Mary Reed McCall (5 page)

Once she was alone, the lure of the tub proved too much to resist. Now she gazed around as she soaked, curiosity overcoming her fear. Unlike the rest of the castle, Duncan’s chamber appeared spotlessly clean, though cramped with furniture. More than a dozen candles filled the area with mellow, luxuriant light. Such wanton waste astounded her; at home two or three tapers sufficed to brighten a chamber.

Aileana noticed other extravagances as well. Rich tapestry hangings covered the windows, though Aileana imagined that when they were tied back, the spill of sunlight would be breathtaking. On the floor were numerous woolen mats and furs, to help keep drafts away.

Finally her gaze shifted to the imposing, curtained bed, and a shiver ran up her spine. Its framework was elaborately carved and solid, made to last through many generations. The coverlet was thick, the mattress soft and inviting. It was a massive bed. A bed made to be shared. A bed for begetting children…

Water splashed over the floor as Aileana lurched to her feet. She had to get dressed. Duncan would be walking through that door at any moment to claim his rights, and she’d spit pebbles if she was going to allow herself to be sitting here naked when he did.

With lightning speed, she dried herself and pulled on the long sleeved, white chemise that Bridgid had left for her. It was too large—someone else’s clothing—but she didn’t mind. More material meant more security, or at least the illusion of it. Her breath came fast, and she trembled as she hurried to the fire.

By the blessed angels, how had she ended up in such a shameful position? The ordeal ahead of her would be the worst she’d ever faced. She knew little of what happened during the intimate act between men and women…
nothing more than bits of whispered stories she’d heard when the maidservants gossiped. She gathered that coupling was painful for the female, unless the man was very gentle, and that a larger man meant more pain and perhaps even bleeding. Bleeding from where she wasn’t certain, but she had an idea, and it made her stomach churn. Duncan MacRae was a very large man, and she would wager her teeth that he wasn’t the gentle type.

A cold draft swept up Aileana’s back, making her stiffen. He was here. She felt his presence as surely as if he was running his hands over her naked flesh. Turning slowly from the wall, Aileana wrapped her arms round herself and faced the man who would take her innocence this night.

Duncan stood massive and imposing in the shadows of the doorway. His gold-flecked hair waved to his shoulders; the chiseled set of his face was unreadable. With slow, even steps, he walked closer to the fire, loosened his shirt, and sank into the chair perched before the blaze, still facing her.

Aileana’s gaze slipped to the expanse of sleekly muscled chest that showed through the parted edges of his shirt. Firelight danced over his skin, honing powerful ridges and contours and illuminating several jagged scars that rippled from the top of his chest to the flat planes of his belly. He looked casual and relaxed, his clothing impeccably clean and well crafted, and as unlike his war gear as this embroidered chemise was to her borrowed soldier garb.

“Come here.”

His soft command sliced the silence, and Aileana’s gaze jerked up to his face. The jagged scar that ran along his cheek seemed faded in the shadows. But his smoky gray eyes studied her in the firelight, making her heart
beat in staccato and her breath catch. Vaguely she noticed that he still wore his leather gloves; they matched a dark stripe in the swath of plaid draped in folds round his hips. Forcing herself forward, she walked step by step until she stood in front of him, steeling herself for what would come next.

That inscrutable silver gaze drifted up from where her bare toes peeped beneath her smock, along the outline of her legs, belly and breasts, finally lingering at the burning expanse of her face. Aileana clenched her hands in front of her, willing herself to be strong, to resist the urge to fall at his feet and beg for mercy. He’d surely laugh and humiliate her more if she did.

“You’re trembling.”

His quiet statement caught her off guard. She thought she’d heard a hint of concern in his voice. Her breathing slowed, and the panic receded a bit. Perhaps he was not wholly without honor or sensitivity. He might treat her with tenderness, or at least some—

“But you’re wasting your virginal show of modesty on me, for I’ll not be taking my pleasure with you as my leman, this night or any other…” Duncan leaned forward, lacing his fingers together as he rested his forearms on his thighs. “…because I will not risk the possibility of breeding my
bairns
on a MacDonell wench.”

