“I think I like this one best, son,” Beathan’s father leaned in and whispered in his ear, breaking him out of his erotic reverie.
He turned toward his father to see the man nodding toward the stage, where Fred had just broken into a bawdy song.
“They’re well worth the coin, son. I dinnae think I’ve laughed so much in years!” his father said excitedly, his cheeks pink with amusement as he turned back to the stage.
Beathan looked at his father and wondered the last time he had seen him so happy. He had looked miserable for so long that Beathan had almost forgotten what the laird’s smile even looked like. Even after Beathan had finally agreed to his Grand Tour, his father had not been happy, not really. He was glad Beathan was going off to experience new things, but he would miss him.
Beathan was not ashamed to admit that both he and his father had shed a few tears the day he left for Dorset. But his father had beamed the day he returned, and every day thereafter. Beathan’s mother had told him more than once that his return had done more for his father’s health than all the tonics and treatments the physicians had tried in the years he had been gone.
Thinking on all this, Beathan suddenly realized something: my death would kill him.
If the attacker kills me, he’ll effectively kill Faither, too.
Beathan knew how important it was that the Dunn legacy be carried on by its true heir, the son of the laird. And he knew the family legacy was in danger as long as that killer with a bow and arrow was on the loose. This, more than anything else, more than Graham’s pleas, was what made Beathan decide to ask for his father’s help in finding the killer.
Because while his father might overextend himself looking for the person who put his son in danger, that was healthier than the decline in health grief over Beathan’s death would cause him. He needed to involve his father. For both of their sakes.
Which is why, as soon as the performance was over and the hall was emptied of people, Beathan strode to his father’s sitting room, where he knew he would find the man sipping whisky and reading one of the historical tomes he so favored.
He knocked on the door twice, waiting for his father’s call of “Come in, come in!” before entering.
Beathan couldn’t help smiling at the sight before him. For as long as he could remember, his father had adjourned to his sitting room each night for a whiskey and a book. Of course, now the whisky was often replaced with weak ale or even water, per the physician’s orders, but the visage was still the same: his faither, a relaxed smile on his face, settled in his chair, his head bent over a book.
“Faither?” Beathan said, causing his father to look up from his book.
“Beathan! Well, isn’t this a surprise! Sit down, sit down, lad. I’ll fetch ye a dram,” he said, slowly extricating himself from his chair and walking toward the cabinet where the whiskey was stored.
“Faither, daenae trouble yerself. I can pour me own whisky,” Beathan said, feeling guilty for making his father get up.
“Nonsense, lad. Sit yer arse down and I will be with ye in a moment,” he barked good-naturedly.
Beathan did as he was told, folding himself into a chair across from his father’s. He stretched his legs out toward the fire, relaxing as the heat caressed his legs and feet.
“Here ye are, son.” His father handed him a glass filled with far more than a dram of whisky, then settled back in his own chair.
“Now, I’m more than happy to see ye as often as ye like, lad, but is there any particular reason ye’ve decided to grace me with yer presence tonight of all nights?” his father asked, closing his book and placing it on a small wooden table to his right.
“Aye, there is,” Beathan said, taking a sip of whiskey for strength. “I have come to ask for yer help, ye see.”
Beathan then spent the next few minutes explaining what had happened the day before in the woods, as well as the fruitless search Graham and his men had executed earlier that day. He watched his father closely for a reaction as he spoke, but the man’s face remained placid and apathetic.
When Beathan had finished his story, he leaned forward and waited for his father’s response. It took the old man a good few minutes, during which his face changed from apathy to something bordering on anger, but eventually, he spoke in a tone Beathan knew he was fighting to keep measured.
“How,” his father began, “how could ye keep somethin’ like this from me? Yer own faither! Ye ken I would want to learn if someone made an attempt on me son’s life. Me son, the future laird to all this,” he said, gesturing around the room, “the heir to the Dunn clan legacy, the castle, the land, and all its people. Did ye not think that I might like to ken if someone was tryin’ to kill ye and everythin’ yer name stands for?!”
