Page 12 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

The green, sweeping glens of Liddesdale spread out before Peyton. He drank in its beauty from a vantage point where he and his men lurked silently in the cover of the woods like footpads. Aye, like criminals on his own land. Before Laird Hew had gone to his maker, before his son Robert had thrown everything away to feed his ambition and greed, these lands had been the pride of Clan Strachan. ‘Liddesdale is as ripe and fertile as a young virgin, lad,’ Hew had once said to Peyton in his usual bawdy way of speaking.

Now, it was in the grip of Jasper Glendenning.

‘Not a sign of those sheep,’ said Selby.

Peyton spat his contempt onto the grass. ‘Aye, those sheep are well gone, and the money they would have brought at market, too.’

‘Are we for home then? We’ve been out a good while, and the men won’t welcome another night shivering on the cold ground.’

Home, where he would face the muttering of his clansmen. This loss would further weaken his hold on Clan Strachan. They did not want him any more than Cecily MacCreadie.

When he returned to Fellscarp, he would have to endure her shuddering revulsion when he forced her to share his chamber each night. She may be a beauty, but she had a way of shrivelling his manhood with one glare or lash of her sharp tongue. But why did she haunt his thoughts and loins if that was so? Peyton rose in his saddle in discomfort. Even now, he stiffened at the thought of all that luscious blonde delicacy.

Night was drawing in, and the weather was turning nasty. He was about to turn back to Fellscarp when a huge stag broke cover nearby. Peyton smiled at Selby.

‘I’ll be damned if I go home empty-handed,’ he said.

***

Hours later, Peyton sat in a murky tavern in a small village on the outskirts of Liddesdale. He cradled a foamy ale and let the fire warm his backside. Outside, a deer carcass dripped blood into the snow. It had fallen steadily since he had felled the beast. It would be dawn soon, and at least he was not going home with nothing to show for his efforts. Delaying the ride with drink and debauchery for his men had been appreciated, even if it did empty his pockets of coin.

A voluptuous woman approached him and sat on his lap. She had been eyeing him for a while. She was his senior by ten years, but still comely enough, though her profession had worn her down a little. ‘Fancy a tumble, Peyton Strachan,’ she said with a wink.

‘It is Laird Strachan now, lass,’ he replied with a smile.

She patted his knee. ‘You will always be that nervous little bastard, Peyton, to me, no matter how high you rise. You may have grown big and strong,’ she said, squeezing his biceps. ‘But I could still teach you a thing or two, I’d wager.’

As he was a little drunk, Peyton considered it for a moment. Greer had taken his virginity briskly and roughly when he was sixteen. Old Laird Hew had paid. ‘Go and make a man of him,’ he had said to Greer, in a rare hint that maybe Peyton was his son. He never extended similar favours to the other lusty young men running around Fellscarp. Or perhaps that was just the wishful thinking of a motherless bastard with not a penny to his name.

‘Well, what is it to be,’ said Greer, leaning in, all heaving cleavage and sour ale breath.

‘A fine offer, Greer, but my affection lies elsewhere,’ he said, thinking of turquoise eyes and blonde hair a man could get lost in, and fresh, unspoilt youth.

‘Bah. A dull fish is that Lorna Gilpin,’ said Greer. ‘And you look backed-up with lust to me, so she’s not giving up the goods. There is a look in your eye. I know these things.’

‘I must be true to where my heart lies,’ he said as a flush of shame hit him for forgetting Lorna.

‘You are wasted on that Gilpin lass. There’s not enough fire in her belly to satisfy a virile man like you. And besides, her heart is not true.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing,’ she shrugged. ‘Tis idle rumours, is all. But I hear there is another suitor sniffing around Lorna - a tavern keeper from way down south. He’s a lot more respectable than you, though not near so pretty.’ She patted his cheek, got up and walked away.