Aileana gasped at the insult. He’d played her for a fool, bringing her all the way to Eilean Donan only to stand her before him like this to debase her further. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. Her gaze darted round the chamber, but her clothing was nowhere to be seen. As she willed calm to fill her, she walked over to the bed, grabbed a blanket and wrapped herself in it before heading to the door.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

The arrogant tone of his question freed her tongue. “To find where Bridgid’s hid my clothes, so I can get them and go home.”

“If you do that, your brother will die.”

The harsh words slammed into her, and Aileana whirled from the door, throwing caution to the wind as she flung her anger back at him. “The agreement between us was to spare Gavin’s life if I came with you as leman. I fulfilled my part of it—it’s your change of heart that frees me to go home!”

“There’s been no change of heart. If you leave, you will be casting off our terms and our pact.”

Frustration bubbled over in Aileana. She stalked to him, the blanket dropping to the floor, forgotten, in the heat of emotion. “Dragon’s breath, MacRae! You just said that you did not—”

“If you’d cease babbling for the space of two breaths, I’d tell you the way of it between us.”

Aileana’s mouth clamped shut, her arms crossed in defensive pose over her chest. Being interrupted reminded her, suddenly, that she’d lost control of her emotions. Stiffly, she prepared for the punishment that should follow—that had always followed such outbursts at home. Father had drowned out her opinions all the time, and then, when he’d finished his tirade, he’d delivered her correction with heavy-handed stoicism. But Duncan just stared at her in silence.

Feeling more than a little reckless at the freedom his reaction allowed, she abandoned her training in docility even further and let her brows arch in mocking question as she waited for his explanation.

Duncan gestured to the stool opposite him. “Sit.”

“I prefer to be standing when I hear your twisted thoughts.”

He grimaced, his reply matching her sarcasm. “As you wish. But know you that our agreement stands as before. Your brother’s life will be spared, provided that you serve as my leman, in every way but in the sharing of my bed.”

He shifted back in the chair, lounging in insolent confidence. “However, my clan and yours must think our arrangement true. You will sleep in my chamber, on that pallet over there,” he indicated the ticking on the floor in the corner, “except in the wee hours, when you will come into my bed so that Bridgid won’t suspect anything amiss when she comes in to feed the morning fire.”

Silence fell thick and heavy between them, the added disgrace of these new terms wounding her deeply. “Why are you doing this?” she asked at last, her voice quiet with hurt. “It piles the sin of falsehood on what is already an abomination. Do you really hate me so much that to torture me like this gives you pleasure?”

Duncan’s silver gaze wavered, then hardened again. “Your
torture
, as you choose to call it, need not be forever. You could go home tomorrow, if you wish.”

“Of course I wish it,” she retorted. “But you’re speaking in riddles.”

“Not at all. It’s very simple. Your humiliation and the dishonor to your clan will end on the day you reveal the location of the
Ealach
to me.”

“Give you the amulet?” Shock, anger and relief blended in a torrent as Aileana stared aghast at him. “But we made no such condition in our agreement. You’re changing the rules to suit yourself!”

“That’s the way of it, Aileana MacDonell. Give me the amulet and you go free. Keep it and remain bound to me.”

A hissing log on the fire popped and fell to the coals,
flaring sparks. Aileana glared at Duncan. He sat composed as he awaited her decision. She averted her gaze. Giving him the
Ealach
meant she could return home tomorrow. Back to the only home she’d ever known, but as a failure, perceived a fallen woman by her clan. Or she could continue to protect the
Ealach
and suffer the indignity of appearing to be Duncan MacRae’s leman for the rest of her days.

It suddenly dawned on her that either way, she faced the same trap. Whether in the MacRae’s bed or out of it, she was ruined.

