Parris Afton Bonds (16 page)

Chapter Ten

E
nya threw open the shutters. Gray-pink rays tinged the predawn heavens. The scent of crystal- tipped grass stirred thoughts of happier times, childhood times in Ayrshire, when the worst she had to worry about was her brothers' teasing. Both Gordon and Andrew had plagued her with frogs until Elspeth would chase the two boys with a rug beater. Later on, Enya chased them herself through dew-wet grass.

Now Gordon and Andrew were dead
—and she felt like the walking dead. She had to remind herself that she was human and not a wild beast, caged. Even Thane, still asleep by the fire, fared better than she with their master.

Behind her, Ranald stirred. “
What—you—?" He leaned on one elbow, bare-chested. Sometime during the night, he had stripped off his clothing. She couldn’t remember seeing a chest so broad, naked or clothed. The coverlet lay dangerously low around his hips. "You’re still here.”

"Aye." With only the faint light of dying embers, she had dressed. She crossed now to the Turkish chair, and, bare feet tucked up under her, drew on a briar pipe. Mutin
ously, she exhaled a wreath of smoke. The eddying circle expanded, grew more indistinct.

“
Where did ye get that? Me pipe?"

“
From the drawer of your writing desk."

He propped his back against the wall and, head canted and arms crossed, watched her. “
Me grandmother smoked a pipe.”

“
Did your grandfather know?”

One side of his mouth cocked a grin, completely obliterating the pleat on that side of his face. “
She taught him. She was from the Clan Ranald. He was the Cameron’s official piper and was charged with playing the call to battle.”

She smiled through the haze of smoke. “
So the bagpipe was the closest your grandfather ever came to a pipe—until your grandmother.”

“
Smoke is mysterious,” he mused. "Like a woman."

"Let me
stay."

"What?”

‘"Tis not my shame you want, is it? Or else you would have made it much more unpleasant for me. Like last night, for instance.”

His brows lowered. His pleats deepened to menacing grooves. “
Don’t underestimate me.”

"I think 'tis my husband yo
u—"

"I explicitly recall your announcing to all that you weren't married.”

“—Simon Murdock you want. I'm merely the bait, aren’t I.”

He shrugged. “
So?"

"Do you expect me to entice him up here?"

"No. I expect to meet him on the battlefield. You are not me bait. You are me trump card."

She uncurled her legs and leaned forward. “
Then you have nothing to lose by giving me your protection as long as I am under your roof."

Now the pleats curved ever so slightly. “
Why should I?”

"Because you need someone you can t
rust. You see, I know someone in the castle wants to betray you.”

He uncoiled from the trappings of the coverlet and strode toward her. His blatant nudity
—and his indifference to it—shocked her. She yanked her gaze from his swaying genitals and fastened on his face. His expression was more brooding than Buachaille Etive. "What makes you say that?”

She maintained her indolent position. "A letter.”

Arms akimbo, he asked, "What did it say?"

She found it very, very difficult ignoring his masculinity when it was
so boldly displayed less than an arm’s length from her face. A rapidly heating face. "I don’t have it."

His lids lowered to half masts. "Ye try me patience, mistress.”

The way that large cylindrical member dangled so blatantly from its nest of brown curls was extremely distracting. ‘"Tis the truth. I don’t have it."

Realization showed on his face. He swung around and strode to his desk.

"The letter is still there,” she said, laying aside the pipe. “I would recognize the handwriting of my own companions. Neither Mary Laurie nor Elspeth penned it. And Duncan canna write."

"Why should I believe you?" He tunneled his fingers through his rumpled hair, bypassed her, and strode toward the open window. Watching the shift of his muscled buttocks, she drew deeply on
the pipe. Never had she more needed its soothing effects.

“
Even you could have written it,” he said, without turning from the window.

“
Aye," she said. "I could have written it, but I dinna.”

She rose and went to stand behind him. Gently, she touched his shoulder. The feel of his warm flesh beneath her fingertips made her pause. The man was flesh and blood. Very much human. "Canna you trust?"

“Nae. I am responsible for too many people to risk that.”

“
Because I am a Lowlander, Murdock’s wife, and,” she added with a touch of humor, "a redhead?”

He caught her hand and pulled her around between him and the window embrasure. Their faces were bathed in early-morning light, as they gazed into each othe
r’s eyes. "No, because ye have the power of the Auld Folk. Of fairies and monsters of the deep."

He looked perfectly serious. “
And that is dangerous to you?" she asked.

"It could be."

What would it be like to be kissed by this man? A man so much taller and larger and stronger than she. A man who had the effect of making her feel extraordinarily feminine at the moment. And very vulnerable. "How can I convince you I willna harm you?" The briskness of her voice was her armor against him.

