Page 6 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Heavy snow was driving in sideways, and Cecily was drooping with exhaustion when her captor announced, ‘We are almost at Fellscarp, my home.’

Fellscarp. She had heard her father and brother mention it, but had never paid much attention to their mutterings.

‘Better brace yourself, lass,’ said her captor.

‘For what?’

‘My clansmen do not know you, and they will be curious about me riding in with a stranger, especially a lass. You will keep your mouth shut about who you are and what occurred today. Speak not one word to anyone. Is that clear?’

‘I have no wish to speak of what happened. It is something I heartily wish to forget.’

‘Good. Then we are agreed on silence from you.’

The horse galloped out of the shelter of the woods, and they were buffeted by the wind. She could barely see a few feet ahead. Water splashed her skirt. Were they crossing a river? Cecily’s limbs stiffened with cold and fear as a dark stone edifice loomed out of higher ground. The top of a tower house was only just visible in the fading light as if it was being swallowed whole by God’s wrath. The wind howled across its roof like a choir of tortured souls. Fellscarp was awful, and what awaited her inside might be worse – a den of thieves, most likely.

They clattered upwards and through a gate where a watchman gave them a steely stare and nodded to Peyton. ‘Welcome back, Laird. I feared you might get caught in this filthy weather and miss the crossing. Most of the clan is inside, sheltering.’

Laird? Surely, she had misheard. This ruffian could not be a laird, and if he was, then laird of what?

‘Not me, Selby,’ her captor replied. ‘I like a warm bed and a blazing hearth to toast my bones. Is Bertha around?’

‘Aye. In the kitchen, bullying the servant girls. Have you brought us a new one?’ said the man, eyeing Cecily. She turned away.

‘Not exactly.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘You will find out soon enough, but I must get her out of this cold. Settle the horse, then fetch Bertha for me. I will be above in the tower, and tell her to bring blankets and wood for a fire.’

The man nodded, and Peyton slipped off the horse and dragged her down. Cecily fell against him and immediately pushed herself off. She would not touch him more than necessary. He shook his head at her, took her hand, and dragged her up some steps to a small doorway. She glanced back. The man, Selby, was staring as he led the horse away, and beyond a high wall surrounding the yard, all she could see was inky blackness and swirling snow.

Inside the house, it was not much warmer than outside. The Peyton fellow grabbed a lantern and seemed in a great hurry to drag her aloft. Cecily’s legs were weak by the time they had climbed four flights up a winding stone staircase. She could barely see where they were going. Her heart picked up its beat when he opened a door in the gloom and thrust her inside a small chamber. It held a bed, a small table, a hearth, and nothing else. He slammed it shut behind him.

In the flickering lantern light, Peyton’s face seemed even more devilish than before, its bleakness intensified in the confined space. He was so big and powerfully built that he could crush her with one blow of his fist. And they were alone now, and no one would hear her scream over the howl of the wind, nor care if they did.

‘What is this place?’ she asked.

‘My chamber.’

‘It looked more like a dungeon than a chamber. What are you going to do with me?’ said Cecily in a rush of terror.

He crossed his muscular arms across his broad chest and sighed heavily. ‘Honestly, lass. I have absolutely no idea.’ He came closer.

‘You stay away from me, you brute,’ she said, backing away until she met a cold stone wall.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Listen, Cecily MacCreadie. Whatever I decide to do with you, it does not include ravishment or any other violence on your person. So you may trust in that.’

‘I don’t trust you at all or anything you say.’

‘It seems you are determined to make me a villain, lass.’

‘You are a villain, stopping me from going home, dragging me to this…this prison. You look like one, too.’

‘How so?’ he said with a smile.

‘Your face. It is awful, all puffed up and cuts everywhere, blood all over you. It is clear that you are the worst kind of ruffian.’

‘Is that so?’ Peyton took hold of her arms and put his face in hers. ‘There’s blood all over you, too. Does that make you a villain? Appearances can fool the unwary. And I am a good deal better than your lover who would have raped you and left you for dead, lass. So don’t be looking down your nose at me. I saved your virtue and, possibly, your life today, at risk of my own, and what do I get in return – a troublesome, haughty little bitch, who does not even have the manners to thank me.’

Cecily could only stare at him, mouth agape, struck dumb by his sudden outburst of rage. His chest heaved as he stared down at her, his brown eyes fiery and his mouth so close she could feel his breath on her face. She shuddered, and they both started at a brisk knock on the door.

Peyton flung Cecily away as if she had stung him and opened the door. A plump, middle-aged woman entered carrying a pile of blankets. She looked at Cecily and then Peyton and frowned.

‘Good grief. What mischief have you done now?’ she said.

Peyton took a blanket and threw it in Cecily’s direction. Donning the other, he swept the woman out and banged the door behind him.

***

Bertha’s kind face twisted with suspicion. She was a loyal servant of Fellscarp and a friend to him, but she had her limits. ‘Whatever has befallen that lass, I hope it was not at your hand, Peyton Strachan,’ she said.

‘Do you think me capable of that?’ he said.

‘No, but the state of the poor lass.’

