Highland Hellcat (2010) (3 page)

“How could ye keep silent? Men may well die over this.”

Brina shivered, and it was not the chill in the air that caused her to do it; it was the possibility of revenge from the Lindsey clan.

“The Douglas clan would be a far-better alliance,” Kaie snapped. “They are in love, and a Douglas would be a safer marriage in these times.”

“The Douglas seek the crown, and everyone knows it. Deirdre may well stand beside her lover when he is run through because the rest of the clans do nae want the Douglas to hold so much power. We have a king.”

Kaie shook her head. “A king who is naught but a boy. Who knows if he shall ever grow up? He would not be the first boy king who died before becoming a man and he has no brothers.”

“You should nae say such things.” Brina turned to look back at the chamber doorway. They had no door because they were maidens, and closed doors inspired rumors.

“And you should no’ be so trusting…” Kaie’s words trailed off, pity covering her features. “You have everything that I desire.”

“But why have you never spoken until now, Kaie? Father could nae reward ye after the captains heard that ye did nae tell him about Deirdre.”

Brina failed to mask her frustration. It bled into her tone, and she realized that she was becoming far too discontented with her lot. That was a poor choice to make for the only one who would suffer from her unhappiness would be her.

Her sister wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m sorry, Brina. Ye are correct, but I do nae have the same spirit that ye do. I long to go to the abbey, where I can commune with God.”

Brina felt shock move through her. Kaie looked at her with eyes that were full of regret.

“I thought that maybe the feeling would pass, but it has done naught but grow and grow, until now, I feel as though I might burst with it.”

Brina was tempted to go to their father in spite of the anger that she knew arguing with him would bring.

“I’ll speak to Father for ye, Kaie.”

Her sister blew out a soft whimper. “Ye were right when ye pointed out that my timing could nae have been worse. Father will nae allow either of us to disobey him. He cannae risk losing face with the other lairds because his daughters won’t obey him.”

Hopelessness invaded the chamber, and Brina felt it keenly.

As the daughters of the laird, they were expected to do their duty just as any boy born on Chattan land. Without remaining strong, the clan might be overrun by another one, and that would mean death for the men and slavery for the women.

She was expected to take her position as a nun, to please the church and God so that the harvest would be good and disease kept away. Brina shivered again, because part of her envied her sister Deirdre for the courage that had seen her embracing what she wished. It would not end well, or at least the chances of her lover becoming her husband were slim at best.

Brina lay down in her bed and offered a prayer of hope for a happy future. She and Kaie seemed destined to make the best of what their father wanted for them, but Deirdre was bold enough to challenge him.

Brina wished that she had more faith in having her prayer answered.

***

If love was insanity, Deirdre was happy to commit herself to the illness. She hoped she never recovered. Melor Douglas cupped her head between his hands, holding it steady while he placed a kiss against her mouth. It was a demanding one that would leave her tender on the morrow. But for the moment she let passion turn the hard touch into something she enjoyed and returned. Melor pressed her down, moving his hands from her face to her chest, where he eagerly cupped the globes of her breasts through the fabric of her robes.

“Let us disrobe…” Deirdre threaded her fingers through his hair and whispered against his ear.

“Nay, I’m hard and needy of yer wet sheath. Hike yer skirts.”

Deirdre frowned, a prickle of worry crossing her mind. Melor had abandoned the sweet touches that he had used to lure her into his embrace, almost in the same moment that she had yielded her purity to him.

“Melor… stop… I will nae be the entertainment for yer men.” She smoothed a hand over the bulge of his biceps. “Send them away.”

He growled at her, his hands grasping her hips with more strength than she liked. His hold bruised, and she gasped with discomfort.

“Ye’ll do what I say, when I tell ye, woman, because I am yer master.”

“Ye are nae yet, no’ until ye see my father.”

Fear was beginning to wind through her, and Deirdre tried to fend it off. Melor was her lover, the man she had braved the night to be with, but he had yet to make good on his word to see her father.

She would be his wife.