Peyton’s mind whirled. He sought answers, but they would have to wait until his temper cooled. He was just contemplating another ale to dull his senses when Selby approached him.

‘I’ve news, Laird, and you will not like it. There’s gossip around the tavern that Jasper Glendenning’s men have been riding around Strachan land, Macaulays’ and Irvines’ land, too, asking questions about a missing lass, a MacCreadie, no less. Haven’t heard much of that clan in a good while.’

Peyton kept his face impassive. ‘If I find Glendenning’s thugs on my land, I will deal with them.’

‘They say that the lass is blonde and beautiful.’

Peyton held his breath.

‘If you want my opinion…’ continued Selby.

‘I don’t,’ he snapped.

‘I think another of Glendenning’s brides has run away at the altar, just like the last one. What a blow to his pride.’ Selby guffawed. ‘Always humbled by a lass, that one.’

Peyton smiled along with Selby’s gossip. ‘A blow indeed. But do not set such store by rumours. Glendenning is wily. This missing lass could be a ruse, a chance for him to see what’s worth stealing.’

Selby frowned as he swallowed the lie. He was not the brightest of men. ‘Aye, you could be right,’ he said. ‘Folk are getting scared and don’t sleep easily in their beds. With livestock being carried off, farmers threatened, well, if Glendenning is bold enough to come onto our land, maybe he is readying for an all-out attack.’

‘And if he is, I will deal with him.’

‘Well, better make it soon, or Black Eaden will say you are weak.’

Peyton stood with a glare. ‘Any man who calls me weak will not live long. ‘Now, seeing as we are in such great peril, gather the men. We ride home at once.’

‘Aye, Laird.’ Selby swallowed hard and scuttled off.

Peyton cursed under his breath. No matter how hard he tried to do the right thing by his clan, God seemed intent on spitting on him. Raids on his land, Eaden baiting him, and possibly a new Warden to contend with, just when he was at his weakest, trying to hold onto his position as laird. And now, Jasper Glendenning was sniffing around after Cecily MacCreadie. What the hell did that mean? Had the lass lied to him? Had Lorna, too? Could she have another suitor?

Peyton quaffed the remnants of his ale. He was not nearly drunk enough to calm the anger smouldering in his breast like hot coals.

***

Sweat dripped off Cecily’s forehead, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. She twisted the spit, and fat hissed as it dripped from the pig’s carcass. Cecily sat back down on her stool. It was horribly hot, so close to the kitchen’s roaring flames, and she regretted the boredom that had driven her to ask Bertha if she could be helpful. Now, she was stuck in Fellscarp’s dark and smoky kitchen after being dragged all over the house by Bertha on a series of mundane tasks.

‘Just because you don’t want to be here doesn’t mean you can’t get used to us and find your place,’ she had declared. ‘I know everything about you, and it is best to find a way to laugh at your troubles. Then, they are easier to bear. Take your mind off things with hard work and good victuals, I say.’

‘It’s not my fault that I am here,’ Cecily had replied.

But it was.

‘Keep an eye on the spit and turn that pig, else it will burn,’ Bertha shouted from across the kitchen, so Cecily resolved to do her best and not ruin it. She was sure that the older woman had set her to turning the spit just to humiliate her. And the task was made harder by the stares and whispers of the servant lasses who seemed to find her fascinating.

Bertha shuffled off somewhere, and three lasses came closer, cruelty all over the face of one of them, who was as plump-breasted as a goose, with pale eyes and straggly hair.

‘Thought she was too grand to get her hands dirty,’ said the lass to the others.

‘Oh, she gets dirty alright, with our Laird, Aila,’ said another, elbowing the plain one and chortling.

The lass, Aila, put her hands on her hips and said to Cecily, ‘Are you not too tired to do kitchen work after spreading your legs for Peyton?’

‘Be gone. You are tiresome,’ said Cecily.

Aila was not finished. ‘How can you even sit down after he has pounded you all night, you slattern?’

