Highland Heat (24 page)

“I’m going because that bastard Douglas is only using her to get at me, and I will nae have any man thinking that I would stand by while innocents suffer in my name.”

Coalan held out the reins without changing his expression. Quinton grabbed them with a snarl.

“I’m going because I will nae have it said that anyone escapes me before I’m good and finished with them.”

Coalan mounted his own horse, still silently listening to his laird. Quinton swung up into the saddle and frowned at the look on his captain’s face.

“I’m going because…”

His stallion snorted, tossing its head as it felt the agitation of its master. Quinton reached down to soothe the beast, but it refused to be placated, because it could feel the unrest boiling inside him. He could say what he liked, but the animal knew him too well.

“I’m just going… and that’s all ye need to know!”

***

Melor Douglas enjoyed being important.

He rode up to Restalrig with a smile on his lips because his uncle had summoned him. Considering how many nephews Archibald Douglas had, it was a good thing to be remembered by the old man. The retainers allowed him in, and he left his horse in the care of the stable lads because he didn’t want to keep his uncle waiting. Archibald was getting old, which meant it was a good time to be remembered, for it might mean he’d see an inheritance. He was looking forward to the old man’s death, and so were many of his kin. Archibald had enjoyed his power too long.

“Well, I see that ye did nae waste any time in getting here.”

Melor offered his uncle a respectful lowering of his head. “Ye are nae a man to be kept waiting, even if ye are me kin.”

Archibald laughed and shook his head. “Ye’ve got a smooth tongue, but I already knew that.”

Melor grinned and took a mug of ale from a serving wench. He sat down in a comfortable chair, enjoying the fact that he might sit in the presence of his esteemed uncle. There were plenty of men noticing the honor from across the hall, but his uncle merely watched him take a drink from the mug.

“That isna a good thing when ye are using that skill to shame the Douglas colors, boy.”

Melor frowned, his neck tightening.

“Yer quarrel with Connor Lindsey should no’ have been settled by taking his woman.”

Melor spit on the floor. “If he cannae hold what is his, so what if I take it before someone else does?”

Archibald nodded his agreement. “That would be agreeable to me, if ye had nae lied to the girl.”

“What does it matter what I say to a woman?” Melor groused.

Archibald glared at him. “Ye swore on yer colors that ye’d wed her, and there were witnesses. Those are my colors too, boy, and her father is a Highlander.”

“Connor Lindsey was bastard born, and he should never have inherited the lairdship. That land was to be mine.”

The earl grunted. “Aye, that’s a sore spot, to be sure, but Connor is laird of the Lindsey, and it’s a done thing now.”

“Deirdre Chattan has gone to the church, so that is finished as well,” Melor declared.

His uncle frowned, but there was a gray pallor to his skin that Melor had never seen before. He leaned forward to get a better look, only to have the earl pound the tabletop with a fist.

“I’m no’ dead yet, boy, so save yer gawking. Ye’re here to answer to me on the fact that ye shamed yer colors, and it is nae something that I will tolerate from any of me kin.”

“She was a stupid girl who failed to keep her thighs closed.” He snorted. “She wasn’t the last woman I fucked.”

“I’m more concerned about whose bed she went to after ye ruined her father’s arrangement with Connor Lindsey.”

Melor frowned. “Deirdre Chattan went to the church.”

“No, lad, Quinton Cameron took a fancy to her.”

Melor straightened, and his uncle nodded.

“That changes things, now does it nae, lad?” Archibald eyed his nephew with growing distaste. “Quinton Cameron is a powerful man. If he weds that girl, it will unite Chattan and Lindsey with the Cameron. They’d match us in number.”

Melor spread his arms out. “So what do ye want me to do about it?”

Archibald coughed, the sound drawing Melor’s attention to his face once again.

“Nothing.” He barked loudly to make sure every man heard how strong his voice was. He refused to admit he was growing ill. Shivers moved across his skin, but he wasn’t willing to allow those little tremors to make him seek his bed so his kin might begin circling him like a fresh kill. One of them was likely to smother him so they could inherit his power all that much quicker.

