Captured Heart (23 page)

As she neared the top where the steps became shallow and more treacherous, her foot came down on round pebbles. She yelped and wobbled, nearly losing her balance. Several pebbles plunked down the winding granite steps, but Meg fell forward, catching the top step on her hands and knees.

She steadied herself on the landing and illuminated the steps. Round pebbles lay even along the top two steps. She frowned. Not again. In the chaos of the last two days she’d forgotten to tell Caden about the rocks left before. Was someone really trying to hurt her? Or was she just being paranoid? After all, her marriage to Caden had just saved them from starvation.

…

As Meg entered Sarah’s room and closed the door behind her, a cloaked figure moved down the corridor to the steps. The figure bent in silence and tumbled the pebbles back out into an even layer across the step, then hurried below.

…

Meg pinched her fingers and drew them apart to form the ball of blue light to illuminate the stone steps. Her heart sped up slightly and she fought the urge to worry over what Caden would think of her light. “The pebbles were left on three different steps at different times.”

“I’ll post a guard,” Caden said as he brushed a hand across the steps where little rocks were pushed aside.

“Do you think someone isn’t happy that I’m here? First the mushrooms, then the pebbles.” Maybe it was her healing. She hadn’t been hiding her newly discovered abilities and word had spread about Sarah’s son.

He didn’t answer. “I don’t want ye walking the castle by yerself.”

“At all? I’ll be a prisoner again.”

Caden sighed long. “Ye were never a prisoner.”

“Mm-hmmm.”

Caden pushed through the door to their room. A cheerful fire blazed in the hearth, washing back the shadows with splashes of orange and yellow about the room.

“You knew we were coming up here soon?” she asked. They’d been eating and talking with Munros and Macbains and Colin. There were lots of plans to be made and the snow wasn’t making anything easy.

“If ye hadn’t asked soon, I was going to just carry ye up anyway.”

His words teased but his tone was serious. She touched his arm and sensed the tension. He was worried, too.

Caden’s eyes held hers. He swept his shirt off over his head. The leather thong fell away from his hair, allowing it to wave down around his square jaw. Meg’s gaze roamed over the chiseled muscles of his torso and the low-slung kilt across his narrow hips. Intense and purposeful, his movements made him resemble a hunter stalking his prize. A silver Scottish cross lay near the hollow of his throat and reflected the fire against his tanned skin. He was rugged and powerful.

He caught her chin and gave her a kiss. Meg nearly flinched at the tightness in his neck and shoulders.

She moved to the bed and patted the furs next to her. “Sit.”

When he did she twirled her finger. “Turn around.” She placed hands on his shoulders and began to rub. “Relax.”

“Warriors don’t relax.”

“Maybe that’s why warriors go around frowning so much. They all have aches in their heads.”

“Will ye use the light on me?”

“Not unless you really want me to and then I might be too tired to…I just mean to work the tension a bit,” she said and kneaded hard into the muscles of his broad shoulders. Hours of sword play had sculpted his body into an amazing display of strength. Meg’s gaze slid down his bare back, smooth skin over steel and sinew.

Caden groaned low as she worked some of the knots around his neck. “Where did ye learn to do that?”

“Farmers get very sore muscles from working the land.” She forced her attention back to Caden’s bunched shoulders. “Uncle Harold liked me to work the knots out of his back. Said my little knuckles could bully the knots right flat.”

Uncle Harold and Aunt Mary must be so worried about her. Guilt added to her fear that they’d been hurt or suffering.

Meg sniffed and her hands moved lower down his bare back. She rubbed hard across the underlying tension down his sides, stopping at an old scar. The tip of her finger traced the six-inch puckered line. “You must have been young.”

“Aye, ten and three, I think.”

“How did it happen?”

“A Munro blade.”

“You could have died. You were just a boy.”

Caden turned, catching her hand. “Boys died, my brother died. He was just sixteen.” He cupped her face and gave her a quick kiss. “When he died and I became the heir to my father, I vowed that I would find a way to end the feud. I didn’t know that I would win such an amazing lass in the process.”

