Brigand (3 page)

Terror clutched her heart.

No. Surely they weren’t going there. In this rickety
contraption.

But they were. The McCloud stepped into the boat, then the
driver unlashed the moorings and pushed them off, watching, hands to his sides,
as they floated out into the water.

The water.

Panic flared. Despite the thrashing it caused, Violet stood,
braced herself and leapt into the water. It was only ankle deep but it was
cold. Frigid tongues seeped into her boots but Violet didn’t hesitate. She
slogged through the water and made a dash for the tree line.

Both men hollered. One because her flight had caused the
stupid little punt to sway wildly and the other in an attempt to halt her
escape. When yelling for her to stop didn’t work, the enormous driver lumbered
after her.

He caught her. He caught her before she made it five steps
down the beach. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her back to the
boat. He tried to angle her back in but she kicked and flailed. Finally, her
captor grasped one ankle and then the other. Between the two of them, they
forced her into that death trap.

Mercilessly the McCloud wound a coil of rope around her
feet. “Stupid girl.”

To her horror, he set her on the damp bottom of the boat and
lashed her to the seat for good measure. She struggled against these bonds but
it was hopeless. She was well and truly tied.

To a boat. A tiny, flimsy, rocking boat.

Blinding horror whipped through her.

Again, the driver pushed the boat into the water. It wobbled
and bobbed alarmingly.

Violet screamed into the gag. Tears tracked her cheeks. She
couldn’t catch her breath. This was her worst nightmare—worse than the worst.
To be in a boat—on the water—was bad enough. But to be tied, helpless, unable
to try to save herself should the vessel capsize, was appalling.

A clammy fist clenched her heart. She was going to die. In a
frenzy, she fought against her bonds.

“Hold still.”

She barely heard the gruff voice at the end of the boat. Barely
felt the smooth, rhythmic glide as he began to row to the far shore. She was
tangled in a memory, one she never let herself remember. And now it overcame
her. Strangled her.

A girl—a stupid girl—walking on the ice.

A boy calls from the shore. She turns. Smiles. Waves.

A sharp crack echoes.

Shock washes over his features, even as the ice gives way
beneath her.

And darkness. A wet, cold, airless eternity of hell. Of
panic. Of horror.

A certainty of death.

With a whimper, Violet closed her eyes and let the darkness
take her again.

Aw, hell. She’d fainted.

Ewan glared at the girl, a limp mass, her head lolling to
one side. For a moment he hated himself. He should have known the water would
still terrify her. Perhaps in his heart of hearts, he had. Maybe that was why
he’d decided to bring her to the Cloud. To assure she wouldn’t escape his
clutches, certainly, but he had wanted to torment her as well.

And torment her, he had.

So much, she’d fainted. The short ride from the shore to the
island had frightened her to the extent that she’d succumbed to the vapors.

He felt like a worm.

But at least she was no longer rocking the boat.

He reached the dock and tied up as quickly as he could,
hoping to get her to the keep and start a fire before she roused. Balancing
against the sway of the boat, he lifted her into his arms. Then, splashing
through the lapping waves, he carried her along the shore and up the stone
stairs to his castle.

She looked so frail in his arms. So pale and wan.

He hardened his heart.

This was Violet.

The girl who’d had his mother dismissed without references.
The girl who had, on a whim, unhinged his life. They had very nearly starved to
death that first winter. And if Ewan hadn’t turned to the streets to make a
living, they would have. Still, his mother hadn’t survived their desperation
long. She’d succumbed to the ague within a year, leaving Ewan without a
farthing to his name, and a sickly babe to raise.

He’d been thirteen.

Oh, how he had plotted and dreamed of revenge.

For years, he’d dreamed of something like this.

That he now held Violet prisoner here in the Cloud—the keep
that had been his very first victory—was sublime.

Though if she expired on him, that would probably ruin the
delicious irony. And she was terribly cold. And shivering. And her lips were
blue. He hurried his pace.

