Page 23 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Cecily stared at the grey, churning estuary. The wind’s nip was spiteful, but it was refreshing to get beyond the dark walls of Fellscarp and clear her head. She needed to decide whether to run towards Peyton or away. In her wildest fantasies, she could never have imagined rough, swarthy Peyton Strachan as the type of husband she would end up with. He was blunt, wild-eyed, often angry. But he was also gentle, tender and protective in those quiet moments in his bed. He made her body sing when she lay with him.

She offered a little laugh to the wind. Her imaginings of what happened between a man and a woman had been so wrong – sighs, longing looks and hand-holding as a man fell to his knees worshipping one’s beauty. It was all vanity and folly.

The reality was very different. Lying with Peyton was a delicious joining of her body to his, a frenzied invasion that she endlessly craved. It was sinful and shameful, yet it gave her the most sublime feeling of joy, almost beyond endurance. Peyton Strachan had enslaved her with his mouth, hands and manhood.

Cecily did not know much about love and desire, but deep down, she knew that what she felt when Peyton entered a room was more than just passion. She worried for his safety every time he rode out. She missed him terribly when he was away from her. She wanted to protect him from his enemies, and since horrible Griffin Macaulay had come visiting, Cecily wanted to tear out the eyes of any woman who set her cap at him.

Was she lost in love? It was a far more savage feeling than that insipid, girlish notion she’d held for Edmund Harclaw. She had yearned for someone like Edmund – cultured, charming, handsome and perfect. But she had come up against the hard wall of reality, and now she knew the folly of judging a man by his looks.

That first time with Peyton, she had not succumbed because she was afraid or because she wanted to get on his good side. She had lain with him because she could not help herself. She was already lost back then. There was no point in denying it any longer. But her pride could never let him know. Away from Peyton and all the ways he made her feel—weak, impassioned, joyful—she had to be strong and clear-headed.

As if her thoughts conjured him, she spied Peyton walking down the shoreline with a bundle in his arms. He would be angry at her for walking out on him. He had a temper that could turn from kindness to wrath, just like hers. She was coming to recognise the tipping point. Yet she knew with great certainty that it would never be turned on her with violence. He might yell and rage, but he would never lay a finger on her in anger. And she trusted in that.

But there was no anger on Peyton’s face as he came to stand beside her and said, ‘I am sorry if I have not told you about myself, lass. I am beset by enemies and in the fight of my life, Cecily. I cannot afford to make mistakes. The people here depend on me. So I am guarded with my words and my secrets.’

‘I know you have troubles, and I am sorry you feel you cannot trust me,’ she said.

He scowled. ‘Perhaps I can learn to. Lass, do you really hate Fellscarp?’

‘I spoke in anger when I said that. But it is colder here than Fallstairs. It is the damp air blowing in over the estuary. I cannot seem to get warm.’

He flashed a grin. ‘Well, I have something for that and to make amends.’ Peyton shook out the bundle. It was a spectacular fur cloak. He folded it about her, instantly cutting the wind. ‘Wolf pelts. Ferocity turned to softness,’ he said with a longing look deep into her eyes.

Cecily stroked her hand along its silvery softness. ‘Are you a poet now, Peyton?’

‘Far from it. I will never have the words for how beautiful you look in that fur.’

‘I never owned anything so precious,’ she said with a choke in her voice.

‘It will keep the cold of Fellscarp at bay. And me, as well, if that is what you want.’

His eyes were hot with some emotion as he stared at her, fit to scorch the skin off her bones. Cecily felt her knees weaken at that look.

Peyton gave a bitter laugh to the water. ‘It belonged to the old laird’s daughter, Elene Strachan, as did those dresses you wear that are so fine and costly, that fit you so well. You are the same as her – blindingly beautiful, like looking into the sun.’

‘Then why did you say I would tear off my dress if I knew of its previous owner?’

‘Because she was awful. I think she is the worst woman I ever met – the most vicious, sly, evil creature. I told you I might be a bastard, that my mother was free with her favours, even with the laird.’

‘I know that much of it, aye.’

‘Well, I may be the laird’s bastard son and half-brother to his legitimate children, Robert and Elene. When we were young, they were high, and I was low. I knew nothing of my parentage. But Laird Hew had a liking for me and gave me a place. I fought for him and was always a bit of a scrapper, so I helped win his battles. I was valued for that, at least. But he never acknowledged me as his son.’