He brushed her hair back from her shoulders, his thumbs running small circles along her collarbone. A shiver ran through Meg that had nothing to do with the chill in the air, and everything to do with the heat in Caden’s eyes.

His gaze moved across her body. “Lass, ye have far too many clothes on.”

Meg wiggled off her slippers, letting them fall to the floor. She moved up onto her knees, then reached behind through the closure of her skirt to untie the lacing holding up her stiff farthingale. The layers dropped with a
swoosh
. Caden stopped his advance at the sound. She pushed up onto the furs and leaned back into the pillows at the headboard. When he didn’t move, she untied her garters and worked her stockings down her legs. She dug her toes into the soft pelts.

Caden’s eyes traveled the length of her skirt, over her bodice, and up to her eyes. Meg wondered if she appeared as hungry as he did. The silent charge of their stare twisted through her, coiling in her stomach and below. She drew a tentative breath and reached for the bottom hem near her ankles. She gathered the layers of material in her fingers and inched them upward so that they slid along her bare legs. Inch by inch she let the folds tickle the sensitive skin until the voluminous skirts bunched around her waist, exposing her pale thighs against the dark furs. Caden’s eyes opened just a hint more and dipped to follow the line of her long legs, his roguish grin fading into one of amazement.

“I thought Highlanders were never surprised,” Meg said, though the tease came out breathless.

“Rarely, lass.” His voice was low, rough.

His hot gaze traveled up to the dark cave her skirts had created at the vee of her thighs. Meg’s fingers released her skirts where they sat at her waist. Deftly, she untied the top of her bodice where the swell of breasts pushed upward, nearly to overflowing from the tightness of the ties below.

Caden rested a finger along her ankle and trailed it up her leg to the knee as he leaned across the bed. His warm palm cupped her bare knee, and as he bent over, his hand slid down the slope of her thigh. He kissed her, and his hand gripped the sensitive bend connecting her leg to her hip. He fingered the satin edge of her straining neckline, untying the lacing at the top of her bodice.

Hot kisses along her neck made Meg inhale and she tilted back to give him access to her flushed skin. As her shoulders pressed back into the pillows, the supple flesh broke over the satin scrap of a collar. Caden groaned as her breasts swelled out into full view, perched before him. He cupped them both, his mouth finding one nipple while his thumb strummed the other.

Meg’s heart pulsed, spreading fire down through her loins as he sucked on one breast and then the other. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she moaned softly, her hips rising on the wave of passion. Her body trembled with heat, and she moved her legs, wanting more, needing more.

“Caden,” she rasped, and raised her leg to rub against the hardness through his kilt. “I need you in me.” She moaned as the sensations of his mouth sent a direct assault against her core, drenching her with need.

Caden’s hand found its way past her many layers of skirts. She cried out as he thrust two fingers inside. “Och, lass, ye are soaked.”

“More, Caden,” she cried, wanting to be swept up with the force of him inside her. The tide of passion pushed aside any embarrassment and she reached down to find him. He stepped back and dropped the kilt from his hips.

Her mouth went dry at the sight of his huge, muscular, warrior body. “Don’t hold back.” Her legs spread against the fabric. “I need you.”

In a heartbeat, he grasped her to him, lifting and turning her around to face away, just off the side of the bed. She wondered if her legs would hold her as he worked to untie the back lacings of her skirts. The ties broke in his hands, leaving the gown still attached around her waist.

“Bloody hell.”

“Leave them.” She pressed back into his hard body.

Caden reached around to her front, cupping her breasts while he kissed the column of her neck. He brushed her hair to one side and teased the tender flesh of her nape. Meg’s legs wobbled as she let out a low moan.

He steadied her by pushing her legs against the edge of the bed. His hands bunched the layers of fabric upward until chilled air slid across her backside. Caden leaned against her ear. “Open yer legs, bride.”

She leaned forward to brace against the high bed. His fingers found her once more and he teased the flesh until she panted.

“Please,” she begged.

He pressed against her globes seeking entry, and she arched, tilting back into him. He thrust deep, edging her toward the precipice. The fabric rustled as he pushed into and out of her straining body. She moaned. He reached around her again to pinch and pull at her nipples, lifting her breasts as he kissed and sucked along her neck. New sensations raged through her body from the new angle.