She glanced beneath hooded eyes, studying the lean, muscular grace, the golden, scarred skin and chiseled features of the tyrant sitting before her. Bitterness rose hot and full in her throat. Because of him she would never savor the pleasures of home or hearth or the joy of her own children playing round her feet. She’d be scorned by all who saw her as Duncan’s cast-off whore. The issue was moot; even if he allowed her to remain pure in body, no one would believe it. It would seem impossible that this bold, virile animal had denied himself full use of his leman. And because of that, no self-respecting man would ever again consider her for a wife.

Aileana straightened and clenched her jaw. Her dreams of a normal life, of companionship and family, fluttered away like ash up the chimney. But if she stayed at Eilean Donan, she could at least ensure that her suffering had purpose. The amulet would remain safe.

It was settled, then. Duncan MacRae could chew nettles; she’d not tell him where she’d secured the
Ealach
. He’d drawn the battle lines against her with his cruel treachery, and now he’d pay the consequences. He’d pay dearly.

“I’ve made my decision, MacRae. I’ll be staying.”
With a flap of her chemise, she scuffed toward her pallet, adding, “May your sleep be full of ghosties and evil fairies for the bargain you struck with me tonight.”

Refusing to look at him again or react to the weight of the silence billowing at her from where he sat, Aileana stretched out on the soft ticking and burrowed deep. Prickling heat stung her eyes, but she blinked it away. This was no time for tears. She needed to make plans. Duncan MacRae would get his fair reward for this, by heaven. And now she had all the days for the rest of her life to enact every plot she could envision against him.

With that comforting thought, Aileana squeezed her eyes shut and tried to let her mind drift into dreams of satisfying revenge.

Duncan rolled over and tried to find a comfortable position. Sleep had eluded him for several hours. He’d watched the fire burn down to glowing embers, watched his remaining candle melt to nothing. And more often than he cared to admit he’d sat up to look at the fiery-haired, stubborn wench curled into a sleeping ball on the corner pallet.

Aileana MacDonell surprised him at every turn. He’d been certain that, granted the possibility of going home, she’d give him the amulet without clamor. He’d ordered Bridgid to work her hard this day to add to the enticement of leaving. But she’d stood her ground. And now he was faced with a prospect he’d not allowed himself to truly consider. She would be living here for the devil knew how long. Every day he’d have to contend with her chattering tongue, her annoying female ways, her pointed stares…and a constant view of her creamy-skinned beauty.

With a groan Duncan punched a lump on his bed.
Comely or not, he couldn’t take her. Morgana’s blood ran in her veins. Her clan had slaughtered his people.
Slaughtered Mairi.

Cold seeped into his chest. He didn’t want to see the picture in his mind again, didn’t want to remember. But it was there. It would always be there—the sight of the woman he’d loved, still and lifeless at his feet.

Closing his eyes, he rolled onto his side. No further reminder was needed. Aileana MacDonell was a forbidden temptation, his opponent in this battle of wills. And if he had to work like hell, he’d get her to tell him where the
Ealach
was. Soon. But he had a sinking feeling that until he did, he’d be spending much of his time immersing himself in the distractions he might find in the great hall.

Or anywhere else that the accusing, seductive gaze of one honey-eyed, flame-haired temptress might not be able to reach him.

T
he smell of warm oatmeal pulled Aileana out of sleep, making her smile with satisfaction an instant before she remembered where she was. At first, she stiffened under the covers, her mind blurry with images of the horrible day that had changed her life. Pictures of the battle, of Gavin wounded and bleeding, of hiding the amulet in Morgana’s secret grove. Then she remembered last night and Duncan’s casual, infuriating comments.
You will sleep in my chamber on that pallet over there, except in the wee hours, when you will come to my bed so that Bridgid won’t suspect anything amiss…

Satan’s fire, she was in Duncan MacRae’s bed.

She gasped and peeped from beneath the thick blanket, cheeks burning as she realized that he must have carried her from the pallet while she slept. Her gaze darted around his chamber. Thank the saints, but he’d left already. Relaxing again, Aileana scrunched down,
pulling the covers up to hide the tip of her nose. Then she froze.