‘Why was Elene so awful? Did she resent your connection with her father?’

‘She thought it was amusing. Robert and Elene hated their father and looked down on everyone in Clan Strachan. They were as close as siblings can be, some say too close.’ Peyton coughed and stared out over the loch. ‘Elene was so lovely to look upon, and she knew it. She used her beauty and clever tongue to cut men, even from a young age.’

‘I can’t imagine any woman ever being able to cut you, Peyton.’

He gave Cecily a probing look. ‘Can you not, lass?’ His shoulders heaved, and he took her hand and kissed it. ‘Once, when I was a lad, just on the brink of manhood, she set her sights on me – flattering, seeking me out, laying her hands on me until I was drunk with infatuation. I even fancied that I was in love. She let me kiss her before she told me that I was her father’s bastard, that she was my half-sister and that if she lay with me, I would be committing incest. That is how I found out I was illegitimate, old Hew’s by blow.’

‘Oh, Peyton,’ said Cecily, putting her palm to her heart.

‘It was a game, you see, a jest cooked up by her and her brother, Robert.’

‘And what was he like.’

‘The same - handsome, cruel and arrogant, though less cunning. Robert Strachan thought he could rule all the clans hereabouts just because he had been sent to London to be educated like an Englishman. He and Elene poisoned Laird Hew. I am sure of it. He died suddenly from the bloody flux, writhing in agony.’

‘Are you saying that they killed their own father?’ she gasped.

‘Aye. Then they poisoned his cousin, Gilmour McColl, Laird of the McColls, thinking they could take over that clan. But the old bastard outfoxed them because he had a bastard of his own to bring into play – Caolan Bannerman, the illegitimate son of Gilmour’s daughter. He had been forgotten for years but rose quickly once Gilmour desperately needed an heir. Caolan was seen as a usurper. Like me, he had to fight to hang onto his clan. He succeeded, and Robert was slain in the fight for Clan McColl. I might not succeed, Cecily. I might end up like Robert Strachan, a bloated corpse at the bottom of a river.’

Cecily was beginning to understand just how little peace Peyton had felt in his life and to pity him for it. She took his hand and kissed the palm. ‘You have many burdens, and I fear I am one.’

‘Only so far as you unman me, Cecily.’

‘You didn’t seem unmanned back in your chamber, far from it.’

‘I must beg forgiveness for my…erm…’

‘Ardour?’

‘Forcefulness. I would not be a brute around you, Cecily, but you get my blood up so easily.’

‘In good ways.’

‘Some good, some bad.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I need you with me, Cecily.’

She went on tip-toe and took his face in her hands. ‘I am yours, so there it is. I cannot help it.’ She kissed him gently. His stubble was just coming through, his skin as rough as a gorse bush. But the kiss he returned was tender and yearning, making her heart ache and her breath quicken.

He gave her a scorching look. ‘Come inside and lie abed with me until we forget all our quarrels, lass.’

Cecily didn’t have time to answer as a shout rang out over the water. Selby was rushing along the estuary, and his face was as grim as death.

***

Peyton’s horse was streaked white with sweat when he reached the woods just outside the village of Gravelock. His heart was pounding in his throat. He knew what he would find, but it still hit him like a punch in the guts.

The branch of the oak bent and squealed in the wind under its burden. The two men twisted on the ropes, like ghastly spinning tops – faces bloated and black, eyes bulging, tongues protruding. Peyton swallowed down bile.

‘Who were they?’ he snarled.

‘Farmers, simple folk working the land,’ said Selby with his hand to his mouth.

‘Who did this?’

‘No one knows.’

Peyton already knew. The Warden was stamping his authority through murder. This was a message written in blood, aimed at his heart.

‘They were found this morning,’ continued Selby. ‘Must have been taken in the night and strung up. The women are weeping and wailing, and the men of the village are demanding vengeance.’

‘Heads must roll for this, or there will be a mob at your door,’ said MacDougall.

‘What are we to do, Laird?’

‘You two can cut them down and give them a decent burial.’

‘Tis winter and the ground is hard.’

‘Would you leave them twisting in the wind until spring? Cut them down, I say,’ bellowed Peyton. ‘I don’t care if it takes you until summer. Dig a hole deep enough and put them in it with all due respect, and fetch a priest to say some words over them. And send to Fellscarp for grain and whatever food we can spare to get their families through the winter. I’ll not see them starve.’

