by Emily Royal
“Care for what?” Callum asked, his voice high with passion. “I was there when Da made you vow on his deathbed. Would you dishonour his last request? That bitch must pay for Flora’s death.”
“I’m aware of what Da said, Callum, but I loathe myself for what I must do.”
“My love.” A slim hand touched his arm as delicately as a rose petal which falls from the bloom. Margaret, his betrothed, her gentle features curled into a grimace.
“Do not loathe yourself. If anyone here had a right to such feelings ‘tis I. Many would say you should be asking my forgiveness.”
“And would you grant it?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “I would forgive any action you undertook for the benefit of our people, but why not give the Englishwoman to your men?”
“I cannot do that, Margaret.”
Her face twisted for a brief moment, her expression almost ugly before her features smoothed once more into the captivating smile. That smile had once enthralled him to the point where he had almost succeeded in driving from his mind the vision of the violet eyes of the woman who had visited him in his dreams—Elyssia.
Margaret sighed. “I forgive you, as will young Callum, but I would beg you, in turn, to forgive Callum his impetuousness. He’s a passionate, loyal young man.”
The feast over, Tavish planted a chaste kiss on her forehead before letting Callum escort her back to her quarters. She lived in a small suite of rooms at the opposite end of the castle to his, for the sake of propriety. He had loved her since they were children—they’d grown up together, but he felt no stirrings of passion in his body at her touch. The whores he had visited and maidservants he had seduced in his youth had elicited visceral reactions he had only dreamed of when coming into the first flushes of manhood, bringing forth cries of ecstasy for which he had paid them handsomely. With Margaret, he felt companionship. But only once in his five and twenty years had he experienced a passion that touched his soul and stirred his body to life. With her—only with her, the woman lying tethered and bound in his chamber; the woman who justly and irretrievably hated him.
If only he could spare her what was to come! But there was no return—the path only led forwards. The clan demanded retribution, to be paid by the daughter of de Montford. Either Elyssia or her sister must pay the price. She loved Alice too greatly, placing her sister’s welfare over her own. It was the purest form of love—like the love a mother has for her child. To protect Elyssia from harm, he would have to violate her sister instead, which would pain her more.
The iron hinges in his chamber door creaked in protest, breaking the silence which was only penetrated by the occasional bout of laughter in the distance or squeal of female pleasure. One of his men was receiving a warm welcome from a maidservant. Or perhaps young Callum. Not long having entered manhood, he showed the same vitality Tavish himself had possessed at his age, and the glances the maidservants threw in his direction during the feast told him Callum did not want for admirers. Let him sow his wild oats before the burden and responsibility of marriage tethered him to another. As the younger son, Callum had less duty to fulfil in his choice of bride. As the elder, Tavish’s responsibility was to provide the clan with an heir to sustain the male line. Margaret would give him that heir—a legitimate heir. He must marry her rather than father bastards.
Bastards. His da’s dying words burned in his memory. Send her back with a Highlander’s bastard in her belly, son. Only then will de Montford have paid his due.
Even before he saw the dark shape on the floor beside the fireplace, he sensed her presence—a shift in the air as if her body called to him. Kneeling beside her sleeping form, he held his hand against her face. A faint puff of her breath warmed his palm, tightening the skin. Running his fingertips along the side of her face, he winced at the sight of the bruises that adorned her features, marks of her ruination. His fingers followed a path to her chin, tracing the knife wound, the dry lumps and bumps of blood which clung to her skin. The swelling had subsided, but the wound would remain. It might fade, but what man would want her now—ruined and scarred?
His fingers met the coarse fibres of the rope around her neck. Even in the poor light the angry red mark where it had chafed her skin glowed reproachfully at him—the mark of her debasement and humiliation. Yet the burden of shame had fallen upon him as she had walked through the courtyard, body erect, holding her sister’s hand. Only he had seen through her act—a display of strength and dignity to preserve her sister’s peace of mind, betrayed by the expression in her eyes. Only he knew those eyes could shine with joy. How he longed to see the joy in her once more!
He fumbled at the knot in the rope and worked it loose, discarding it on the floor.
She whimpered in her sleep.
“No, Papa, do not make me.”
She was the daughter condemned to pay the price for the sins of the sire. De Montford had committed the ultimate sin against Flora, but what sins had he committed on his own daughter? Tavish’s da had doted on Flora from the day Ma had lifted her into his arms. With a son already, the Old MacLean had not suffered the desperation all men experience when their wives enter their confinement—the blend of fear for the life of his woman and the burning need for an heir. His joy at Flora’s birth had grown with each day she lived.
In the end, that joy had been Da’s undoing—to see the destruction of his daughter. Suffering from failing health himself, the Old MacLean had died from a broken heart.
Would de Montford’s heart break when Elyssia was returned to him with a bastard in her belly? Or might he merely cast her aside? Tavish may have pledged to make de Montford suffer—but would he? Justice was only served if the one he sought it from suffered to the same degree, if he also lost something he valued and cherished. If de Montford cared nothing for his daughter, then all Tavish would achieve would be the ruination of an innocent life.
She stirred again and cried out in her sleep.
