The Laird's Right (15 page)

The messenger swayed and clutched his head. Quinlan smirked. Portia shot him a rebuking glance. Alec turned his face and Quinlan bent down to hear his laird. The messenger fled.

“Get him back.”

Surprisingly, Hurley gave chase. “I’m surprised, Quinlan, that you didn’t go after him and drag him in here.”

“I would have killed him.”

For a crazed reason, his reply made sense and seemed reasonable. She was beginning to fit in here. She wasn’t as English as she once was.

Portia sat up when Hurley came forward, dragging the poor man by his tunic.

Alec rose and crowded the man, nose to nose. “The lairdess asked a question.”

The poor man twisted his head to look around Alec. His eyes were wide and his face was white. “Forgiveness, my lady. My hearing is faulty.” The man blinked as his terror rose. His legs buckled but Hurley’s hold kept him on his feet. “The English—” He blurted with relief. “A missive arrived from England, a baron wishes his wife’s return. Since…” he gulped, “…the lairdess is English…”

“Wife,” she whispered. Her tone sharpened and failed to match the turmoil storming within her.

A hollowness opened in her chest. She struggled to control her terror. Her hands shook as the tips of her fingers chilled. A choking need to scream grew in her throat. She didn’t know where to turn. Alec, she needed to hold onto him. The baron had come for her and King Alexander was dealing with his father-in-law, he might demand her return to the baron to keep peace. She would lose Alec.

“Aye, it came by king’s messenger.”

Hurley loosened his hold so the man could bow. With a flick of his wrist, Hurley spun the man around, making the poor man’s legs flay.

A wave of laughter rushed into the hall. “Hurley must have thrown him on his ass.” Quinlan lifted a corner of his mouth.

“Alec.”

He stomped a zig-zag pattern and ran his hands over his head and groaned. “Devil’s bastards. To try me like that. Tonight, another raid.”

His commanders hurried to see to the details. Portia rose. “English wife…could he have wedded by proxy? Word wouldn’t come here.” She looked to Alec.

He may not be her husband.

* * * *

He jumped to her side at her frozen gaze. He cupped her face. “There are many English wives in Scotland. The royal messengers have been sent to every man with an English wife. It is not you.” He ran his hands up her arms.

“You may not be my husband,” she said, her words trembling with questioning and accusation. She clutched his liene, leaving two wrinkled spots.

“You are my wife and Lairdess of Clan Cameron.” He squeezed her arms. He almost shook her to get through her white fear.

She shoved by him. He caught her by the arm.

“You are to go nowhere.”

She flicked her arm, trying to knock off his hold. Before she harmed herself, Alec released her. She soared up the stairs.

She wasn’t getting away. “Portia.” He lunged at her at the top step. He pushed her against the wall. He caught her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head.

“You are my wife.” He claimed her mouth, branding her with his touch. This Sassenach woman belonged to him. “I am your husband.”

He loosened his hold to run his hand down her arm. Cold fear permeated her skin. She no longer shook but froze with a terror that clutched at his heart. “I am your husband. Your place is with me.” From shoulder to pelvis, he pressed against her. The chill soaked through his plaid. He ran his hands up her arm. She had to come back to him. His fingertips danced along the delicate slope of her collarbone.

She stretched her neck, returning the kiss with a desperate fervor. He groaned. Desire spiced the kiss yet he tasted something else, a sweet longing and the potent flavor of some unnamed sensation.

Heady from the deepening kiss, he nibbled on the corner of her mouth. Her fluttering exhale rushed across his cheeks and into his hair, firing off a wave of hot tingles.

“You are my wife. You belong with me.” A rush of male voices echoed through the halls. He swept her melting body into his arms. Portia propped her head against his chest. The world was spinning and where she might land did not matter as longer as she remained in Alec’s arms.

Those arms swept her up and held her tight until he shut the chamber door behind him. Without letting go, he leaned her against the chamber door. The iron bands pressed into her back, reminding her she was alive.