Over and over Caden plunged into her as she strained back to meet him. He reached up through the skirts to find her and rubbed until Meg could stand no longer.

She cried out as the world shattered, bending forward onto her hands on the bed. Caden followed her over the precipice as he pumped into her from behind, his roar filling the room.

…

A lone wolf howled from somewhere on the mountains behind the lit castle, sending a chill down Gilbert Davidson’s back, which he ignored. Absently, he stilled his horse that pranced and twitched his ears where they stood on the lonely moor.

“I’m telling ye, she’s practically chained to the Macbain’s side with fifty warriors surrounding her, watching everything.”

The hooded figure sat tall and lean on horseback in the shadows, like a wraith waiting to take someone’s soul. “What you’re telling me is that you failed.”

Sweat broke out on Gilbert’s brow despite the freezing Highland wind slapping his cheeks. “Simon, tell him how we were followed,” he said, raising his hand to indicate Druim. “I feared for our lives in there. I think Caden found out we burned their harvest.”

“Watched the entire time,” Simon added and bobbed his head with vigor.

“Did you restrain the woman who’s working for you?” the man asked, his profile and horse as still as the mountains before him.

Gilbert pursed his lips. “I’ve sent word that I want Meg alive. No more cut saddles.”

“You sent word, but have not confirmed that she will adhere to your order.”

“I…uh…” The heat rose in Gilbert’s face and his gaze dropped to the mane of his horse. “I couldn’t get close to her.”

They were bloody lucky to just get out of Druim. He’d heard about the damned truce, which would make annihilating his neighbor trickier. With English troops and weapons and mercenary muscle he just might be able to finish what his da had quietly started, the absorption of the Macbain territory all the way to Loch Tuinn. The land was rich, fertile, and had a pristine water source. Druim castle was by far better fortified and more comfortable than the drafty old keep on Davidson land. Then maybe he’d expand his empire over Munro territory as well. His English companion certainly had no love for the Munros and could supply him with more weapons and resources.

“I should have sent Girshmel to take her,” the Englishman said in a clipped tone. “I’d have her now.”

“More likely Girshmel would have been shot on sight if the lass’s wolf didn’t eat him first,” Gilbert said in defense.

The cloaked man turned toward Gilbert. His dark eyes glowed with the reflected moonlight that washed his face. Gilbert’s breath caught against the lump in his throat. Even though he outweighed the man by far, the power the Englishman wielded turned his stomach cold.

“The lass remembers Girshmel from Loch Tuinn,” Gilbert sputtered, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of a sleeve. “She wanted me to tell him that her beast survived. I don’t know how she knew he was with me.”

“Did you see her wolf?” the man asked.

“Nay,” he answered, glancing over the surrounding moorland. “From what Girshmel says it’s the biggest beast he’s ever seen. And if it survived, well, there must have been magic involved.”

“I have no doubt that Meg is a witch like her mother and her aunt.”

“She doesn’t look like a witch.” Gilbert glanced back at the castle. “I would hate to see such a luscious morsel burn.” The man’s stare made Gilbert swallow hard. “They say she’s Colin Macleod’s daughter,” he rushed to add.

The man lowered the hood from his head and leaned forward across the black horse until he was within inches of Gilbert’s nose. Gilbert didn’t move but stared back into the lit black orbs. “Meg Boswell is my daughter. Her life and all her possessions belong to me.”

Black and cold, the words slid down through Gilbert as though they had come from Satan’s own mouth. He nodded. He’d have signed the cross before him, but doubted it would protect him. After all, would God really help him survive the deal he’d made with the Devil?

Chapter Twelve

5 May 1518—Devil’s Bit Scabious: slender plant, can grow up to the waist. Most of the root seems to have been bitten away. Legend says that the devil himself found it and bit it to destroy the plant in envy of its goodness, but no matter what the devil did, the plant still grows everywhere even with a stumpy root.