“
Ye will have to prove it to me. By actions, not words."

She removed her hand and stepped around the fire, putting distance between her and this man she suddenly desired. “
I will attempt to prove I can be trusted. Will you do the same? Do I have your word that I will remain a maiden as long as I am your captive?”

He half turned, one brow raised. "Ye do not ask for your release. Why not?”

She picked up the briar pipe once more. "I doubt you’d go that far.”

"Ye are discerning.”

"I want your guarantee of Duncan’s safety also."

He f
aced her now, muscled legs spread like the Colossus of Rhodes, fists planted on his narrow hips. His look was inscrutable. "Duncan? Your care for your servants is admirable."

"You will see that Duncan is treated well?”
She drew idly on the stem of his briar pipe, as if nothing vital were at stake here.

"No. First, Duncan is not mine to guarantee his safety. He belongs to me sister. Second, he was not part of our bargain. As for ye . . .
’’

Her breath locked in her lungs. Had she pushed her luck too far?

". . . your maidenhood will not be taken from ye without your consent. I guarantee this. I will see that Nob is recompensed."

Relief whisked the pent-up smoke from her mouth in a burst of dragon fire. She started coughing, and Ranald pounded on her back.

"Stop!" she gasped. “Stop! Ye . . . are taking advantage of me."

His smile was, at best, polite. “
Something I have no desire to do, believe me.”

His total lack of interest affronted her. Was she that homely?

He returned to the window. The rising sun highlighted his craggy features. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he said, “Hie thee to the kitchens, mistress.”

She spared one backward glance for that magnificent body. Lamentable that it should suffer the executioner
’s ax.

At least, before she had the opportuni
ty to make him fall in love with her.

A bowed psaltry’s spirited music enlivened the castle’s occupants that evening, which meant that Mhorag’s uncle must not be suffering one of his debilitating headaches.

Mhorag had her own. She wearied of the women
’s diversions—working on their embroidery, gossiping, telling riddles. Chess or
chemin de fer
required more thought than she was willing to give tonight.

The dice game in progress at the end of the guard room bec
koned her. "Doug, Patric, Scott . . .’’ she acknowledged the half-dozen clansmen who hunkered over the dice by name or nod.

In return, they accorded her the deference of "M
’lady." Other than hasty glances darted in her direction, they kept their attention focused on the game. They knew their places. That was it, she thought. Duncan of Ayrshire did not.

Going down on one knee, she tugged the pouch strings from her girdle and tossed it near the mound of shillings and other English and Scottish coins. "My wage
r. Twenty-three pounds sterling."

Looks flickered among the men. She knew what they were thinking. Dared they best her, the laird
’s sister?

"Cast the dice,”
a voice said behind her.

She looked up. Duncan stood over her. His silly grin, with one front tooth
overlapping another, irritated her beyond all forbearance. “Ye have finished stocking my hearth with wood?"

"Even at this moment, m
’lady, a fire licks your bricks.”

The smirk of the other dicers made her want to pummel the lout. She wouldn
’t lose her composure. She retrieved the dice and tossed them. One landed atop the other.

"A cock," he said behind her. "Cast again.”

Exasperation issued from her lips in a grunt, but she kept her own counsel. This time the dice came up eleven. She grinned. A point for her.

Duncan knelt between her and the man to her left. He dropped a gold chain before him. "This says ye throw seven."

“Where did ye get that?”

His grin faded to a dolorous droop.
‘"T’was me dear mother’s.”

"Now why is it I doubt ye? Ye probably raided me ow
n jewelry box.”

He looked shocked.

She collected the dice. "I accept your wager, Duncan of Dunce.”

He had the temerity to grip her wrist. “
One moment. Your wager—” He nodded toward the bag. “I’m not interested in the twenty-three pounds sterling. English or Scottish. I beg something else.”

She had to admit, the oaf wasn
’t boring. "And that is?”

“
A night in your bed.”

Her eye sockets felt seared with her hate. The memory of being pierced with the putrid-flesh swords of Murdock and his soldiers burned through
her brain like molten, red-hot lead.

The smothered chortle of the gap-toothed man called Doug, the amused expressions of the others, snapped her control. Her hand lashed out in a slap that surely echoed against the other end of the hall. "You seek above y
our station, knave.”

As if caressing the red imprint of her palm, he fingered the spot on his cheek. "Ach,
’twas worth the try, m’lady.”

Doubtlessly he was also bedding the Lady Murdock and every castle wench, as well. “
Would a night in me bed be worth the flogging of twenty-three lashes, ye insolent villein?"

