Page 11 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Peyton was rather pleased with his plan for hiding Cecily MacCreadie. Bertha was not.

‘Mistress, is it? What a jest, that is. Did she bat her eyelashes at you for you to come up with that? I’d be careful if I were you, taking that one to bed.’

‘Cecily is as soft as goose down. She’s not likely to slit my throat in my sleep.’

‘No, gouge your heart out, more like. She draws your eye, for she is such a beauty. And you are like any man, pretending to be honourable until you are not. Mark me. You’ll not be content with just looking forever.’

‘Her type is not for the likes of me.’

‘Why not? You are a laird, and she is a laird’s daughter.’

‘And what we have in common ends there.’

‘Does it now? Look, I will go along with this, but it has to be the worst plan I have ever heard, and it will not end well if you keep following your manhood around instead of your wits, Peyton Strachan.’

‘Don’t question me, Bertha. She is my mistress. Her name is Connie, and we will weather the scandal when it comes. Just go to my chamber and make it more presentable for a lass, and then take her around Fellscarp so that she can get her bearings.’

Bertha crossed her arms beneath her ample bosoms and ruined his day. ‘And what of Lorna Gilpin? Word will spread that you are sharing your bed with another. What will she think of that?’

‘To hell with Lorna. She can think what she likes. It might do her good to be jealous for a change.’

‘Oh, your tone has changed. I thought she was your true love,’ scoffed Bertha.

Glaring at the only woman in Fellscarp who could talk to him in such a manner, Peyton hurried away, boiling with frustration. Taking Cecily as his pretend mistress was not honourable. But it was better to be dishonoured than dead. Cecily would just have to put up with it. But Bertha was right about Lorna. He was heartily sick of her constant rejection, but they had an understanding - or at least, he thought they did. He had to make things right with the lass.

Peyton rushed to his chamber and took up a water jug and a bowl. If he was to spend his nights with the high and mighty Cecily MacCreadie, he might as well make an effort. And it might help to look presentable for a change. He took his knife and hacked at his beard until his chin was smooth and sore. Then he shouted down the stairs to Bertha to come and bring scissors. He was admiring himself in a mirror, even though it was the worst kind of vanity, when the door squeaked open.

‘Bertha ordered me to bring you these,’ said Cecily, holding out scissors.

Damn Bertha. ‘Where is she? he snapped.

‘She said she had to go and milk a cow,’ said the lass, regarding him with a frown. ‘Why did you cut off your beard? I do hope it wasn’t on my account.’

‘And why would it be?

She shrugged.

‘Aye. Well, don’t just stand there. My hair will not cut itself.’

‘You can’t want me to do it?’

‘Aye. Didn’t you say you wanted to be useful?’ Or is cutting my hair beneath your dignity?’

‘You don’t have to be mean, Peyton.’

‘What else can I do in the face of such pride, Cecily MacCreadie. You think yourself too good for the likes of me, but the likes of me is your only salvation, lass. So, get on with it.’

Cecily approached him warily with a terrible pout on her face, and Peyton sat on a stool before the fire and raked his fingers through his thatch of hair. ‘Make me presentable,’ he commanded.

She arched her brows. ‘That is beyond any skill of mine,’ she said, taking up a strand of hair between her fingers and cutting.

At first, Cecily held her arms out stiffly in front of her.

‘I won’t bite, lass,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to touch you more than is necessary,’ she replied.

‘Very well, but you must do a good job, as I have to impress someone today.’

‘Who?’

Peyton was not about to share his infatuation with Lorna. How this lass would mock him for it. When he stayed silent, she continued cutting rather badly. Her fingers brushed his neck as she assaulted his shoulder-length thicket of hair, and her touch sent shivers up and down his spine. When Cecily leaned in to reach to the top of his head, her breasts brushed his arm, and Peyton stiffened in places he should not.

‘Are we to have no conversation, lass?’ he said into the thickening silence, trying to divert his thoughts from a sudden throb of lust. ‘Don’t you wish to know about the man whose bed you will be sharing this night?’

‘No.’

‘Of course, you prefer blissful ignorance where men are concerned.’

‘I already know enough about you to be sure I will never want to share your bed or learn your secrets. If I am forced to sleep in your chamber, I will take the floor.’

Peyton risked turning his head a little to look at her. ‘You don’t know what you are missing, lass.’

‘Be still, or I might slip and cut your throat with these scissors,’ Cecily replied.

‘You are not capable of that.’

‘If I ever encounter anyone like Edmund again, I might be,’ she said.

Cecily came around the front of his body, but she could not reach past his legs, so he spread them. She frowned and came closer, her legs dangerously close to his groin, her bountiful breasts in his face. The rise and fall of her breathing quickened and mesmerised him. A surge of hot longing hit him, low in his belly, and Peyton was overcome with an urge to pull her into his lap.

‘There. You are good enough for whatever unfortunate lass has to suffer your attentions,’ she said, stepping back. ‘It is a lass you were trying to impress?’

‘Maybe it was you,’ he said quietly, like a fool.

‘Why would you want to impress an empty-headed dim wit like me?’

‘Because you are beautiful, Cecily.’

Some impulse made him take hold of Cecily’s hand. Her fingers were long, elegant and cool, though her cheeks flamed in her finely drawn face. Her delicacy brought his pride to its knees.

