Authors: Anna Markland
They reined to a halt in the deserted bailey. “Blair Castle,” he announced with an expansive gesture as if conducting a tour. She appreciated his efforts to allay her fears.
They dismounted and led the tired beasts to the stable. “It’s colder up here,” she said, her breath hanging in the air, mingling with the warm snorts of the horses.
“Aye,” he replied. “We’re only in the foothills of the Grampians, but already a body can feel it.”
They took care of their horses’ needs, gathering what fresh hay there was. The stable was well equipped, but eerily deserted. Brushing down Bàn calmed Margaret’s frayed nerves.
Rheade’s voice broke into her reverie. “Ye’re enjoying that.”
“I’ve loved horses since I was a bairn,” she admitted.
He put an arm around her waist, hefting the satchel of provisions over his shoulder as they left the stable.
“The chambers will be cold,” he added, pointing to the turrets. “Especially up there.”
She gathered the borrowed plaid tighter, her heart in her boots. She’d never been fond of heights. “Ye plan to hide in the tower?”
She welcomed his reassuring warmth when he pulled her closer. “Tannoch has already searched the castle. He’s not likely to look here again. He’ll be frustrated after Logan leads him astray and hopefully forget about ye. He’ll believe ye’ve fled to Oban.”
“Perhaps that’s what I should have done,” she murmured as he led her through the unlocked door into the entry hallway.
The first grey streaks of dawn revealed opulent furnishings. The Earl of Atholl’s immense wealth was legendary. “Why would someone risk this?” she whispered, inhaling deeply. “They’ve strewn rushes somewhere in the house that still smell sweet. Scented with hops, I believe. Typical for February.”
He sniffed. “One smell is much like another to me,” he admitted. “Except—”
He inhaled close to her neck. “What is the tantalizing perfume you wear?”
Her nipples tightened. She’d never considered herself tantalizing. “’Tis a sweet-bag I wear around my neck, made of silk. My mother taught me how to stuff them with damask rose leaves, orris and cloves.” She pressed her hand to her breast. “The rest are in the wagon on their way back to Oban. This is the last one I have left.”
His mouth had fallen open, his gaze fixed on her breasts. For a moment she thought he might salivate, but then he licked his lips and said, “Ye can fashion more in the future. My mother grew damask roses at Dunalastair. Yer Aunty can mayhap make use of the ones in the wagon.”
She laughed out loud.
He eyed her curiously, then looked around the entry hall. “I agree it’s hard to fathom why the Earl decided to murder his nephew, though the animosity between them is of long standing.”
She was confused. “But wasn’t the Earl one of the nobles who helped ransom James from his imprisonment at the English court and bring him back to Scotland?”
They paused at the foot of an immense winding staircase. Only the first steps were visible. “He was, but a lot has happened in the thirteen intervening years to turn him against the king.”
“Where are the servants?” she asked.
“All fled,” he replied. “In fear of their lives.”
“But if they’d done nothing,” she protested.
“Anyone associated with the perpetrators of this heinous crime will be suspect,” he explained.
Her heart plummeted. “Even me,” she rasped.
He took her hands and blew on her fingers, the sadness in his eyes betraying he regretted his words. “Better?” he asked.
How to tell him his warmth had travelled from her hands up her arms, down her spine and thence into her tingling nipples. “Aye,” she said hoarsely.
“Ready for the climb?”
He took her hand and led her into the darkness.
THE TURRET ROOM
It occurred to Rheade half way up the long winding stairway that the assassins might have returned. Perhaps they’d watched the castle being searched from a distance and decided it was now a safe place to hide. He drew his dagger, just in case.
Margaret gasped, pulling her hand from his. Coming close to losing her balance, she leaned back against the wall, her fingernails clawing at the damp stone. He cursed his thoughtlessness. “Dinna worry, ’tis a precaution. I should have warned ye.”
They continued on past three landings with innumerable chamber doors visible from each one, until they came to the topmost landing where they paused, both breathing heavily. The steep climb was tiring, but worth it if only for the view of the entry from the cleverly designed landing that spanned the space between the two chambers. Margaret had kept up with him without complaint, though she clung to him now. “Ye must be exhausted,” he said, sheathing the weapon. “Right or left?”