“In my defence,” Beathan started, but his father held up a hand, signalling him to shut his mouth, which Beathan immediately did.
“Ye have no defence, lad, other than selfless stupidity. I ken why ye kept it from me, ye see,” his father said, taking extra care as he placed his glass on the table. “I ken ye dinnae want to trouble me with such things; ye think it’ll only exacerbate my ill health.”
“Aye,” Beathan mumbled.
“But ye’re wrong, boy. There’s nothin’ in this world, no disease or ailment, that could keep me from protectin’ me own. As long as I’m alive and breathin’, I’m laird of this castle and this family. So if my son is in danger, I need to ken about it. Ye understand me, lad?”
“Aye,” Beathan said again.
“Good. Och, it feels like yer a child again and I am reprimandin’ ye for stealin’ biscuits from the cook. Ye’re a man, Beathan. A man asks for help when he needs it. Daenae forget that.”
“I’m sorry, Faither,” Beathan said, desperately hoping the chiding was over. He was clenched tight, awaiting further blows, but none came. Instead, his father relaxed back into his seat, sighing heavily and running a hand over his scraggly black beard.
“Well,” he said, huffing out a laugh. “Now that that’s done, let’s get to plannin’. I will have this killer caught in two days, mark me words, son. An’ then I will hang him by his toes in the dungeon for the rest of eternity as penance.”
Beathan knew his father was joking about the last part; though laird of the land, he had to follow the same rules as everyone else when it came to punishing a villain. The killer would have to go to court, and, if found guilty, a public hanging would be done.
It was a humiliating and slow, painful death, and Beathan heartily hoped the man who had tried to kill him and harmed Kirsteen in the bargain experienced it very soon indeed. With this in mind, Beathan and his father spent the next hour planning a manhunt, using the best warriors the castle had available.
Eventually, Logan was called in to be informed of the plan, since he would be the one actually gathering up the warriors and sending them off to their various posts. He stood, as always, stock still, that familiar half-frown half-grimace on his face, and listened to the laird speak.
“I will send a few out now to guard the perimeter of the forest, an’ at dawn we will send the rest to protect the area,” Beathan’s father told Logan. “We will have them switch every three hours, so everyone gets a rest an’ stays sharp. I want every man given a length of rope to tie up the scoundrel and a small drum to beat to let us know when he has been captured.”
“Verra well, sir. Which men would ye like sent out tonight?” Logan asked.
Beathan watched his father rattle off a list of some of the warriors he had gone into battle with, who now resided in and around the castle in the village.
“Faither? Am I not on the night watch as well?” Beathan asked when the man had finished speaking and Logan had left the room to fetch the men.
Beathan knew the answer before his father spoke it; it was clear in the way the man winced at the question, looking truly apologetic before he opened his mouth and said, “Er, no, son. Ye‘re nae goin’ with them, tonight or any other time.”
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br /> “But Faither,” Beathan said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, “I’m one of the best warriors the castle has. My sparrin’ skills are far better than any of the men ye’ve sent, an’ I’m stronger, as well. I can do this, and I should. I should be the one to catch this man.”
“Nay, ye shouldn’t!” his father barked, surprising Beathan with his ferocity. “Yer life’s in danger; that’s why we ‘re havin’ this hunt in the first place! I’m nae goin’ to send ye out there where a killer could find ye. I dinnae care how good a warrior ye are, Beathan. I willnae put yer life in any more risk than it already is.”
Beathan’s father’s face had begun to turn red with anger, but he took a deep breath now, calming himself before he continued in a far softer and more restrained voice.
“Beathan,” he said. “Ye and I ken that ye’re the best warrior for miles. But the killer is fixed on ye, lad. Puttin’ ye in his path is an unwise decision, an’ after thirty years as laird o’ these parts, I pride myself on avoidin’ unwise decisions.”
