Page 13 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

After an uncomfortable night sleeping before the fireplace with his men, Peyton woke with a firm resolve to set his life back on the right path. He was Laird Strachan, and he would force life to give him what he wanted. If only he knew what that was. Several hours of pacing down at the water’s edge brought him no peace, and he rode out once the causeway was open for him to pass. Thank God for the protection of the tide, making Fellscarp more defensible than its crumbling fa?ade would suggest.

A brisk ride brought him to Greycroft Farm. As he rode up, the sound of laughter carried from within, and a strange horse was tethered outside. Peyton banged on the door, and silence fell for the longest time. He banged again, and Lorna’s father, Douglas, opened the door.

‘What do you want?’ he snarled.

Another man shouted from within. ‘Who is it?’

Peyton did not recognise the voice. ‘I have come to speak with Lorna,’ he said.

‘My daughter has nought to say to you. Get you gone. I want you off my land, Peyton Strachan.’

‘It is Laird Strachan, haven’t you heard?’

‘Aye, I’ve heard. A villainous bunch, the Strachans, and you, as bad as any. Lorna wants nought to do with you. Be off.’

‘I want to hear that from her own lips, and I’ll not take no for an answer,’ he said.

Douglas Gilpin tried to slam the door, but Peyton put his boot to it. Lorna appeared at her father’s shoulder. ‘It is alright, Father. Let me speak to him, please.’

‘Very well. If you must, but be quick about it,’ snapped her father.

‘You may keep watch on me from the house.’ Lorna rushed out and dragged Peyton away.

‘Keep watch?’ he cried. ‘Does he think you have reason to fear me, lass?’

‘No, but you should not have come here unannounced. We have a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘His name is Giles Roper. He is a friend of my father’s.’

‘Well, he’s not important. Look at me, Lorna.’

She stared at the ground as the wind wafted her hair about her face. She looked uncommonly bonnie, yet remote, as if he could not touch her.

‘Why will you not look me in the eye, lass? Why so distant? Are we strangers now, after what he shared?’

‘Hush. Do not speak of that ever again. You cannot,’ she hissed, eyes darting back to the house. ‘My father is listening. Would you shame me and make me your whore in his eyes?’

‘No, I would make you my wife.’

‘Stop. Do not say anything else. We sinned, but we can sin no more.’

‘Lorna, I have shown my devotion for years, and if I slipped, and it spilt over into lust, then forgive me for that dishonour. But I need a straight answer, lass. You cannot leave me hanging.’

She sighed. ‘Why must you come on this of all days? I thought I had made it clear. I told you to stay away.’

‘Since when have I ever done as I was told, lass?’ he said, laughing, but she did not laugh with him as she once would have. Peyton went to take her hand, and she flinched.

‘Am I so repulsive as a suitor all of a sudden?’ he said quietly.

She glanced back at the house and then met his eye. ‘Aye, you are.’

The cruelty of her words took his breath away. ‘What are you saying, Lorna?’

‘That I don’t want you,’ she spat. ‘I don’t want to be your wife. I never did because you frighten me, Peyton. I have a better suitor now, a man who is not always brawling, cursing and stinking of ale and sin.’

‘What suitor?’

‘My father has found me a safe man who can give me a comfortable, respectable life. That will never be you. He is here, now. So go, and do not come back here.’

Lorna rushed away, leaving him standing like a fool in the ashes of his hopes.

He rushed to his horse, and as he took one last look back, Lorna’s father came out of the house with another man – tall, lean and greying at the temples - his replacement in Lorna’s affections.

The man narrowed his eyes, and Peyton wondered at their venom.

He kicked his horse and rode like the furies, humiliation following him down the path like a crushing shadow.

***

Even in the middle of the day, Rascal’s Inn was rowdy with drunken men – mostly merchants and travellers seeking shelter from the winter’s chill.

They sought other diversions, too, and that had been Peyton’s plan.

He sought to cleanse his palate of women and all the turmoil they caused - Lorna with her frigid dismissal, his sister, Lowri driving him mad with worry, and Cecily MacCreadie unmanning him with her beautiful, almost wanton defiance.

What a handsome couple she and Glendenning would make.

Peyton pictured them, blonde heads together, whispering secrets. He almost choked on his bitterness.

There was nought to be done for his aching heart but get mindlessly drunk, find a whore and sate his boiling lust on a woman he did not have to care about the next day.

He would forget the burden which pressed on him constantly and, just for a few sweet hours, drive away the nagging feeling of unworthiness.

Several ales later, Peyton was doing a good job of getting drunk, but as he slipped into oblivion, an old adversary decided to seek him out.

Laird Griffin Macaulay stood over him – thuggish, blunt and as welcome as the pox.

‘I hear you lost sheep, Strachan, and went looking for them on Liddesdale land.’

‘Aye. News travels fast. Did you steal them?’ he replied.

