Traitor or Temptress

When Archie had left her, and feeling the cold, Lorne took to the mattress and wrapped her cloak about her beneath the blanket, curling her body into a tight ball. The men were in good spirits now she had left them, and as she listened to the low rumble of their laughter penetrating the thick stone walls of her chamber, never had she felt so isolated, miserable and alone. Would her brothers come to her rescue when they learned what had befallen her? Mrs. Shelly would be out of her mind with worry, wondering what had become of her. No doubt she would go on to Edinburgh to meet James tomorrow when she didn’t appear.

Chafed and bruised and exhausted by fear and rage, she closed her eyes tight, recovering from the physical effects of her abduction, but not from the shock of it. In a fairly uneventful life at Astley Priory, no one had purposely hurt her, and tonight’s events made her feel ill and frightened. When she had mentioned David Monroe, his brother had looked close into her eyes, and just for a moment something had stirred in their silver depths. It was gone in the blink of an eye, but she did not want to see it again.

Iain was preparing to bed down with his horse when Hugh came striding across the moonlit, cobbled yard in search of him. The two men were close friends, and there was a buoyant, sprightly manner between them that was the result of long association. Their families had always been close. Like the Monroes, the Glovers were ardent Protestants and had acquired army distinction at home and abroad on behalf of governments of their own religious persuasion.

‘You’ve talked to John?’

Hugh could see his friend was greatly troubled. He nodded gravely. ‘I would no more interfere in your business than you would in mine, Iain. But there isn’t a man or woman in these parts who doesn’t remember what happened to your brother and those men escorting him from Oban that night, and it is clear to me that the men in there,’ he said, indicating the castle with a jerk of his head, ‘in particular those who lost friends and kin, want appeasement. I don’t envy you, my friend. But you should return Mistress McBryde to her brothers. Whatever grievance you have with her father, it is inevitable that you will be brought to account for abducting her.’

Iain’s sigh was one of profound frustration. ‘I know that, Hugh. That’s what worries me. But as much as I would like to, I can’t let her go. If I release her, I’ll have a full-scale insurrection on my hands—especially from my own servants, who remember David well and had a fondness for him. They’re good and loyal men. I can’t let them down. Nor do I forget that John Ferguson—my own mother’s cousin—has a creditable knowledge of Highland robbers and murderers. When he was a lad, his entire family was wiped out in one night when the Galbraiths and the McBrydes made a raid on his village to collect old debts. Make no mistake, Hugh, John will go to any lengths to lure Edgar McBryde out of his lair, and if it takes holding his daughter hostage to do it—then so be it.’

‘Then have a care. Do not be over-confident,’ Hugh advised. ‘I have heard of Edgar McBryde, and it is said that he is a difficult man. You must recognise this—and I urge caution.’

‘I’m hoping that when he learns we hold his daughter, he will surrender without a struggle. The last thing I want is for blood to be shed over this.’

‘Then with any luck the redcoats will get to him first.’ Suddenly Hugh grinned, lightening the moment. ‘Still—the wench is a beauty and extremely desirable and no mistake. On reaching Norwood, I don’t reckon much to your chances with so much temptation lodged beneath your roof.’

Hugh laughed in the face of his friend’s glower. ‘Unless you lock her away out of sight, I’ll wager that within one week you become so tormented by insatiable desire that it won’t matter a damn to you who sired her,’ he taunted good humouredly before going off to seek his own bed, little knowing that his words, spoken glibly, would come home to roost. Nor did he realise that for a hot-blooded male like Iain Monroe, with the legendary Monroe charm evident in every one of his lazy smiles, and whose handsome looks and blatant virility compelled the attentions of women, it would take less than twenty-four hours.

Looking up at the stars through the hole in the stable roof, his hands behind his head and covered by a single blanket, Iain considered the unexpected turn of events and the disruptive influence the presence of Lorne McBryde would be sure to have on his men.

Like Robert McBryde, Iain had fought in the war against Louis XIV, but whereas Robert had served France, Iain had served William III. He had returned to Scotland on the restoration of peace, and now he was content to indulge in the simple pleasures of hunting and fishing and running his vast estate of Norwood. He was a battle-hardened warrior who thought he was up to dealing with most things life threw at him, but nothing had prepared him for Lorne McBryde.

When he awoke, his rest had done much to soothe and cool his ire. The presence of the aforesaid young woman was very much on his mind. He had an undeniable curiosity to see his hostage in the morning light—to see if she looked as lovely as when he’d first set eyes on her last night, before realising who she was. Her comeliness had been a vision worth remembering.