“I understand, Faither,” Beathan said.
And he did. He knew his father was right; it wasn’t safe for him to be hunting a killer who was after him. It would only make it all the easier for the killer to find him and shoot an arrow that hit its intended target.
Still, Beathan knew that despite this logic, he would be angry and frustrated as he watched the warriors prowl the grounds, looking for his attacker tomorrow.
When he had quit the sitting room and gone to his chambers, he knew that he would spend his night at the window, wishing he could be out in the forest, listening for the creak of twigs that told of footsteps, the halting breath that said someone was near. The warrior in him wanted to be of use, but the future laird in him knew that protecting himself was of far more importance.
And so, after bidding his father goodnight, Beathan walked up to his room and steeled himself for another night of restlessness. Perhaps I ought to read, to take my mind off things, he thought as he walked by a stack of unread books sitting on a table by his hearth.
Beathan’s fingers were grazing the soft spine of a Jonathan Swift book when another idea came to him. Instead of spending his night with literature, why not spend it with the lass?
10
Logan loved his position in the castle. The laird had taken him in when he was little more than a boy, working in the village tavern and living in a squalid room barely big enough for a bed. After realizing how good Logan was at sums, the laird had invited him to work at the castle as the assistant to his chamberlain, helping to manage all his affairs.
From those humble beginnings, Logan had eventually become Seumas Dunn’s secretary and the first man he went to with a problem. Logan was not only secretary, but often the chamberlain as well. He did whatever the laird told him to, and was paid a pretty penny in return. And mostly, Logan was honored to do the laird’s bidding, going above and beyond his duties in order to satisfy his superior and his kin, but on this occasion, he was not so inclined.
Beathan Dunn was a kind man and Logan genuinely respected him. He saw much of his father in the young man, and Logan knew that one day he would make an excellent laird.
However, it seemed that Beathan had not entirely gotten over the insouciance of youth, for he had requested Logan to bring him one of the actors from the troupe, asking that she be “brought in the back entrance, and taken directly to me chambers.”
Logan knew that men of Beathan’s stations were known to have trysts with women of the lower classes; when he worked at the tavern, he had seen more than a few lairds from the surrounding areas meet barmaids for afternoons of pleasure that were not impacted by their difference in station.
However, Beathan was of better stock than that, or so Logan had thought. But here he was, trudging through the muddy hills to the acting troupe’s tent to fetch an actress for the future laird’s pleasure.
Unbelievable, Logan muttered as one of his boots became stuck in a particularly wet patch of mud. If only the laird knew.
Seumas Dunn would not stand for his son behaving so improperly. He would not want his son cavorting with an actress of all women! After all, everyone knew that actresses were as good as prostitutes, and though Logan knew that those women were also favored by men of the upper classes, he knew that the men of the Dunn family did not associate themselves with such drivel.
Never once in the twenty years he had worked for the laird had he been asked on a similar errand. The lairdship was faithful to his wife and his wife only, and Logan had it on good authority that the lady of the castle was the only one to ever grace his lairdship’s bed.
That is how things ought to be done, Logan thought as he ripped his foot out of the mud and trudged on.
He had half a mind to tell the laird of his son’s actions, but he knew that doing so would break the trust that Beathan had for him, and this would not do. Logan hoped to be the future laird’s secretary, and to do that he needed to stay in Beathan’s good graces. Which, sadly, meant delivering the man his woman for the evening.
The tents were lit up with lanterns and a violin was playing a jaunty song as Logan approached the area. He heard singing in some language other than English and turned his nose up; anything but Scots music made him shiver with derision.
Approaching the first tent he saw, Logan called out, “A message from the castle for Miss Roy!”
A second later, Kirsteen’s head popped out of the tent, her hair half-hanging out of a plait and cascading down her back. “Logan! How lovely to see you,” she said, and Logan could not tell whether or not she was speaking in jest.