‘No. Why would I steal from a friend,’ said Griffin with an oily smirk.

‘We are not friends, Macaulay.’

‘We were once. We fought together that day with Robert Strachan.’

‘Aye, but you left before he got his head bashed in by Caolan Bannerman, before we were forced to give up Liddesdale to that Glendenning bastard. You turned tail and ran.’

‘Aye, but it was the clever move on the day. You cannot hold a grudge for that. But times are changing. I need to know who are my friends and who are my enemies.’

‘Well, I am neither.’

‘Black Eaden is here. He has reached out to me, so why don’t you?’ sneered Griffin.

That was a sobering thought. Peyton scanned the tavern and spotted Eaden in a dark corner, his eyes on their conversation. When had he come in?

‘Macaulay, if you want to join forces with that black dog, then on your head be it. And if you want to challenge me, come out and say it.’

‘So, you snap at the hand of friendship?’

‘No, I spit on it and on you.’ Peyton stood up with a snarl, and Macaulay stepped back.

‘Now, now. No need for violence,’ said Eaden, intervening with a heavy hand on Macaulay’s shoulder. ‘We are all old friends here.’

Griffin Macaulay stalked off, cursing, and Eaden took a chair opposite Peyton. ‘Macaulay’s harmless enough,’ he said. ‘No need to snarl at him, or me, for that matter. Come on, Peyton, we used to rub along nicely when we were skinny wee lads, me and you.’

‘Aye, as long as I knew my place.’

‘I suppose. But now you think you have risen.’

‘Aye, while you have fallen and squandered any chance of leading the clan.’

Eaden put his hand on his heart. ‘How you wound me, Peyton, as you wound Macaulay. Not good. A man in your position needs all the friends he can get. Have a whisky with me, and let us come to an agreement.’

‘I’ll not get drunk with you so that you can slide a blade across my throat.’

‘You know me better than that. When I kill you, it will be to your face. No sport in stabbing a man in the back, eh.’ He drank from a bottle of whisky and slid it across to Peyton. ‘Remember when we were sowing our oats, when you were less serious. We roamed all over the Marches, looking for women and coin. Ah, I miss those carefree days.’

‘Aye, it was good until you murdered a man who found you in bed with his daughters, and you had to flee with your braies round your ankles to escape the noose.’

Eaden waved his concerns away. ‘Twas a slight misunderstanding, is all. Had the old fool been wiser and taken coin, instead of falling onto my dirk, I would still roam the East March as I pleased.’

Eaden seemed to want to talk of old times, and they did, for hours, as they succumbed to drunkenness. A couple of whores wandered over and sat beside them. Eaden pawed the voluptuous, eager one, but the other was bonnier and softer. She sat beside Peyton, stroking his arm and running her fingers through his hair, but when she reached up and kissed him, all he felt was shame. He should want her, but he could not bear to touch her.

She did not have golden hair or turquoise eyes that flashed fire at him. He frowned and stared into his ale, his mind a lurching muddle of drink. Did Lorna have golden hair? Who was he thinking of, and why did he want her so much?

As he slowly slipped into oblivion, his last hellish vision was of Eaden’s bare behind, thrusting vigorously at a whore laid over a table.

When Peyton woke late the next morning, he went outside and doused his face in icy water from the well. It damned near froze off his face, but it cleared his head.

Eaden staggered out, bent double and vomited into the horse trough. He wiped his beard with the back of his hand, swaying slightly. ‘I thank you, cousin, for a fine night of carousing. Though I had to do the lion’s share. Did you not want that lass? Is your cock as soft as your courage, cousin?’

‘Go to hell, Eaden,’ spat Peyton.

‘All in good time. Now, do we have a truce, you and I?’

‘No, we do not.’

‘A shame. Curse your stubborn nature. You are reaching the end, cousin. More of your men will come over to my side. Make the most of your days, for I have powerful friends you do not.’ He narrowed his eyes and staggered back inside, shouting back, ‘Either way, you need to keep an eye on me. Keep me close. We will see each other soon, Peyton.’

Whatever that meant, the choice was clear. He could crawl in the muck with cutthroats and backstabbers like Griffin Macaulay and Black Eaden, men not fit to lick his boots, who would eventually betray him. The alternative was watching his men’s loyalty slowly seep away until he lost his grip on Clan Strachan. It would happen if they carried on losing livestock and being raided by their neighbours. After that, it was either death or banishment. And death would be preferable.

His men were depending on him to turn around his fortunes. Lowri needed his protection, as did all the other women of the clan. Though one of them – well, he didn’t know whether to protect her or strangle her.

Peyton took a deep breath of air, so cold that it made his lungs ache. It was time to banish self-doubt and fight like the savage he was for whatever he wanted. To hell with honour and loyalty.

With violent resolve pumping in his chest, he headed for home.