Highland Captive Page 19

  "Silence!” Duncan pierced Ardra with his gaze until she cowered back a step. Then he nodded to Moreen. “Continue."

  "I was in the hall too when the twins...” Moreen gulped and averted her eyes. “Well, you heard what they said. After you left, Brigit said the lady was naught but a whore stealing you from her. Ardra said we should go rough her up, teach her a lesson."

  "Nay, laird!” Brigit declared. “'Tis not true. I—"

  "You have had your say, Brigit. I'll not tolerate another interruption. Moreen, finish it."

  "We found her by the stream. Ardra and me, we held her arms. Brigit hit the lady then pulled her blade and said you would not want her if she was cut.” Moreen told the rest of her tale, leaving nothing out. “I offered to help the lady with her leg. She told me to leave before she killed me. I ran upstream and turned back, cause I was fretting for her. You came, so I knew she had help, and I left."

  She swallowed hard. “'Twas a terrible thing we done, laird. I am

  truly ashamed. I...I hope your lady is all right."

  "Laird, she has no proof,” Ardra insisted. “'Tis her word against ours."

  "Can you tell me why Moreen would make up such an awful tale about two clanswomen?” Duncan asked in a deceptively mild voice.

  "To curry favor with the laird,” Brigit answered. “Because her lies support his woman."

  Duncan pulled the dirty dagger from his waist and held up the blade. “Here is her proof, along with the cut in Lady Alera's leg."

  Ardra and Brigit blanched.

  "The lady pleaded on your behalves and asked that you not be punished. For that reason alone, I'll not cast you out. But make no mistake. Another offense such as this and even she will not sway me in your favor."

  He turned his gazed to include all the clanswomen. “Marcail is a Ranald, not the MacPherson woman. Her life and the lives of her bairns are in danger, because the women of this clan are jealous, judgmental shrews. You are slow accepting new women among you. And you turn them into malicious harpies like yourselves when you do.

  "All that stops now. When a man brings a woman into this clan, she becomes a Ranald. I do not care if she is Scot, Irish, Norse, or English. You will make her welcome and celebrate her presence, so she may experience some joy in her new life as one of us. Any of you who cannot do this may leave the clan."

  Nods and grunts of approval came from the men as the women stood in stunned silence.

  Edeen marched up the center of the hall. Upon reaching Duncan's side, she turned around, placed her hands on her hips, and glared at the clanswomen.

  "What are you doing, Edeen?” Geddes called. “The laird has not dismissed you."

  "I'm not dismissing, you young rascal,” the old cook replied. “I am standing with my laird."

  "Laird?” a tall, dark-haired warrior called from the rear of the hall.

  "Aye, Colin?"

  "What about the hawks?"

  Duncan knew he was asking if Alera was a witch. “The lady is Gifted."

  An awed murmur hushed through the right side of the hall. All warriors knew the presence of a Gifted one among them was a good omen. For the Gifted came only to clans graced by the Almighty to endure and emerge victorious from the final Day of Wrath.

  "Lady Alera is mine.” Duncan's voice rang out clear and strong. “By my word, she is chatelaine of this keep and lady of Clan Ranald. There will be no further slurs or insults against her. I expect all of you to make her

  welcome and show her respect."

  "Has the lady agreed to wed you then, laird?” Glen asked.

  "Not yet. She is Lady Ranald by your laird's word."

  "Laird?” Kevin called, his voice alive with laughter.

  "Aye?"

  "Does she know she is Lady Ranald?"

  Duncan grinned at Kevin's outrageous question. “She'll know soon enough. The lass inherited a wee stubborn streak from her mother."

  She couldn't put off facing Duncan any longer.

  After putting the last dish away, Alera checked on the sleeping children and Marcail. Assured they rested soundly, she retrieved a blanket and stepped out of the cottage. Duncan sat on a stump in conversation with Logan, Geddes, and Kevin. As she neared, Duncan took her hand and drew her down beside him, placing a possessive arm around her waist.

  "Did Megan fall asleep?” he asked.

  "Aye. She still tires quickly."

  "Megan is welcome to stay the night here,” Logan offered.

