Terri Brisbin - The Maid of Lorne

“And Callum? What has become of him?” She steeled herself for the inevitable word of the old man’s death. The new conqueror would surely have executed those he could not trust in the keep, especially if he had placed his own in command.

“He, and the others left behind by your father, are being held…for now. You know there is a matter of trust, Lara. And I cannot trust those who were in charge when I took Dunstaffnage.”

Like a slap across her face, the words stung her. As though he sensed her pain, he reached out to take her hand. Lara pulled away and stepped back. She could read the pity in his eyes now and she would not accept it from him.

“As you wish, sir.”

He moved closer and lifted her chin so she could not look away. “’Tis not as I wish, lady, but it is as it must be.”

He must have delivered the message he wanted her to know, for he dropped his hand and walked to the door. “If there is aught you need or want, tell my squire and he will see to it or come to me. His name is Philippe, and he will report to you anon.”

Sebastien tugged open the door, and she saw only Margaret standing in the corridor. Before he crossed the threshold, he looked back at her and spoke in a voice so low only she could hear it. “Are you…well?”

His voice deepened with the huskiness she’d heard the night before, in his ardent whispers. The sound of it, and the heat in his voice and his gaze, were so strong that she could not mistake his meaning. Since he’d left the chambers last evening, they had not spoken of what had happened between them. Not certain she wished to speak of it now or ever, she simply nodded, feeling a burning flush rise in her cheeks.

“I am well, sir. I will survive.”

“Of that I have no doubt, lady.” Stepping to the door once more, he left the chamber and allowed Margaret entrance. “I will return later.”

With a slight bow, he strode down the stairs. Her maid rushed to her side, but Lara waved her away and told her to see to Malcolm and Catriona. Once she was alone, Lara pondered his words and his actions. He behaved as no one else she had ever met. She could sense an honorable heart within him; indeed, honor seemed to guide his every action. How had such a man come to be a supporter of the Bruce?

As she paced the length and breadth of the room, the true question formed in her mind. The one that had bothered her since the king’s words claimed her a vanquished enemy.

How would Sebastien of Cleish respond when his wife denied him? Would he abandon her and her siblings? Would he banish her to a convent, as so many noblewomen were when they were obstinate or inconvenient?

Or would he simply force her to his will and desires?

A shiver coursed through her, one filled with dread and anticipation. Always one to face a problem straight on, rather than dissembling over it endlessly, Lara formulated plans to make her position to the new warden of Dunstaffnage quite clear. Unfortunately, he did not return for four nights, and caught her unaware when he did.

Sebastien struggled up the steps to the top floor of the tower, as quietly as he could in armor and mail. He paused at the landing and walked into the smaller first room. With a nod, he allowed Philippe to remove the accoutrements of war from his body for the first time in days. These last four had been spent on horseback, surveying the surrounding lands and searching for pockets of resistance that would be useful to his enemies, and dangerous to those he served. He ached in places he’d forgotten he could feel.

Standing and stretching his arms up to touch the ceiling of the smaller chamber, he thought on the woman inside the next room. Was she asleep or had his movements awakened her? Would she be welcoming or as defiant as her people were? So tired that he did not care, he opened the door slowly and as quietly as he could.

A wry smile tugged at his mouth as he spied her across the room, in the farthest corner, sitting in the hard chair she’d called her father’s. And she was sleeping soundly. He motioned for Philippe to remain without, and closed the door. Crossing the room, he stood over her and watched her sleep.

The daft woman had wrapped herself in several cloaks before wedging herself into the chair. If she sought warmth, the best place was in the bed, under its layers of heavy woolen blankets, or closer to the fire that burned, low but steady, in the hearth. Then the reason for this cocoon struck him, and he held his laugh inside. Did she realize that even a layer of armor would not stop him if his quest was to have her naked and under him once more?

At this moment, though, he wanted nothing so much as a few hours of sleep, and he hesitated to move her—waking her would bring on a torrent of questions or accusations that he did not want to face now. Crouching down, he slid his arms behind her back and under her legs, and lifted her from the chair. He placed her sleeping, snoring form on the far side of the bed and then, after hiding his dagger beneath his pillow and arranging his sword on the floor within reach, Sebastien climbed in on the side closest the door.

His body was ready for sleep, but his mind kept throwing problems at him. One by one, he analyzed them, sought solutions and came up with methods to overcome them. Finally, just as he felt the pull of sleep dragging him down, Lara sighed and mumbled his name, bringing him back to alertness. Turning on his side, he watched the movement of her mouth and the frown that spread across her forehead.

Was she cursing him in her sleep? Fighting him? When she turned her head and he glimpsed the side of her neck, he frowned as well. Clear on her skin were the marks of his armored gauntlets in the places where he had grabbed her chin. Though fading, the marks of purple and blue and green taunted him. If he’d done this with one hand, what did her arm look like where he had grabbed and held on when she’d tried to accost Robert?

He had the chance to discover the truth when she turned, or tried to turn, onto her side. As she moved, he eased the layers of cloak and gown down her shoulder until he could see the damning evidence for himself.

How had she kept silent when he’d injured her thusly? Although now a week old, the bruises were angry and swollen, a red handprint still visible, among other colors. He guessed that her other shoulder matched this one, and clenched his teeth.

Reaching out, he outlined the bruises with the tip of one finger, sliding around the worst of them. Her skin was soft and smooth, and the urge to follow his finger with his tongue and to taste the fairness of his wife grew within him. He struggled against it, knowing nothing good would come of such desires, and drew the gown back up over her shoulder, careful not to press on the injuries.

They were not the worst he had ever inflicted on someone, not even the worst he’d done to a woman, but they tried the limits of his self-control. Awake, she goaded him with barbed words and taunted him with her quick mind and fairness. Asleep, she tempted him to a weakness that could be deadly to him and to the king he fought to protect.

He shifted to the edge of the bed, as far from her as he could move, and closed his eyes. It would take months before this area was safe and free of the MacDougall clan and their influences. Until her uncle and the rest could be defeated and the Bruce become king in fact, she would remain as she was—a prisoner and a hostage.

His man woke him as ordered just before dawn’s light, and Sebastien dressed quickly without help. Philippe, he knew, would be waiting outside the door with his mail and armor. Looking around the room, he realized that the fire had burned down to almost to ashes during the night. In spite of it being August, the thick castle walls held in the chill and dampness. Using some kindling next to the hearth, he sparked it to life and threw a few pieces of wood on it.