She sniffed, scowling in concentration. It was a pleasant scent, light and clean. With a start she’d realized that it was
his
fragrance coming from the bedclothes…the same sharply sweet smell as the square of hard soap Bridgid had taken from the tub last night before she’d tossed her a pot of soft lye soap from the kitchen. The realization was enough to propel her out of bed and into a chemise and kirtle that she found draped across one of the room’s carved chairs. The garments were of serviceable weave, coarse but well crafted. Aileana felt a twinge of regret for her own gowns back home; they were of fine fabric and woven in colors to suit her.

Home
. She had to stop thinking of Dulhmeny like that. This was home to her now, whether she liked it or not. And today was the first full day of her new life here. Her usual good nature tried valiantly to reassert itself and failed. Her mind kept straying to the revenges she’d conjured up last night to play against Duncan. How could she feign a peaceful demeanor? Life as the
Ealach
’s keeper had been difficult enough with its isolation and loneliness. But she’d only traded one kind of captivity for another, and this one was decidedly less tolerable.

Biting back a scowl, Aileana tried to ignore the growling of her stomach as she finished dressing and walked down the stairs to the great hall. Several tables jutted at odd angles round the room; they were full of men, some standing hunched over trenchers of steaming oatmeal, others sitting on the benches and ripping off hunks of dark bread and stuffing them in their mouths. Many of them looked unkempt, their flowing hair and beards snarled, their bare legs dirty beneath wrinkled plaids and tunics. Aileana sniffed at the vulgar display; it was be
coming ever more apparent why everyone called this clan the wild MacRaes.

A prickle of apprehension slid down her spine an instant before she saw him. He sat at the far end of the hall, his silver gaze fixed on her, penetrating. Unlike his clansmen, Duncan exuded a sense of clean, calm orderliness. He looked refreshed from his night’s rest, though she thought she saw a glint of annoyance in his eyes before he turned to Kinnon, sitting next to him.

At that moment Bridgid huffed up to Aileana and dropped a heavy iron pot into her hands; it was empty, smeared with the jellied remnants of cold oatmeal.

“It’s about time you showed your face this morning, missy. Here. Take it back to the kitchens and have it filled again.” Bridgid shook her red face at Aileana, muttering, “There’s no time to dawdle with a room of hungry men. Get about it.” She stalked away, charging at whirlwind speed toward a table whose occupants were banging their fists in a rising crescendo of complaint.

Aileana gaped at Bridgid’s retreating back.
Serve
these animals? But Bridgid had already turned away, waving her toward the kitchens. With a sigh, Aileana let the pot dangle from her grip and did as she was bid. The sound of women’s voices spilled from the warm chamber beyond the hall, rising and falling, punctuated with laughter. But as soon as she stepped into the chamber, the chatter tapered off and fell to silence by the time she’d reached the middle of the room.

“Bridgid told me to have this refilled,” she murmured, holding out the empty pot. The only sound to break the quiet came from the bannock cakes hissing on the hearth-fire.

Finally, one of the women sauntered forward. She was tall and dark-haired, her ample curves filling a kirtle that
was a shade too tight. She reached out and grasped the pot between her finger and her thumb, clearly being careful not to touch Aileana’s hand.

“Here, Maggie,” she said to the small, blond girl behind her, though she kept her gaze only on Aileana. “Wash this out before you fill it again.” She fixed her with an insolent expression. “We don’t want our men catching anything from the MacRae’s new whore, now, do we?”

Aileana stood her ground, but a sick, hollow feeling unfurled in her belly. Someone jostled into her and pushed her roughly aside.

“That’s enough out of you, Nora MacKenzie.” Bridgid jabbed her finger into the woman’s shoulder. “If you want to spend the day wailing about being misplaced from the MacRae’s bed, then do it on your own time. That, or I can send you out to the pig trough, to muck and mumble by yourself.” Bridgid glared. “Make your decision.”