Was her hair really as shining and golden as it had looked in the candles’ glow? he mused, trying to imagine how it would look unbound, how it would feel to run his fingers through the thick tresses. And were her eyes really that captivating shade of green that made him think of dew-soaked grass? He remembered how soft and creamy her skin was, how angular her cheekbones, which gave her eyes an attractive, feline slant. In contrast to these delicate features her nose was small and pert, and there was a stubborn thrust to her round chin.

His lips broke in a wicked grin, for Lorne McBryde had attributes enough to pleasure a man into eternity. Pity, though, who she was, he thought with a certain amount of regret. Whistling softly, he jauntily made his way to the burn to wash, feeling a strong desire to feast his eyes on his captive once more.

With a thin watery light filtering through the tiny window—a window which was too small and narrow for the object of Iain’s musings to climb through, otherwise she would have attempted to escape—Lorne awoke shortly after dawn. It took a moment for her to convince herself that she wasn’t trapped in some terrible dream, but gradually memories of the previous night’s happenings emerged from the mists of sleep.

Archie appeared in the doorway, feeling shy and a little awkward in the presence of Lorne McBryde, and sorry that she had been subjected to a lack of respect on what had probably been the most fearful night of her life.

‘John has instructed me to ask you if you would like to refresh yourself. There’s a burn close by and enough seclusion to offer you some privacy.’

Gratefully, with a warm smile, she thanked him. With frank, earnest eyes, rust-coloured short-cropped hair and a smattering of freckles over his nose, Archie seemed a pleasant youth—he was also the only one in the party who had shown her kindness. Lorne followed him into the main hall. In jovial spirits, those present fell silent when she appeared. In daylight they looked a rumpled and unkempt lot with grizzled countenances as they sat about eating bannocks and porridge and supping draughts of ale. Their eyes followed her across the hall. Muttered comments were made, and knowing they were anything but complimentary, Lorne raised her head imperiously and met their stares with a cold defiance. Some instinct deep within her drove her to defy these men and she found comfort in this. John was standing by the door.

‘Keep a close eye on her, Archie. Don’t try to escape,’ he said to Lorne.

She glared at him. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No. Just don’t make me have ta come looking for ye.’

Head held high, Lorne followed Archie outside. She had never been afraid of any man—not even her father—and she refused to be intimidated by these Lowlanders. She was greatly relieved to find there was no sign of her tormentor of the night before among the men milling about in the courtyard. Already a number of the gentlemen and servants and falconers were assembled, saddling their handsome steeds, and several were leaving to begin the day’s hunt.

The chief huntsman holding the hunting horn sat his mount apart, and leashed, lithe and graceful deerhounds strained against their collars in excitement, smelling the air for their quarry, alert and impatient to be off. It was a scene Lorne had become accustomed to during her time at Drumgow, when her father and brothers would often disappear for days on end into the Highlands to hunt the red deer.

Taking stock of her surroundings as she walked beside Archie, she saw the castle was a small, squat drum tower covered in ivy, supported by a complex arrangement of crumbling walls.

‘The castle used to belong to Sir Donald Ramsay until the Civil War,’ Archie told her in answer to her enquiring gaze.

‘What happened?’ she asked, relieved to speak to someone who wasn’t hostile towards her.

‘It suffered the same fate as others whose owners supported the King. You might say it’s just another of Cromwell’s legacies,’ he grinned. ‘Impoverished by the war, the family couldn’t afford the expense of rebuilding, so they moved to Stirling. Now the castle is used as a resting place for drovers and hunting parties who venture far away from home during the deer-stalking season.’

‘I see. This seems to be a large party.’

‘Sir Hugh’s party makes up the largest part. After partaking of his hospitality at his home two nights ago, he joined us on the hunt. Ours is just a small selected party of gentlemen and servants from Norwood.’

‘When do you intend returning to Norwood?’

‘That depends. Probably tomorrow. The weather has been good and we are on our way to getting a good quota of stags. Come—and please watch your footing,’ he said, following a path down a steep incline. ‘The burn is this way.’

Breathing deep of the tingling fresh morning air, Lorne gazed at the still and peaceful gently rolling landscape. Low mist lay in the valley bottom, which on this autumn morning had not had time to disperse. The burn was deep and fast flowing. It gurgled over protruding rocks, plunging and roistering in the pools, before disappearing round a bend in the hill to follow a hidden course.

