Highland Vixen Page 11

  Rolfe battled against his own nature. He’d never questioned the need to respect his sire, at least not until that moment. “How could ye force Joan to such a fate? It might have been dire indeed, Father.”

  “By Christ, it better have not been!” His father pointed a finger at him. “If the MacPhersons had let any harm come to yer sister, it would have been paid for in blood. No one transgresses against the McTavishes. Any War Chief worth his position knows he can nae afford to have it said he has no honor.”

  “Do ye mean to say ye expected Marcus to conduct himself with integrity, when ye crossed him through dishonesty?” Rolfe asked incredulously.

  His father chuckled like he had just bluffed his way to winning at a hand of cards and naught more. “The man would have seen the humor in it.”

  “I could nae disagree with ye more.”

  His sire grunted at him. “Ye are too young still, Rolfe. Ye think the world is a pretty place where honor is shiny and remains unblemished.” He slapped the arm of his chair. “All men are beasts, me lad. Mark me word on that.”

  “On that point I do agree,” Rolfe said. “And it would have been Joan’s plight to suffer the rage ye caused.”

  “Yer sister has yer mother’s plump breasts and fair features. After he’d wed her to avoid me declaring a feud against his clan, Marcus would have noticed those features and set about enjoying them. One woman is as good as another in this case.” His father waved his hand dismissively. “Marriage is for gain and sons. Marcus would have bred her and been content or taken a mistress. That is all that concerns me.”

  Rolfe felt his temper straining again. His sire didn’t fail to notice, either.

  “Ye’ll understand in time, me son. Strength is more important than anything else.”

  “Oh aye,” Rolfe responded. “I understand yer devotion to that idea well enough.” He looked down at his father’s missing leg. “But I believe ye have yer pride confused with strength. For surely it’s pride that has ye making a prisoner of yerself.”

  “It’s to maintain the image of the McTavish!” his father roared, coming out of the chair.

  “Ye are correct about me,” Rolfe said without flinching under his father’s rage. “Me honor is something I hold very dear. Ye taught me that. By example.”

  Laird McTavish’s complexion darkened.

  “It grieves me to know that the father I learned to respect has fallen into such thinking. So long as ye wish to remain here, I shall respect yer wishes to no’ be considered among the living. But I will no longer assist ye in this pitiful existence ye have decided maintains the McTavish honor.” Rolfe opened his hands wide. “It’s yer own pride ye’re nursing, and the man who raised me was never so weak. Sit here if ye must, but I will no longer witness yer decay.”

  * * *

  Laird Malcolm McTavish stared at the door, holding his breath at the sound of it slamming behind his son like a pistol shot. He was certain it pierced his heart. He collapsed back into his chair, sitting still for long hours as he grew cold. No one came to lay a fire. His secretary never arrived to scribble away at the desk in the corner. His belly rumbled, and there was no supper brought. He was still sitting in his chair when the windows brightened with the light of dawn. He watched them with a strange sense of curiosity. First, there was only an easing of the darkness as night lost its grip. The faintest touch of pink chipped away at it more and more until he could see the beginning of the new day.

  How long had it been since he’d risen at first light? Instead, he stayed shrouded in the bed curtains to hide from the light and the reality that his leg was gone.

  Shrouded.

  Like a breathing corpse.

  He felt his chest expand and his heart thump.

  He was alive.

  But he’d fallen short of what his son expected of him.

  He was a coward.

  Malcolm looked down at the peg, staring for a long time at the piece of wood he’d allowed to make a prisoner of him.

  Indeed, Rolfe was correct. About a great many things, and it was time to tell him so. Rolfe was no longer a lad. Malcolm slowly grinned as he felt his belly rumble and looked around the abandoned chamber.

  No, his boy was no longer a lad. He was a man to be reckoned with. Only a fool would waste the opportunity to enjoy seeing it. Malcolm stood up, determined to stop being controlled by his pride. The first few steps were the hardest, the scrape of the peg against the floor undermining his determination.