“I am your wife.” If she spoke it aloud, she might feel it in her. Her stomach twisted for the desire to be his wife—to be his. “I’m your wife,” She repeated, not doubting it.

“I will never let you go.”

“Neither shall I.”

The truth scared her. Alec had saved her. She cared for Alec.
Cared.
Nay, that word lacked the weight that lived inside her. It was much more.

She wrapped her legs around his waist. Pushing aside his plaid, the tip of his cock pressed against her opening. He gripped her bare buttocks in his hand.

“Portia,” he muttered in a groan of pain and delight. In one swift motion, he slid inside her. She tightened her walls.

She felt him move and slam back into her. She almost came apart then, gasping. Holding tighter, she clutched his plaid, tighter and tighter with each shallow stroke. Faster and faster, building her up and holding her tight. Her hips banged against the door. His fingers pressed into her skin, biting the hot flesh. The aroma of sex filled the room. Nothing wanton or sinful, nay, this was deeper. Two people who somehow found each other in this world.

Portia lost grip of reality as she came apart. Alec’s roar pulled her back.

“Aye, you are my wife.”

* * * *

She had no other choice. To be truthful, she had more than an interest or curiosity. Once she passed the threshold, she wouldn’t be able to hide behind the excuse of his protection. She crossed into Alec’s old chamber. The small, one-window chamber resembled a monk’s cell, sparsely furnished with a bed, the chair the woodcarver spoke of, a trunk and a small table with a carved box resting in the center of it. Trews, furs, and leines hung from hooks along with cloths. There were more candles than belongings, which was necessary since there wasn’t much light coming into the room as if he was left to exist in the shadows.

Nothing about this space revealed his character, even an understanding of the man deep within him. She knew he was a man of simple means but it was as if he kept so much more hidden. She spotted a targe in the corner. The shield was gashed from blows but hadn’t been used in some time. Why had he kept it? It must have held meaning to him. In its damaged state, Stephen would have gotten rid of it. Not that a knight of his standing would have used such a simple item. His shield had been made of the finest materials and created by the most talented craftsmen. Squires polished and cared for it with the same attention the devout did in their prayers.

Stephen was a knight and had fought many battles, yet he hadn’t lived so sparsely. His position afforded him a luxurious lifestyle with the finest foods, wines and goods. Yet Alec didn’t fall into the same trappings of position. The man didn’t need much. Her dowry meant nothing to him. In fact, he had yet to send word to her father demanding it. Did he really want her, and for more than a gentlemanly reason? She had asked herself the same question, presented the same facts and even now she refused to give an answer because she could be wrong. Even Stephen married her for the connections and the funds she brought to the marriage. Never in her life, had she been more than her dowry until now.

On her wedding day, Father Murray had asked about her life. Maybe it restarted here in the highlands with Alec. Perhaps her prayers had been answered.

Why did she feel like laughing aloud? People spoke of jumping for joy. Portia never understood what could possibly inspire such a reaction. At this moment, she finally understood. It wasn’t because you had to jump but there was such a need for the body to fly since deep inside, that was exactly how she felt. So, Portia hopped into the air.

She chuckled at herself and wrapped her arms around her middle to stop from laughing aloud.

“Lairdess.”

Portia jumped again, this time in fright and embarrassment. Heat spread up her neck and ears then spread across her cheeks. Hurley approached her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You did not. I was…” She flicked her wrist when she couldn’t explain her little leap.

“Can I help you?” Puzzlement narrowed his eyes. He glanced about the room, trying to understand the reason for her presence here.

“The laird’s chamber needs to be redecorated and I have come in here to find a few things to add to the space.”

He crossed to the chest and slammed his open palm against the carved top. “This has to be included.”

“Of course. He still dresses in this room?” she questioned.

Hurley nodded then shrugged. Portia had the notion that he knew the true reason behind his action. Portia did too. She’d change all that.

“Anything else?”

“The targe.” He pointed at that.

“Why has he kept it?”