“The girl is here.”

“Here?” Melor stood, agitation clear in the way he couldn’t remain still. “Why?”

“Because I wish it so. Ye were summoned because I may decide it best for ye to make good on yer promise and wed her, for the sake of Douglas pride.”

“I do nae want her for a wife.”

The earl coughed again, this time long and rocky.

“And ye think that matters?” Archibald stood, but his legs quivered. He leaned his weight on the tabletop. “Ye’ll wed her if Quinton Cameron does nae show his face and offer me something better than the alliance I’ll gain by having Robert Chattan’s daughter married to me nephew. Now get out of me sight, and mind yer tongue when ye’re looking to ease yer lust. The Douglas colors are mine. Disgrace them again, and I’ll have ye shipped to France.”

The earl coughed again, and this time, there wasn’t any doubt that he was sick. But he sat back down in his chair, refusing to relinquish the high table. He was the Earl of Douglas, lieutenant general of Scotland.

He did not sleep during the day.

Instead he picked up a quill and began to pen a letter.

Indeed, he was a powerful man, and he made a habit of knowing everything about every other powerful man. Quinton Cameron was no exception. Mary Ross had been keeping track of the Earl of Liddell since she had wed the Earl of Braunfield, and it was possible the woman might offer him something of value to make sure Quinton didn’t get his mistress back.

Archibald laughed when the letter was finished. He sealed it and snapped his fingers at a messenger.

He’d have the most gain possible for the girl, and he didn’t care where she ended up. After all, she was only a woman—a creature created to ease a man’s cock and give him sons. There were only a few women he dealt with, and Mary Ross was one of them, but only because she was the Countess of Braunfield. Her husband was an old fool who liked having a pretty treat in his bed.

Archibald chuckled, but it turned into a rocky cough once again. He watched the messenger leave with the letter, and he smiled. He was still the earl, and no fever was going to keep him from making sure he gained more than anyone else involved with the fate of Deirdre Chattan. In fact, he was going to enjoy watching Quinton try to negotiate for her. Quinton had never bowed his head to him, not completely. Oh, the man respected him, true enough, but he had never accepted that Archibald was superior to him.

That was a joy he would have, or Quinton Cameron would never see Deirdre Chattan again.

***

“A letter, Lady Braunfield.”

Mary Ross held up her hand, and her attendant placed the letter gently against her palm. She smiled, mildly interested in what the letter might contain.

Life was so often boring.

But the seal of Archibald Douglas snared her attention. She looked around before breaking it and reading the contents. Her face was red when she finished the last line.

“What is it, my lady?”

Her attendants knew her too well, and they clustered around her. Her temper was flaring, and she reached out to slap the closest cheek.

“I am the mistress here. Ye do nae demand anything of me.”

Her attendants all lowered themselves, but that didn’t erase the curiosity from their eyes. Mary ground her teeth and read the letter again.

The words demanded action, and she felt herself rising to the challenge. In fact, she was desperate to move past where she was in her life. She smiled at her attendants and waved them forward. They all came with smothered giggles. Each girl was from a noble house and knew very well that scheming had its place. Any woman who wanted more from life than being used by a man had to plot carefully, or she’d never gain anything for herself.

“It’s time for us to take a hand in our fates, ladies.”

Mary laughed; she was suddenly so happy. The future would be bright and full of wonderful things for her. All she need do was rid herself of the past.

She planned to do so quickly.

“Help me dress. I want my husband in my bed tonight.”

Days passed in a rhythm that threatened to drive her insane. Deirdre was grateful for the space the garden gave her to walk, but she quickly tired of every inch of it. The door only opened twice a day, for maids to tend the room. The retainers forced her up into the garden while the girls did their tasks. Meals were left behind once the girls had left, and Deirdre found them of little interest because the silence of the chamber was almost too much to bear. She began to wake often during the night because she had done little to tire herself out. She marked each day with a stone that she placed in a bowl, but the sight of the increasing pile made her melancholy.

