Seduced by the Laird (Conquered Brides Series Book 2) (16 page)

Why would someone take it? What could the missive have possibly contained?

“Are ye looking for something?”

Kirstin whirled at the sound of a male voice.

“Sir Owen,” she said, pressing her hand to her heart. She stood. “Ye scared me. Where is Sir John?”

Owen shrugged, his eyes roving over her in a way that made her feel very uncomfortable.

“Can I help ye with something?”

“I wonder,” Sir Owen said, but then added nothing more.

Kirstin raised a brow, alarm bells starting to toll. “If there is nothing I can help ye with, then I suggest ye head back to your duties. Ye shouldn’t be in here.”

A queer expression covered his features, making Kirstin feel uneasy. His gaze followed the line of her body. “Well, as a matter of fact, there is something ye can help me with.”

She tried for a withering glower, but it fell short of her intent, as her nerves were buzzing around like a swarm of bees on freshly bloomed lavender. “Let us discuss it as we walk, then. I am needed by the Prioress.”

But instead of backing up, Owen entered her chamber. “I think not.”

Saints! Her stomach flipped, lodging in her throat. Kirstin bolted forward, intent on scurrying around him and out of her chamber, but he slammed the door shut, barring her way out.

“No need to leave quite yet.”

Panicked, she once more tried to gain the upper hand, fists on her hips, she glowered. “This is highly inappropriate. I am a daughter of the church.”

“And I am a son. ’Tis why this is so perfect.” He merely shrugged, nonchalant, chilling. Not at all concerned for their positions. This had gone too far.

Kirstin shook her head vehemently. “I insist.”

Owen struck out, his big paw connecting with her chest and pushing her backwards toward the bed.

“Where is Scorrybreac Castle?” he demanded.

“Scorrybreac?” The question caught her off guard and she faltered in her steps, stumbling backward, catching herself just before she fell to the mattress.

“Aye. Where is it?”

“The Isle of Skye.” Mind reeling, she regained her balance and darted around him, only to be grabbed as she passed and flung around so that her back pressed into his chest.

“Have ye been there before?”

Why in heaven’s name was he asking about her childhood home? She’d not been back there since she was twelve, since she’d fled. Since that awful moment where she’d watched her maid be run through by the monster who stole her sister. Thank God, Brenna had survived. Her sister Brenna and her family resided at Scorrybreac now, her son its laird and her husband acting as guardian. Was this about them? Were they in danger? Kirstin’s heart pounded with fear. Something was wrong. Self-preservation told her to lie.

“Nay. Never. I could not even describe it to ye.”

“Ye lie,” he whispered menacingly.

Kirstin worked to keep her voice vacant, and shook her head, feeling her headdress shift. “Lying is a sin. Just as assaulting a nun is.”

Owen laughed, the sound scraping along her nerves. “But we both know ye are not pure,
Kay
.”

Saints preserve her! He had seen Gregor come into her chamber. Perhaps heard their soft moans and whispers. He knew, and now he was going to use that against her. But still, what did Scorrybreac have to do with it?

She tried to straighten away from him, but he kept her pinned. “Let me go, and I will swear this never happened. Ye can still escape with your life.”

He nuzzled her neck, making her skin crawl. “Oh, I intend to escape. But, ye’re coming with me.”

A knock at the door had them both jolting.

“Let me go,” she whispered frantically. “Please. I willna tell. I promise.”

The man grunted, and she felt cold metal—the edge of a blade—touch her neck where his mouth had just been.

“Sister Kirstin?” Gregor was on the other side of the door.

Owen tightened his grip around her, the force of his arm pinching painfully against her ribs. “Dinna say a word, or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.”

To prove his point, he pricked her skin just enough to sting and for her to feel the warm sticky trickle of blood slide down her neck.

Chapter Seventeen

“Owen,” she croaked.

Kirstin held onto his arm wrapped around her neck, in an effort to ease the pain, as he slowly cut off her breath. Spots started to dance before her eyes, and her tongue felt funny. Fuzzy.

Nay, she couldn’t pass out. Couldn’t let him do this to her! She tried to concentrate on yanking his arm. There was a wet spot on his shirtsleeve, her blood. She pinched him hard, and he growled, though he did loosen his grip, but not enough.

“’Tis Laird Buchanan on the other side of the door,” she managed to say. “Ye recall the man. Stubborn as your leader, Sir John. He will not go away. He will open the door, and when he sees ye holding me like this, he will run ye through without question.”

Speaking took great effort and she found herself panting for breath.

