him, the dog stood at attention, then let out a low, throaty growl.
“Get behind me, Fiona,” Gavin ordered, a surge of danger heating his blood.
Silently, she obeyed. Shifting the dirk to his left hand, Gavin reached for his sword with his right. Naked and battle ready, he faced the door, his sword ready to strike.
Gavin whirled as the chamber door burst open.
“We have news! Glorious news. King Edward is dead!”
Chapter 9
“Dammit! Are ye daft, Duncan, bursting in here with no other warning? I nearly sliced yer fool head off!”
Seeming unconcerned, Duncan cast him a lopsided grin. “Aye, I can see ye have both yer swords out, ever at the ready to protect and defend.”
Both? Gavin scowled, then glanced down, remembering his naked state. He lowered his sword and sauntered to the chair to retrieve his braies.
“Better?” he asked, pulling on the garment.
“Much. Ye were putting the fear of God in me, wagging that mighty snake in my direction.”
“Yer just jealous of its great size,” Gavin countered. “Now tell me yer news.”
“Longshanks is dead!” The width of Duncan’s smile matched the excitement in his voice. “He was leading his army north, preparing fer another campaign. But when they reached Burgh-on-Sands he fell ill, and thanks be to God’s wisdom and mercy, he died.”
“At Burgh-on-Sands? That means he never even made it over the border into Scotland,” Gavin replied, raising his arm in triumph. “’Tis the most rewarding news I’ve heard in years.”
Gavin’s heart lightened, while his mind raced. With Edward gone and his young, weaker son on the throne, Robert Bruce would now finally have the chance he had been waiting for to unite the clans and free them all from England’s iron fist.
“I can scarce believe it myself,” Duncan declared. “The Hammer of the Scots is dead. I’ve prayed fer this day fer as . . .” His voice dropped off and his nose wrinkled. “Lord save us, what is that smell?”
“Lady Fiona’s pet.”
Almost as if knowing he was being discussed, the dog let out a low growl. Duncan jumped back, reaching for his sword. Fiona gasped. Gavin smiled. “Calm down, Duncan. It’s a dog, not a wolf. He willnae eat ye. At least I dinnae think he will.”
“Of course he won’t,” Fiona said, crossing the chamber to stand protectively beside the dog.
As she walked past, the faint scent of lavender assaulted Gavin’s nose. It was intoxicating. He was suddenly glad he had put on his braies, since the swelling evidence of his reaction to her was starting to stiffen.
Unfortunately, he also realized Duncan was having his own reaction to the lovely Fiona. Unable to fully dress without the assistance of her maid, she had donned her linen chemise. The modest garment hung to her ankles, but the fabric was so worn it was nearly transparent in places.
Gavin’s ire rose. He didn’t like the idea of Duncan seeing so much of her. The delicate slope of her shoulders, the sensuous curve of her buttocks, the alluring shape of her long legs. He had fallen asleep with her soft, round bottom nestled against his groin, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist.
And woken up several times throughout the night to lay claim to that luscious body, delighted in the enthusiastic welcome he had received. The thought of another man sampling the sweetness of her charms was unimaginable, but so too was the idea of another man catching a glimpse of her body.
“The dog belongs outside, with the other hounds,” Duncan said.
“And thus I have explained that to Lady Fiona,” Gavin interjected. “Remove the animal at once.”
Duncan and Fiona turned to him in puzzlement. “Duncan,” he added with emphasis. Damn, did they honestly think he meant for Fiona to traipse outside with only that flimsy piece of cloth covering her?
Duncan reluctantly obeyed the order, getting behind the beast and literally pushing him toward the door. The dog looked none too pleased with the circumstances, but with another insistent shove from Duncan’s booted foot, he allowed himself to be taken away. Duncan’s grumbling blasphemies were easily heard all the way down the corridor.
Fiona sank down in the chair, then tilted her head up to gaze at him. He could see the speculation in her eyes. “So, the king is dead.”
“Aye.” Gavin grinned. “Long live the king.”
“Edward is rumored to be a different sort of man than his father. Less inclined to war, more inclined to indulge his many pleasures.”
“An attitude that bodes well fer Scotland.” Gavin’s eyes roamed over her face. “And ye, Fiona.”