  "We will stay the night, too.” Alera squeezed Duncan's hand so he wouldn't argue. “I'll not be far from Marcail until she is out of danger. You will not disagree with me on this, Duncan. My mind is set."

  "I've no problem staying. But I'll not allow you to go without rest."

  She snorted. “You have not let me sleep a night through since I arrived.” Alera realized what she said, and her cheeks burned. “I mean...I ah..."

  Duncan chuckled and pulled her tighter against him. “We all know what you mean, lass."

  "Would you stop?” She pushed against him but was unable to budge a hair's breadth so she gave up. “We have something important to discuss."

  "Dare I hope ‘tis our wedding?” he goaded.

  She glared, so he would know she didn't appreciate his humor. “Nay, and you will quit pestering me. My thinking time is not up."

  Duncan sighed. “You think more than any lass I ever met. And I'm thinking that is a flaw. What is so important?"

  "Isobel. I remembered something."

  "What?"

  "She was Uncle Mortimer's whore and Uncle Mortimer poisoned Mama."

  "You think she was behind the poison in Struan's well, milady?” Kevin asked.

  "I know she was. The twins made a comment I was not supposed to hear. They saw her put something in the well. Isobel told them not to tell anyone of the magic potion or it would not work. ‘Twas supposed to keep people from growing old."

  "The bitch!” Geddes exclaimed. He turned a sheepish expression toward Alera. “Beg pardon, milady."

  "'Tis no need to beg my pardon. You saved me from speaking what I have been thinking.” Alera yawned and relaxed against Duncan. “'Tis safe for Struan to come home. You will see to this, Duncan."

  He raised her chin and captured her gaze with fiery eyes. “Are you ordering me, lass?” he asked in a deceptively mild voice.

  Alera swallowed. She hated when he took that tone. But this was important. Until she escaped, she couldn't have him treating her as less than a lady in front of other people. That meant he must learn to do her bidding.

  She squared her shoulders and nodded. “Aye, I am. Struan is clan. He belongs here.” She squeezed his hand and softened her expression. She needed him now and didn't want him angry. “I am tired and would seek my rest. Will you stay, or do you return to the keep?"

  He gazed at her as if mulling something over in his mind. Then he grinned. “I was right. You are spoiled. And I'll be staying where you are.” Duncan stood, drawing her up and anchoring her at his side. “We'll bid you all good night."

  He turned toward the cottage. Alera tugged, pulling him toward the forest, and called over her shoulder, “Logan, if Marcail needs me, call out. We shall not be far."

  They entered the trail leading to the stream. Alera slipped an arm around Duncan's waist. He chuckled. “Dare I hope you're taking me to ravish me?"

  Alera stopped and snatched her arm away. Welladay! What was she doing if not acting like the brazen whore she didn't want to be? He reached for her, and she moved back, raising a hand to her brow. “Duncan, I..."

  She looked at him, so big and strong. She needed him to hold her. To make love to her. To prove he desired her despite her rage. How could she be so wanton in her soul, yet unable to speak the words?

  He tipped up her chin. “Alera, what's wrong?"

  His eyes glittered like fiery emeralds in the moonlight, full of concern. How she wished they shone from love. No longer was he the savage barbarian. He was Duncan. He was
her soulmate. She needed him. Needed him to find her worthy of his love.

  "I do not wish any other man to touch me,” she said, snared by his gaze.

  "What do you wish?” His husky whisper shivered through her body down to her womb.

  "I wish you to...to hold me."

  Two strong arms pulled her against his hard body. A fire ignited in her gut. She clung to him, surrounded by his strength, enveloped by his scent.

  She raised her face. His lips lowered, gently nibbled and teased, grazed hers with soft feathery caresses. She groaned and melted against him, slipping her arms around his waist. Pulses leapt from his mouth into hers, sizzling through her blood. Her lips yearned, parted, invited. His tongue slid into her mouth to fondle hers, then plunged in and out, again and again. Stoking. Compelling. Mating. Ecstasy vibrated through her until her womb throbbed with desire.

  She pressed her body tighter against him. His arousal pulsed against her belly in rhythm with her desire. She slipped a hand under his plaid, gripped his hot flesh.