“Not afore I cut your pretty neck from ear to ear,” he rasped menacingly, removing his arm and using the tip of his fingernail to scrape exactly the route. His breath smelled rotten, and she imagined all manner of things crawling around inside his mouth. Death, decay.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and though she didn’t think she deserved much mercy from the heavens whom she’d shunned when she accepted Gregor’s touch, when she had sinful thoughts, and because most importantly, she wanted this man harmed—badly—she prayed anyway. Prayed that Owen would let her go without hurting her. Prayed that Owen would let her answer the door. Prayed that Gregor would see through her trying to push him away and somehow figure out a way to save her without either of them getting killed. Or at the very least, that Gregor left, and if she was able to save his life and not her own, so be it.

“Let me answer the door. Let me get rid of him. None of us need die today.” She licked her lips, frantic. “Even if he does go away, he’ll likely lurk around all day waiting for me to return. Ye’ll not be able to leave this chamber without him seeing ye.”

Owen resumed squeezing the life out of her, lifting her up so that she stood on her tiptoes making spots behind her eyes return. “What’s to make me believe that ye willna try to escape, or warn him of your plight?”

Kirstin gagged, choked, tried to drag in air. Owen laughed, the sound scraping along her nerves sending shivers of fear rolling over her. He loosened enough for her to drag in a deep breath, though the angle he kept his arm, she was still on her tiptoes, and concentrating hard on not falling.

Her mind raced for answers, trying desperately to find something that would appease this madman. “Ye can stand behind the door. Ye can—” She shook her head, fear making her voice disappear altogether, and making it a huge effort to force the air past her throat to form sounds.
God, give me the strength, please
… “Ye can hold a blade to my ribs. I dinna want to die. I will get rid of him.”

She prayed this worked. Prayed that Gregor would simply leave, that he wouldn’t insist on rushing in, as he always did, and that Owen didn’t grow fearful enough to simply dispatch her.

Dragging in another blessed breath, she attempted another bribe. “If ye promise not to hurt him, I can help ye.”

“What can ye help me with?” A hint of intrigue entered his tone.

“Whatever it is ye seek. Scorrybreac. Just, please, I beg ye, dinna kill Buchanan, dinna kill me.” She hated to sound so desperate, hated showing any weakness to a man intent on ill deeds.

“Ye care for the man, or simply his cock?” And then she felt the hardness of his erection probing at her rear.

Swallowing a gag, and shifting her hips forward, away from his body, she replied, “’Tis vulgar the way ye speak to me. Ye must recall I am a daughter of the church.”

His blade pressed a little harder against her skin. “How d’ye think Mother Frances or the abbess at your place on Skye would feel about the way ye fornicated with Buchanan not two days past? ’Haps they will think it just if I toss ye on that cot and take what ye’ve been giving away already. Your proclamation of being a daughter of the church is blasphemy considering your wicked actions.”

“We did not fornicate.” But it was no use arguing. And besides, if he’d been standing outside when she’d been in Gregor’s arms, then he heard them, and they’d been so close to joining. The truth was, they’d had every intention of doing just that, so what use was there in denying the truth?

Gregor rapped once more on the door. “Please. Answer the door,” he called.

She imagined Owen ripping open the door, catching Gregor unawares and thrusting his blade through his middle. She couldn’t allow that to happen. If there was anything she could do to save him, she would.

“Please, Sir Owen, let me get rid of him.” Her voice sounded stronger now.

Owen let out an annoyed huff. “All right, but ye make one mistake, and ye both will die.”

Kirstin nodded and Owen backed toward the door, still holding her tight around the neck. Then he slowly let go. She sucked in air, trying to regain her balance and vision. She swiped at the blood on her neck, seeing it crimson on her fingertips. The small cut stung, but at least it wasn’t deep enough to need stitching. She hoped Gregor wouldn’t spot it, then her ruse would be done. She pulled on the collar of her habit, hoping to hide the cut and any markings left from Owen’s grip on her neck.

She jumped when Owen poked her in the ribs with the tip of his dagger. He motioned with his head for her to answer the door where Gregor knocked persistently. With trembling fingers she touched one hand to the wooden panel, the other to the iron handle. She drew in a ragged breath, sent up another prayer, cleared her face of emotion—especially fear—and prepared to answer.

“Sister Kirstin?” Gregor called again.

He could hear her inside. The sound of her slippers scuffling. Why wouldn’t she answer? He knew it wasn’t her companion, as the young lass had pointed in the direction of the chamber when he’d asked about Kirstin. He’d made it clear it was him, which could only mean one thing: she was hoping he’d go away.

Damned if he would! He was leaving for god only knew how long, a week, a month, and he wasn’t going without telling her how madly in love he was with her. Then he’d beg her to think about marrying him, to spend the rest of her life with him, just as it should have been nine years ago.