Nora’s gaze sliced across Aileana once more before she grumbled under her breath and moved back to the cook pots. One by one, the other women went back to their tasks, their sideways glances leaving Aileana little doubt about the meaning of their whispers.

Pursing her lips, Bridgid took a pot of fresh, hot oatmeal from the fire and wrapped the handle in a cloth before handing it to Aileana. “Take this to the MacRae’s table. His was running low.”

Aileana just looked at her, surprised at her intervention. With a tentative nod, she said, “Thank you for what you did just now. I won’t forget it.”

“What I said wasn’t for your sake, missy, believe you me,” Bridgid snapped, angry red mottling her cheeks. “Work needs to be done, and that was the quickest way
of getting Nora back to it. I’ll not be defending the likes of you with my breath.” She tilted her head with a sharp gesture to the door. “Now get moving and take this in before it gets cold.”

Cheeks burning, Aileana turned away without another word and strode from the kitchen. She reached the MacRae’s table almost without looking, but as she prepared to set the pot of oatmeal on the broad wooden surface, she heard a hissed conversation right next to her that stopped her cold.

“The MacDonell lass has a nice twitch to her arse when she walks, eh, Dougal?”

“Aye, and a fine lap for resting in as well, if you ken my meaning,” the other said, chortling. “Do you think the MacRae’ll be sharing her anytime soon?”

Aileana’s gaze snapped up. The two men sat an arm’s length away from her at Duncan’s table, one as broad as the other was lean. They stared, the lanky one grinning. Her stomach sank to her toes. When she set the pot down, her hands trembled so badly that some of the oatmeal sloshed onto the table in front of them.

“Ach, watch it there!” the portly man hooted. Then he winked. “But clumsy or not, you’re a fine piece with that red hair. The MacRae’s a lucky man.”

“Not bad,” the second one admitted, smacking his lips. He reached out to pinch Aileana’s hip. She gasped and backed away. “Though I think she needs a lesson in the manners of a serving wench. Spilling half the oatmeal is no way to feed a man!”

Aileana’s gaze flew to Duncan; she expected him to at least upbraid his men for their rudeness. But he simply returned a look of level contemplation before leaning back in his chair.

Heat crept from her neck to the roots of her hair. How
dare he sit there and let these ruffians abuse her without speaking nay against it? Impotent fury wound through her, so strong that her throat felt squeezed shut with it. But the rage was quickly followed by a swell of desolation. She’d gain no help from Duncan MacRae; she was foolish to have even hoped for it.

Duncan watched Aileana’s reaction, seeing her emotions clear in the depths of her eyes. An odd ache unfurled in his belly at the fierce color in her cheeks and the sight of her hands twisting in her skirt. The surge of satisfaction he’d expected to feel when his plans for her humiliation began to bear fruit failed to surface. And it annoyed him. She was supposed to take the place of Gavin MacDonell in his revenge, and yet how could she, when he wouldn’t allow himself the pleasure of her discomfort?

Disgusted with himself, he averted his gaze and broke a piece from the chunk of bread that had served as his trencher. He popped it in his mouth and concentrated on chewing, pretending not to notice when Aileana slipped from the hall, as soundless as a ghost. The conversation around him continued at low pitch, though the two men who had insulted her had finally gone quiet in favor of nudging each other and grinning. Duncan felt someone’s stare boring into him, and he turned to see Kinnon; his cousin’s head was tilted, his brow raised in a condemning expression reminiscent of that moment when he’d first noticed Aileana’s nakedness in the glen.

The bread lodged in Duncan’s throat, and he stopped chewing. Kinnon’s accusing stare grew more intense.

Duncan muttered a curse, throwing down the last bit of trencher. “What did you want me to do, then? Cleave them in half for speaking to her?”

Kinnon only looked at him, reproach heavy in his
eyes. Then he shook his head with a snort and went back to his food.