  Duncan groaned and broke the kiss. Passion blazed in the depths of his eyes. “Are you wishing for more than holding then, Alera?"

  Her breaths came in ragged pants. She couldn't break the draw of his gaze. He was making her ask. Letting her know this was her choice. If she didn't find the words, he would stop. He had never before let it be her choice. He had always overcome her reticence with expert seduction. She would die if he didn't take her now. How could she find the words without revealing what she guarded in her heart?

  "I wish you to...love me."

  He took the blanket from her arms and laid it on the ground. With greatest care, he couched her upon the soft wool and joined her. His caresses were gentle, arousing, deliberate, enchanting. He carried her to heaven and made his body her paradise.

  Later as the mist crept about them, Alera lay awake in Duncan's sleeping embrace. Guilt castigated her. She hated her lies. Loyalty had never plagued her before. ‘Twas simply a way of life. But if she committed to Duncan, what would become of Papa?

  During the days after her rage, Duncan became more attentive. True to his word, he didn't pester her about marriage. He teased her out of tempers, asked her about her upbringing, and showed her about the mountain.

  He followed her suggestion and made Moreen the housekeeper. Then the sly man asked Alera to assist Moreen, because she hadn't much experience and might need help to ease into the role.

  Alera agreed and found her days filled, directing Moreen and caring for Megan, Marcail and her family—not to mention Duncan. He was constantly underfoot. She came to enjoy his company and their banter.

  Megan's bedchamber had been cleaned and aired, but the girl was reluctant to enter. In fact, Megan trembled whenever she passed the door. Alera convinced Duncan to give his daughter more time with them and not to force her into the other room.

  The clanswomen were not exactly friendly, but a few of them introduced themselves and offered to help Moreen in the keep. Duncan gave Alera several bolts of fine linen and wool. She confessed to Marcail that she couldn't sew a straight seam, so Marcail passed some of her idle hours abed

  sewing gowns for Alera.

  She grew more comfortable around the clansmen, too. They were truly quite likable after she got over her embarrassment and their crude Highland manners. She exchanged conversation with them during meals. Then she sat by the hearth later while they recounted their days and tried to outdo each other with manly boasts.

  One evening she was drawn into a game of tables with a shrewd and quick-witted warrior named Colin. He was ruggedly handsome with deep mahogany hair and beautiful green eyes. She judged him to be a few years older than Duncan. She also knew better than to win, though he did try her patience a few times. Why, she found herself actually sneaking stones back onto the board so as not to embarrass him. And damn if Duncan and Geddes hadn't seen her do it.

  Two warriors named Parlan and Leith introduced her to heather ale. She truly didn't like the brew but didn't wish to hurt their feelings, so she drank it. They were a few years older than she was, though she privately thought they acted younger. Any time one of them saw her mug half empty, he would fill it to the rim. She kept drinking the brew until her palate adapted. Then she rather enjoyed it. Parlan had beautiful tawny hair, and Leith had precious knees. She told them so. Duncan didn't seem to appreciate her compliments. He glared at Parlan and Leith, and they quit refilling her mug.

  She frowned over their treatment of a young warrior called Egan. The lad was tall and lanky at fifteen with a frizzy thatch of red hair. He was also clumsy with his arrows. But ‘twas nothing that couldn't be easily fixed if his trainer would simply provide a little guidance.

  One afternoon Alera stepped out on the front landing to watch the warriors practice their archery skills. Her fingers itched to pull her own bowstring. She hadn't found time to hunt since killing the silver wolf. This was Duncan's fault. He was keeping her busy just so she couldn't enjoy herself.

  A commotion at the far end of the range drew her attention. Egan stood red faced as Kevin upbraided him over his poor skill in front of the other warriors.

  Enough was enough. His trainer had no sense, so she would help Egan.

  Alera hurried over to the young clansman, waving at the other warriors as she passed. “Excuse me, I do not wish to interrupt, but—"

  "The men are training, Alera.” Duncan turned a frown on her. “Is their aught I can help you with?"