Cecily rose, hands in fists, her temper rising like a black flood. ‘Name me that again, and I will slap your insolence out of you, bitch.’

‘Bitch, is it? At least I am not a whore, to be used whenever and by whoever,’ said the lass.

Cecily slapped the lass around the face, and then they were off, tearing at each other’s hair, grappling and falling to the floor to the excited shrieks of the other two lasses.

Aila was big and strong and managed a few blows and scratches, but Cecily was gripped by a terrible rage – at her situation, her folly, the loss of her freedom. She had often fought with her brother, Bran, and sister, Rowenna - nasty, spiteful fights as they grew up. She got her forearm around Aila’s throat and squeezed.

‘Filthy, stinking trollop,’ wheezed the lass. Cecily was on the brink of smashing her face into the flagstones to shut the river of bile coming from her mouth when strong hands hauled her to her feet and pulled her arm from Aila’s throat.

Peyton stood there with a face like thunder, Bertha beside him. Cecily’s pride squirmed. She must look a fright. Her hair was hanging around her face, there was blood on her knuckles where they had smashed into the floor, and her breath came in gasps of red rage. Worst of all, that bitch Aila had torn her fine dress.

‘What the hell is this?’ Peyton shouted.

‘She attacked me, Laird. Set upon me like a vicious she-wolf,’ cried Aila.

‘You got what you deserved,’ spat Cecily, tearing herself free of Peyton’s grip.

He rounded on her. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘I gave her a lesson in manners for calling me a whore.’

‘That is what she is,’ cried Aila. ‘Everyone knows she is your mistress, or whore, more like.’

His jaw worked. ‘Aila, enough! Get out of my sight before I have you whipped, and that goes for you as well,’ he snarled at the other two lasses. ‘Leave us.’

Peyton’s wrath was towering as he rounded on Cecily. ‘Why can’t you behave? I am gone for one day and a night and come back to you brawling like a back alley cat. I want peace in my house.’

‘A piss on your peace, and I don’t want to be in your house,’ she snarled.

‘Lass!’

‘Oh, go to hell, you miserable scum-sucking whoreson.’

Peyton’s mouth fell open in shock, and so did Bertha’s. Cecily swept out, clutching the shreds of her dignity, which fell away as she heard Bertha declare, ‘And there’s me thinking she was a lady.’

***

Cecily cowered amongst the sacks of apples and grain in Fellscarp’s dank cellar. Shouting came from above, and then deathly silence, which was worse. Her breathing slowed as her anger seeped away. She should not have done that. She should not have said what she did. Oh, what he must think of her. What was the point of her life now? She could do nothing right. All she could do was cause misery.

Soft footsteps sounded to her right, coming closer. Pray God, Peyton would not beat her too harshly.

‘Come out, lass. I know you are down here,’ said Bertha.

Cecily peered around a sack in case Peyton was waiting to ambush her. ‘Where is he?’ she hissed.

‘Stomping around above and swearing that if he gets hold of you, he will bare your bottom and give you a spanking for what you said to him.’

‘And I suppose you will hand me over,’ said Cecily.

‘No. Not this time,’ she chortled. ‘Let us wait here awhile until his temper blows over. It always does. That Aila is a nasty piece and got what she deserved, and it was worth it to see the look on Peyton’s face.’ Bertha plopped her ample behind onto a sack and rummaged in the next one. She took out two apples and handed one to Cecily. ‘Might cleanse that mouth of yours,’ she said with a grin.

‘Forgive me. I should not have said what I said.’

Bertha laughed again. ‘No, you should not. Best steer clear of Aila for a while, for a powerful jealousy eats at her heart. She was once sweet on Peyton. I thought she had put it behind her and found another, as I often see her sloping off over the causeway to torture some poor sot with her favours.’

‘Was Peyton in love with her?’

‘Heavens, no. It did not last long and amounted to a few fumblings in the barn - him putting his hands where he should not because he was young and lusty, and her, free with her favours.’