  But he was able to get to the door and pulled it open. The scent of food teased his nose as he heard the sound of his men from below, and for the first time in his life, tears burned a path down his cheeks as he realized his son had just saved his life.

  * * *

  There was a stench that came from being held in the dungeon. The Earl of Morton knew it and its worth.

  He heard the chains clanking on Robert Gunn’s ankles as the man approached the doors that led to the receiving chamber. Morton shifted, making sure he was settled firmly in the chair that was on the high ground in the room.

  He smelled Robert as the doors were opened and the royal retainers pushed the man forward.

  “My Lord Earl,” Robert exclaimed as the door shut behind him. “What a pleasure to be invited to join ye. Needed this room stunk up, did ye? Why? Expecting the English ambassador?”

  Morton chuckled. “Nay, but I’ll remember to have ye brought up here the next time the man is demanding me attention. That might even shorten his overblown demands.”

  Robert was shackled at both ankles and wrists and had been so for the better part of two years. He reeked from it, his clothing looking dank, while his hair had grown into long mats and his beard was draped to his chest.

  “What do ye want of me?” Robert Gunn didn’t seem to see his position as one of weakness.

  Morton hesitated for a moment, because Gunn was exactly the sort of Highlander who clung to clan before king. The type of thinking Morton had to break. Yet he needed the man because Marcus MacPherson was not going to be defeated by just any man.

  “I want to know if ye are ready to be released,” Morton replied. “And pardoned for yer part in the assassination of the late regent, the Earl of Moray.”

  It was a prickly subject. The Earl of Moray had been shot, and many believed the Gunn clan had helped plot it; however, evidence was thin.

  Robert sent him an arrogant grin. “Ye can nae prove anything, man. If ye could, I’d be dead.”

  “The Earl of Moray played a large part in yer father’s execution. Yer families have been locked in a blood feud for years over it.”

  Robert’s grin faded, his eyes filling with hatred. “Stop wasting me time. I’ve got to get back to catching a rat for supper, and that takes a fair bit of time down where I’ve been laying me head.”

  Morton chuckled again. “Ye have balls, man. The sort I admire.”

  “Good,” Robert replied congenially. “Get on with telling me what ye want so I can get back to the Highlands and find a woman to ease the ache in me cock.”

  “A woman,” Morton began. “I plan to help ye with that desire.”

  Robert lifted an eyebrow.

  “Marcus MacPherson requires a lesson.”

  Robert was back to grinning. “Aye, I know the tale. The guards have been wagging their tongues for a fortnight over it. But I do nae want any half-grown chit beneath me. I crave a woman who will enjoy the ride. Keep yer English child bride well away from me.”

  “I want ye to steal away the Grant woman who wed Marcus,” Morton explained. “She’s no child, and I am wedding ye to her by proxy.”

  “She has naught to her name,” Robert replied.

  “Her dowry will be yer freedom, and will restore ye to yer position of clan chief.”

  “I am still chief. Ye can nae take that away from me,” Robert in
formed him. “I am no’ one of yer lairds who must worry about the crown recognizing him.”

  Morton made a gesture with his hand. “Fine. However ye choose to see the matter. I can have ye thrown back in the dungeon, or taken above stairs where ye may bathe, eat something finer than rat, and sleep in a bed tonight while I have the contract drawn up.”

  “And I will do what in exchange?” Robert asked, his voice betraying his interest.

  “Ye will get inside the MacPherson castle and steal away Helen Grant. I will expect ye to take yer new wife back to yer stronghold and make very sure Marcus can never reclaim her. So keep her alive for enough years to ensure the lesson is a good one.”

  It was a bold plan that had Robert narrowing his eyes while he contemplated it.

  He grunted. “I see what ye mean to do.” He nodded slowly, thinking the matter through. “Ye want to send a message to every clan in the Highlands.”

  “I want them all to know that they are no’ beyond me reach,” Morton finished for him.