  "I have a need to borrow this fine young warrior.” She indicated Egan then turned her most charming smile on Kevin who stood beside his laird. “We will not be long, Kevin. He shall soon return for more practice. Come, Egan."

  "Alera, what are you up to?” Duncan asked.

  "Are you sure ‘tis Egan you're wanting?” Kevin asked at the same time.

  "Aye.” She answered Kevin, ignoring Duncan. “And thank you for allowing me to borrow him from his important training to help me."

  The baffled young clansman turned a questioning gaze to Duncan, who shrugged. With no demand to stay from his laird or his trainer, Egan followed Alera into the keep.

  "Close the door please, Egan. Then come with me to the ale room. ‘Twill be best if we have no witnesses.” She crossed the empty hall, slipped behind the screen and faced the youth. “I noticed you have a slight problem getting your arrow into the target."

  Egan flushed. “I am hopeless. I have tried for years but only get worse."

  "You are left-handed,” she pointed out.

  "So is Glen and he never misses."

  "Will you let me tell you something that will help your aim?"

  Egan scoffed. “You're a woman."

  Typical male barbarian in training. Alera folded her arms across her chest. “True. But I can loose three arrows at one time and put them dead-center into three different targets."

  "Beggin’ your pardon, milady.” Egan gave her a doubtful look. “But I would have to see you perform such a feat before I would believe it."

  "Even so, will you let me help?"

  He eyed her skeptically then shrugged. “I've nothing to lose by listening."

  "You have two major problems,” Alera said, not giving him a chance to reconsider. “Balance and Posture. You have been watching the stance of the other clansmen and imitating them. Except for Glen, they all appear to be right-handed. Your balance is wrong because you twist your torso and jerk when you loose your bowstring."

  As she spoke, Egan frowned in concentration. “What is it you think I need to do?"

  "Shoot while facing opposite from the way you do now.” Alera posed as she spoke, giving him a demonstration. “Put your weight on your left leg with your right leg toward the target. Keep your spine and shoulders straight in line with your aim. Turn only your head for sighting the target. Be careful not to bend your right elbow, too. Your bow arm must remain steady and level.” She turned back to him and settled her hands on her hips. “Now let me see your stance."

&
nbsp; Egan braced his weight on his left leg, positioning his body as Alera suggested. “By the saints, this even feels better than the other way."

  "You will have to practice and learn the best spacing for your feet. Spacing and alignment help balance. When you find total balance, you will

  hit the center. But I suspect you will start hitting the target right away."

  "My thanks, milady.” Egan grinned like a child with his own pot of honey. “I'll go try this now."

  Alera followed him. When he reached the door, he turned toward her. His faced flushed scarlet.

  "Milady, I truly appreciate what you told me...” His voice dwindled away, and he wouldn't meet her gaze.

  "I am glad you stopped, Egan.” She raised a worried frown. “'Tis my hope you will not tell anyone what we discussed. Most warriors are not broadminded and sensible like you. They will not accept instructions from a woman, and I do not wish the Ranalds to resent me for being forward."

  He appeared relieved.

  Alera smiled—and gestured to the weapons on the wall. “If you will hand me that battle-axe, everyone will believe that is why I needed your help."

  "Why would a lady be needing a battle-axe?” he asked puzzled.

  "'Tis a jest for your laird.” Her lips curved with mischief.

  Egan grinned back, pulled the axe from the wall, and handed it to her.

  She nearly fell under the weight of the weapon. “Thank you, Egan."

  He nodded and rushed out the door. Alera hefted the axe against her shoulder. She almost toppled backward so lowered the blade to the ground. Dragging the hefty weapon, she backed outside.

  Duncan stood on the landing with his arms folded across his chest and feet braced, watching his warriors train. Geddes stood beside him. Egan swaggered past them and returned to the range.

  At a scraping noise, Duncan turned. The sight of Alera's wiggling backside made him grin until he realized the daft lassie struggled with his battle-axe.

  "Damn it, Alera, what do you think you are doing with that?” He took the weapon from her and held it above her head.

  "Give it back, Duncan,” she said, reaching for the axe. “I want to learn to throw it. ‘Tis one of the weapons I have not mastered yet."