He used the brass key around his neck to open the door to
the castle, carried Violet inside and laid her on a divan in the great room.
Because her arms were bound behind her back she couldn’t lie flat, so he untied
them. And then he removed her gag. He was annoyed to discover another rag
jammed into her mouth. Damn Callum. Had Ewan known, he would have removed it
sooner.

Her cheeks were still pale, and cool. He allowed his caress
to drift over them, reveling in the velvet softness. And then her lips…

He curled his fingers into a fist and stormed to the hearth.
The fire was laid but the tinder was damp. He realized, even if he could start
the fire, it would take hours to warm the cavernous room.

So he carried Violet, still terribly still, up the curling
stairs to the tower, to the lord’s solar, and set her gently on the bed. He lit
the fire and threw on a few more logs for good measure. Then he went back down
to the kitchen and raided the pantry, collecting a small cask of ale, a wheel
of cheese and some crackers. They would likely be stale but they would do for
the night. He grabbed a couple apples and a knife as well.

By the time he got back to his room, the sharp chill had
waned. He set their dinner on the table and went back to the bed. Violet lay in
the same position, not having moved at all. Concern niggled him.

How long did a woman remain unconscious when she fainted? He
didn’t know. He’d never made a woman faint before.

The fragile beauty of her face haunted him. God, she was
gorgeous. Like an alabaster statue. Cold and unmoving.

He frowned and picked up her hand. It was like ice. He
noticed the damp stain her slippers had made on the coverlet. Damn. Of course
they were wet. She’d leapt into the water, for Christ’s sake. He slipped them
off, and then her stockings, draping them over the chair by the fire. Her hem
was damp and cold as well, so he removed her dress, but he left her petticoats
on because frankly he didn’t need the temptation.

He wrapped several stones from the hearth in a cloth and
tucked them around her feet and covered her with a quilt. Then he stood back
and watched her. The slight rise and fall of her chest relieved him. Still, he
added another blanket. And threw a few more logs on the blaze.

He sat in a chair by the table, poured himself a cup of ale
and cut off a slice of cheese. And he ate. And drank. And stared at the woman
in his bed. Wondering if the vengeance would be worth the price.

God, he hoped so.

* * * * *

Violet awoke in a cozy, toasty nest. A heavy weight held her
down but she liked it. She nuzzled deeper into the pillows as the trails of a
sweet dream danced just out of reach.

A deep snore rumbled in her ear, along with a hot huff of
air.

Her eyes flew open.

She was in a bed in a strange room, a stony chamber kissed
by the light of the dawning sun. And someone was sleeping beside her.

The events of the previous day came flooding back and her
heart plunged.

That man. That horrible, beastly man was sleeping beside
her.

She held her breath. Tried to stay as still as she could
while she planned her escape. She certainly didn’t want to wake him. He had
removed her gag—thank God—but her mouth was dry and filled with an acrid taste.
And her wrists were free. That was a blessing. If only she could ease out from
under him.

She tried to make herself as small as she could and slip
from his grasp, but he muttered and tightened his hold. Blast! She shifted
again, slowly this time, and nudged herself to the left, picking up his arm and
carefully moving it off her. He grumbled a bit but allowed her to do so.

Cautiously, she slid from the bed.

And gasped out loud. She clapped her hands over her mouth,
too late to keep the sound in, but for mercy sake, he had stripped her down to
her petticoats.

She spun on the bed to glare at him—and found his gray eyes
open and trained on her. The light in them was unmistakable.

“Good morning.” He smiled—a sleepy, sultry offering—and his
face was transformed. Mercy. A man like him had no right being so handsome.
Heat sliced through her. A hot tide rose on her cheeks.

Had she really thought him horrifying yesterday? He was much
more menacing now.

One thought rode high in her mind. Escape.

She whirled and ran for the door.

The hell she would run from him.