She stared at him as if he’d spoken in Greek. “What?”
He gathered her more tightly into his embrace, realizing she was trembling. He supposed the events of the last hours were taking their toll. “The chambers. Right or left? They’re both the same as I recall.”
“I—canna—move,” she stammered. “Heights.”
He was tempted to chuckle, but the color had drained from her face, and she looked truly terrified. He scooped her up. “Have no fear, Sir Rheade is here,” he quipped. “He will carry the fair lady to her chamber.”
She nestled into him, her arms clamped around his neck. He chose the chamber on the left and kicked open the door, discovering one thing he hadn’t paid attention to during the search. There was one small bed. He sat her down on the edge of it. “I forgot there is only one bed. I’ll stay in the other room.”
“No, please dinna leave me,” she begged, clinging to his arm. “I trust ye to be a gentleman.”
Despite her conviction, he wasn’t confident of keeping his hands to himself if they shared a bed. He sat down beside her. “Margaret, I’m a man. Men have urges.”
She put a hand on his thigh. “I had three brothers,” she said. “I’m aware of men’s urges.”
While it might be true in theory, he suspected she’d fly back down the steps, fear of heights or no, if she caught sight of the rock hard flesh between his legs that had sprung to life at her touch. He took her hand off his thigh lest the desire it sparked consume him completely. “That’s as maybe,” he rasped, “but I am drawn to ye.”
She cuddled into him, lacing her fingers with his. “I’m drawn to ye too,” she whispered.
He craved her, but they were both exhausted. “Let’s eat a wee morsel, then sleep for a while. Afterwards we can explore the castle.”
They shared a heel of brown bread and a chunk of cheese. Margaret was at first reluctant to accept the flask of whiskey, but when he pointed out there was naught else to drink, she took a swig and grimaced. He drank a long swallow, laughing at the sour expression on her face.
“I’m guessing ye dinna drink much whisky,” he teased.
She stifled a yawn and curled up on the bed. “Cuddle me,” she murmured.
Intense as his desire for her was, cuddling was what she needed. He spooned his body around hers and drew the extra plaids over them.
She fell asleep almost instantly. It took over an hour to calm his greedy body, but finally he dozed.
~~~
Margaret blinked open her eyes, but for only a split second. The chamber was bathed in blinding light. The sun must be well up.
Sun?
She did feel overly warm, perhaps because of the copious amounts of plaids under which she lay. She moved to push them away. An arm tightened around her waist.
Someone else was in the bed.
She froze, her heart beating wildly, until she remembered.
Rheade
.
The incredible recent events flooded back in a confusing torrent, but Rheade’s presence throughout kept her afloat.
He let out a long, slow breath, and she savored the warmth of it on her nape. Had he awakened? Did he regret helping her?
“Good morning,” he rumbled. “Or should I say
Good afternoon
.”
She snuggled into him, feeling the heat of his body on her back. How wonderful it would be to wake up in this man’s arms every day. He desired her. She’d heard her brothers boast often enough of what happened to their male parts when they wanted a woman. However, Braden had also told her men usually woke aroused. Was it the explanation for the hard bulge pressed against her bottom? She’d grown up with brothers who’d always treated her as one of their gang, but there was much about men she didn’t know.
“Good afternoon,” she replied in a husky voice she barely recognised.
His nearness was having other strange effects. Her nipples tingled and she seemed to be alarmingly wet in her private female place. He nuzzled her nape. She was definitely too hot. Mayhap fewer clothes might help.
Alarm bells went off in her head. The terrifying events of the last hours must have stolen her wits. Disrobing in front of a man she barely knew! Nay!
She pulled away to sit on the edge of the bed, squinting as the sunlight arrowed into her eyes. “This chamber is too bright,” she complained.
He traced a fingertip down her spine. His touch sent more wet heat flooding between her legs. She decided she must be afflicted with some noxious sickness from the filthy cells.
“It used to be a nursery, I think,” he drawled.
She looked around. The chest and armoire were indeed appropriate for a child, though they were old fashioned and showed signs of being well used. Ochre stars and moons had been painted on the plastered walls. A cracked and chipped chamber pot sat atop the armoire. A fearful notion crept into her brain. “Do ye suppose this was Robert Stewart’s chamber when he was a bairn? I ken his grandfather raised him.”