But that didn’t make her happy to see Troy Douglas when he arrived before dawn. The man appeared through the door under the stairs and frowned darkly at her. He didn’t carry any lantern, but the moon was full.

“What do ye want?” she demanded as she pulled the bedding around her. Disgust went through her as she considered what most men wanted at that time of the night. Her skin turned cold at the very idea of have him in the bed with her.

He lifted a hand and made a slashing motion. He tossed a pile of clothing down beside her and sat on it so that his face was inches from hers. He caught her forearms to keep her near.

“If ye value yer life, be quiet. The earl is dying.”

She froze, icy dread filling her. “What happened?”

“Fever, and there are plenty who lay the blame on yer shoulders by saying ye are casting spells up here. This is boy’s clothing, and yer only chance to avoid the retribution being plotted against ye. Bind yer breasts before ye put the shirt on. I plan to sneak ye past the gate as a lad.”

He stood and left the chamber. She could see his large form standing near the doorway beneath the staircase. He put his back to her, and she kicked the bedding aside. Horror filled her as she tore her underrobe off and reached for the strip of fabric lying among the clothing. She wound it around her chest and pulled it snug to flatten her breasts. Then she struggled into the shirt. Her fingers fumbled the laces, and she ordered them to perform. Panic was trying to take control of her, but she forced it aside with the grim possibilities of what might happen to her if she failed to make use of the opportunity Troy was giving her.

The kilt was harder to put on. She struggled to fold it and get it belted around her body. Sweat appeared on her forehead as she laced the knee-high boots and knotted the leather ties firmly. She finished by shoving her hair into the bonnet and pulling a section of the plaid up and over her head to help disguise her feminine face. She hurried toward the man who was waiting in silence.

“I’ve got one chance to get ye away from Restalrig.” He leaned close so that his words remained only a whisper. “I’m riding out to fetch a wise woman, and ye’re going with me men.” He pulled the door open and stepped through.

“Why are ye helping me?” She shouldn’t have wasted time asking, but part of her needed to know.

“Snaring the attention of Quinton Cameron does nae make ye a witch, and I will nae stand by and watch while ye are burned.”

She gasped with horror, and Troy turned around to face her. “Did ye think I’d go against me uncle for any other reason?” In the dark passageway, it was impossible to see his expression, but she would have sworn that she could feel his anger radiating through the air. She heard him begin moving again and followed him down the stairs. He opened another door that was so narrow he had to go sideways through it, but he paused before she was able to follow him.

“Keep yer head down and make sure that kilt does nae flap up while we’re riding, to show off yer soft thighs. I pray to God that ye noticed how yer father’s men ride with their laird, because yer ability to do the same will be the only thing that saves yer life. No’ a single soul must guess yer identity, for I’ll be forced to bring ye back if that happens. I’ve a mother who would suffer if I admitted to helping ye.”

“I understand. Thank ye.”

He turned his back on her, and she followed. Her heartbeat began racing as they passed through a hallway and then down another flight of stairs. She could hear the sounds of horses now. They snorted in the dark, and she could see the shapes of Troy’s men waiting beside the animals.

“Let’s ride, lads. Me uncle has nae time to spare.”

Troy swung up onto the back of a horse, leaving her to find one to ride herself. Young boys held the reins of the one horse that didn’t already have a rider. She reached out and took them and mounted, while the rest of Troy’s retainers were doing the same. It felt as if everything she did was wrong, each action screaming out her gender. It felt as if every step the horse took toward the gate was impossibly slow. Her teeth ground together as she battled to keep her face down and make the distance to freedom. True fear gripped her, and she realized that she had only been playing games before. Her other escapes had been nothing compared to the one she was engaging in now.

There was true danger in being caught now. Not the threat of having her choices taken from her, but the blunt reality of having her life taken. Every quibble that she’d had with Drumdeer and the abbey suddenly seemed so childish.