‘Aye, Laird.’

‘After you have done that, go back to Fellscarp and guard it with your life until I return.’

‘From where, Laird,’ said Selby nervously.

‘I have to find a way to stamp out the vermin who did this to us.’

***

Peyton fidgeted in the saddle. He could have been in a warm bed and Cecily’s even warmer body. Instead, he was out on a filthy dark night, being insulted. He struggled to control his ire as Jasper Glendenning baited him about being on Liddesdale land. It had once been Strachan land, but now it had been taken.

He had no time for these petty barbs. There were dead men to avenge, but Peyton resolved to take Liddesdale back once he was strong enough. For now, he had to swallow his pride and endure this unholy alliance. It was proving harder than he had imagined.

‘I hear that you were visited by the Macaulays,’ said Jasper.

Ah, here was an opportunity to bait the bastard. ‘Griffin Macaulay wants me for one of his daughters,’ said Peyton, watching Jasper’s face sour at the thought of a Strachan and Macaulay alliance.

‘That might raise you up in the world,’ snarled Jasper, and Peyton had the satisfaction of knowing something Jasper did not. He had a beautiful wife, snug and warm and curled up in his bed. He needed no other.

‘I declined as my inclination lies elsewhere,’ he said.

Caolan Bannerman then stoked Jasper’s ire by suggesting the man marry his pinched-faced sister Glenna off for a similar alliance. Peyton was not sure whether Caolan did this because it was a good idea or because he liked to irritate Jasper. They were none of them friends, nor did they have any illusions.

Jasper glowered at his company. For a man recently married, he did not seem very happy. Perhaps Rowenna MacCreadie was not too fond of her new husband, so Jasper already found his marriage bed cold. But his was not, and Peyton longed to get back to Fellscarp and Cecily’s fiery embrace.

So, after much bad-tempered muttering, it was agreed that Peyton encourage the Macaulays’ overtures of friendship through marriage, and Jasper was to throw the offer of his sister’s hand at the Irvine and Beattie clans. And all this scheming was in the name of an alliance Peyton could not trust, which put his life in danger.

After a long ride home in the dead of night, Peyton clattered into the yard. The sentry came running, and he handed off his horse. Climbing the stairs to his chamber, he hoped the stench of treachery did not cling to him as his mind whirled with schemes and worries. The thought of the two dead farmers, grotesque and swollen like ripe fruit, seeped into his mind. He had to banish that nightmare.

Cecily was fast asleep, her back to the door, when he crept into his chamber. The fire was burned low, and the room was chilly. Her hair glowed pale in the murk. Peyton gently unfastened his sword, laid it down, and tore off his braies and plaid. He rubbed his hands together to thaw them out and slid into bed beside her. She moaned in her sleep and wriggled against him. His cock stiffened against her warm buttocks as a rush of tenderness choked his throat.

When he slid a cold hand down her shift to her breast, Cecily woke with a little yelp. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she cried. ‘Your hands are cold.’

‘Every part of me is cold.’

She reached back her hand and cupped his balls. ‘Not these,’ she laughed.

‘Will you warm me up? Will you have me, lass?’

She turned her head to kiss him. ‘Do I have a choice?’ she breathed against his mouth.

‘No,’ he whispered. Peyton pulled her shift up to her waist and slid his hand lower. She gasped and squirmed deliciously against his fingers, slick and eager, her bottom rubbing his cock.

‘Where have you been?’ she said, beginning to turn around, but he lay over her back and opened her legs with his knee.

‘No,’ he said gently, silencing her. ‘I want it like this.’ Peyton nuzzled her neck, making her purr like a cat. She pushed back as he surged inside her over and over, as his hand worked her to a frenzy, and she begged him not to stop, clawing his hair. They reached a peak at the same time, and it was as if their bodies melded together to become one.

‘You have such passion, Cecily,’ he breathed.

‘Only for you.’

‘I should hope so, lass,’ he said, his kisses gentler now that he was sated and the lust and anger had drained away.

She snuggled into his chest. ‘I wish you would not go out at night after night. Where do you go?’

‘Always, the questions, with you. Go back to sleep now.’

Cecily turned her back to him and hugged her pillow. Maybe he had wounded her feelings again, but there was nothing else for it. She would think less of him if she knew how he lowered himself and beggared his pride before less worthy men. And he could not bear that.