Helen Dickson - Traitor or Temptress

‘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?’