Page 8 of Strachan (Hostage Brides #2)

Peyton paused outside his chamber, pulsing with frustration and worry. Did Eaden know Lowri had run away? Is that why he mentioned her? And what the hell was he to do with his prisoner?

A new Warden coming meant that his current predicament was ten times worse.

He would want to make his mark, stamp his authority.

Where before, any misdeeds could be wiped away with a well-placed bribe to Sir Walder Moffat, a new man might not be so amenable.

The English would hunt him down like a dog if word got out he had slaughtered a son of nobility, no matter the fiendish intentions of that whoreson, Edward Harclaw.

And all this was on account of Cecily MacCreadie.

She would have to be faced eventually, so Peyton unlocked the door and entered.

It was not as if his day could get any worse.

It could.

Cecily MacCreadie sat upon the bed in a clean dress. All the filth had been wiped off her face. He had thought her bonnie covered in mud and blood, but clean, with a dark blue dress bringing out her stunning eyes, she stole his breath from his lungs. The lass was radiant and almost perfect were it not for some mud still clinging to her blonde hair, which hung loose and framed her sweet, heart-shaped face like an angel’s halo.

She gave him a broad smile, and even with her split lip and a bruise on her cheekbone, it was enough to make his knees buckle a little. Gods, but she was beautiful. It was not a lusty, buxom beauty or a whore’s painted-on beauty. Cecily MacCreadie was naturally radiant as if a light shone from within her face - so delicately drawn, her lips a perfect full pout of soft pink, her wide eyes the deep blue-green of sunlit water.

Damn the lass. Why could she not be plain and invisible? Why must she stir him when his blood was already up?

Her beaming smile was so sweet and childlike, and her demeanour so changed from the day before that, for a moment, Peyton wondered if she was a little simple. There was a vulnerability to her that pricked his conscience. He marched up to her, and the smile on her face never wavered as he struggled to think of what to say.

‘Are you well?’ he barked.

‘Aye, quite well, I thank you. And forgive my rudeness yesterday and lack of gratitude. It was a result of my ordeal, you see.’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose it was, and there’s nothing to forgive, lass.’ Looking like that, he could forgive her anything.

‘You were courageous, saving my honour the way you did. I am so grateful. You are my saviour.’

Something lustful stirred deep in his belly, and he brushed it off. ‘I need some answers, lass. Are you or are you not, Cecily MacCreadie?’

‘I am.’ She blinked up at him. ‘May I go home now?’

‘No.’

‘I swear I won’t tell anyone what happened.’

‘No. I cannot trust in that.’

She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t lock me up. It is so cold and lonely here, and I am frightened. Can you not show mercy?’

‘You must stay put until I work out what to do with you.’

‘But, Peyton, please.’ She batted her long eyelashes at him.

His name on her lips felt like a mockery, and Peyton saw the deceit behind the beautiful face. Humiliation burned him. Did she think him a complete fool? ‘You cannot go home, and that is final,’ he said, his temper rising.

Tears welled in Cecily’s lovely eyes, and one slid down her cheek and fell onto her lap. Even crying, she did prettily. But her jaw worked a little as if she was trying to contain her emotions.

‘I will try to make your stay as comfortable as possible, Cecily. Do you need anything?’

She heaved a great sigh. ‘Might I take a bath?

‘A bath?’

‘Aye, for I am filthy and stink of dirt.’

‘You look clean enough to me,’ he said, drinking in the sight of her. His eyes must have lingered too long, for she swallowed hard and looked down at her hands.

‘I…I want to wash Edmund off me,’ she said in a strangled voice.

‘Well, you will have to make do with a bowl and a rag for now,’ he said, wincing inside at his blunt manner of speaking. He was not used to reasoning with women, especially ones who looked like Cecily MacCreadie.

She rose and stared into his eyes. She was so perfectly beautiful that Peyton could barely look at her without feeling raw inside, exposed. It was as if she stripped away his skin to see his innards, to reveal every one of his faults, and each swelled in the mirror of her loveliness. He was painfully aware of his rough hands, his clumsy words, his bull-like strength, the way he towered over her delicacy like a big lumbering brute. All his shortcomings were laid bare in her calm, placating gaze.

‘I would be most grateful if you could get your servants to set me a bath,’ she said.