That she tried got Ewan’s dander up. His lust was already
riding pretty high. It had been exquisite waking up to find Violet Wyeth
nestled up against him with the weight of her buttocks pressing into his cock.
He’d been lying there talking himself out of seducing her when she’d awoken.

And escaped.

She couldn’t go far—they were on an island after all—but he
didn’t want her to get hurt in her headlong flight. Besides, he rather fancied
the idea of giving chase.

And she had run from him.

So he flung back the covers and took off after her.

The keep dated from medieval times, though it had been
updated over the years, but the Laird’s solar was in the high tower, accessible
by a curling staircase. That slowed her down. By the time she reached the main
hallway on the second floor, he was only a few feet behind her.

She threw a glance over her shoulder, saw him coming and let
out a little screech. And increased her pace. She flew down the hall, rounded
the banister and pattered down the grand staircase with Ewan hard on her heels.
He caught her when she reached the bottom and swept her up in his arms—snarling
and snapping and howling as she was.

It was glorious to catch her. The resounding cheers and
claps echoing in the hall didn’t hurt.

Violet stilled. Ewan turned. The great hall teemed with his
men, and all of them with their attention trained on him…and his captive. Who was
wearing only petticoats.

He could only imagine the sight they made.

He gave a courtly bow—the best he could manage with a woman
in his arms—and headed back up the stairs.

For once, Violet didn’t protest.

“You’d better get dressed.” The McCloud tossed her dress at
her, the brute.

Violet glared at him.

“Go on. You don’t want my men to get ideas.”

“They already have ideas,” she muttered under her breath but
she hunted for her dress.

Oh. Her pretty frock was ruined. Somewhere along the way it
had become stained and torn. The neckline was ripped and the lace was in
tatters.

“Come along. Don’t dally. You have a busy day ahead of you.”

She glared at him again. “Go to hell.”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and grinned. “Ach.
Such language. And from a lady.” The way he said the word made his opinion of
ladies quite clear. She tipped up her chin and favored him with the haughtiest
glare she could manage. A muscle in his cheek bunched. “Go on,” he snapped.
“Get dressed. I wasn’t joking when I said the Cloud could use a maid. I fancy
seeing you on your knees scrubbing the floor.”

“I will not.”

His smirk was chilling. “Then you won’t eat.”

“You’re an animal. No wonder Kaitlin ran from you.” This,
she spat. She shivered as his expression changed.

His eyes narrowed. His voice dropped an octave. “Have a care
what insults you hurl at my head, Violet Wyeth. Never forget I hold your fate
in my hands.”

“You are a brigand and a beast. A common criminal.”

“Hardly common. And again, have a care. I have no
compunction about turning you over my knee.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Oh heavens. The realization sank in. He would. He would
indeed.

“I promise you this. If I don’t like what I hear coming out
of your mouth, I will gag you again.”

She shuddered. She’d hated that gag.

“So. Be a good girl and put on that dress. Go downstairs and
help Morna and Pippin prepare my breakfast. You will do whatever you are told.
You will work from dawn to dusk. And you’d better hope your friend Kaitlin
cares enough about you to return home soon or you’ll spend your life in my
scullery. Do you understand?”

Violet didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat was clogged
with tears.

The McCloud didn’t care. He nodded in her direction, a dark
frown on his face. “Come along, my lady. Get dressed or I may assume you’d
rather serve me in some other fashion. A service that doesn’t require
clothing…”

She was dressed in a trice.

If the McCloud was an animal, a beast and a brigand, his men
were worse. There were fifteen of them, all large and rough and raucous. Some
of them had teeth.

Several of them made lewd comments and suggestions as she
moved around the table—most of which she didn’t understand but which elicited
riotous guffaws from the others. One man, a particularly crass fellow with a
displeasing aroma, pinched her bottom as she brought him his ale. Another—the
only quiet one of the bunch—sat in the corner, picking his teeth with a knife
and staring at her with a predatory glint in his eyes.

