Summoned for Seduction

They did not understand what it was like to lose their freedom—possibly their life—to a mad Highland laird.

Wrenching open the door to the tower hallway beyond, Helene found no one. Yet a tray sat at her feet, carefully arranged with three sugared figs and a small parchment scroll.

Curious.

She strained her eyes in the flickering shadows cast by the weak tapers on the far ends of the corridor and failed to find any hint of who had left the small pewter tray or the treats within. Bending to retrieve the gift, she gobbled a fig and moved deeper into her chamber to unroll the parchment. Someone had cut the piece to size and it lacked a wax seal. She simply needed to press the curling edges apart to read the missive within.

I missed seeing you at sup. There is a full tray keeping warm in the mead house if you would like a meal. I only want to speak with you before you are wed and I have lost the chance forever. If you fear for your safety, bring one of the hounds from the hall.

No signature followed.

Helene dropped the parchment and tugged open the doorway to look out into the corridor once more, but the hall remained as silent as ever save the far-off sounds of the clàrsach. The sweet wail of the instrument echoed the swirl of unnamed emotions in her breast. Bereft at the thought of disappointing her father and—more so—her mother, who did not deserve a disobedient maid for a daughter. Indignant at the thought of being betrothed to a murderous lord who demanded utter submission from his people. But more than anything else, she felt the quick race of daring in her blood to defy them all. With a dirk in her garter and a hound at her side, why should she not venture to the mead house for a meal provided by an admiring stranger? Lady Cristiana of Domhnaill had not invited ruffians to her Twelfth Night festivities save one Léod mac Ruadhán. So who would dare accost Helene on the lands of their wealthy and generous hostess?

Helene slid a dagger into the band about her hose and fluffed the train of her gown to ensure it remained hidden. She peered into a small looking glass to find her cheeks flushed with high color and her eyes bright with hopefulness. Ah, she had forgotten the rush of blood through the veins at the thought of a stolen kiss by a handsome man. There had been a time she had looked forward to betrothal and the kind of union that brought other women pleasure. But that had been before she’d learned what awaited her in the marriage bed was not the bliss

Tossing a woolen cloak about her shoulders for the short walk beyond the main keep, Helene scurried out the door of her chamber and down the drafty halls, careful to remain in the shadows even though all of the guests appeared to be within the great hall. The sounds of laughter and music grew louder as she reached the main floor, then quieted again when she hastened toward an exit out into the courtyard. She peered about for a likely hound to accompany her—the scroll’s suggestion had been a good one—but the cagey beasts must all have found refuge in the great hall where bones would be plentiful after the feast.

Undaunted, Helene shoved open a wooden door guarded by two of Domhnaill’s men-at-arms. Engaged in a dice game, neither man spoke to her since both appeared as deep in their cups as any holiday reveler. She drew her hood farther over her head and braved a gently falling snow to cross the smooth stones near the entrance to the keep. Bonfires dotted the landscape as other men-at-arms kept their vigils and celebrated the season at the same time. The scent of burning pine and oak mingled, both sweet and pungent, in the crisp, cold air. Her heart eased at the sight of so many sentries about. Despite the lack of a hound to protect her, she would be safe.

Besides, if anything seemed amiss, she would simply take the tray and depart. She was starving, after all.

Arriving at the mead house, she could smell the fragrant honey and clover in the air from the brewing vessels within. The Domhnaill clan made the best mead in all of Scotland and the hope of receiving the sought-after libation brought guests from far and wide for Lady Cristiana’s winter revel. Now, Helene stepped inside the darkened structure lit only by an untended blaze at the back of the room where a cauldron hung low over banked heat. The dull glow of hot ashes and a few short blue flames was not enough to reveal much of her surroundings and Helen kept the outer door open to the moonlight for a moment while her eyes adjusted.

“You came.” A soft masculine whisper drifted over her though the voice emanated from a place far off.

The sound felt unearthly and very real at the same time, sending a shiver along her spine.

“Who’s here?” she demanded, tensing. She was grateful to be standing so close to the door in case she needed to run.

“The bearer of your dinner,” was the reply. The voice seemed calm and steady, as if the man behind it reclined in a distant chair and made no move toward her. “I left it by the fire so it would stay warm.”

Was it her hunger, or could she suddenly smell roast duck and a rich glaze? Her grip on the door loosened, her gaze sweeping over the room’s dark corners in the hope of finding her mysterious host.

“I would prefer to eat here in case I do not like your company, sir.” Although, truth be told, she rather liked his voice. Warmth and confidence lurked in his tone. A vital man rather than a boy.

“Then you shall remain hungry, for you must retrieve it yourself from the middle of the room. For my part, I have promised myself I will not move from my perch unless you wish it. I think you’ll feel safest if you know where I am at all times.”

“Perch?” Her gaze moved upward. “Do you hang from the rafters then?”

She opened the door wider to admit an extra sliver of moonlight and a blast of wintry cold pelted her cheek with crystalline flakes of snow.

“I am not of a mind to be seen yet,” he barked in that oddly commanding whisper. The brew house’s round shape must help the sound to carry and surround her. “I pray you, be at ease and shut out the cold. I sit on a bag of milled grains and will not stir unless you wish it. You have my word.”

“If I asked you to come out into the light, would you do so?” She could not begin to imagine who had invited her here. Who sought her company and promised to remain at her command.

The scroll he’d given her suggested he wanted to speak to her before her marriage, hinting at an interest of the most intimate kind. Another shiver lit up her spine as she waited for a stirring.

“That I will not do.” The brew house remained silent save for his voice. “At least not yet.”

Another chilly gust blew through the door, sealing her gown to her legs. Unwilling to suffer the cold any longer, she allowed the door to close, blanketing them in the dark. Alone.

“Why?” she asked, lifting her skirts slightly and slipping out of her shoes so she might steal silently across the floor toward where the tray of food awaited her.