Prisoner of Desire

Contents

Chapter One
.
2

Chapter Two
.
5

Chapter Three
.
7

Chapter Four
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10

Chapter Five
.
14

Chapter Six
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17

Chapter Seven
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21

Scotland, 1224

Sir Alasdair Donachie strode through the vast, stone-bricked hall, surveying all that he saw with grim satisfaction. As he tore away his armour and tossed it disdainfully to the squire who was scurrying along behind him, his thin lips curved back into an arrogant, self-satisfied smile.

It had been a hard-fought battle to gain Glen Carrick, but he had never doubted his ability to win through. He had long wanted the keep for his own, and had anticipated that it would now be easy to take; the laird had died the previous winter, leaving it vulnerable and defended only by the old laird’s maiden daughter, Isobel Macnair. To his surprise and frustrated humiliation, she had proven to be a formidable and spirited opponent, and under her command the keep had held out against him and his men for far longer that he had anticipated would be the case.

Now, though, Glen Carrick was his – and so was its lady. The brief glimpses that Alasdair had received of Isobel commanding her men from the battlements had been more than enough to inflame a fiery desire for her, and the battle-lust that was still ferociously pounding in his blood was now driving him to seek her out to teach her the consequences of daring to defy him for so long.

Isobel, though, was nowhere to be seen. His fury grew rapidly as he came to the conclusion that she had deliberately and disrespectfully hidden herself away from the conqueror of Glen Carrick. Alasdair’s face reddened as he heard his name being called from the rear of the hall. ‘What is it?’ he snapped curtly as he turned sharply on his heel to face his most trusted friend, Douglas Boyd.

‘Alasdair, we can take stock of the keep for you!’ Douglas caught up to his side and clapped him on the back. ‘I had thought after seeing the look in your eyes when we saw Lady Isobel yesterday morning that you would already be locked away with her, making her aware of how things will be run from now on.’

Alasdair chuckled, but his laugh was entirely lacking in humour. ‘That was my intention, aye, but it seems that the wee lass is too afraid to come out and face her new laird. Douglas, I want this keep turned upside down and razed to the ground if necessary to find her – do you hear me, Isobel?’ He abruptly raised his voice in anger as a hushed, terrified silence fell over the hall. ‘Come out from wherever you are hiding now, wench, or I will unleash my men upon all the pretty maids cowering against the walls of this grand hall!’

A delighted ripple of laughter spread throughout the ranks of men as they advanced into the hall, streaming forth as the defenceless women whimpered in horror; Alasdair had commanded that all the men of Glen Carrick who had fought against him be killed once he had broken through the outer walls, and his men had faithfully carried out the command. There were none left to prevent him from doing exactly as he wanted – but there was only one woman he now desired for his own.

‘Well?!’ His snarl rang out as he began to prowl back and forth as he waited. ‘I warn you now, my lovely, I am not a patient man! Come to me now, or they will all suffer for your disobedience. You have ten seconds to join me at my side, Isobel...’

A small oaken door on Alasdair’s left that he had not before noticed slowly creaked open. His heart raced with gleeful, triumphant anticipation and he turned to face it directly as one of the other women leapt to her feet. ‘Isobel, no!’ she screamed desperately, and Alasdair clicked his fingers irritably. One of his men darted forwards to silence the woman, dragging her into his body and restraining her tightly with one hand over her mouth and the other groping painfully at her breasts.

‘Aye, very good,’ Alasdair said approvingly before fixing his attention once more on the small chamber from which Isobel was slowly emerging. His grey eyes widened with delight, for now that he could see and admire her properly, it was clear that she was even more beautiful than he had thought her to be. Her wide blue eyes were flashing with a defiance that thrilled him to see, and wavy blonde hair fell in curling tresses around her unblemished face; a face currently covered in a deep flush that made his impatient loins twitch in appreciation.

Unable to resist the compulsion, he allowed his gaze to travel down her body, making no effort to disguise the hunger with which he was staring at her. The stained and tattered gown that she wore did little to disguise her shapely form, precisely the type that appealed most to Alasdair; full, high breasts and a narrow waist that flared out to wide, curvaceous hips and buttocks. Her hands, though, were clasped behind her back, and Alasdair’s smile widened as he slowly approached her, for he thought he knew what she was concealing. ‘Isobel, my lovely,’ he said softly, for there was no need to speak loudly in the still hushed hall. ‘Come to me and allow me to more closely examine my hard-won prize.’