His gaze held hers in a tenuous tryst. "Aye.”

"Your words are bold.” She glanced at the other men. "Should I summon the stable master? Wallace is handy with a whip.”

No one said anything. That infuriated her even more. "Get Wallace,”
she told Patric.

With a reluctant, “
Aye, me—m'lady,” the fair-haired youth backed away quickly. Tension strained taut every expression.

Next, she rounded on Duncan. “
Where is my brother’s whore?"

He affected a confused look. "I know not of whom ye speak, m
’lady."

"The tart, Enya."

His fingers curled into fists.

She didn
’t know whether to be pleased she had succeeded in goading him or envious of a woman who commanded such devotion.

"I believ
e the Lady Enya is with your uncle, playing backgammon." He spoke evenly, and his eyes told her nothing.

Contrition mixed with chagrin. “
Why hasn't Patric returned with the stable master?" she demanded of Colin, the hapless man standing nearest.

His lids b
linked rapidly. In the midst of his scraggly beard, his tongue licked his lips. "I’ll go find them, m’lady.”

"Stay. They come now.”
She waited for the shuffling stable master and Patric. Why hadn’t Ranald returned from the grouse hunt? His intervention could end this tragic farce.

As if sensing something was afoot, most of the occupants in the great hall followed Wallace and Colin, a river of white, puzzled faces on either side. Why had Duncan insisted on calling her bluff?

Wallace tugged at his forelock. Greasy hair as long as the thong of his whip strung down his shoulders. Her nostrils quivered. He smelled of the stables as well. His gaze studied the hard clay floor. "M’lady?”

She nodded her head in Duncan
’s direction. “Flog him. Twenty-three lashes."

In
dumb, blind obedience, Wallace uncurled his whip. "With the barb?"

“
No. The man doesn’t want death, ye dolt." Just my body beneath his. Without turning, she said, “Duncan, come here. Shed your shirt."

He lumbered forward into the semicircle of curious, exc
ited, and fearful on-watchers. He peeled off his coarse woolen shirt to reveal a wiry body. His rib cage and shoulder blades stood out prominently. He had none of her brother’s bulk to recommend him.

She searched his eyes for a sign of rebelliousness. In t
hat unguarded moment she saw calculation, cold reasoning, a measure of insecurity, and a lust for the fullness of life.

Did he think she was part of that fullness? "Do ye recant your wager?"

He shook his head in the negative. His flaxen hair fell forward over his forehead.

“
Then kneel."

He dropped to his knees, his back still poker-straight. His gaze challenged her.

She nodded at Wallace. "Begin."

As the whip lashed upward, a collective intake of breath could be heard. Then the leather thong sliced through
the air, sliced through the pale skin fleshing Duncan’s back. He jerked; almost pitched forward but caught his balance. Incredibly, he grinned.

An impudent grin, by God. She stilled the flutter in her heart and ordered, "Another!”

The whipped flashed up, slashed down. A thin crimson welt appeared. His jaws clenched. Still, his country-boy gaze held hers.

She would not weaken. "Again."

Duncan tensed. The lash whistled another time. Its tip curled under Duncan’s jaw. He buckled. Blood trickled off his neck, under his armpits, and splattered onto the floor.

Ten times more she ordered the application of the lash. Ten times more she heard its shrill keening. Ten times more she winced inwardly. Still, he watched her. His eyes reminded her of a scarecrow
’s. The coppery tang of blood filled her nostrils.

The big blacksmith was finding his rhythm. Duncan's body jerked spasmodically with each bite of the whip. His head drooped like a horse recently broken to the bit.

A reasonless, empty ache clawed at her insides. "Halt!” she cried. "That is more than half. With the full measure of twenty-three, the simple fool would never make it to my bed, anyway. Take him to his quarters.”

His head still hanging, his bloodied body quivering, he made a croaking sound that carried au
thority nonetheless. "Nae.”

She felt the accusing stares of the others. Was there no way out of this to save face, yet save him? Another part of her mind questioned this: Why save him? "You heard me, Colin. Patric, Doug
— take him to his quarters. I will send salves for his cuts.”

Duncan raised his head. His hair dripped with sweat. His eyes had a glazed focus. His mouth managed a merry quirk. "Come yeself, m
’lady."

“
God Almighty!” she swore. "Begone from here. All of ye." She lifted her skirts off the pink-splashed floor and swept past the tottering Duncan.

Alone in the turret stairwell, she put a steadying hand on its walls. Its cold stones revived her. Why had she saved his worthless hide?

Because he had undergone a measure of pain in order to lie with her when her own husband had cowardly abandoned her to Murdock and his soldiers?