She nodded. “Do you think I should petition him to recognize Spencer as the rightful heir to the barony and plead for the return of our lands?”
Gavin thought a moment. He was flattered that she sought his advice, but her question left him in a quandary. If the English king granted her request, there would be no reason for her to stay in Scotland with him. And while he had never expected their arrangement to be long-standing, the thought of her leaving rankled. Nay, ’twas much too soon for him to release her from her role as his mistress.
“There are certainly cases when ’tis better to settle matters of property and title by law and decree, rather than battle,” Gavin began. “But the key to asking favors from a king is all in the timing. Edward will have many important affairs to attend to, the least of which will be securing the crown upon his head.”
“I know you are right. Now is not the time for me to be asking for favors.” She folded her arms across her chest and released a heavy sigh. “Even though my cause is true and just.”
Gavin smiled. Seeking justice for her child never failed to ignite a spark within Fiona. He admired her tenacity, her determination to protect her cub with all the ferocity she could muster. ’Twas even more miraculous when one considered the lad wasn’t even her blood kin—a fact that lifted her even higher in Gavin’s estimation.
“Yer time will come, Fiona. ’Tis best to wait until the lad is older, tougher, experienced with leadership. The king might be able to grant him his legacy, but Spencer will have to hold it on his own.”
“True.”
She seemed disappointed, yet resigned. Gavin felt a twinge of guilt, knowing his reply had been colored by his desire to keep her near. Trying to be objective, he examined the dilemma again, satisfied when he reached the same conclusion. Conscience clear, he approached her.
She might appear soft and vulnerable on the outside, but her heart had courage and spirit. Still, for all her proud boldness, she had a woman’s frailty. She could throw herself upon the mercy of a king, or any man of power, hoping and praying for fair treatment. Yet there was no recourse if she were denied. She could not pick up a weapon and solve her problems as a man would, on the field of battle. She needed others to do that for her.
She needed him.
The soft cascade of blond tresses falling down her shoulders glowed with a golden hue in the morning light. He knew that it felt as silky and fine as it looked and for a moment Gavin imagined digging his fingers through it. Rubbing it over his face and chest, pressing the strands against his nose and inhaling the fragrant scent.
She truly was lovely. And irresistible.
“Now that we’re finally alone, I can do what I’ve been waiting fer all morning.” Without another word, Gavin swept Fiona into his arms and kissed her senseless.
Fiona grasped a weed between her thumb and forefinger and pulled. It came out cleanly at the root, bits of rich soil clinging to the spidery veins. With a smile of satisfaction she shook off the excess dirt, then tossed it onto a third pile of weeds. Remaining on her knees, she shuffled down the neatly planted rows and attacked a new section.
The castle herb garden was located near the kitchen, in an area protected by high, stone walls. Fiona had only recently discovered it, and the privacy it afforded. She had been dismayed upon seeing the condition of this important household asset. Underwatered and choked with weeds, the precious herbs were scrawny and wilting—a possible explanation for the often bland fare served in the great hall.
Bending to her task with vigor, Fiona dug with the tip of her finger at the base of a very large weed, realizing she’d have to soak her hands in warm water in order to get rid of the dirt beneath her fingernails. No matter. The mindless work was a godsend. It kept her hands busy, served a useful purpose, and took her out from under the watchful, critical eyes of the other women.
Since hearing the news of King Edward’s death earlier this morning, Gavin had been cloistered with his men. She doubted she would see him until it was time for the evening meal. ’Twas just as well. All it took was a few minutes in his company and passionate thoughts she could not control were conjured in her mind. It took but a scant minute more for her to act on those thoughts—a teasing smile, a seductive glance, a sensual kiss and she was lost.
It was an unsettling reaction, something she needed time and distance to explore and examine. For that was the only way she would ever come to understand it.
The gate swung open, and to her amazement, Gavin walked through, a purposeful stride to his step. “I’ve been searching everywhere fer ye,” he said.
“Well, I’m not hiding,” she replied defensively, not wanting him to realize that was precisely what she’d been doing.
“I never said ye were.”
Fiona flushed and turned her head away. “’Tis a crime to let such precious bounty whither from neglect. I’ve been working for two days and should be done with the job in another two. Provided there aren’t too many interruptions.”