“No! Please! Do not hurt me!”
She flung an arm out, and he caught it and drew her to him. As a babe uses instinct to draw comfort from its mother’s embrace, she relaxed in his arms, and her cries lessened to a murmur.
“Shhh…” He stroked her hair, and she quietened. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Aye,” she whispered in her sleep. “My Highlander.”
Her body mirrored the frigid temperature of the chamber. The fire had not been lit. How long had she been lying on the floor?
He picked her up and carried her to his bed, covering her with a fur. Still asleep, her face relaxed into a smile.
“My Highlander…”
Did she dream of him? Had he penetrated her dreams these past two years the same way she had visited his? The invisible bond between them had grown ever stronger despite the distance which separated them, even though neither expected to see the other again.
Whispering of her Highlander again, she nestled close to him, sending a fireball of passion through his flesh. His manhood jerked in need of her.
Tonight he would give her the pleasure she deserved. He would be her Highlander, the man she yearned for, the illusion. That night, when he’d given her pleasure two years ago, he had told Elyssia that her first time would be with the man who loved her. But he had lied. Her first time would be forever carved into her memory as a time of pain, humiliation, and loss.
But tonight, he could fulfil her dream. Alone, behind his chamber door, away from the prying eyes and listening ears of his people, he could forget duty to his clan and be her Highlander.
His selfish body sought gratification. His very flesh yearned for her. Selfish also was his wish to give her pleasure. He needed to lessen the guilt burning inside him. By treating her tenderly, might she forgive him?
Stripping off his plaid, he threw it on the floor before pulling off his shirt. His manhood surged in his breeches in its eagerness to be buried inside her. Body taut with lust, he lay beside her and stroked her face with tender fingers until she
turned to face him, eyes still closed.
Better able to play the part of the man of her dreams than her captor, he caressed the skin of her face, tracing a line along her scar until he reached her lips which she parted with a sigh. He planted a soft kiss on the scar, before following the line to her mouth, tongue probing, tasting; relishing her sweetness, the taste of honey and innocence.
Sighing against his mouth, she parted her lips, inviting him in. Tonight she saw him as her saviour: the man who had defiled her had been banished to the dark recesses of her mind, the cellar within which evil things are kept hidden.
He unlaced the front of her gown. Wetting his lips, he placed feathered kisses along the red mark circling her neck. The tangy taste of salt on her skin peppered with the sharper taste of blood where the skin had been broken.
She whimpered again. Hushing her, he caressed her shoulders while he continued to kiss her throat. Her chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. He became more insistent, delivering tiny open-mouthed kisses, hands parting the front of her gown, knuckles brushing against the skin of her breasts. A further jolt of desire stirred in his groin as her nipples hardened against his hands.
The stale smell of sweat which lingered over her tattered garments was replaced by a richer scent—the deep, sweet aroma of her need. Her unique essence had driven him almost mad with desire two years ago; the scent of a woman, utterly ready for a man.
He took a nipple in his mouth, savouring the taste of her. His tongue swirled against the soft skin before dancing over the precious little bud which hardened further. He took a deep pull, drawing the peak into his mouth and caressed the skin with his hand—soft, silken skin so unlike the calloused surface of his palms or the roughened skin of the whores.
A low cry of desire escaped her lips. Was she reliving her dreams—dreaming of him? Did she see him as her Highlander, the man who had rescued her? Or as Tavish MacLean, the man who had destroyed her? Did she want to escape as he did, to live for a brief moment in peace and happiness before the reality of her situation crushed her once more?
Eyes still closed, she reached out, and he took her hands, entwining his fingers within hers—two souls forever entangled; joined, at this moment, in need.
He grazed her nipple with his teeth, and she cried out and arched her back. Her legs began to move in a slow, unconscious dance, shifting back and forth, knees bending, rising and falling in a gentle motion, the swell of the tide. Muscles flexing, thighs parting, her body issued its invitation—welcoming, drawing him in. Her musky scent increased, casting its spell, and desire surged through his body and tightened his groin.
Releasing her hands, he unlaced his breeches before he covered her with his body. His lips touched hers, and she opened her mouth, pulling him in, her tongue curling around his, soft rumbles of pleasure in her throat.
Skin to skin their bodies fused, her thighs parting wider to accommodate him. With the tip of his manhood, he probed against her, a surge of need almost undoing him as the damp, welcoming heat caressed him. Soft, crooning sounds escaped her lips, and she lifted her hips, her body pleading.
Slowly, gently, wanting nothing but to give her the gift of pleasure, he entered her. Her tight, warm body cocooned him, her soft dance growing more intense. Her body began to pulse faintly, drawing him further in.
“Ahh…” a sigh rumbled in her throat, and she arched her back. He withdrew before plunging into her again. Her body pulsed more strongly, sending waves of pleasure radiating throughout her flesh and into his. She cried out, and his movements became more urgent. His body tightened with his own need—the desperate, longing need for the woman he had craved since he first laid eyes on her.
Meeting him thrust for thrust, she threw back her head, exposing her neck, frantic mewling gasps morphing into a shrill cry of pleasure and completion as he thrust into her one final time. His body burst with unkempt passion, fusing their bodies as indelibly as their souls were entwined.