The gate guards didn’t raise any alarm when they passed beneath them. Relief surged through her, but the men riding in front of her and behind her still kept her muscles tense. Troy led them through the village streets and off into the fields, which were full grown with crops now. The night breeze made the drying stalks brush against each other, while the moon lost its glow and the horizon turned pink.

Troy didn’t slow the pace; he kept them moving until Restalrig was no longer in sight. The few wagons and travelers on the roads made way for them, the Douglas plaids they wore carrying authority that had the farmers pulling on the corners of their bonnets in spite of the fact that the earl was not with them.

But Troy suddenly put his fist into the air, and they all skidded to a halt. The horse raised a dust cloud—the summer was fully upon them now. As it settled, Deirdre bit her lip to keep a gasp from escaping. Coming up the road was a force of men over a hundred strong. The Douglas retainers cursed as the Cameron plaids identified who was approaching. They looked toward Troy, waiting for the command to run into the hills where they might be impossible to catch.

Troy stood steady. His men glanced at each other behind his back, but they didn’t argue against his will. Deirdre found herself holding her breath, waiting for the Cameron retainers to get close enough to recognize her.

Quinton might well leave her on the side of the road.

She suddenly fought to hold back tears. Pain slashed through her, but she couldn’t ignore the truth. She’d left the fine chamber he’d put her in, and the news had spread far. There weren’t many men who would take back a woman who had done that. Especially one who wasn’t his wife. Quinton had his pick of bed partners, and more than one family would encourage their daughter to take advantage of his interest because of the station it would give them.

She had no right to think he’d welcome her back, but at least she was free of the Douglas.

She just didn’t understand why she hurt so much.

“Troy Douglas.” Quinton’s voice sent two of those tears down her cheeks. But they were tears of relief, and she wiped them away quickly before the Douglas men noticed. She’d be a fool to think she still couldn’t be run through. Quinton would be close enough to watch her die, and nothing else.

“Quinton Cameron,” Troy responded with a touch of arrogance. The Douglas retainers grinned when Troy didn’t use Quinton’s title. It was a brash move that gained them all narrowed looks from the Cameron retainers.

Quinton snorted, a grin curving his lips. He moved his stallion forward. “Ye always were a bold one, Troy.” Quinton’s tone made it clear he was giving a compliment, but he was also challenging Troy to join him away from his men.

Troy didn’t hesitate. He kneed his stallion forward and never looked over his shoulder for support from his men.

Quinton wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He moved his stallion close to Troy Douglas and growled.

“All right, I’m here, so get on with whatever ransom yer uncle is demanding. I’m warning ye, lad. I do nae have the patience for games.” It wasn’t the smartest thing he might have said, but he wanted Deirdre back.

“I would nae tell ye what my uncle wanted, even if I knew,” Troy commented. “I’d be a poor excuse for a man if I didna honor the colors I was born under.”

Quinton frowned. “Fair enough. Where is yer uncle?”

Troy looked between the two groups of men and lifted his hand toward the Douglas retainers. Quinton’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Are ye truly planning on setting yer men against mine?” It would be suicide, but a fine way to start a war. It would be easy to say he had attacked the Douglas over the fact that Deirdre had run off with Archibald. Every feud in the Highlands had conflicting tales about just how the fighting started.

But Troy signaled his men to fall back. Quinton felt surprise move through him, but he mimicked the motion. Both sets of retainers didn’t care for the order their lairds gave them, but after a sharp look from Quinton, Coalan nodded before pushing the Cameron back.

Troy looked back at him after making sure that the Douglas were far enough away not to hear his words.

“My uncle is dying. He might already have died in the time I’ve been on the road.”

Shock held Quinton in its grasp. Troy nodded firmly to assure him that he’d heard correctly.

“Fever took him a few days ago, and it is nae relenting. I sent for a priest, but I would nae have done that if I had thought it would have the effect that it did upon yer lady.”