Archie stood guard behind a tangled screen of willows and bushes to wait for Lorne to complete her ablutions.

Removing the pins securing her hair, she combed out the long thick tresses with her fingers, wishing she had a comb to do it properly. Kneeling by the side of the burn, she shivered when the ice cold water touched her face and neck, but it was invigorating, and when she dried herself she felt refreshed in spite of her situation. Sleep and the crystal-clear water had revived her spirit and imbued her with a reckless determination to escape her captors at the first opportunity. She would find a way. She must.

Having completed her ablutions and calling to Archie that she was almost done, daringly she walked along the green sward, hoping against hope as she clambered over a group of rocks that it might provide her with a way of escape.

It didn’t. Instead it led her into a situation she would rather have avoided.

With his breeches rolled up to his knees, Iain was washing himself in the burn. Surprise widened her eyes and her mouth formed a little circle as she sucked in her breath sharply. There was no escaping the fact that Iain Monroe was a magnificent, virile male—things she’d been too young and naïve to take in before. He strode out of the water, the lean, hard muscles of his thighs flexing beneath the tight-fitting breeches. His thick, curling hair was damp and shining, and prisms of water trickled down over his skin and the mat of black curling hair on his imposing chest, which swelled magnificently, narrowing to his flat, muscled belly. His taut muscles rippled as he reached for the towel and dried himself, before slipping his arms into his shirt and shrugging it across his broad shoulders.

Cautiously taking a step back, Lorne silently cursed when she startled a cock pheasant in the tall reeds. Irate at being disturbed, the splendid bird rose from its cover with a ferocious flapping of wings and flew off, squawking its complaint. The noise brought Iain’s head jerking up and round. Seeing Lorne watching him, he came towards her with the swiftness of an animal, like a stalking wolf, graceful as a gentleman should be. With dark brows raised in question, he propped his shoulder casually against a tree and crossed his arms over his chest, watching her in insolent silence.

‘Well?’ he enquired at length. ‘Have you had an edifying look, Mistress McBryde?’

Trying to ignore the treacherous leap her heart gave at the sight of his bare chest exposed beneath his unfastened shirt, feeling trapped like a rabbit in its own snare, Lorne gazed helplessly into those inscrutable eyes—silver or dove grey, she couldn’t decide which. Wishing she could hide her pink cheeks she said hastily, ‘I—I was just—’

‘Running away?’ Iain caught the spark that ignited in her eyes and the temper behind them. She looked so young, innocent and wild. An inexplicable, lazy smile swept his face as he surveyed her from head to foot. The wind ruffled her hair, which he saw really was as gold as a sunburst, and her slanting emerald eyes were fringed with absurdly long and curling black lashes. Without her cloak her gown revealed an alluring womanly form with ripened curves in all the right places. The bodice of her dress was low cut, which afforded him a glimpse of the thrusting fullness of her breasts pressed tightly against the fabric. He looked down at her dewy skin—tinted with roses after its brush with the cold water—and soft mouth, feeling a hunger he had not felt in a long time.

The intimate smile that appeared on his firm lips during the silent, searching interval caused Lorne’s flush to deepen and her eyes to flash indignantly. ‘Can you blame me for wanting to escape my father’s enemies?’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose not. Do you defend him?’

‘He is my father.’

‘Don’t equivocate. That was not what I asked.’ His eyes became probing, questioning. ‘I asked if you defend a murderer—a man who considers the lifting of his neighbours’ cattle and the burning of their cottages to be an ancient and honourable Highland profession. Have you no pride when it comes to the truth of the matter? Doesn’t what he did flaw his character in your mind? Does he not shame you to the core?’

A sudden coldness crept up Lorne’s spine and her stomach churned. In fury she faced away, unable to look at him lest he saw the truth. No, she did not defend her father, but she would not betray any of her kin by saying so to this stranger—her father’s enemy. But Iain Monroe was right, she was ashamed—deeply so—and since that day when his brother had been murdered, she had been like a ship adrift on a storm-tossed sea, having no security wherever she was, but having no escape from it either.

‘I am not obliged to discuss my family with you, Iain Monroe. You can go to hell,’ she snapped.

Iain’s laugh was low and scornful and infuriating. ‘Nay, Lorne McBryde. That particular abode is reserved for the devil and those he spawns—men of your father’s ilk.’

‘You beast,’ she hissed, incensed. Acting on pure instinct, she spun round and her hand came up to deal him a slap, but he caught her wrist before she landed the blow. His hold was inescapable, his eyes as hard as granite.