‘‘Oh, I see.’

‘Young men just want to get their hands on some flesh. That is all it was.’

‘And did he have any more liaisons after that?’

‘That’s a fine word for it. Peyton is a strapping man of five and twenty years, so, of course, there have been ‘liaisons.’

Bertha said the last word with great mockery, and Cecily reddened. ‘Aye, many a lass took a tumble with Peyton, and he’s fine looking, is he not?’ Bertha elbowed Cecily in the ribs.

‘I hadn’t given it much thought while he was bullying me and grinding me under his boot.’

‘Grinding, is it? The way you look at him, it’s more grinding you are after, hah. And if you’ve any sense in that bonnie head of yours, you’ll let him. I would if I were two score years younger.’

Cecily stood up. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Play the innocent, if you like, but you are well aware of how to use those looks of yours. But it will all come to nought, as there is another who has him on the hook. Oh, hush my mouth. I should not have said that.’

‘Who is she?’

Bertha sighed.

‘You might as well know.

Lorna Gilpin is a lass he’s had his eye on for a while.

Before Peyton became Laird Strachan, he was but a soldier for old Laird Hew, fighting his battles.

Some said he might be Hew’s bastard.

But never mind that.

He was orphaned just coming into his manhood, so he had it hard growing up.

He was looked down on – beaten, whipped, thrown into fighting for his laird, risking his life for a place here.

But he rose through the ranks, and I think he began to see himself worthy of a wife, so he set his sights on Lorna. She is a bit picky, but as bonnie as may be. Now that he is Laird, he can support a wife.’

‘You think well of him, Bertha?’

‘Aye, and with good reason.

Old Laird Hew was a ruthless old misery who once turned on my son.’ Her eyes welled.

‘Magnus was a good lad, but he was green, and on his watch, we lost ten head of cattle to the McColls - sworn enemies.

The Laird got a blow to his pride and was in such a temper over it that he threatened to take off one of Magnus’ hands as punishment for his carelessness.

It was Peyton who warned Magnus to run.

He got him clear and sent him north to the Highlands.

He bides there still, and I miss him terribly.

He made a life for himself away from Fellscarp.

Peyton was loyal to Laird Hew but thought the punishment was too harsh, so he spoke up for my son.

He got the skin whipped off his back for his insolence. But then, Hew is a Strachan, and they are not inclined to forgive.’

‘But Peyton is a Strachan. Does he not have the same nature?’

‘No. He is a good man, so I think well of him.’ She frowned. ‘Not sure about you, though.’

‘Why? I have done nothing wrong.’

‘Not yet, but you have it in you to wound him. And you have brought great danger down on Peyton and all of us, Cecily MacCreadie. And the poor wretch was beset with worries before you came along.’

‘What worries?’

‘Not for me to say. But there are some who do not take kindly to Peyton rising to be Laird Strachan, and they plot against him. He never gets a wink of peace from dawn ‘til dusk.’

Cecily’s face burned, and she fought the urge to cry. It was far better to face Peyton’s wrath and get it over with than to face Bertha’s probing looks and sharp words. Cecily left the cellar with shaky legs and a sense of outrage. How dare Bertha hint that she looked on that brute, Peyton Strachan, with admiration.

Oh, but he wasn’t a brute. He had risked his life to save hers, just as he had done for Bertha’s son. He had not laid a finger on her save for that angry kiss. And she had not properly thanked him. Where would she be now if not for Peyton Strachan – dishonoured, beaten and left out on Crichton Moor to limp home to the greatest shame? That is, if that fiend, Edmund, had not killed her.

But Peyton was also angry, pompous, overbearing, and sometimes hateful. He had taken her freedom. But if she hated him, why was her chest tight with jealousy at the thought of him with another woman, especially a bonnie one like Lorna Gilpin?