The only one who was remotely kind was the hideous-faced
driver she’d met the day before. And even then, it was a grudging kindness.
More than once, he stepped in to smack away a wandering hand or rebuke one of
the other men for a rude remark in the presence of a lady.

The men laughed off his remonstrations. Taking their cue
from their leader, the McCloud, they saw no reason to show her any deference.
They treated her just as they treated Jessie, the other serving wench.

The difference was, Jessie didn’t seem to mind.

She leaned into their caresses and laughed at their jests.

But they treated her better than they treated Pippin, the
young boy who served in the scullery. Most of them were fairly decent but
Craig, the mountainous man with the lingering odor of onions, cuffed the child
and boxed his ears with horrifying frequency.

Ah, but only when the McCloud wasn’t there.

Morna, an older woman, a motherly type who served as the
housekeeper and cook, set Violet to work assisting with the baking and the
washing and helping Pippin load food into the pantry. The castle wasn’t used
much, she explained, but the McCloud had decided to move his operations here
for the time being.

Violet could tell from Morna’s expression she considered it
Violet’s fault she’d been wrenched from her comfortable station to work on this
desolate rock. The tasks she assigned her were onerous but not unmanageable.
And at least she hadn’t commanded Violet to scrub the floor.

That task fell to Pip.

The first day was exhausting to Violet, who had never done a
whit of manual labor. Carrying wood and water, kneading bread, rolling
barrels—it was all much more than she was used to. She didn’t mind—because it
kept her away from the McCloud—but by the time supper was ready to be served,
she was nearly asleep on her feet.

In a fog, she carried a heavy platter piled with sliced meat
from the kitchen into the great hall. She rounded the corner and came to an
abrupt halt.

An enormous black hound stood between her and the men in the
hall. Its lips curled, showing sharp fangs. A low, guttural growl resonated
through the room.

Violet‘s breath wedged in her throat. Her pulse thrummed in
her ears. Her vision wavered.

The beast took a step closer. Her gaze fixated on its huge
paws, larger than a man’s hand and tipped with lethal claws. Claws that could
rip flesh like a hot knife through butter.

She stepped back. And back again.

The beast advanced.

“He wants some meat,” Pip, at her side, whispered. “Just
feed him.”

Violet quickly tossed a chunk of ham onto the floor and as
the creature gobbled it up, she skirted around him to the table.

He followed, padding along behind her with glinting eyes.
When she set the tray on the table and backed away, his attention stayed fixed
on the platter and not on her, for which she was thankful.

She escaped to the kitchen, where she collapsed on the bench
beside the fire, heart flailing, knees shaking.

Pip tipped his head to the side and studied her. “It’s just
a dog,” he said.

Violet pressed her palm to her chest to still the tremors.
“It’s e-enormous.”

“Aw, he’s harmless. Once you get to know him.” The boy
puttered at the counter, loading bread into a basket and scooping butter onto a
dish. He shot her a scornful glance. “Why don’t you stay here while I finish
serving?”

“Would you?” Violet gushed with relief. She really shouldn’t
be a coward but she’d been attacked by an enormous hunting dog once in the
woods and if it hadn’t been for—she shook her head in an attempt to dislodge
the memory. “I’m so tired.”

Pip snorted and carried the rest of the food out to the men
at the table. His disgust was plain but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Her feet hurt, her back ached and her dress had somehow
acquired several more mysterious stains. She longed for a bath and a soft, warm
bed. She was physically exhausted, emotionally spent and this last altercation
had drained her completely. She rested her head against the warm bricks of the
cook fires and closed her eyes, trying very hard not to let the tears leak out.

She wasn’t a coward and she wasn’t a crier.

But she was very, very afraid.

* * * * *

Dinner had been over for a while when Ewan emerged from his
office with Wolfe padding at his heels. The men were chatting quietly around
the crackling fire in the great room, sipping ale. Jessie and Pip were playing
cards at the table and Morna was knitting in the corner. Of Violet, there was
no sign.