It wouldn’t be the first time a Scot had married his mistress. Unlike the English, Scots often followed their passions such as she had. She was as much a Highlander as her brothers or Melor and the Douglas retainers who stood nearby to guard his back.

“I mean what I say, Melor Douglas. It is time for ye to keep yer word and ask my father for me.”

“Is that a fact?” He chuckled, but it was not a kind sound. His hands released her hips, and she stepped away from him.

What she witnessed on his face turned her cold, for there was no sign of the man who had seduced her with kind words and promises of a bright future.

“Ye need a lesson, Deirdre, one that will teach ye that I am yer master and what I want from ye, you will give without quarrel.”

Arrogance twisted his features into a visage that wasn’t nearly as pleasing as she had thought it to be. But she stood up to him, refusing to crumple at his feet.

“Ye promised me that we would wed.” She raised her voice so that his men heard her clearly. “It is the only reason I gave ye my innocence.”

He reached out and tapped her chin with the tip of one finger. “But ye cannae bargain with what ye do nae have any longer, Deirdre Chattan. Better learn that quick and maybe a few more things to keep me satisfied, or ye’ll find yerself discarded like the slut ye are.”

Slut…

The word burned across her mind. Deirdre leaned against the wall, too overwhelmed by the horror of seeing the man she loved sneering at her so gleefully while his men enjoyed the entertainment of watching her be shamed. She searched his face, seeking out any remaining hint of the man she had defied everything to be with. She found nothing but a savage looking back at her. Melor was only interested in what pleasure her flesh might provide him. Lust twisted his features as the tip of his tongue appeared and swept across his lower lip. The scent of whisky touched her nose.

“Ye’ll get on yer knees now and suckle my cock like a mistress should know how to do…”

Her horror evaporated as her temper flared up. “Not until ye wed me as ye promised.”

Melor reached out and struck her across her face. It was no light slap, but a harsh blow that sent pain through her head and neck. Deirdre jerked her head back around to face him with the aid of her temper.

“Ye promised on yer clan colors, Melor! Ye swore to me!”

He laughed at her. “But it does nae matter, Deirdre, because ye are nothing but a woman who disobeyed her father and laird. Ye will please me or begin praying that my seed does nae take root in yer womb and announce the fact that ye are a slut to one and all.” He smirked and lifted his kilt to expose his cock.

“Come here, slut, and suckle my organ, or I swear I’ll turn me back on ye and yer bastard.” He reached down and handled his aroused flesh. “I have quite a few bastards, and I plan to plant some more of my seed good and deep inside ye before this night is finished.”

Deirdre growled, her temper turning to rage. She lunged at the man she had fallen in love with and sent her knee toward the flesh that he was so determined to humiliate her with. Melor cried like a boy when she felt the sac beneath his cock crushing against her knee.

He jumped away from her, colliding with his men and toppling the chairs they had been sitting in. Their mugs of ale went crashing into the floor, while the room filled with the sounds of their profanity.

Deirdre didn’t wait to see what Melor would say when he finally climbed back onto his feet. She raced across the chamber and tore the door open before anyone thought to try and stop her. There was a long hallway beyond the door that led to a steep set of stairs. At the bottom of those stairs was the main floor of the tavern where Melor had managed to convince her to meet him. It was half-full of men intent on drinking and playing games of chance while they enjoyed a bit of light from the proprietor’s candles.

She left that light willingly behind, seeking out the darkness and her mare. Deirdre swung up and onto the back of the horse where it waited along the side of the building. She dug her heels into its sides to send the animal forward.

Tears streamed down her face, and she wiped them away with an angry hand.

She would never, never cry for a man again. All love between man and woman was false. Men were heartless creatures who understood only lust and power. She had been nothing but a tool for Melor to shame her father with. All the sweet words that Melor had murmured against her ear burned like a brand into her mind as the depth of his deception became clear. Lies she had believed, and worse yet, allowed to plant love in her heart. That affection withered now in the face of the sting still lingering on her face from his blow.

That was the truth of what men truly gave to women, pain and suffering. She embraced the hurt, forcing her thoughts to dwell on the memory of the look on his face after he had hit her.