***

Peyton stomped upstairs to his chamber, searching for Cecily in a fair temper. But it was empty, and the thud of anger in his chest subsided in disappointment, for there was something exciting in sparring with the lass. By God, she gave as good as she got.

His bed was rumpled where she had slept, and the linens were thrown back as if she had just leapt out of it. He lay back and pulled the pillow to his face. It smelled of woman – lavender, rose and sweetness. An image of Cecily crept into his mind – naked, soft and warm, the linens tangled about her long legs, golden hair spread out on that pillow, her turquoise eyes holding his own prisoner, wordlessly inviting him to stroke, to suck, to taste.

He sat up, trying to banish the image.

This would not do.

Cecily had a mouth like a gutter wench and a temper to rival his own.

What cursing! Suddenly, he burst out laughing.

To hear such foul words coming from that angelic face had been the surprise of his life.

What a sight she had been, all riled up, glaring and spewing words that would make a whore blush.

It would take a brave man to tame Cecily MacCreadie and a foolish one to get on the wrong side of her.

But if you could tame that temper, gain her good opinion, and turn that passion to more pleasurable ends, what a prize you would have.

And life with Cecily MacCreadie would never be dull.

Had powerful Jasper Glendenning been as excited by Cecily as he was? Peyton hung his head. He must stop this madness. Tomorrow, he must go to Lorna and get an answer from a lass far more deserving of his hand than Cecily, with all her tantrums and high and mighty ways. If only he did not want that MacCreadie lass so badly. If only she did not set a fire in his blood and excite and infuriate by turns.

‘I am sorry I fought with Aila.’

Cecily stood at the door, biting her lip. Peyton leapt up and stormed towards her in a fit of guilt at his lewd thoughts and frustration that she had to choose this moment to be contrite, to stand before him all loveliness and vulnerability. His words abandoned him as he hovered between the urge to spank the life out of her or kiss her into surrender. He sighed and shook his head.

Cecily’s eyes darted to the bed, and the abject horror on her face burned him. ‘Forgive my behaviour,’ she said. ‘I know I have not been as grateful as I should for your rescuing me from Edmund. I am truly sorry for all the vexation I have caused.’

‘Aye, so you should be,’ he said uncharitably.

‘It’s not my fault. Edmund was a monster.’

A bitter laugh escaped him. ‘Stop holding onto the lie that you are innocent in all this, Cecily.’

‘There is no lie,’ she stammered.

Suddenly, the day’s events seemed to exhaust him. ‘Stop playing the victim and start taking responsibility for your own part in this mess.’

‘I said, I am sorry.’

‘You lied to me. You said you hated Jasper Glendenning.’

‘I do.’

Her contrition was false. He could not believe it. ‘Then why is he scouring the glens for you, lass? What are you to him?’

Her brow furrowed. ‘Nothing. Less than nothing.’

He put his face in hers. ‘I do not believe a word that comes out of your mouth.’

She did not defend herself, which only confirmed his suspicions that there was some arrangement with Jasper Glendenning, from which Cecily had fled with her lover. And now he had her in his keep, and if Glendenning had designs on her, the danger had increased tenfold. Cecily stared up at him - wide-eyed, fearful, and he had the sudden impulse to discipline her by kissing her again.

Instead, he said, ‘If you know what’s good for you, stay in this chamber until my temper has cooled.’

She bit her lip and then asked tremulously, ‘Are you sleeping here tonight?’

‘No. I will sleep with the men below.’

‘But can we not talk? You must let me make amends for the fight and explain about Jasper.’

‘Jasper, is it?’ he said jealously, walking away.

‘Oh, go if you like, but are we not supposed to be lovers to keep up the ruse?’ she spat in his wake.

Peyton glared back at her. ‘As far as my clansmen think, I am spurning the company of my mistress as she is a liar, has a foul mouth, the manners of an alley cat and does not show me the respect I deserve.’

‘And will they believe that?’

‘Aye, for it is true.’