Page 3 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Peyton stared at the modest farmhouse nestled in a grove of chestnut trees, naked of their leaves under winter’s grip.

‘I will wait for you here as I’ve no desire to witness you trying to debauch that poor lass,’ said Father Luggan.

‘There is no debauching. I am the picture of chivalry with Lorna.’

Father Luggan smiled. ‘I doubt you know what that word means, Peyton Ruari Strachan. Now do not tarry, for this wind is bitter.’ A strange gurgling sound came from the priest.

‘What is that?’

Father Luggan put a hand to his belly. ‘I am a little costive, is all. A good ride and fresh air will salve it.’

Peyton kicked his horse, impatient to see Lorna and keen to escape whatever was about to emanate from Father Luggan.

He felt a little sick in his stomach, too.

Was it from Usher’s punches, for they ached like the blazes, or was it from infatuation? Peyton banged on the farmhouse door, and his stomach flipped when he saw her.

God, she was bonnie, all wide-eyed softness and thick chestnut hair that shone like a deer pelt. But today, the smile which often dimpled her cheeks was not there. In fact, Lorna looked a little horrified to see him.

‘What is wrong, lass? What has happened?’ he said.

‘Nothing. I…it is just that I did not expect you. Peyton, you should send word if you mean to visit. You know how my father gets.’

‘As if his ire could keep me from you. He does know I could flatten him with one flick of my wrist.’

‘Do not talk about my father like that,’ she hissed.

‘Has he been whispering his poison into your ear? I know he has long since decried my bastardy.’

‘It was more your occupation. You had no standing in the clan. You were Robert Strachan’s instrument sent out to fight and reive at his pleasure. God knows what crimes you have committed in his name.’

‘None that I am ashamed of. And that life is behind me. I have risen.’

‘For now, aye,’ said Lorna with a shrug. ‘But your family’s reputation, Peyton. It is not good.’

‘So you judge me for my bastardy, too. I have a name. It is a little tarnished, that’s all.’

‘My father says…’

Peyton cut her off. ‘Your blasted Father knows nothing of me.’

‘Do not disrespect him like that. He says you will not hold onto Clan Strachan and will soon be cast out.’

Peyton’s pride withered under her words, but he would not give up. ‘Let us not quarrel, Lorna.’ He took hold of her. ‘You are so bonnie. Like the sun.’ She smiled at his compliment, and so he stole a kiss.

She pushed him off. ‘You should not take liberties, Peyton.’

‘But we are as good as betrothed, are we not? Am I not allowed some privileges?’

‘I never said we were betrothed. There is no promise between us.’ She looked him up and down. ‘And look at you. You are filthy, not fit to be seen. And you have been fighting again.’

His temper rose. ‘It is what men do, Lorna.’ He did not want a quarrel, but she seemed to be spoiling for one.

‘Go and clean yourself up, Peyton. Mend your ways.’

‘My ways? What does that mean? My ways never bothered you before when we lay in the long grass this past summer.’

‘Do not speak of that. It is my shame,’ she squeaked.

‘Tis no shame for a man and woman to put hands over each other. I want you, Lorna. And now I am Laird Strachan. I can support a wife, give you a fine home, and anything you want. I will make an honest woman of you, Lorna.’

She crossed her arms, and her face was bitter as she said, ‘And how long can you hold onto Clan Strachan, tell me that? Many think you a usurper, and there are rumours you were involved in old Laird Hew’s death and his son’s, too, all to pave your way to power and riches.’

‘And you believe that? I would make you Lady Strachan, yet you accuse me of this infamy?’

Lorna looked down at her feet. ‘It does not matter what I believe. I am not accusing you, Peyton. But my father says that you have enemies who would replace you. I would be the wife of a usurper, a man whose name is not a good one. And if you die, I would be widowed, so I would not be Lady Strachan for long. Not that I ever wanted to climb that high. Father says if I go with you, I will end up alone in the world with the bairn of a disgraced man in my belly.’

Her words hit Peyton harder than any of Usher’s fists. ‘It is no secret that I might be Hew Strachan’s by-blow, which gives me as much claim to Clan Strachan as any man,’ he said.

‘You should not talk to me of such coarse matters, and you had better go. I see my father coming. He won’t want you here.’

In the distance, Peyton spotted Douglas Gilpin riding towards the farm with another man he did not recognise.

Lorna tried to go inside, but Peyton held onto her hand. ‘Lorna, stop. We do not need his leave to be together. Tell me that I can count on your affection and your promise.’

She gave him a smile of utter sweetness, enough to keep his heart on a hook. But she did not answer his question.

‘I must go, Peyton,’ she said. Tearing her hand free, Lorna swept inside and slammed the door behind her.

Peyton did not bother to hang around and exchange the usual sarcasm with Lorna’s father. Douglas Gilpin had made it clear that he was not good enough for his daughter. Instead, Peyton rode away with unease clawing at his chest.

***

Father Luggan wisely held his tongue until they were a long way from the Gilpin’s farm, crossing Crichton Moor, a windswept place as bleak as Peyton’s mood.

‘I can see that your visit was less than satisfactory, Peyton,’ said Father Luggan. ‘I will not prod that wound by asking questions, but if you require counsel, I am here.’

‘Why are women so bloody changeable? Answer me that,’ snapped Peyton.

Father Luggan sighed. ‘I will not seek to advise any man on matters of the heart or the nature of the fairer sex. But I will say that patience is a virtue.’

‘Well, I’ve none of that, nor any other virtue, it seems. I’ve wooed that lass for two years now with no satisfaction nor promise to wed. I’ve scarcely laid a finger on her in all that time.’

‘Scarcely?’ said the priest, with a sharp look at him.

‘What I mean is, I expected her to warm to me by now, yet she thinks me low and unworthy. I have tried to do right by Lorna, waiting until I had enough money to afford a wife and give her a good living.’

‘One cannot force these matters, Peyton, and women must be honoured and treated gently, for they are soft, delicate creatures and prone to indecision. Now, can we stop for a moment? I need to relieve myself of that rather large meal I had at Fellscarp last night.’

‘Indeed, you eat enough for two men, Father. Off you go, but well downwind, if you please.’

Peyton sat quietly, awaiting Father Luggan’s return and reliving his conversation with Lorna.

How could she be so cold after all his devotion? She couldn’t close the door fast enough.

And in last summer’s heat, she had lain down with him and let his hands under her clothes and moaned under his touch.

Even now, he could recall the softness of her skin, her pale legs, the heady smell of the grass, her little moans and caresses.

It had been a struggle to master his baser urges and not take her innocence, for she would have let him.

He was sure of it. But that all seemed a distant dream now, as a bitter wind stung his face and the icy hand of rejection withered his balls.

Peyton’s horse whinnied and pinned back its ears. The wind gusted, carrying with it a strident curse. ‘Unhand me, you whoreson, you midden filth, you scum-sucking bastard.’

Moments later, a lass burst from the undergrowth and ran straight out in front of him. She was a terrible sight – blood-smeared, filthy, clothes torn, eyes wide in terror.

His horse reared in a panic, and he struggled to keep his seat as the beast aimed razor-sharp hooves at her head.