Helen Dickson - Traitor or Temptress

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.

‘Don’t even think about it. My hand still smarts from the bite you inflicted on it last night. That was the first time you drew my blood and ’twill be the last,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘No woman has ever bested me and none ever will.’

Twisting the fingers of his other hand in her hair, he snapped her head back. Half-stifled, her head reeling, she found her lips sealed by a hard demanding mouth that bore down relentlessly on hers. His lips were meant to punish, and Lorne was too stunned by what he was doing to react. When he raised his head the only sound was the burbling water and their rapid breathing as they gazed at each other. The air crackled with emotion.

‘What a pity you are a McBryde and I have to miss the chance of making love to you,’ he drawled. ‘You are made for it. Were you any other wench, I might well be tempted.’

Outrage exploded in Lorne’s brain. Her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment and shame, she glared at him, her eyes spitting venom. ‘You rate yourself too highly. You are arrogant in your assumption that you are some magnificent gift to womankind. I would sooner bed down with a ravening beast than bed down with you.’

Iain’s jaw tightened. ‘Are you always such a shrew?’ He gave her a long-suffering look, as if she were being unreasonably difficult. Reluctantly he released her, feeling a desire to kiss those lips again—but this time to feel those lips respond and return the kiss.

‘A shrew!’ Lorne gasped, appalled that he had kissed her so brutally. ‘How do you expect me to behave? You have your men kidnap me—threaten my life—you insult and degrade me every time I am in your presence—and now you have the gall to kiss me. My reputation might mean nothing at all to you, but it certainly does to me. When this is over and word gets out that I have been with you, there is bound to be a scandal over it,’ she berated him with bitter scorn. ‘I will be despised for something that isn’t my fault.’

Iain stared down at her irate face in shock and amusement. ‘Reputation? Since when did Highlanders concern themselves with young ladies’ reputations?’

Lorne seethed. There was nothing more definable than this man’s clear and absolute self-possession. He had no understanding of what it was to be tormented, afraid, alone, to hope for salvation in the form of someone he knew, someone close. These things belonged to another breed, and in that he held nothing but contempt.

‘For the past seven years I’ve been away from the Highlands, living in England with my grandmother.’

Iain’s eyes danced with mirth and his teeth flashed white from between his parted lips. ‘Why? What did you do? Are you so unmanageable and undisciplined that even your own father cannot control you?’

Her eyes clouded. ‘I didn’t do anything. He—he thought it best to send me away after—after that day. My grandmother lives near York. From an early age she instilled into me a moral code—and you, Iain Monroe, have violated that code by abducting me and kissing me. In my grandmother’s world the reputation of an unmarried young woman matters.’

Iain looked at her hard, his expression becoming thoughtful. He knew she had visited her relatives in England several years ago, but he had no idea she had lived there for so long. However, he found it ironical that she should be so concerned about her reputation, for he recalled the scandal that had erupted when she had been caught philandering in the most intimate manner with a strutting young rake by the name of Rupert Ogleby. Normally London society wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at such an incident, but because the young lady in question was just fifteen years old and Lady Barton, her grandmother, a well-respected member of society and highly thought of by King William himself, the incident had been sensationalised.

Hearing the little catch in Lorne’s voice and suspecting that she must have been deeply affected by the scandal, and having no wish to remind her of the incident, he kept the fact that he knew about it to himself. He realised how his actions and those of his men had humiliated and hurt her. She suddenly seemed so very young and vulnerable that he felt a twinge of conscience. Deep within him the wall of ice he’d kept around his heart for seven years suffered its first crack.

‘I’m sorry,’ he capitulated on a gentler note. ‘I didn’t know. What I don’t understand is that if your father sent you away—ignoring you for seven years—why do you want to protect him?’

‘Because whatever he is guilty of in your eyes, to me, first and foremost, he is my father to whom I owe allegiance and am duty bound—and I hate you. I hate you all for kidnapping me and giving him no alternative but to rescue me. It’s a coward’s way of capturing his enemy and unworthy of you.’

Iain stared at her, caught somewhere between anger and amazement at her defiant courage. ‘You might see it that way, but it doesn’t change anything. I agree that I’ve broken all the rules of etiquette where you are concerned, but the fact remains that you are my hostage and I intend keeping you with me—if only for your own protection. Considering the mood my fellow companions are in, there is every possibility that you will suffer if I let you go—so I advise you not to try anything foolish or bold. You might just as well relax and accept the situation.’

‘Relax?’ she flared. ‘Is that what you expect me to do? How can I relax in this Godforsaken place with no clothes and no friends—and with just a bunch of heartless vengeance seekers who look ready to draw my blood at any minute?’

Iain’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘One word from me and they will do just that,’ he warned in a silky, ominous voice.

Lorne recoiled from the hard glitter in his eyes. She did not doubt that one glance from this arrogant, noble lord, and every member of the hunting party would be more than happy to do his bidding. ‘Tell me, Lord Monroe—is there a dungeon beneath this ruin you intend to incarcerate me in until you finish your hunt?’

He considered her for a moment. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am not entirely heartless. My friend Sir Hugh will continue with the hunt without me and those in my party. I have decided to return to Norwood today. I can promise you ease and comfort there.’

‘If you intend that to be a kindness, it isn’t. It’s a curse,’ she flung at him with stinging scorn, her mind already ranging far afield in its search for some avenue of escape. Tossing her head imperiously, she turned to negotiate the rocks she had clambered over to get here. Automatically Iain reached out to help her, but she jumped out of his reach, avoiding his touch as she would the plague. ‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ she warned him. ‘You may have made me your prisoner, but understand this. You keep your hands to yourself.’