  “And ye knew well only another Highlander with a reason to hate ye could manage to get inside MacPherson Castle,” Robert said.

  “And ye, Chief Gunn, will recall that I have the means to do whatever I need to secure Scotland,” Morton explained. “Yer choice is to do it in those shackles, or as a free man on yer own land with a wife at yer command anytime ye desire her flesh.”

  “Marcus will have had her by the time I reach MacPherson land,” Robert said. “Their union can no’ be annulled.”

  “Ye still do nae understand,” Morton muttered. “I could have had that woman inspected but I did nae. Nor were her skirts looked at. I’ve no doubt Marcus was smart enough to bloody them, which is why I did nae check. There is no witness to the consummation. The union will be annulled. I already have the man who performed the ceremony. He will swear he heard them claim they intended to gain an annulment. If Marcus has had her in his bed, it matters not. Ye are no virgin.”

  Robert grinned in response, but the smirk on his lips had nothing to do with his long list of bed companions. “So ye let Marcus MacPherson out of his chains because ye knew ye could nae have his clan pissed at ye about a child bride. Well, that’s something a fair number of men will take offense at. Marcus’s little wedding has given ye enough time to hear the discontent being aimed yer way now that yer little plan is known. Seems ye owe the man a debt.”

  Morton narrowed his eyes. “The business which concerns ye is if ye will take a proxy bride of me choosing.”

  Robert was debating it. Morton watched the man contemplate his allegiance to his fellow Highlander against his desire to be free.

  “The Gunns have no love for the MacPhersons,” Morton added to sweeten the deal. “And they are allies to some of yer enemies as well.”

  Robert studied him. “Ye want the Highland clans to stop feuding, and yet ye use those feuds to support yer cause.”

  Morton only shrugged. “Each man makes his own choices. At the moment, ye may have freedom, or a few more years in those chains while ye wait for another summons from me. I promise ye, the dungeon will run low on rats while ye wait for that day to arrive.”

  Robert looked at the shackles. He’d have scars from them because they’d been locked around his wrists for so long. Morton was a bastard, and yet Robert couldn’t see the wisdom in denying the man. It was an injustice against the woman, but females were for sealing agreements, after all. For all Robert knew, the MacPhersons might thank him for taking the unwanted bride off their hands. She had served her purpose in freeing Marcus, and now she would free Robert too.

  “We have an agreement.”

  Morton heard the disgust in Robert’s tone, but when the man looked up, there was a firm look in his eyes. “Me word on it.”

  The earl slowly nodded. “In that case, yer chamber has been prepared. Me secretary will be up with the marriage contracts in an hour. That will give ye time to wash the filth off ye.”

  Morton snapped his fingers, and one of the retainers came forward. There was a jingle of keys as he fit one into the shackles and turned it. The lock was stiff, but it gave at last and Robert’s eyes brightened as the iron cuffs released his wrists. A small, satisfied smirk curled his lips. The retainer finished with the leg irons and stood up.

  “Escort him above stairs,” Morton instructed.

  Robert stopped at the door and raised a finger. “I’ll be expecting me proxy wedding night to be celebrated in proper fashion.” He shot a knowing look toward the Earl of Morton. “Be sure to send me a woman who knows how to handle a cock. That way, I’ll be more than satisfied with the arrangement.”

  Morton flicked his fingers at the retainer. The man nodded and opened the doors, taking Robert Gunn out of the receiving chamber.

  There was no reason he had to grant Robert’s demand for a female in his bed that night. Even if he smiled once the doors were closed because the man’s audacity was admirable. Indeed, Morton saw the value of the Highlanders, but he had to bring them under crown control. His control. Of course, that now included the Gunn clan, so keeping Robert pleased with his business dealings with Morton was important. It would ensure future loyalty.

  The earl slowly smiled. There was someone else who needed to know he was the master of Scotland, and she would serve as a proxy bride very well.

  “Bring me Brenda Grant.”