Collect whole plant in early fall for drying. Brew for coughs, fevers, and internal pain. Purifies blood. Used as a wash externally, it heals skin eruptions and spots. A heated wash can be used to rid the head of scruf, sores, and flakes. Large doses will expel worms from the body.

Found in many places, in open meadows and on wild heaths.

“Caden’s not here?” Meg glanced around the freshly swept great hall as if she might see him lurking in the shadows.

“Nay,” Angus said from his seat by the fire. “There’s a storm brewing, and it might bring a foot of snow. Caden left with Alec and Colin at dawn to bring the herds from Munro lands before it starts.”

“More snow.” Meg lowered down onto a stool near the hearth where the three elders sat.

“Och, winter is just getting started, lass.” Bruce spoke around a bit of hay he had tucked between his teeth.

“I thought we’d ride to the third mountain today,” Meg said.

“Not with that storm coming and too much to do moving the herds,” Angus said. “Can’t be helped. Yer letters will have to wait. At least they’re snug in that cave.”

Evelyn brought over a mug of warm milk and some bread to dunk.

“Thank you.” Meg opened her eyes wide. “Please tell me my aunt didn’t ride away this morning, too, without me being able to say good-bye.”

“Nay, Rachel is above, helping Sarah wash the twins,” Evelyn said.

Meg dipped the crusty bread in the warm milk. “After I break my fast, I’ll help and then have a tour of the kitchens and larders if you have time. Even with food coming in, we will need to be careful. I should know how little we are starting with.”

“Bright lass,” Kenneth said.

“Wise and frugal,” Angus boasted.

“Knew it the moment I saw her,” Bruce said.

Meg had just finished the small meal when a horn sounded from the bailey. Three long blasts. All three elders stood, their gazes bouncing around the large room.

“There’s no one else to protect her,” Kenneth said. “Where’s my sword?”

“Protect who?” Meg asked. “From what?”

Bruce pulled his sword from its scabbard along his side. “You don’t carry your sword? Are you already an old man?”

“God’s teeth, there must be a sword around here,” Kenneth said.

“Why do you all need swords?” Meg asked, watching nervously as Angus hefted a war axe down from above the mantle. She worried for a moment that its weight would topple him.

Kenneth jogged from the back of the great hall, brandishing a short sword. “To protect ye, lass.”

“Protect me? From whom?”

The front door banged opened and the wind swirled in, shifting the fresh rushes across the floor like a hundred invisible feet.

Ewan strode in. “Meg, ye need to go upstairs.”

She tried to step around the elders even as her heart hammered in response to Ewan’s tone. “Why?”

“The English have come,” Rachel said from the stairwell.

“Is Rowland Boswell with them?” Meg asked, turning between her aunt and Ewan.

“He rides in front,” Ewan said.

“That bloody bastard,” Rachel murmured as she walked up and linked arms with Meg.

Meg shook her head even though her stomach twisted. She rubbed a hand against it absently. “I won’t hide from him.”

“I prefer he not know ye are here,” Ewan replied.

“Of course the English pig knows she’s here.” Angus spit on the rushes. “Or he wouldn’t be riding over to pay us a little visit. Convenient, too, that most of the warriors, including Caden, are away.”

“Aye, as if someone told him,” Kenneth added and glanced again around the room as if his sword would suddenly appear.

Ewan watched Donald stride back inside. “More reason to lock ye away, Meg.”

“He’s asked for an audience,” Donald said. “Says he brings Meg’s aunt and uncle from England.”

Meg gasped. “They’re with him?”

“There’s an older couple with him, a man and a woman. They’re rather chilled through,” Donald said.

Meg’s hands went to her neck. Her poor uncle and aunt were traveling in this cold. Aunt Mary wasn’t frail by any measure, but she wasn’t used to Highland wind and snow. She had to get them inside.

“Ewan.” Meg’s voice rang with authority. “Let them in. I doubt Boswell provided them with appropriate clothing.”

“Milady,” Ewan started. “Meg—”

“Do you think he will just throw me over his shoulder and carry me away?” Meg broke in. “Would you let him just take me?”

“Never,” Ewan swore, his eyes hard as flint.