Quinton felt a chill run down his back. There was something sickening his stomach, which he finally recognized as dread, the sort that he feared. “Speak up, man. I warned ye that I have no patience for games in this matter. What happened to Deirdre Chattan while she was in the care of the Douglas?”

“My uncle went to talk to her in the garden my aunt had built on one of the tower roofs. There were many who claimed she cast a spell on him while there was no one to witness the event.”

“I swear to Almighty Christ that I’ll reduce Restalrig to rubble if ye allowed her to be burned.” Quinton fought the urge to pull his sword and run Troy though. It was a blinding need that threatened to control him completely.

“I did nae allow me kin that chance.” There was disgust in Troy’s tone, and his expression told a story of a man who was torn.

Quinton held on to his own control as he waited to see why the other man was so agitated. Troy cursed low and long before shaking a fist toward Quinton.

“I am no’ a traitor!” He leaned forward, his lips curling with a snarl. “If she were nae a woman, I’d never have interfered in me uncle’s orders. But…” His words trailed off, frustrating Quinton.

“But what, man? Spit it out.”

Troy snorted. “But it’s a fact my uncle is an old man, and the aged fall sick. It does nae take a witch to make that happen. Just do nae ye be thinking I’ll do anything like this again. I’m proud to be a Douglas.”

He turned and whistled. “Boy… get up here!” He looked at Quinton. “Call up yer youngest. I need this to look good.”

Deirdre knew whom Troy was calling. The other Douglas men looked at one other before turning their attention toward the back of the line where she sat. One of them snapped his fingers.

“He must mean ye. Everyone else here has a beard, lad.”

She kept her face down, but nodded and gently kicked the sides of her horse. The Douglas watched her move forward, some of them grumbling as she went.

“Troy needs men at his side. Must be that damn Cameron forcing him to only have a lad to guard his back.”

“The Earl of Liddell no doubt wants to keep us from bringing the wise woman up, so our laird will die…”

“Look, boy! If ye are all the laird will have, do a good job of it. Ye’re a Douglas… remember that.”

Except that she wasn’t a Douglas or a Cameron. Deirdre raised her face the moment she cleared the last Douglas retainer. She bit her lower lip to still its trembling. She was a pawn between powerful men, but the truth was, she was nothing if one side decided she was worthless.

Quinton might do that very thing.

Troy cursed as she drew closer. But the man turned toward Quinton.

“Now pull yer sword and tell me to retreat, but do nae be thinking I’ll ever hand over what ye want so easily again,” Troy declared.

Deirdre watched surprise flicker in Quinton’s eyes. She felt his gaze as surely as if he’d reached over and touched her. He muttered beneath his breath, “I will nae forget this.” His words were low and directed at Troy.

“I do nae want yer promises. Just get her out of here, and remember I did it because I will nae see another woman burned.”

Deirdre felt the blood drain from her face. Troy grunted and lifted a fist into the air. “Now make it look good, Cameron, because I do nae need me own kin pissed at me.”

Troy turned, and in spite of the distaste evident in his expression, he swung his fist at her head. He struck her against the side of her head, the force of the blow knocking her off the horse.

“Bitch!” He swore, loud enough for his men to hear. “I should have listened to me uncle when he told me ye were crafty in the ways of escaping! How the hell did ye get into me ranks?”

Deirdre hit the ground and rolled, out of instinct. Pain went through her shoulder, but she continued rolling, to clear the powerful hooves of the horses. When she staggered to her feet, Quinton had his sword leveled at Troy’s throat.

“What did ye think, Douglas? That any woman I’d care anything about would be easy to contain? She’s mine because she’s a true hellion!”

Deirdre heard horses approaching, and she was suddenly pulled off her feet by a grip on the back of her plaid. She landed across a saddle, her chest taking most of the impact as her nose was pressed against the yellow, orange, and black of a Cameron plaid.

“I’m taking my woman, Troy Douglas, and if ye want to live to see sunset, ye’ll stay off me trail, for I swear I’ll order ye all run through, down to the last man.”