A thread of panic coiled. Had she escaped? Why hadn’t he
though to secure her after the meal?

He stormed over to Morna’s chair and barked, “Where is she?”

His housekeeper surveyed him with a steady, unblinking
stare. “You have no call to speak to me in that tone of voice, young man.”

Good God. In his panic he’d forgotten.

Morna took no grief from anyone. And she shouldn’t have to
take it from him. Not the woman who’d taken him under her wing when his mother
passed. Shown him how to care for a baby. Fed him. Kept him warm.

He was an ass.

Ewan raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Morna.
It’s been a long day and I fancy a bath. Where is the new serving girl?”

Morna tossed back her head and cackled a laugh. “You won’t
be getting a bath from that one tonight.”

His brows came down. “Why?” Because she’d fled?

With a sigh, Morna dropped her knitting into the basket by
her chair and stood, a great creaking of old bones—but dear ones. She led Ewan
to the kitchen and pointed to a bundle in the corner by the fire.

Violet. Curled up in a tight ball. Fast asleep. A dainty
snore rumbled.

She seemed so frail and fragile and delicate.

He hardened his heart. She was getting no more than she
deserved. Because of her, his mother had had to endure worse than this. Much
worse.

“She’s all in, that one.” Morna perched her hands on her
hips and frowned at him. “Will you still be wanting that bath?”

Ewan glanced at the buckets on the hearth. Calculated how
many it would take to fill his tub. How many trips Violet would have to make up
to the tower to do it. He should wake her up. He should wake her up and make
her prepare his bath and bathe him—just as he had dreamed about all day. But he
didn’t.

And it wasn’t because he was going soft. It wasn’t. It was
because, well, he just didn’t want a bath after all. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

Yes. Tomorrow would be better. He was busy tonight.

“Yer lairdship? Do you still want a bath?”

Ewan sighed. “Not tonight, Morna. Maybe tomorrow.”

She mumbled something under her breath and went back to her
knitting. Ewan bent and gently lifted Violet into his arms, being careful not
to jostle her. With Wolfe at his heels, he carried her through the great room
and up to the tower and settled her in his bed.

The candlelight flickered over her face in a tender caress.

God, she was lovely. Lovely and wan and… Lord, her dress was
a horror. He covered her with a blanket and sat on the other side of the bed to
pull off his boots. He would have to find her some clothes, he supposed. And
another room. Having her in his bed was a temptation—and a potential
disaster—he couldn’t afford.

But his thoughts stalled there.

He didn’t really want her sleeping anywhere else.

And he wasn’t sure why.

* * * * *

Holy heaven. She would never take a bath for granted again.

Violet stumbled on the stairs and the contents of the heavy
bucket sloshed, dousing her with hot water. She sucked in a breath as pain
seared. She set the bucket on the landing and pulled her skirts up. Her skin
was red. She ruffled the tatters of her petticoats, waiting for the sting to
subside.

The door to the laird’s solar swung open. She stepped back
so it wouldn’t hit her and it slammed into the wall. The McCloud glowered down
at her. His gaze stalled on her bare legs.

It was riveted—until she dropped her skirts—then he snapped,
“What the hell is taking so long?” He glanced back at her damp skirts and his
frown darkened. He picked up the last bucket and carried it to the tub, dumping
it in himself. “For God’s sake. How long does it take to bring a few buckets up
from the kitchen?”

A few buckets?
It had taken twelve trips, each with a
bucket that weighed near as much as she. Violet glared at him. “Is that
enough?” She probably didn’t need to clip the words quite so much but she had
already worked for hours. She was tired and sweaty and her skin ached and Morna
was waiting for her to help prepare dinner.

He swished his hand in the water. “Yes. I suppose that will
do.”

Not a thank you. Not a smile. Nothing.

