Highland Scandal (15 page)

He clenched his jaw. Sweat broke out across his forehead and prickling heat spread across his chest to his back.

Swinging into his saddle, Lachlan did not feel like the just man he professed himself to be. There was a baser part of him that urged him to grab his claymore and cut them down. He rode away instead.

* * * *

Rowen glanced about the chamber. Finally, she was free from the fever that was the temperature of hell. She felt like barley after a heavy rainstorm, flat, water-logged, and limp. She planted her hands flat on the mattress and sat up.

She had escaped and reached a safe haven. She remembered Lachlan and Kenny talking to her. She struggled to speak to them both, but she slipped back into nothingness.

How many days had burned away?

She looked up as a woman entered. She carried a tray with a steamy bowl in the center. “Ye awake. An’ ye look better.” She placed it down on a low table.

Rowen smacked her lips to rid herself of the wooly texture of her mouth. “Where is Lachlan? My son?”

She straightened the sheets about Rowan. “The laird departed two days ago and yer son is in the kitchen, eating again.”

Rowen slumped with relief and some tiredness.

“Ance I see to ye needs I’ll bring the lad right to ye.” She picked up the bowl.

“Thank you…”

“Mistress Cullen.” She held out the spoon.

After taking her bite, Rowen asked, “How long have I been here?”

“’Tis been a se’ennight. The laird brought ye in and my heart dropped, I thought ye a dead fairy.” She kept up a stream of conversation while spooning broth into her mouth. “Yer son stayed by the laird’s side. He is a guad mon.”

“Aye, he is that.” She brought her troubles to him. She had no other safe place since MacKenzie lands were too far to reach.

“His father was ance till he went mad.”

“What do you mean?”

“The auld laird talked to himself and wandered the castle at night. Some think the fairies got him. The worse was when he ordered young Roibeart to death. Och, there is yer lad.”

Fairies—she might have more problems. Hopefully, Caelen could come for her quickly.

“Ma,” Kenny shouted as he launched himself on the bed. He threw his little arms around her shoulder. She held him close and buried her nose in his neck. He squeezed her tightly even making little grunts from the effort. His little arms, rounded from his youth, felt light and wispy against her skin, but she felt the balm of his hug to the center of her soul.

“I’ll come back to clean ye and the bed.” Mistress Cullen gathered up the tray and departed.

Kenny pulled away, though she wasn’t ready to let him go. She drew away her hold so he wouldn’t start squirming.

“Have you been a good lad?”

“Aye.” His straight brown hair fell over his eye. The light gleamed off the strands, revealing the coppers and burnished reds of his hair. She brushed it back, just to touch him. “The laird told me to be a man and he gave me a sword.”

“What?” The man gave her baby a sword. He couldn’t even relieve himself without wetting his feet and the ground around him. Him with a sword.

His eyes widened, revealing the yellow shafts rimming his pupils. He beamed at her. He looked about and his face fell. “I forgot it in the kitchen. I must never put my sword down he said. He told me when he was a little, he had forgotten his. Uncle Caelen punished him, hit him in his face. He bled and he dinna cry, and then he had to carry his training sword everywhere. He never forgot it. I dinna want Uncle Caelen to hit me.”

“He will not.”

Kenny laid his hand over his chest and sighed his relief. “Good. The laird says that Uncle Caelen is a big man who cuts down a hundred foes with a flick of his wrist.” His saliva sprayed as he spoke.

Oh, her boy was such a bonny lad.

“Ma, there is a murd—dress—”

“A murderess,” she said.

“That.” He pointed a blunt finger at her. “She killed the auld laird. The laird locked her by the kitchen. He said no woman big wit a bairn should be in a dungeon. I dinna go by her chamber.”

“I want you to stay far from her.”

“I haven’t seen her. Mistress Cullen said she was a demon to come and destroy the clan. The laird said it would take more than one woman to do that.”

“I would think so.” But it could be the catalyst to begin Lachlan’s downfall and with her presences here, she might fuel it.

Mistress Cullen returned in a bustle along with two other servants, bearing fresh linens and water. Rowen smiled down at Kenny. “Why don’t you go get your sword to show me?” She gave him a loving pat on his behind. He tore from the chamber.

