The Laird's Lady

She prayed his words meant her virtue was safe.

“I will grant ye a meeting, lady, all in good time. For now, however, I must keep ye safe from harm and from interfering in my business. Understand, I do this because I can see ye would not allow me to take over Beaumont peacefully, yet that is what I want above all things.”

His blue eyes glittered, icy and merciless. Rosalind shivered, both with fear and the chills of her illness, as she waited for his pronouncement. Vaguely, she wondered how a man so outwardly attractive could be so cruel inside.

“Ye will stay in the dungeon until I have yer holding well in hand, and then I will give ye a private audience in which ye can defend yer actions today.”

The English people gasped at the sentence.

Rosalind’s head swam with images of what might happen while she was locked in her own dungeon. An outright massacre because of her foolish actions. Why had she bothered to put up a fight against such a strong invading force? All of Beaumont would pay for her rash decision.

Every death would be on her hands.

Her fears got the better of her as her knees went weak at the thought. Dizziness assailed her. And her hated enemy’s face became a blur as she sank heavily to the floor at his feet.

Chapter Three

Rosalind could not remember ever being so cold. Shivering under her quilt, she pulled it more tightly about her shoulders. Why wasn’t the fire lit? Just as she started to call out for Gerta or her maid, Josephine, she remembered what had happened.

She was in her own dungeon.

Rosalind groaned aloud as she recalled the damning words of the Scotsman responsible.

Malcolm McNair. The formidable Scot had consigned her to the dungeon until things were “well in hand” at Beaumont.

Blinking away the fog of sleep, she peered around her quarters. Food had been left for her, but the bread and cheese held no appeal. She even slept on a pallet instead of the cold floor, so her lot was not too bad. Yet all she could think of was the brutality the Scots could be inflicting on all the people who looked to her for protection.

Steady streams of tears rolled unchecked down Rosalind’s cheeks. Reaching blindly in the dark for a chamber pot, she retched as terror knotted her belly.

She envisioned the huge heathen setting fire to the keep, locking everyone she loved inside so they might burn with it. Just as they had before.

Stomach empty, she collapsed in a heap, too weary to move. She fell into nightmarish sleep, with one breath cursing Malcolm McNair for stealing her home, and with the next, cursing Gregory Evandale for allowing him to do so.

The next morning Malcolm knew his endeavor must be blessed. The people of Beaumont were not welcoming, but they had not revolted, either. They made the best of an unhappy situation, which was all he could reasonably expect.

Since his arrival the day before, everything had moved according to plan. He controlled the keep, thanks to his brothers’ help. Soon the south tower would be rebuilt, not as a comfortable living space, but as part of the defense fortifications.

Now he broke his fast in silence in the Beaumont great hall. A few of his men still slept on the floor of the hall near the keep’s hounds, their snores mingling with the crackle of a low flame in the hearth. The sun had not fully risen, a purple haze penetrating the chamber’s high windows.

He frowned as he bit into a quince and thought of his first task for the day—retrieve the former mistress of Beaumont from the dungeon. He could not regret his decision to lock her up, since her defiance could have cost lives. The wench had shot a flaming arrow at his head.

And yet how could he blame her? He’d attacked her home, after all. Perhaps he’d locked her up because her strong-willed determination reminded him too much of his faithless Isabel. She had teased him with the notion of marriage until she’d found a wealthier lord to share her bed.

Now that he could think clearly, Malcolm decided Will Beaumont deserved the dungeon far more than his sister. The bastard had stupidly chosen to fight a battle he must have known he had no hope of winning, and six of Malcolm’s men had paid for his foolishness with their lives. His thumb smashed the quince he held, his grip tightening as he recalled the men he’d buried.

How could the English knight have gambled so carelessly with his own men? Beaumont could not have known the invaders would refrain from killing anyone seized in battle. Indeed, it ranked as highly unusual for a conqueror to take prisoners in the midst of warfare. Beaumont had been willing to sacrifice everyone at his outer bailey wall.