Beast.

She whirled and started for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice rumbled, a deep
tenor. Her steps slowed.

“Back to the kitchen.” She frowned at him over her shoulder.
“I have work to do.”

“You have work to do here.”

“I beg your pardon?” What did he want her to do now, wash
his bottom?

“You’re going to bathe me.”

Her heart stilled at his words, his intent and especially
his expression. “Wh-what?”

“Come now, Violet. The laird of the manor can’t be expected
to scrub his own back, can he now? Be a good girl, close the door and come over
here.”

She gaped at him. Gaped. He expected her to remain in a room
with a naked man? He expected her to touch him?

“Close your mouth. You look like a trout.”

“But…I c-can’t. I can’t b-bathe you.”

“You can. And you will.” His eyes glimmered with something
other than humor. The unspoken threat hummed in the stony chamber. “You may
want to turn around while I undress, unless you want an early education.” He
began to unbutton his shirt.

With an undignified eep, Violet whirled and showed him her
back until she heard the splash and his gusty sigh.

“All right, girl. Get to work. Scrub my back.” He gestured
to a chunk of soap and a sponge on a small table.

She picked them up, approached the tub and knelt behind him,
trying not to stare at the bunching muscles, the broad expanse of tanned skin.
She couldn’t help but notice it was covered with scars. Long and short,
crisscrossing over one another. As though he’d been brutally beaten and lashed
time after time after—

“Did you close the door?”

Her bubbling sympathy evaporated in a rush. She stuck her
tongue out at him but only because he couldn’t see. Then, with a heavy sigh,
she levered herself off the floor and closed the door. Well, slammed it.

His chuckle annoyed her more.

He leaned forward and peeped at her over his shoulder. “Come
along now. My back isn’t going to scrub itself.”

She took her place behind him again, careful not to look at
his broad, furry chest as she approached. She wet the soap and sponge and
created a lather. Being very careful not to touch him, she began to scour his
back.

He winced. “Not so hard.”

His plaintive tone probably shouldn’t have sent a shard of
evil satisfaction through her but it did. This man had been a boor to her from
the moment he’d found her on the floor in Callum MacAllister’s cottage. She dug
deeper.

He lurched forward. “Ouch!”

“Hold still,” she muttered, making a wide swath across the
ridged skin. “You’re filthy. I need to scrub.”

“I am not filthy.”

“You are. Stop wriggling.”

Amazingly, he did, though her efforts bordered on abuse. But
my, it felt good.

When she started on his neck and ears, he caught her wrist.
“All right. I think that’s enough.”

“I’m not done.”

“Oh, you’re not done.” He tugged her around to the side of
the tub so she faced him. She focused on his crooked nose, schooled her
attention not to drift lower. “Now it’s time for you to scrub my front.”

She really disliked his tone. There was mischief—and
something much darker—coiling in there. “Fine.” She dropped to her knees and
wet the sponge again, but rather than dunking it, merely skimmed the surface of
the water.

Fortunately the bath was murky so she couldn’t see anything.
But she knew what was down there and she didn’t want to find it by accident.
She trained her attention on his chest and her heart lurched.

A long, nasty scar scored him. Like a puckered lightning
bolt, it made its jagged way from his left nipple down to his belly. Her pulse
skittered. Her breath snagged in her throat. She’d only ever seen a scar like
that once before.

A scar exactly like that.

Her gaze snapped back to his face. She looked at him. Really
looked at him, perhaps for the first time. Her mouth went dry. The gray eyes
laced by thick black lashes. The broad, smiling mouth. The curve of his jaw.

It couldn’t be. Could it?

“W-where did you get that scar?”

He glanced down and stilled. Annoyance flickered across his
features. “Every man has scars.”

“Not-not like that.” She sat back on her haunches. She
didn’t realize she was squeezing the sponge until water seeped through her
skirts.

“All right. A knife fight.”