“Let me help ye so we can change the sheets and clean ye,” Mistress Cullen said as she threw off the bedding.

Rowen swung her legs off the side of the bed and stood. The limbs trembled, but she remained standing as Mrs. Cullen wrapped a supportive arm around her waist.

“I heated the water so there be na chill.” She grabbed handfuls of the sweat-drenched, wrinkled garment and lifted it over her head. She dipped a washing linen into the water and wiped it across Rowen’s neck.

She sighed her pleasure. By the time, Rowen had been scrubbed free of thick layers of sweat and the stench of illness, she felt restored.

“Ye sit here while we clean up.” She lowered her into seat. She nodded, pleased Rowen gave her no trouble. She threw a blanket over her and tucked it tight about her legs.

“Thank you. You are most kind. I hope I do not take you away from other duties.”

Mistress Cullen waved away her words in a friendly nature.

“There is something I must know. Is my son safe with the murderess in these walls?”

“Of course. There are guards outside the chamber all day and night. Only myself ventures inside. She isn’t a danger to anyone, especially since she is big wit her bairn.”

“Who is she?”

“She was the mistress to the auld laird. That be his bairn. He liked the ladies and filling these lands with his bastard spawns.” She realized what she said and turned her horrified gaze on Rowen. “I dinna mean—”

“I know you did not.”

“Weel, she kilt him, stabbed him in the back. I heard talk that she wanted to drive the demons from him before he took hold of her child. The clan wanna kill her, but the clan also voted for the new laird, so they decided to lock her away and let the Gordon bring down her punishment. Let’s get ye back to bed, Mistress.”

Rowen took her outstretched hand and returned to bed. That unborn child was Lachlan’s kin. He must see himself in the child and his mother in the woman. Lachlan rarely spoke of his mother. She looked to the door and wondered what man would enter. Certainly not the Lachlan she once knew.

Chapter Eight

Lachlan smelled himself. Dear Lord, goats smelled fresher than he, and they were cleaner. He wanted hot food, a bath, and a woman. One woman in particular—Rowen. He was a fool to still yearn for her. But he was a virile man. He no longer loved her—nay, he felt betrayed by her.

Why?

Foolishness, aye since she had done her duty by marrying. That truth meant nothing to him even as his head made that argument every time. Yet with every call of her dead husband’s name, he felt a sting burrowed into him. And every look at her son pained him. The boy should have been his—calling him da.

He left his horse with the groom and dragged himself into the hall. He pointed to a servant. “Send me a bath, food, and drink—a great deal of them both.” He didn’t wait for her to scurry off, but started to the Laird’s Chamber, pushing the door open.

It was empty. The bed was dressed with linens and furs. No one had slept in it on this day. A fire burned in the hearth, but that meant nothing. He circled the room as if Rowen would jump out from behind one of the tapestries.

A servant crept in and set a platter upon the table.

“Where is Rowen? Mistress Murray.”

“She is in her chamber.” She aimed a finger upward.

Lachlan swept by her and took the stairs two at time. From the stairwell, Kenny’s hurried voice bounced off the walls. Whatever had been spoken was undistinguishable as the words stumbled over each other. He pushed open the chamber door.

“By the saint of Olaf, you frightened me, Lachlan.” Rowen sprung to her feet and pressed her hand against her middle. Her pale blonde locks hung free about her, framing her in an iridescent light. She never wore her hair pinned since the fine strands slipped free until it all fell, dropping the pins at her feet. Gone from her gaze was the cloudiness, revealing the radiant blue color. Her cheeks were flawless with the whiteness of her usual color and lacked the fevered flush. Her lips were no longer chapped, but bloomed with color. She stood straight and steady on her feet.

“I see you are well.”

“And I see you are filthy and quite ripe.” She pressed her two fingers under her pert, delicate nose.

“Laird!” Kenny launched himself against Lachlan’s legs and slammed the pommel of his wooden sword against his shins. He hissed, not that Kenny heard.

“Ma says I’ll be as great as my uncle. I canna wait to go on my first raid like you an’ Uncle. I told her the whole story. I wasna scared.” He swung his sword about, so the tip scraped the floors, and then fell from his hold.