Hoping he would take the hint and leave her to finish her task, Fiona gathered the pulled weeds, condensing them into one pile. But instead of moving away, the earl came closer, casting a shadow over her.
“Ye’ll have to finish this another day. Though why ye would want to is a puzzlement. As I recall, there are pages aplenty in this household. Isn’t weeding the kitchen gardens one of their jobs?”
Straightening, Fiona rose self-consciously from her kneeling position and vigorously rubbed the knotted ache at the base of her spine. “Tending herbs requires knowledge that most young boys do not possess. They’re likely to pull out as many herbs as weeds.”
“Oh, so it’s skilled labor, is it, playing in the dirt? Something fit only fer a lady?”
Fiona tried to assume a formal, dignified air, but the boyish glint in Gavin’s eyes made it difficult. “’Tis honest labor,” she said lamely.
“I never said it wasn’t. I merely questioned why ye had chosen to do it.”
“I enjoy the solitude and being out-of-doors. I also like being able to easily see the fruits of my labor.” She waved her hand elegantly over the large plot where it was instantly apparent which sections she had tended and which had yet to be weeded.
“Ye’ve done enough fer one day,” Gavin said as he held the gate open for her.
His meaning was clear, yet Fiona balked at obeying. There were still hours and hours of daylight left. If she kept working at her current pace, she could clear an entire section before the evening meal.
“Yer frowning,” Gavin observed. “Is something amiss?”
The question thrust Fiona into a quandary. This wasn’t merely about the weeding. It was about her freedom, her ability to make her own decisions about how she spent her time. Should she press the point now? Or wait for a better opportunity?
Then again, did she even have a point to make? She had agreed to be his mistress, devote herself to his pleasures. Being surly and arguing would hardly bring the earl any pleasure. She might not be his slave, but she was subject to his whims.
“I’ll start working again early tomorrow,” Fiona said, deciding not to avoid a direct confrontation.
“And I’ll tell Hamish to send a few of the pages to help,” Gavin added.
Fiona’s back stiffened, but she managed a slight smile. Gavin must have noticed, since he quickly added, “The lads will work under yer supervision.”
“Thank you.” Her reply was not as gracious as it could have been, but Gavin gave no indication that it angered him. Or perhaps this time he took no note of it?
Fiona’s mood improved as they walked through the bailey. Having Gavin at her side afforded her the immediate respect of anyone they passed, though Fiona felt compelled to make eye contact with each and every person, to show that she was not timid. Or worse, ashamed of her position in the household.
If I act like a lady, they will treat me as such.
“I had planned to leave immediately, but I see ye’ll need a few moments to refresh yerself,” Gavin remarked, gazing down at her hands.
Fiona curled her dirt-encrusted fingers into a fist, hiding them from view. “I’m to accompany you? Where?”
“Ye’ll see.”
His cryptic smile gave her no further clue. But any resentment she felt at being ordered about quickly faded. They were leaving the castle—together. An afternoon of freedom!
There was no time for Fiona to change, nor much choice of another gown to wear, so she spent the time cleaning the dirt from her body and having Alice braid her hair. Excitement starting to build, Fiona returned to the bailey, heading directly for the stables, where Gavin stood impatiently tapping his foot. His squire waited beside him, but as Fiona drew closer she realized . . .
“Spencer!”
The boy turned at the sound of her voice, a trace of a smile hovering on his lips. But it faded as she drew closer and he took a step back. Fiona surmised he was concerned she would bestow some unmanly affection upon him in front of the earl. At least that’s what she hoped was causing this reaction.
Fiona hardly cared. She had only caught an occasional glimpse of him these past few days, relying on Father Niall to give her the specific details of the boy’s activities. A few private moments with Spencer was a gift and she was not about to squander it.
“Tell the stable master to saddle my horse and two others, Spencer,” Gavin instructed.
“Two?”
“Aye. One fer Lady Fiona and one fer ye.”
“Me? Why do I have to go?”
The pinched disinterest in Spencer’s face struck at Fiona’s heart like a well-aimed sword thrust. Was it really such a torturous proposition spending the afternoon with her? Or perhaps it was the earl’s company the boy objected to so strongly?