Malcolm itched to face the fainthearted Beaumont lord and tear the coward limb from limb to avenge the six men he’d lost, but the former ruler was nowhere to be found. The only target for his vengeance had been Will’s fierce sister. Her skills with a crossbow would have made any Highland father proud. Malcolm did not want to reward Rosalind’s bravery with a stay in the dungeon, but he could see from the pride in her eyes that she would never sit idly by while he took over her home.

Safer for everyone if she were locked out of harm’s way.

But now that things were well in hand, Malcolm finished his quince, left the table with the hound at his heels and descended into the dungeon.

“Lachlan Gordon!” he shouted in the sleeping jailer’s ear when he located the door to the keep’s bowels.

The wiry old man jumped, jangling the keys at his waist. “Yes, sir, she is locked away safe and sound.”

“Then let me in, my good man. We canna leave the lady of the keep locked up all week.” Malcolm grinned at the aged Highlander guarding the door. He had not wanted to bring Lachlan on a siege with him, but the old man had been too cantankerous to deny. The McNair lands had been safe for so long under Ian’s rule that some of the men itched to leave solely for the sake of adventure.

Malcolm could only hope he would one day have the chance to be as strong a laird as his brother.

“We canna?” Lachlan rubbed his beard and seemed to consider that news. “’Tis sorry I’m being then, for I fear I have nae given the prisoner much care.”

“What do ye mean?” Malcolm stood very still, digesting the old man’s words.

“Well, she hasna been fed, and I only let her little maid in for a few moments. I dinna know I was to be treating her different than any other captive.”

Unease crept through Malcolm at the thought of how Lady Rosalind might have fared. He tried to recall the image of Beaumont’s mistress up on the battlements. She was a strong lass and a fearless one at that. She would not be frightened by imprisonment. Then another memory entered his mind: of Rosalind crumpling to the floor when he’d announced she would stay in the dungeon.

“Open the door now.”

Lachlan fumbled with the keys, but managed to turn the rusted lock.

Grabbing a torch as he brushed past the jailer, Malcolm raced down the stairs, cursing himself for entrusting the keep’s mistress to a failing old man. He peered around the dank stone walls. There were several cells, but he could see no movement in any of them.

A sneeze emanated from the farthest chamber.

Hastening toward the sound, Malcolm shoved open the door to the last cell. Hell and damnation.

Curled into a tight ball and tangled in threadbare blankets slept the former lady of Beaumont, now looking more like an urchin straight off Edinburgh’s streets.

Kneeling beside her pallet, he scooped her into his arms. She still wore the green gown he’d last seen her in, though its radiant spring hue had faded beneath a layer of grime. Her body radiated feverish warmth against him, yet she shivered violently. As he headed for the stairs, her eyelashes fluttered.

“They are dead,” she whispered, her gaze glassy and unfocused as she stared at him. “All of them…” Her eyes closed once again, and in the growing light Malcolm discerned heavy purple shadows beneath them.

“Find Gerta, the busybody nurse,” Malcolm shouted to Lachlan as he emerged from the dungeon.

“Aye.” Though the old man hurried off, Malcolm did not miss the distraught look upon his weathered face.

Traversing the steps to the main living quarters, Malcolm puzzled over Rosalind’s words. Who had died?

Guilt pricked him as he peered down at her weary form, his fingers sinking into soft feminine curves he would rather not notice. The McNair men had been taught to cherish women. Malcolm knew firsthand how frail they could be. Ian’s young wife had died in childbirth last winter, too gentle for the harsh demands of life in the Highlands.

Not all women possessed the resilience of Scottish thistle and a heart of stone like the woman he’d once planned to wed.

Malcolm searched Lady Rosalind’s face, struck anew at how young and slight she appeared, her body sweetly warming his where he held her. Was this the same lass who just yesterday had boldly fought off a small army and slid her dagger into her enemy’s gut? She did not look capable.

Yet she had done these things and more, he reminded himself, ignoring the way her cheek settled softly against his arm as he carried her. He must not be foolish enough to soften toward her because she was a woman. She had tried to kill him twice in one day. Heaven knew, the English felt no such sympathies for the women of their enemies.