He sat up and put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s possible, but ye cannot concern yourself with Robert Stewart. He has forfeited any claim he ever had on ye. Once he is caught and it’s safe to travel again, we must petition the Queen for an annulment of the betrothal.”
She frowned. “Safe to travel?”
He inhaled deeply, scratching the stubble under his chin. “It pains me to say it but the biggest danger to ye now is my brother. He’s never been a reasonable man.”
Immense sadness shadowed his brown eyes. Wanting to comfort him, she put her hand to the side of his face. “But why is he determined to persecute me? What have I done to offend him?”
Their gazes locked as he pressed one hand over hers and brought her palm to his mouth. She moaned softly as desire spiralled into her womb. “It’s nothing ye’ve done, Margaret. It’s me he resents. If he suspects I care for ye—”
“Ye care for me?” she whispered.
He put his hand behind her head and drew her closer, brushing his lips over hers. He nibbled her lower lip, then coaxed with his tongue.
She’d laughed out loud when Braden had described how men liked to put their tongues in women’s mouths, but now she opened willingly, shivering as he ran his fingers down her neck and twirled his tongue around hers. The softness of his beard had the peculiar effect of making her legs fall open. He growled when she sifted her fingers through his tangled hair.
He broke off the kiss just as she was getting the hang of breathing with him. He hugged her tightly, his arms like bands of steel. She pressed her flattened breasts harder against his chest, needing to be part of him.
Someone was whimpering and she suddenly realized the mewling sound was coming from her throat.
“I more than care for ye, Margaret. Ye fire my blood,” he rasped, licking her earlobe.
She’d long held the conviction she would surrender her maidenhead to her husband on her wedding night. How astonishing the notion was suddenly of no importance. Her heart admitted that if he asked she would willingly give herself to him. The events of the past days had underscored the fleeting nature of life. She wanted Rheade now. He had awakened feelings and delicious sensations in parts of her body she’d never given much thought to. Perhaps she wasn’t such a good girl.
He loosened his grip and went down on one knee before her. “I am a man of honor,” he said, kissing her hand. “This isna the time or place, but I swear to ye, Lady Margaret Ogilvie, I will see ye free of Robert Stewart, and I will make ye mine.”
~~~
Rheade was elated he might have stumbled upon the woman he wanted to spend his life with, but was it too soon? Living under Tannoch’s nitpicking eye, he’d started to believe he was incapable of making a good decision.
But his heart told him this was the right one. Margaret Ogilvie was beautiful, courageous and had a sense of humor. Naming her horse Bàn! Because the beast was white! Well, mostly. Hah!
He’d been right to rescue her and flee Dunalastair, but it rankled he’d been obliged to abandon the castle he loved. Besides if Margaret was to be his wife, they’d need a home. Exile was out of the question. It was his right to live in Dunalastair, to share in its prosperity, and Margaret deserved a splendid dwelling.
Fion’s revelation plagued him. His heart clenched when he thought of his beautiful mother and her torment, but if Tannoch was indeed a bastard, it meant—
Time enough to ponder that matter later. He’d formed a plan while dozing with Margaret in his arms, one he hoped would make it possible to wake every morning with her tempting body pressed to his groin.
His promise seemed to have taken Margaret by surprise. Mayhap she didn’t care for him, though the aroma of female arousal flooded his senses, along with the fragrant rose petals, and…what else was in the silk bag? Her eyelashes were fluttering like bees’ wings, but he suspected it was because she was uncertain.
“I mean what I say, Margaret. If ye’ll have me as a husband I’d be honored to wed with ye.”
She lowered her head and brushed her lips over his knuckles. “It will be my honor, Rheade Robertson, but we must make a plan to solve the dilemma of Robert Stewart, and yer brother.”
Elation warmed his heart like a comfortable plaid. “Aye,” he agreed, sitting beside her on the bed once more. “I have decided to return to Dunalastair.”
She startled. “Nay, I canna go back to the cells.”
He squeezed her hand. “Ye’ll remain here. I brought sufficient food for a few days. If I return home, Tannoch will believe ye have fled with yer relatives. I’ll claim I searched for ye without success. He’ll turn his attention to Stewart and I’ll make sure he hunts away from Blair Castle.”