‘There is no denying it,’ he said. ‘And you are cleverer and braver than you think. Do not fear me or the future. All will be well in time.’

Her face softened with surprise. ‘I...I do not like you being nice like this. You want something from me, don’t you?’

‘Trust me, lass, I am trying hard not to.’

They locked eyes, duelling to see who would look away first. Peyton got lost in Cecily’s sea-green gaze, so achingly lovely yet filled with sadness and unexpected vulnerability.

‘Do you think I am without pity, lass?’ he said.

‘Aye.’

‘I do feel for you. I hate the way your innocence has been ripped from you by that bastard Edmund. I know what it feels like for your world to be upended in a moment, for everything to change.’

‘I thought I would be married and happy,’ she said with a choke in her voice.

Judging by the pulse of lust in his loins, he needed to be married too and out of temptation’s way as soon as may be. He would ride to Lorna’s this very day and declare himself. He had waited long enough to secure his position, and if he delayed any longer, his unspent lust would lead him to make a fool of himself with the lofty Cecily.

‘You will be wed one day, lass and live a fine life as a rich lady with a gaggle of brats at your feet and a man who worships you. I can feel it in my bones,’ he said.

Suddenly, Cecily gave him a sweet, soft smile which lit up her face. It was the first time Peyton had seen her do it with any sincerity, and it was devastating. His chest grew tight, his palms sweaty. He was a lumbering, dirty oaf in the face of that smile. It made him want to protect her from all of life’s evils. It made him want to lay her down under him, spread her open and possess every inch of her loveliness. Self-loathing squirmed in his belly as lust surged through his loins. Was he to lay waste to her innocence or protect it?

Peyton stood up in a rush and loomed over her. A singular piece of stupidity made him put a gentle hand on her cheek, and it was at that moment that Selby came rushing in.

‘There’s trouble,’ he cried and then stopped dead, eyes darting between the two of them.

‘Speak,’ bellowed Peyton.

‘Reivers came and stole a herd of sheep.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. But the bastards…begging your pardon,’ said Selby with a nod at Cecily. ‘They rode the beasts into Liddesdale, so we cannot follow onto Glendenning land.’

‘Like hell, we cannot follow. Round up the men. We are getting those sheep back.’

It was as if someone poured icy water over his lust, and he left Cecily standing with her mouth agape. Peyton stomped down the stairs and out to the yard with Selby crying, ‘Jasper Glendenning will tear our stomachs out through our gizzards if we trespass on his land.’

‘It was never his land, and it never will be,’ yelled Peyton. ‘It is Strachan land, my land.’ He stopped and rounded on Selby. ‘Do not ever spill our secrets in front of that lass again. Never mention Jasper Glendenning.’

‘As you like, Laird. Of course. Can the lass not be trusted then?’

‘No.’

‘Forgive me, but is she staying?

Eaden’s words flooded back. ‘You never had the ruthless streak, did you, Peyton?’

‘What is she to you, Laird?’ pressed Selby, nosy to a fault.

‘She is whatever I want her to be. Now, I have suffered the loss of Liddesdale long enough. It is time to make war on the Glendennings.’

***

Cecily peered out of the window at the melee below – lots of shouting and running. Peyton had mounted his horse and was rallying his men - for a fight, most likely. They were strapping on enough swords and muskets.

Her heart pounded, and not from the impending violence below. She should never have allowed herself to get too close to Peyton Strachan. His breath on her face, his smell – that strange manly mix of sweat and earthiness – made her nervous. His size was intimidating, too, and when he had taken her hand, his own had burned her flesh with its heat. Heavens, the way he looked at her with those fierce brown eyes – all hunger and anger mingled with admiration. That look had been the same as Edmund’s, and she didn’t want men to look at her now that she knew the consequences. She wanted to be invisible.

And how different he had looked, shorn of his beard and the hair cropped out of his face. He was younger than she first thought, and his features were pleasing. His expression had softened to kindness when he had taken her hand. But his snarl of anger had banished the softness. He had been in a towering temper as he had stormed off without a word.

The men rode out, and the silence in their wake invited loneliness in. Cecily’s eyes welled. She sniffed her tears back. If she was trapped and alone, it was all her own doing.

How could she ever have thought of abandoning Rowenna for a virtual stranger? A sob burst from her. Her poor sister – ever toiling, long-suffering. The burden of Fallstairs had fallen squarely on her shoulders. Rowenna was so bonnie when she made the effort, with her fine eyes and red-gold, lustrous hair. And she often chastised Cecily for her vanity in wanting a new dress or a few little luxuries to brighten her grim world.

But Rowenna had been right all along. Look where vanity and selfishness had taken her – imprisoned in this foul place. She was nought but a selfish, useless fool of a lass. Had not Peyton Strachan said so? Cecily had once been proud of her beauty and believed it would carry her to a better life than she was born into. But beauty was not a gift. It was a dangerous burden. And wielding it against Peyton had not worked. He despised her. And he should, for he had saved her life at risk of his own, and she could not have been less grateful.

In that, she had made a grave mistake. He had locked her up, was about to shame her by saying she was his mistress, and had started to look at her in a way that made her knees weaken. And he had kissed her.

Cecily shook off the smell, taste and feel of Peyton Strachan. She may be a fool, but there was still some fight in her. She would find a way out of Fellscarp or die trying.