‘Would you now,’ he scoffed. ‘Do you think you are some fine lady who can command folk to haul water up four flights of stairs for your comfort? Save your airs and graces. There is no place for them here, and I’ll not indulge them.’

‘It is not airs and graces to be clean. I need to wash Edmund off. Have pity. I feel his touch on me, and it is making my flesh creep,’ she cried.

‘I said no.’

Tears welled, and for a moment, Peyton felt sorry for her despite the trouble she had caused him. He took hold of Cecily, meaning to comfort her.

She squirmed in the cage of his arms and then said, ‘You make my flesh creep, too. Get off me, kidnapper.’ It was as if she echoed Lorna’s scorn.

Cecily had to get away from the awful Peyton. But his grip tightened like a vice. When he first came in, the morning sun in his dark eyes had softened them somewhat, reducing his ferocity. Cecily imagined she saw sadness, pity, and even beauty in them. But now they were black with anger, and her plan to use her feminine wiles to get free of him had gone terribly wrong.

‘Who wounded your soul to make you so cruel?’ she spat. ‘You are a thug, a villain.’

‘I’m no villain.’

‘Aye, you are. Look at the state of you – all those bruises over your face.’

‘You have bruises, too. Does that make you a villain?’

Cecily saw red and kicked and screamed in a frenzy, but it had no effect on the wall of muscle before her.

‘Be still, lass,’ he cried.

‘No, let me go, you ruffian,’ she howled.

‘You are goading me, lass, and you had better not, or I will…’

‘Will what? Tell me what you will do,’ she spat.

‘Throw you over my lap and spank the life out of you,’ he snarled.

‘I hate you,’ she said, and Cecily’s temper broke. She slapped Peyton across the face. He barely flinched.

He pulled her closer, his face in hers. ‘If you do that again, I will punish you.’

Cecily could hardly breathe in her anger. She slapped Peyton again, harder. He put his hand on the back of her neck, forced her mouth to his and kissed her. The shock of it seemed to stop both of them in their tracks. She had a brief sensation of his beard prickling her face, and then it was over before it had begun, and he leapt back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as if she was something vile.

‘Forgive me. I should not have done that, and I’ll not do it again. But at least I found a way to get you to shut up,’ he said.

How dare he mock her! Cecily scuttled back from him, heart pounding. ‘You are a brute and a fiend.’

‘And you are telling me lies. I want to know more about Edmund and Jasper Glendenning.’

‘I’ll tell you nothing.’

‘Then you’ll stay locked in this tower until I return.’

‘From where?’ she cried.

He stormed out, locking the door behind him.

Well, that did not go too well. She’d lost her temper, and Peyton had certainly lost his – hateful man. Cecily slumped on the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling, her face glowing with fury.

***

Hours later, Bertha bustled in. ‘I hear you are in want of a bath. Come with me.’

A small victory. Peyton had given in to her demand. Cecily followed her down the stairs and outside into the yard. As she picked her way across the muck and slush, old straw and horse droppings, a voice called out, ‘Whore.’

Cecily turned to see a group of lasses, roughly dressed. A skinny, red-haired one glowered, her lip curling into a sneer.

‘Don’t mind them, lass, and especially not Aila,’ said Bertha. ‘That one over there has a fancy for the Laird. Much good it will do her, as he only has eyes for Lorna.’

‘Lorna?’

‘Never you mind about her.’ Bertha seemed to have said too much. Cecily glowered back at the Aila lass, but a tug on her arm dragged her forward into what appeared to be a stable.

‘Here we are. Her Ladyship’s bath,’ declared Bertha, sweeping aside a sheet to reveal half an old barrel.

‘I am to bathe here, in that?’ said Cecily.

‘It’s that or nothing,’ said Bertha, handing Cecily a lump of soap. ‘I put some hot in it, but you’d better be quick before the lads get curious and try and have a peep. In you go.’

A little later, as Cecily shivered in the barrel trying to get the mud out of her hair, she wondered at any woman having a fancy for Peyton. She shuddered at the memory of his rough mouth claiming hers. She also wondered if the barrel was a kindness or a punishment as Bertha threw a bucket of freezing water over her to rinse off the soap.

Damn the man to hell. She would spy out the guards and the gates on the way back inside and search for a means of escape. By tomorrow, she would be out of this hellhole.