“Mr. Beathan Dunn has requested your presence in his chambers promptly,” he said, choosing a spot just above the tent to fix his eyes on. He knew if he looked inside the tent he would see lewdness the likes of which he could not even fathom; he knew how these performer-types conducted themselves.
“Oh!” Kirsteen exclaimed, looking shocked. “Erm, could you give me a few minutes to be ready?” she asked. She must have noticed the subtle twitch of anger on Logan’s face, for she was quick to add, “I won’t take long, I promise.”
“Verra well,” Logan replied, turning around and stalking toward the edge of the camp. He looked out toward the forest, his hands clasped behind his back, carefully watching the guards walk slowly past the trees.
“I’m ready!” Kirsteen called a minute later, and Logan turned to find her hair up in some sort of complicated bun on her head, and a dress of dark emerald green gracing her body. She was pretty, he supposed, if one liked that sort of thing, but hardly worthy of the future laird.
Silently, Logan led Kirsteen back to the castle, sneaking her through the back entrance, past the servants’ stairs and up to the third floor where Beathan’s chambers lay.
He knocked on Beathan’s door, a firm three knocks, as was his custom. Beathan opened the door immediately, his face breaking into a wide smile as his eyes fell on Kirsteen.
“Lass!” he exclaimed, before noticing Logan standing just behind her.
“Thank ye, Logan. That’ll be all for the evenin’,” he said, pulling Kirsteen into his chambers by the arm and shutting the door behind her.
Logan rolled his eyes as he walked off, counting down the days til the acting troupe was gone. He could not wait.
Kirsteen had been singing a lullaby to calm herself as she plaited her hair for bed when Logan came to get her. She had been holding off tears for hours, distracting herself with organizing her costumes, picking out her dress for the next day, and arranging her hair. She was so shocked when she heard Logan’s voice outside her tent that she almost didn’t believe her ears.
Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me, she thought. After all, hadn’t she secretly been hoping Logan would come to get her all night and take her back to the castle, to Beathan?
Her kiss, or kisses, with Beathan that afternoon had left her breathless and filled with lust for hours to come, but when Logan hadn’t instruct
ed her to go to Beathan’s chambers right after the performance, as had been their custom before the attack, Kirsteen had convinced herself that Beathan regretted the kiss. Regretted her.
And thus, the sadness and the tears, or rather, the prevention of them, had ensued. Kirsteen had spent the next few hours berating herself for being so foolish as to kiss Beathan with wild abandon, with no concern for her morals, her heart.
You realize you aren’t right together, and now he has realized it, too, she had told herself as she plaited her hair, rapidly blinking her eyes to keep the tears from falling. She hated herself for going against her plan, for not better shielding herself from the heartache she could already feel crippling her chest.
She was getting ready to fling herself onto her cot and give in to her emotions when she heard Logan’s voice. There he was, glaring at her like she was a slug in his garden, telling her that Beathan wanted her, now, immediately. She was so happy when he told her that she could have kissed him, though she refrained, knowing that Logan would no doubt perish from disgust.
And now here she was, pressed against Beathan’s door, closing her eyes and biting her lip as the man kissed down her neck, pausing at the soft bit of skin where neck met shoulder. He bit her there, a small little bite that made her nipples tighten deliciously with need.
“Dae ye like that, lass?” he rasped in her ear, licking her lobe before taking it between his teeth and nibbling it slowly and sensually.
“Yes,” she croaked, lost in sensation. She knew she ought to ask him why he hadn’t called for her earlier; she knew, too, that they needed to discuss exactly what was going on between them. Was it merely a tryst, something that would stop the minute the last performance was over? Was she just a lover to him and nothing more?
These were important questions that needed to be answered, and yet Kirsteen couldn’t focus on them for more than a moment at a time as Beathan picked her up and carried her to a settee placed in front of the fire.
Highlander's Untamed Bride Page 6