She would never cry again.

***

Deirdre didn’t look at who was in the tavern, but heads turned in her direction when she left it. Behind the wool of their plaids that were drawn over their heads for warmth, several men watched from where they stood outside the walls of the establishment as she kicked her mare and charged off into the night.

“Well, it’s true, even if I am nae happy to see myself proven right,” Shawe Lindsey muttered beneath his breath and cast a glance at the mugs of ale being carried by in the hands of a serving lass. His throat was suddenly parched and dry beyond endurance, but he maintained his position next to his laird. Shawe waited to see what the man would do now that they had indeed discovered his bride-to-be a very long way from where she should be.

Shawe wasn’t surprised by the silence of his laird. Connor Lindsey was a man who had been put in his place many a time while a lad, because he’d been born illegitimate to the way of thinking of many of the Lindsey clan. His childhood had been rough and full of fighting because the clan was in turmoil as it waited to see who would inherit the lairdship. The fact that his mother had wed his father, even if it was after his birth, had led to many who would have liked to see him die before becoming a man. Connor had learned to hold his tongue and keep his thoughts to himself well, something he was doing right at that moment while Shawe took another glance at the ale being served.

“Buy a round, Shawe.”

Connor Lindsey didn’t want to drink. He wanted to kill, and that was an honest fact. He produced a silver coin and sent it sailing through the air between him and Shawe with a flick of his thumb.

He also wanted to see whom Deirdre had been meeting with even more, even if he suspected that he knew the answer well enough. There was one thing he always did, and that was never condemn anyone unless he saw the evidence with his own eyes. He stepped into the tavern and heard the slight ripple of whispers heralding his arrival. Men moved their gazes toward him, while keeping their faces on the companions they shared the rough trestle tables with. Long benches were jumbled about the tables, with only a few chairs at the far side of the tavern, where the high table was cleaned and waiting for a customer with the coin to spend on more grand accommodations.

The landlord looked at him, hope glittering in his eyes, but Connor swung his leg over a bench and straddled it. He wasn’t there for wasting coin on having his ego pampered. The ale came from the same barrels, no matter if he was drinking it while on a bench or in a chair. Let the Douglas retainers he suspected were upstairs in the private suite squander their money.

Connor ground his teeth together. What was more correct to think was that Melor Douglas didn’t think twice about spending the hard-earned silver of his people on his own comfort. The man held an interesting position in the clan, because while he wasn’t in direct line to inherit any title, he still stood a good chance of gaining one, because so many of the Douglas were getting themselves killed. His fellow Douglas did everything they might to keep themselves in the man’s good graces, because he just might inherit. Of course, that was a fine place for Melor to be. The man had all the money he wanted, but none of the responsibilities a title would press on him.

Connor had watched the man sidestep messy situations for years, but tonight he was going to connect the man to the deed of sullying Deirdre Chattan. A mug of ale landed in front of him, and Connor reached for it. He wanted to crush something, and his fingers wrapped around the drinking vessel with too much strength.

“We could just go up the stairs…” Shawe remarked.

“I’m waiting to see Melor Douglas.”

Shawe raised an eyebrow, and Connor growled at him. The men around them were listening, and he watched one go up the stairs. Connor grinned, and Shawe chuckled in response.

“It does look like the fight will come to us soon enough. My purpose was to discover the truth of these rumors about Deirdre, and I intended to make sure I do nae jump too quickly and miss learning something that may be of use later.”

Shawe lifted his own and drew off a long swallow of the amber liquid. “I’ve seen plenty already; ’tis a mess to be sure.”

Connor stared at the ale but didn’t lift the mug. He didn’t trust himself to maintain control over his temper if he had even one spoonful of the intoxicating beverage inside him. Anger was flowing through him like a swollen spring river that had plenty of snow to feed it. But he’d learned to be patient and hold his thoughts deep inside until the time was right to strike out against those who tried to grind him beneath their boot heels. The Douglas had been trying to steal what was his for too many years.