Rage smouldering in her blue eyes, Isobel did as he commanded, but when they were mere feet apart she suddenly lunged at him, a flash of steel as she thrust her arm out confirming Alasdair’s amused suspicions. He laughed loudly as he caught hold of her wrist before the knife could make any contact with his flesh, twisting it around and easily disarming her. He tossed the weapon to the floor before pulling Isobel into his arms. ‘Ah, my Isobel, the Scottish spirit really is strong in you, wench, isn’t it?’ he murmured, his cock already hard and painful as she writhed against him in her futile efforts to break free of his strong hold. ‘It is no way to greet the man who will be your husband, Isobel, to do so with the point of a blade!’

‘Husband?! I think not, bastard!’ Isobel was evidently not cowed in the slightest by either his words or his presence. Tossing her head proudly, she scowled up at him, then froze as one of his hands slipped down to firmly caress her buttocks and pull her more tightly up against him as a low growl of desire escaped his lips.

‘My Isobel, you will be mine, however much you protest against it.’ Alasdair’s tongue darted out across his lips as he held her against his chest, so closely that he could feel the racing of her heart. ‘You are beautiful, lass, and I have been told many times that I am a handsome man – I can give you a great deal of pleasure, and I would rather do so with your full acceptance. However, should you continue to disobey me...’ his voice trailed off as his eyes darkened ominously, and Isobel shuddered deeply.

‘What then?’ she whispered, her voice so quiet that he had to strain to hear her.

‘Why, I shall simply have you regardless, my lovely, and all your women will be the ones to pay the price for your misbehaviour. You see before you how many men I have brought with me, Isobel; their tempers are sorely strained after the long battle you put them through, and I know how they would like to relieve themselves.’ Alasdair’s voice was ominously calm, for he kept it deliberately curt and clipped; knowing as he did that speaking so could be far more terrifying than bellowed rage. ‘It is your choice, and it is a very simple one – submit to me now, or I will take you anyway and they will suffer alongside you.’

Isobel stared up at him, painfully aware that she was now helpless to stop him from doing exactly as he wished with her – and Alasdair was making it very apparent what it was that he wanted. A low shiver rippled through her body as he steadily met her nervous stare, awaiting her answer to his proposal, but her scowl faded away, her lips parting uncertainly instead. Though she detested herself for acknowledging it, even though it was only to herself, Alasdair spoke the truth; he was a handsome man. He was a tall, broad man, and he was very clearly in his prime – even through the clothes that covered him, Isobel could feel the finely honed muscles of his form, and his face was no less pleasing, the dark hair that sat atop his chiselled face thick and lustrous.

Becoming aware of her appraising stare, Alasdair’s eyes widened incredulously. He did not truly want her to lie meekly underneath him just because he had coerced her into doing so, but he had not expected the young maiden to show such evident desire for him, for he was certain that that was what he could read upon her face. He had not realised until this moment how much he wanted her to desire him, but now there was nothing he wanted more. ‘So, what do you say, little lady?’ he asked hoarsely, his patience sorely strained. ‘Will you accept me?’

‘Oh, what choice do I have?’ She blushed hotly, for it galled her deeply that after the desperate fight Glen Carrick had put up against this invader they had lost so spectacularly and she was trapped here in the arms of their conqueror – arms that, to her horror, were nowhere near as repulsive as she had expected they would be.

‘As intelligent as you are beautiful, my Isobel,’ he said triumphantly, for the deepening flush of her skin betrayed her physical reaction to his proximity. ‘A kiss to seal the deal then, I think.’

‘A kiss?! Now? I...no!’ Isobel spluttered furiously, a rising panic taking hold of her, but his lips descended forcefully upon hers and cut short her protests. The instant their lips touched Alasdair groaned loudly, for already his primal need to claim her in every possible way was overwhelming him.

He could not hold himself back, not now that she was in his arms and her wonderfully full breasts were crushed against his chest, her nipples already protruding through her gown and tantalisingly evident - and especially not when the low moan he faintly registered her making told him that she was feeling the same heady, intoxicating desire for him. Isobel was his, and now that it seemed that she stirred him in a way that no woman had before, Alasdair resolved with a fresh thrill that nothing would stop him from tearing every last ounce of pleasure he could from her, with her permission or without it.

Isobel had been so determined not to give in to Alasdair no matter what, but as his arms tightened possessively around her, one around her waist holding her against him and the other pushing up so that he could fist his hand through her tousled hair and twist her head to force it ever closer to his, she could think of nothing but him and how amazingly pleasurable his kiss and caresses were, much to her consternation.

As she became aware that her body was betraying her and responding to him with a wanton, desperate need for him to deepen the kiss yet further, she struggled to fight through the breathless, aching desire that had gripped her against her will. Twisting in Alasdair’s arms, she placed the palms of her hands against his broad chest and shuddered again, this time with heated desire as she felt the muscles throbbing through his tunic; but regardless of the sensations flooding her body, she tried to push him away.