“Then just let Boswell and my aunt and uncle in. Not their whole army.” Meg turned to Rachel. “Do you think the villagers are in danger?”

“He only brought a group of ten men,” Donald said.

“We hardly have that many left here.” Ewan spat and clenched his fist over the hilt of his sword.

Bruce cleared his throat and brandished his ancient blade.

Ewan said, indicating the three old warriors, “Not including the three war lords in here.”

“I’m sure you can defend me as long as I stay inside,” Meg said.

“You would still be safer above stairs.”

Meg locked eyes with Ewan. “I will not hide from that man, nor will I let him think that I am fearful of his accusations.”

Fury burned hot inside as she thought about her aunt and uncle in Boswell’s clutches. She wanted to be downstairs when they came inside in case they needed help. And truth be told, she wanted to see Rowland Boswell—needed to see him, the man of her nightmares. She needed to see that he was just a vicious man without any true power over her.

“Let them in, Ewan.” And to soften her order, she touched his arm. “Then don’t leave my side.”

Ewan stared down at her fingers against his sleeve and sighed. He pivoted on one heel and he and Donald marched back out into the cold wind.

Meg turned to Rachel. “If they’re hurt, will you help me?”

Rachel moved forward and squeezed Meg’s hand. “Of course.”

Long minutes ticked by. Evelyn walked into the great hall and stopped. “Why are ye all staring at the door?”

“Didn’t ye hear the horn?” Angus asked, barely taking his eyes off the door.

“Nay, I was in the root cellar, taking count of last year’s vegetables.”

“The English are at our gates,” Kenneth said.

Evelyn passed the sign of the cross across her bosom. “And you’re going to fight them?” Her voice squeaked as she watched Angus heft the ax.

“No one is fighting anyone,” Meg said. Luckily, none of them could tell from her voice that her pulse raced like thundering horses. “The group of English is small. Boswell has brought my aunt and uncle from England and wishes to talk with me.”

“Holy Mother Mary!” Worry pinched Evelyn’s face as if Meg had just said Satan had requested an audience. “I’ll let Cook know that we may have to defend ourselves.” Before Meg could stop her she raced to the kitchens, probably to sharpen the knives.

The solid oak doors rattled and Ewan pushed into the entryway. Two people shuffled in behind him, followed by a man of medium height draped in black wool and furs.

Meg moved forward, but Ewan held up a warning hand.

“Let them come inside to the hearth,” Rachel suggested.

Ewan led the swathed, snow-covered people to the blazing hearth, where they turned from one side to the other before they began to uncoil faded plaids from around their bodies. Meg watched them hobble about, unwrapping to reveal the two people who had raised her.

“Aunt Mary! Uncle Harold!” Meg ran across the room, hugging their wet, chilled bodies. As she rubbed their arms she sent a small bit of magic through them, raising their body temperatures. She was quick and discreet, and ignored the man in black who stood apart, slowly exposing his expensive English clothes as he too took off his wet apparel.

“Meg,” Mary crooned as she held her close. “I thought never to see you again.”

“I thought you’d gone south,” Harold said loudly and winked at her. “Boswell swore you were up north.”

“They came at my insistence,” the man in black said as he straightened his courtly jacket and walked toward the hearth. “Hello, daughter. You are lovely, your appearance so very much like your mother.”

Meg turned, eyes raking down him. He was lanky but with a heavy lidded appearance of someone well fed and not concerned with his station in life. He walked with authority, head slightly tilted upward so that his dark, close-set eyes peered down past a hawkish nose. He was neither handsome nor ugly. And the power he radiated seemed to slow down everyone’s movements, as if they were afraid to offend. Meg knew the people in the room didn’t care what he thought about them, but they still seemed to hush while they watched the proceedings.

“Then you, sir, do not remember my mother, as we look very little alike,” Meg said, staring back into those dark, unblinking eyes. “I favor my father…Colin Macleod.”

The man’s face did not change. Only a slight narrowing of his eyes sent a warning chill down Meg’s back, but she kept her stare even.

“Colin Macleod,” Boswell said through thin lips, “was a rejected suitor. Isabelle came to me a maid.” A small drop of spit flew from his mouth when he’d said her mother’s name. “I am your legal father and guardian.”