He fell forward, his flesh weakened as if she had cast a spell on him. Drawing her to him, he rolled onto his side so as not to crush her with his huge frame. Instinctively she buried her head in the crook of his arm, reaching out to him, and she grasped his arms in her hands as if frightened he would abandon her.
“Shhh…” he whispered, his voice breathless from the exertion. “I’m with you.”
Her body relaxed at his words. For a fleeting moment, she opened her eyes, the vivid blue flashing in the candlelight. In them, he saw nothing but love—a pure, honest love for another human; the love he had only ever seen in the eyes of his mother and of his sister. His sister, now cold in her grave, her body battered and crumbling in the earth; his mother driven away by grief at the loss of her daughter and husband. What right had he—had anyone—to blame the woman in his arms for actions of another that were beyond her control? What right had he to punish her merely for the misfortune of being de Montford’s daughter?
She whimpered, and he relaxed his hold. The love in her eyes faded, replaced by recognition and finally horror. The dream yielded to reality, her Highlander replaced by her captor. Her body stiffened, and she let out a low cry of shame and horror.
A faint hiss signalled the death of the candle, and the chamber plunged into darkness. Protected from her accusing gaze, he drew her to him and kissed her forehead.
“Hush,” he whispered. “You’re safe here with your Highlander.”
She struggled for a moment before the dream conquered the reality and she relaxed into his embrace once more. Her conscious mind had crawled away to hide so she could extend the dream for a few hours more. If only he could do the same! At that moment, all he wanted to do was to forget who he was—forget the names of MacLean and de Montford, and hold her in his arms.
* * *
Tavish opened his eyes and stretched, his eyes adjusting to the light as a silver glow signalled the oncoming dawn. Why was he so warm?
Elyssia.
She lay against him, her chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of one who is content, who trusts and feels safe. Shaking his head with guilt at how her dreams were about to be destroyed again, he answered the faint knock at the chamber door.
“Ross.”
“Pardon, my lord. I’ve come to return the English bitch to her chamber.”
Suppressing a surge of anger, he nodded. Better the deed be done—and quickly—so that she could be returned to her father.
He motioned to the servant to come closer.
“Aye, Ross. I’m done with my whore. Return her to her chamber. I trust the half-wit sister gave you no trouble.”
“She was a little restless at first, but Isla administered a sleeping draught. She sleeps still.”
“Good. Send for Duncan, will you? I’ll break my fast in my chamber.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Tavish sat up, and a movement made him look round.
Elyssia watched him, her violet eyes wide and rimmed with moisture.
She had heard him.
He reached out, but she jerked away, holding her hands protectively in front of her gown to shield her body from him. A single tear bloomed before she blinked and it spilled onto her cheek, leaving a glistening trail of shame in its wake.
The pain in her eyes darkened into hatred before the colour dulled into the grey of resignation. Ross approached her, holding the noose, and she sat up and bowed her head in surrender.
“Nay, Ross. Not the rope,” Tavish said, unable to witness further humiliation.
“My lord?”
“‘Tis not kind. She’s not an animal.”
She turned to face him, but her eyes showed no recognition of what he had said, no acknowledgement of this small act of kindness. But why should he expect it? She had opened her heart to him in his bed—and he to her. Yet in the cold grey light of the morning when reality dawned along with the day, the precious kingdom they had forged together became an illusion, a twisted work of devilry fashioned to destroy her spirit.
&n
bsp; With slow, deliberate movements, she stood, the only sign of her anguish the slight trembling in the hem of her tattered gown.
“Come with me,” Ross said.
Ross turned to leave, and she followed in his wake, her body gliding as if she were a ghost. And a ghost she was. Her body may be alive, but her soul was not. He saw Flora in her movements—walking in shame from de Montford’s chamber after he had violated her and used her as his whore.
Whore. My whore. That was what Elyssia had become, what she had heard from his lips.
The faint sounds of the dawn chorus penetrated the walls from outside—birds wakening from their slumber, bodies huddled together in their nests, beaks wide open in an instinctive urge to herald the beginning of a new day. As she shuffled out of the chamber, bent, cowed, and broken, the shrill sounds morphed into another, sharper sound. One which came from deep within Tavish’s mind—the sound of his soul ripping into pieces.
Chapter 9
A rough voice roused Elyssia from her sleep.
“Get up.”
Alice stirred and Elyssia drew her sister to her.
“Lyssie? Where were you?”
“Here, sweet one.”
The man at the door gave a crude laugh, “Apart from when you were whoring yourself out.”
Elyssia closed her eyes as if to distance herself from her shame but the laughter only grew more potent with the loss of sight, and she opened them again. Standing upright, she faced him. It was not her disgrace—these savages were the ones who had acted dishonourably.
“Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To work. You must earn your keep rather than languish at the expense of Clan MacLean.” His lip curled into a sneer, wrinkling his nose as if her very presence sickened him. “You’ll earn your keep well enough in the master’s bed, but a whore must earn her living honestly as well—particularly an English whore.”