“You have some training to do and you have to learn discipline. You do not interrupt your laird.”

Kenny’s bony shoulders slumped. “Aye, Laird.”

“I hope you will join me for the evening meal.” Lachlan did not know what else to say to her. “I am off to clean up.”

She nodded her farewell and he departed.

Damn, he planned to say more. He worked out the conversation in his head. He would ask her about the state of her health, tell her horse was found, and tell her that her belongings were retrieved. He would make some joke and hear her laugh.

When he returned to his chamber, the bath was ready along with his food. Which to do first? He took a breath. Bath it was. He stripped. Dried mud stiffened his clothing so that when he undressed flakes dropped to the floor.

He stepped into the tub. He was too big for the thing. Water floated about his bullocks and his knees were pressed against his chest. He scrubbed himself clean, tossed water over himself, then more, and then rubbed soap among the hairs.

“You do not want to miss a spot.”

“Have you come to wash my back, or something else, perchance?”

Rowen narrowed her eyes and blue fire shot from between her lashes. “My son is but a baby. You hurt his feelings reprimanding him. He is not yet four, yet you treat him as a soldier, giving him a sword and training him.”

“A wooden one that all boys his age play with,” Lachlan retorted, leaning back. He gave her a half smile. “And if he does not learn such niceties now, when will he?”

“You tell him tales of battles without leaving out one detail. Kenny explained to me in detail the smell of man when he is gutted.”

“I know no other tales.” He raised a shoulder. He liked this, watching her lips flatten and her nostrils flare. “Besides, you are to blame.”

“Me?”

“Aye, you coddle that lad. You bathe him, dry him, tell him stories. I heard nothing else from him but Ma does this and Ma does that. You are not raising a man. You are endangering him.”

Rowen snatched up the bucket of water and doused him with it. She threw the pail at him. It bounced off his head. She did not stay to witness it. Lachlan jumped up and chased after her. He caught up with her in the Great Hall and spun her around.

“I am not the man you remember, so tread carefully.”

She yanked to free her arm. His hold tightened so he felt her bones beneath his fingers. “Then send me to my brother. He will not mind my son.”

“That I cannot do.”

“Why ever not?”

“I made a vow to your son and I will keep it.”

“There is no need. My brother shall.”

“How will you travel there? What? No response. You shall stay here.” He aimed a finger to the floor.

He noticed four men warming by the hearth. They and three maids bunched together, gawking at him. Their faces were flushed and their giggles flittered around him. A gasp and the shattering of pottery had both of them spinning around. Mistress Cullen gaped at him. She ran her gaze over his wet, naked body, pausing for a bit at his manhood. Rowen slipped free and ran upstairs. Mistress Cullen walked by him in a trance. He winked at her and whistled as he returned to his bath.

* * * *

Rowen paced the chamber. It was a small one, so her boiling energy never faded as she avoided bumping into the stool, the bed, and a trunk with her minuscule possessions. She had acted as a crazed woman. Of course her son ought to be playing with swords. He would have to defend himself and his people. The tales Lachlan shared were no different than the ones Eacharn repeated with zest.

Yet now, knowing the danger chasing after her son, the toy sword and the tales only had her thinking of his little body, limp and bloody. She crumbled on the stool and hung her head.

Lachlan had made a promise to her son. He wasn’t the man she remembered. He was wrong. His vow proved that…she hadn’t much time to look, but she had enough. He was still a bonny man, radiating maleness and virility. Being wet, with droplets running down his chest and snagging on his chest hairs had her moaning now. She stroked her leg, not feeling her skin, but his firm flesh. Lachlan had the body of man who earned each taut muscle from brandishing a claymore. Of course, a glance and she felt utterly feminine and lusty. She felt her breast grow heavy and that old tingle she hadn’t felt since the last time she had been near him.

She crossed to the washstand and splashed water on her face. Oh, that man still had her responding to him. Not much had changed.

There was one choice left for her. She must leave this place and return to her home before she found herself in his arms again.

“I must talk with you.”

Lachlan.

“Must I talk back?” She cocked a brow.

“When I tell you to,” Lachlan said. He waved a hand to the chair before the hearth.