“I will not discuss my mother’s virginal state with you, sir,” Meg said, her anger building. Perhaps her mother had healed her maidenhead when she agreed to return with her father.

She turned back to her aunt and uncle who both stood wide-eyed, their backs to the flames. “I thank you for bringing my aunt and uncle. If you have no further business, I will take them above to rest. You and your men may take your leave.”

“Ah, but I do have further business, daughter,” Boswell said.

Ewan took a step closer to Meg, his hand on his hilt. “Your business is with Caden Macbain, husband and legal guardian to milady.”

“And we both know that he is away today.” Boswell peeled a pair of wet leather gloves from his tapered fingers. The sight of them stretched out with overly long fingernails twisted in Meg’s stomach. Her poor mother had to endure those fingers against her skin.

“I speak for Caden when he is away,” Ewan said, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“You are not blood to Meg.” Boswell said that as if that made a difference.

“Harold and I are her blood, Rowland,” Rachel said. Her sneer was obvious and plainly said that Rowland was
not
linked to Meg by bloodlines.

Boswell’s head swiveled toward Rachel. “Hello, Rachel. Amazed to see you still alive up here in this heathen country.”

“State yer business and depart,” Ewan interrupted.

Boswell turned back to the group before the fire. “Meg, you certainly have a lot of defenders.” He glanced around the room. “Where is that beast of yours? I hear you tamed a wolf? Not something a God-fearing young woman would spend her time doing. What other unnatural activities do you perform?”

“You are not here to discuss how I spend my day,” Meg said, ignoring his insinuation.

He
tsk
ed. “So hostile. I but wanted to reunite with my daughter.”

“I am sorry that you came all this way, and dragged my aunt and uncle with you. We have now met and you can return,” Meg said.

“I have something to discuss with you. Alone.”

All three elders stepped up behind Boswell with their weapons drawn, and Ewan moved slightly in front of Meg.

“If you wish to discuss something with me, you can discuss it amongst us all,” Meg said.

Boswell’s stare penetrated her, but she refused to even blink. His lips grew thinner. “Very well.” He turned, glaring at the elders until they moved over, and walked to a nearby chair to sit and pulled a folded parchment from his jacket. The Tudor seal sat heavy upon it. “This is a dispatch from King Henry requesting your presence in London.”

The hairs on the back of Meg’s neck rose. She swallowed against her suddenly dry mouth.
Normal. Sound normal. He doesn’t have any power here
. “Why would so great a king request my presence?”

Boswell produced a cold half-smile. “Because he values me and I requested it.”

“And why do
you
want me to go to London?”

“I have an Englishman of good standing who will marry you, after I make certain you are not tainted by witchcraft nor heresy.”

Meg’s stomach squeezed as her pulse raced at his casual reference to torture and forced marriage. She fought to keep a still, relaxed stance. Oh, but she’d been right to run. He truly was a monster.

“I am already married. A priest officiated and blessed the union. The contract has been recorded and sent along proper channels. And it has been consummated.”

“I did not agree to this marriage and therefore it is neither legal nor binding.”

“The marriage was consummated and sworn to before God,” Meg said. “The union is binding before the Lord. And since you are
not
my father, it doesn’t matter if you agreed to it or not.”

“The wedding was witnessed by over a hundred people,” Rachel added. “You cannot undo it.”

“The king will grant an annulment,” Boswell said, his eyes snapping at Rachel. He turned back to Meg and smiled tightly. “Or not, but you have been commanded to London to stand before your king. To refuse to go is treason.”

Meg pulled in a deep breath to chase off the sparkles of light at her periphery. “I would not suffer to offend my good king in any way…but I will not go with you to London. I am not a fool.”

Boswell stood to his full height. “You are a fool if you think you can hide from King Henry’s wrath up here in the north. He will send English troops to your holding if I ask him. He will strip away your lands, throw you from your homes, hang your treasonous people for harboring a traitor if she refuses to return to England.”

Nausea pummeled Meg’s middle. Good Lord! Would people die because of her?