Duncan tried to shrug off the gloom and concentrate on his meal, but he found that the crude conversation that had begun again between the men at the end of the table suddenly irritated him to the point of distraction. Throwing a baleful glare at Kinnon, he lurched to his feet and growled, “Enough! You two—” he pointed at the plump Dougal and his wiry companion. “Get out to the courtyard and polish the rusty swords. Now!”

The men leaped to their feet, bits of bannock cake and oat broth dribbling from their beards. They had the temerity to look ill-used, blinking and mumbling in feigned innocence, until Duncan followed his command with a wordless bellow that sent them tripping and scuffling out of the great hall.

Sitting back in his chair, Duncan picked up his bread again. He paused with it halfway to his mouth, then threw it down again. Tilting his mug to his lips, he drank deep before slamming it to the table.

Kinnon brushed a few crumbs from his fingers, taking time to sop up the last of his broth before tilting his gaze to Duncan. “A bit testy today, are we?”

Duncan made a scoffing sound. “Eating tasteless food tends to have that affect on a man.” He cut him a glare. “Of course you’re an exception to that.”

Kinnon skirted the gibe. “It’s not Bridgid’s fault that the larders hold little more than oats and kale. The men have become lazy for the hunt. And the MacLeods have not been properly intimidated by your return. They keep stealing our livestock, to test us. We must take action against them soon.” Kinnon swung his leg over the bench and stood up. “And yet much as those clans be
thorns in our sides, it is not they, nor the poor food that be chafing at you this morning, Duncan.”

Duncan contested Kinnon’s cool gaze with a lift of his brow. “Nay? Then pray sit back down, cousin, and give me the true reason.”

“I do not need to sit to tell you what any eyes but your own can see. MacDonell or no, you took in yon girl as your leman, and you’re not in the habit of allowing anyone in your service to suffer mistreatment—unless you be the one offering it, of course. You didn’t help her when she might have used your influence just now, and that’s what’s sticking in your craw, cousin.”

With that, Kinnon nodded and started toward the door, but as he strode away, he called over his shoulder in challenge, “Then again, you’re the laird. Think on it as you wish.”

Duncan scowled and stared back into his empty cup as Kinnon left the hall.
Laird
. Aye, he was the leader of the wild MacRaes. But his men were more apt to carouse than fight, and as added insult he’d been cursed with a slip of a woman who looked the picture of her depraved sister while behaving like either a shrewish magpie or a timid mousie.

Just then Bridgid charged by with a platter of steaming oat pudding. Before he would let himself think too much more about what he wanted to do, he pulled her aside.

“Get the MacDonell woman back here. I need to tell her something.”

“Ach, don’t we all! But I don’t know where she’s taken herself off to.” Her voice thick with sarcasm, Bridgid added, “One of her kind, perhaps she’s taking a
beauty
rest—or could be that she’s out wandering the
edge of the loch to let the sea breeze flow through her hair.”

Duncan sighed and pushed himself away from the table. It was clear that he’d not be getting much assistance from his
bailie
. He tried to look stern. “When you see her, tell her I need to speak with her tonight.”

Bridgid nodded and started away to her tasks, but Duncan stopped her again. “And keep her occupied in the kitchens today. Somewhere away from the men.”

Rolling her gaze skyward, Bridgid stomped off, muttering about coddled brats under her breath. Duncan scowled as he set off to find Kinnon. He stepped out into the misting rain and breathed deep, flexing his hand within its leather glove to ease the ache that the damp brought to the poorly mended bones.

He could waste no more time on troublesome women. His cousin had been right when he’d warned of the unrest among the neighboring clans. He needed to contact the MacKenzie soon and make plans for stemming the growing problems, or it seemed likely that the question of how to handle Aileana MacDonell would soon prove to be the least of his worries.

Shadows had fallen over the waters of Loch Duich by the time Duncan allowed himself to consider taking his rest for the day. The rain had dissipated by late morning; now the setting sun tinted the billowing clouds pink and gold, finally fading to smoky violet as he called a halt to the sparring and war practice he’d overseen for most of the afternoon.