“It’s a reminder to keep his guard up.” He must have seen the confusion because he said, “After one raid, he was returning home and thought himself safe. A group of men jumped out. He only knew they were there when as he says, ‘the blade stirred up a breeze.’ He raised the targe just before the sword struck his head.”

Portia ran her hand over the deep gash slicing from the edge to the center of it. Drawing her hand away, she asked, “What else must be included?”

“Um…” He stroked his chin as glanced about the place. “The box. I think that is all.”

“Well, the room won’t be crowded.”

She had always lived among luxury. The finest linens covered her bed. The most beautiful chairs graced her room with the plushest cushions. Mirrors, jewels, oils and ointments graced her table, anything to divert her boredom. Then her duties had been light and for the comfort of her husband. That still remained her duty but now she had a duty to the clan.

“And what about your belongings?”

“Back at my sister’s home. Do I send someone to gather them?” She cocked a brow.

“Are they Sassenach clothing?” Hurley scrunched his nose.

“Would they be anything else? Although some are French.”

“Nay, the weavers have been providing you with clothing and will continue to do so. You are lairdess, dress like it.”

“I do.” She waved her hand to encompass her plaid. “I don’t require much as Alec does not either.” So, what did she require to be happy?

“That is true. His father hated that.” He sneered. She knew many nobles hated by their lesser but she hadn’t found one person who had a kind word about the old laird.

Portia’s ears perked up. “Why?”

“The old laird believed showing his wealth showed his power.”

“As do most men of power and position.”

“Alec believes that your actions in both battle and behavior display your power. If men respect you or fear you then one has all the power necessary.”

She nodded, believing the same. “He may be right. Is that why he hasn’t sent word to my father to claim my dowry?”

He lifted a broad shoulder in a shrug. “That may be or, in my opinion, he cares more about you than your money. I will have men come to move these things.”

“Not yet, I have other tasks before doing that.”

Chapter Twelve

Today was a new beginning. No longer would she let fears rule her. She had two very important things to defend, Alec and this clan. After this day, life would be better since all would win, including her and Alec. After spending minutes in the kitchen causing an uproar and some unflattering statements about England, she succeeded in the first stage of her plan, thanks to Scottish pride and pulling rank.

Then onto the great hall to direct servants in the second part of it. Portia was satisfied hours later, pleased all was coming to fruition.

Setting off to the clattan, she spotted Quinlan behind her. The man couldn’t blend. How she failed to spot him in Holyrood Abbey still dumbfound her.

She halted. “If you must follow me, then at least accompany me. I’m not fleeing.”

“But you may be stolen away.”

“That would be funny—stolen away from the people who stole me away.”

Quinlan lifted a shoulder. “Aye.”

“I do believe you are starting to relax around me.” From the corner of her eye, she looked up at him.

“I always am.”

“Truly?” She caught herself before she gaped at the man.

“You’re scared of me.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Most are and it’s right they be.”

“Why?” That she didn’t comprehend.

“I’m a warrior. To keep peace, it’s better this way.” He seemed bored by the whole conversation.

“Aye, but Cairine isn’t scared of you.”

“If she were, I’d have my wife back,” he grumbled. “Why are you staring at my feet?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I was waiting to see you stomp your feet but you didn’t. It would have been entertaining though. You should tell her you miss her. Women like hearing such things.” She couldn’t stop from offering her advice. She liked Cairine and wanted her to have happiness in her life. Without Quinlan, Cairine would never have it again.

“To be scared of me?”

“Stop teasing.” She slapped his forearm playfully.

Quinlan stared at the spot along with Portia. He blinked then raised his gaze ahead. “Perhaps, Lairdess.”

Arriving at the cottar, Quinlan pounded the door with the meaty side of his large fist. Dust and dirt fluttered down from the roof. Portia waved it away.

“Rosin is at Brus’,” a little girl said. After thanking her, Portia led the way.

After three rapid pounding knocks, Rosin opened the door, a quizzical look on her face. Once inside, Portia wasted no time.

“Rosin”—Portia grasped her hands—“you must help me with my plan.”

“Plan?” She peeked at Quinlan. He shrugged.