He took Bertha by the arm and led her away from the door. Best, the MacCreadie lass did not hear them talking. ‘Listen. I would have you take a look at her. I fear she might be hurt in places I cannot see. I came upon her when an Englishman was trying to have his way with her, and she was putting up a fight.’

‘Oh, heavens,’ cried Bertha, crossing herself. ‘Devils, all of them.’

‘Aye, and this one promised marriage to the lass, that they would run away together. But he’ll not harm any other lasses. He fell to my knife, and our safety depends on you keeping that to yourself. Now the lass needs tending to. I do not know how far it went with that bastard, and if she was…you know…dishonoured.’

‘Oh, the poor wee lass.’

‘This English fiend was an important man linked to powerful people. I can’t have her blabbing to the servant girls or anyone in Fellscarp about what occurred. She knows something that could send me to the gallows and bring ruin on Clan Strachan, on all of us.’

‘What is it?’

‘The less you know, the better, Bertha, for your own safety. I swear I did no harm to that lass, and the man I killed deserved it. Go and light a fire and get her warm and fed. Tell her nothing and don’t listen to anything she says. Trust me on this.’

‘I would trust you with my life, Peyton. You know that.’

‘As I am now trusting you with mine,’ he said.

Bertha went on tip-toe and kissed his cheek.

‘You mustn’t do that now that I am Laird,’ he said, wiping it off.

‘I have known you as a wee nipper and kissed you all your life, so I can kiss you when no one is looking, laird or not. You will always be my saviour,’ she said.

Peyton smiled lest she worry too much. ‘Go quickly. I will stay here until you come back and see that she is safe.’

Bertha hurried away to fetch what she needed, and Peyton leaned against the wall, waiting for her return. Bertha was wise and capable, and she owed him a debt, so he could count on her discretion. Hauling the lass back to Fellscarp and locking her up was no kindness, but he had many souls under his care besides a golden-haired nuisance.

A spurt of humiliation stung him at Cecily MacCreadie’s words. ‘Stay away from me, you brute,’ she had said. ‘Ruffian’ she had called him. Is that how he appeared to all women, including Lorna?

Cecily’s words hurt more because she was bonnie and had stirred desire in him. Peyton pushed off the wall and was about to go in search of food and warmer clothes when a rattling at the door made him turn back.

‘Let me out,’ screamed Cecily MacCreadie.

‘No,’ he shouted back, and she fell silent.

In the darkness, ghosts crept from the past. He could almost hear her giggling as he chased her to this chamber, catching her in just this spot.

Ten years fell away, and Peyton was a green lad of sixteen again, bursting with his own importance, eager to make his mark on his clan and the lasses. All he thought about, night and day, was sinking his cock into someone. She was beautiful even then, when she was scrawny and gangly-limbed, her breasts not yet fully come in, her green eyes wide and lively. How he wanted her after a week of longing glances, the slightest touch on his arm when he passed, the way she opened her mouth just a little and bit her lip whenever their eyes met. She never paid him any mind before, but he had filled out, grown into his frame of late, and other lasses around Fellscarp had begun to bat their eyelashes at him.

Even now, he could feel her mouth, hot, wet and exciting in his first kiss, her budding breasts pressed against his chest, her waist so tiny, the slide of the amber silk dress under his hands. Laird Hew Strachan’s daughter was forbidden fruit. Was that why she tasted so delicious? He returned her kisses feverishly, clumsily, full of spittle, confused by her sudden interest in him. He flinched inside as he recalled the pain as she bit him on the lip, hard enough to draw blood.

‘What was that for?’ he had cried.

‘Punishment for being too forward. As a bastard, you should know your place, Peyton Strachan.’ She was still smiling – that sweet, winning smile that could fell a man from twenty paces, wrap him in chains of lust. But now her smile was tinged with cruelty.

‘I thought you liked me,’ he said, feeling a fool. ‘And I am no bastard.’

‘Oh, I like you well enough, and as to bastard, it is about time, you know. It is rumoured that my father sired you, and incest is a little beneath me, don’t you think?’

‘I…I am no bastard, and Laird Hew did not...’

‘Go ask your mother,’ she spat.

A stifled snigger came from the shadows.

‘Oh, come out, Robert,’ she giggled. ‘The game is up, and I won the bet.’

‘What bet?’ he said.

His stomach had soured with humiliation as Robert Strachan – handsome, arrogant son of the Laird - emerged from the shadows.

‘My sister bet me ten shillings that she could have you on a hook in a week,’ he drawled. ‘She works fast, does she not, and you, the eager pig, trotting after her as though you had a ring through your nose?’

‘And pig, he is. He kisses like a peasant,’ she said.

He cast an agonising glance at Elene Strachan. Her face had turned from sweet flirtation to rapt cruelty, and in that moment, he saw her for what she really was – a devourer of men’s hearts.

Peyton never made the mistake of getting too close to her again, but even now, whenever he thought of Elene Strachan, his breast thudded with rage. And Cecily MacCreadie’s heart-clenching eyes had just brought the memory of Elene out of its hiding place.