  Four

  Marcus was holding her.

  Helen woke abruptly at the thought, stiffening, and the pillow her head was resting against rumbled.

  “I suppose that means ye’re feeling better.”

  Helen blinked, but that didn’t banish the darkness. She was perched sideways on a horse in front of Marcus. He’d wrapped his plaid around her head to keep the light out, but what stunned her most was the fact that he’d been holding her to keep her head from flopping about with the motion of the ride.

  “Good timing, though,” Marcus replied as he pulled the plaid away from her face. “We’re nearly home.”

  Helen blinked at the bright sunlight. When her eyes stopped stinging, she was treated to a view of MacPherson Castle. Marcus stiffened behind her, and she realized she’d let out a little sigh of frustration.

  Well? What did he expect her to say? It wasn’t her home, and yet it was the only place she had to go to. To say her emotions were unsettled was an understatement.

  “There will be a warm supper and a good bed,” he offered.

  “Yes.” She shifted again, unsure of how to have a congenial conversation with him. Truly, she should be ashamed that she found the idea so foreign.

  “Pull yer leg over the saddle, lass,” he encouraged. “Now that yer awake.”

  Helen shifted and looked around. “I can ride on me own.”

  “Aye, ye’ve demonstrated that well enough,” Marcus agreed.

  But he locked his arm around her and held her against him. It really was unfair just how delightful that felt. She’d never realized two human bodies might fit together so very well or with so much comfort. He was hard, but that seemed to complement her softness.

  “Put me on me own horse.”

  Marcus chuckled at her request. “The last conversation I had with ye, I advised ye of the merits of us becoming more accustomed to one another.” He smoothed his hand along the outside of her thigh, and she struggled not to suck in her breath because the sensation was so intense.

  “And I told ye, seeking an annulment was the wisest course of action.”

  “Yes, ye did,” Marcus agreed. “And ye’ve had a taste of just what yer kin will do with ye if ye go back to them. So…”

  He moved his hand back along her thigh to rest on her hip. Helen struggled with the urge to shift away and put her right leg on the other side of the horse. It would make her more stable, in less need of leaning back against him for support, but it would also open her thighs and she
had a suspicion Marcus might enjoy that all too much.

  Worse, she might enjoy it.

  “So are ye suggesting that ye are now me rescuer?” she asked as she grabbed his hand, only to have him lock it around hers and slip his fingers up to stroke the delicate skin of her inner wrist. But she felt the nip of guilt and let out a sigh. “I believe ye are that indeed.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, the horse picking up speed as it smelled its stable.

  “I suppose I am due a measure of doubt from ye, Helen,” Marcus muttered. “I’ll not apologize.”

  “I do nae want yer pity.”

  He chuckled at just how quickly she snapped back at him.

  “And that is why,” he confirmed in a tone rich with amusement, “it made ye strong—and ye were still young when I took ye.”

  “True enough.” She’d answered him before she realized that she was agreeing with him, but even after the words were past her lips, she didn’t regret them. That strength would ensure her own survival, and no one came by it without facing hardship. It was a harsh fact of life very much at the heart of living in the Highlands. The weak did not thrive.

  “Thank ye.” She meant it, too.

  Whatever Marcus might have said was drowned out as someone started to ring a bell on the top of one of the lookout towers on the castle walls. It was quickly joined by more. He, his men, and Helen rode under the portcullis and into a courtyard that was rapidly filling with women and children. They cried out in welcome as younger boys came running from the stables to take the horses. Those lads would one day be the retainers riding out to protect the clan. Today, they were learning that the horses were key to any man’s ability to defend his land.

  Helen slid down and felt her boots sink into the mud. The Highlands. Where rain was something one needed to enjoy.

  “Helen!”

  Ailis Robertson had called her name. The crowd parted for their lady, which made Helen smile. Ailis was the daughter of the Robertson laird, which caused her forced marriage, a union that had not been warmly welcomed when she arrived at MacPherson Castle.