Gregor knocked again. “I must speak with ye. Please open the door.”

A beat later the door opened a crack and a fearful looking Kirstin peered out. Her face was pale, eyes watery. She looked unwell. But as soon as her eyes met his, her gaze turned vacant, her features washing of any emotion.

His blood chilled. This was so unlike her.

“Are ye all right?” he asked, frowning, concern making him reach for her.

She backed away, and he withdrew his hand. Patience. He needed to have patience with her. That was the only way to win her over. It wouldn’t happen overnight, he knew that. And he was willing to work for as long as it took to bring her back to him.

She nodded emphatically. “Aye, I just tripped, ’tis all.” She flashed a weary smile. “A little stunned.”

He searched her eyes. “Are ye certain? Ye look… unwell. Apologies, but there is no kinder way to say it.”

Another flicker of a smile before he face went blank, again. “I am fine. I promise.”

Gregor swallowed, ’twas now or never. “I need to speak with ye.”

She shook her head, eyes imploring. “Now is not a good time.”

“Now is the best time,” he insisted. He held up the bundle of flowers he’d gathered on the heath surrounding the abbey. An abundance of colors: yellow, red, purple, orange. “I picked these for ye. I remember that ye love wild flowers. The ones free to grow and blow in the wind as ye wanted to be.”

A small smile turned the corners of her lips, but was fleeting enough that he wondered if it was a figment of his imagination. She didn’t reach for the flowers. Didn’t move her hand from the edge of the doorframe or from behind the door. Still as marble. But not as cold. There was something wrong, he could feel it. More so than a simple fall.

“I…” She chewed her trembling lip. “I appreciate the gesture, but… I am dealing with something right now. Please go away.”

What in bloody hell? Nay, he wasn’t going away. “I can help. Let me help. Whatever it is.”

Sadness, so profound, filled her features, and he nearly dropped the flowers in favor of tugging her into his arms. But she stiffened when he moved toward her. Eyes flicking to the blooms, she let go of the doorframe and snatched them, holding them to her chest.

“Do ye remember the first time ye gave me flowers?” When she looked at him this time, he nearly drowned in her eyes the color of bluebells.

“How could I forget?” Visions of them, carefree and happy flashed before his eyes. She’d been walking through a field, fingers trailing over the petals and he’d snuck up behind her, scared the living daylights out of her. She jumped and screamed, but when she realized it was him, they’d laughed and fallen to the ground. They made love, and afterward, she’d weaved them each a crown of flowers from the bundle he’d gathered. They bathed, gloriously naked in the sunlight, the only thing they wore, those crowns.

He’d kept his for months, and only when it finally disintegrated, did he allow his maid to convince him he should press it into parchment and tuck it away in his letter box where it remained to this day.

She jerked, grimacing, as though a stabbing pain hit her in her middle.

“Kirstin,” he said. “What is it?”

She winced again. “Now, please leave me alone. I am having… a feminine issue.”

First a fall, and now a feminine issue? He was not one to dismiss a woman and any issues she might be dealing with, but he’d been very intimate with her most feminine parts the day before, and he was certain she wasn’t experiencing anything then. ’Twas something else. He was willing to bet his life on it.

“Kirstin, yesterday—“

“Yesterday is past. Today is a new day. Now please, if ye will, I’m quite busy. And ye mustn’t delay me.”

Her eyes implored him, and Gregor couldn’t figure out if she wanted him to leave or stay. Her eyes begged him to stay. Her words told him to leave. He felt ignorant in the ways of women, especially at that moment. He was at a loss, and getting mighty tired of the games they were playing. He’d come to her chamber with a purpose and he wasn’t leaving until that purpose had been met.

“If ye will not come out, and ye will not let me in, then I shall tell ye what I came to say right here.”

She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, and he took note of the scratch that seeped blood on her neck. It looked—

“Is that a blade wound?” The incredulousness came out in his tone. He reached forward and tugged at her collar before she could back away.

For certes, there was a cut, about half an inch in width, on her delicate neck. Fresh blood oozed. Immediately he was on alert. Who could have attacked her? Cut her? All around the wound was red and irritated.

She jerked again, scoffed, rolled her eyes, grabbed her collar and covered the wound. “Aye. Stupid of me. When I tripped, ’twas in the kitchen, and I was holding a knife, helping cook. I seem to have cut myself.” Shaking fingers touched her wound, covered it, and then she flinched again. “I’ll be all right. Ye needn’t worry over me. ’Tis merely superficial.”

There again, her eyes told a different story.

“But I do worry over ye. Clumsiness or nay, ye are hurt.” He touched her cheek, stroked the line of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.