Traitor Or Temptress

by Helen Dickson

  ‘And your mother? How did she come to meet Edgar McBryde?’

  ‘When she came to Scotland with my grandmother on a rare visit to her family. She met my father in Edinburgh.’

  Iain shifted his position to make himself more comfortable on the rock, his arms still folded around her in what had almost become an intimate embrace. ‘When this is over, will you ever forgive me for kidnapping you, Lorne McBryde?’

  His question was so unexpected that Lorne searched for something to say. After a moment she shook her head, her hair rippling down her back like water from a pump, and she slanted him a smile so wide it was like the sun rising over the Scottish mountains. ‘Well,’ she said, trying to sound severe despite the mirth shimmering in her eyes. ‘I might forgive you for kidnapping me, because I understand why you are doing it, you see—but it’s a hanging offence to make me shave you.’

  Iain laughed out loud at that, and the unexpected charm of his white smile that followed did treacherous things to Lorne’s heart. She was glad to discover he had a sense of humour.

  ‘Then I may repeat the offence by asking you to shave me again tomorrow—and each day after that while you remain at Norwood. Now—continue telling me how your parents met.’ Iain was amazed by his own curiosity to know everything about her, and sublimely content to let her beauty feed his gaze, creating within his being a sweet, hungering ache.

  ‘They were attracted to each other from the start, but my grandparents were against them forming any attachment. They did everything they could to keep them apart, but my mother was determined to have her way.’ Lorne smiled wistfully. ‘For all his blusterings, my father loved her deeply, and he was quietly proud of the way she would stand up to him and speak her mind. I recall him telling me how stubborn she could be—that she was as hot-headed as any man, and that she had a temper that could make a mountain tremble.’

  ‘She must have been a rare jewel, your mother.’

  Lorne met his gaze, seeing his eyes were warm and smiling. ‘Yes, she was, although I don’t remember her very well.’

  ‘And she had traits that have been inherited by her daughter.’

  ‘It looks that way, I suppose. Anyway, she was set on marrying my father and in the end my grandparents gave in—but it broke their hearts. They never saw her again—or Robert and James. When my mother died I was three years old. Determined to abide by my mother’s wishes, my father made sure my education was taken care of and that I was taught English, although for most of the time I was virtually ignored and left to do very much as I pleased. If I had been a boy, it would have been different,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way, having accepted the truth of this at an early age.

  About to attack the tuft of hair growing around the cut on his cheek, which she had left until last, she said, ‘After—after what happened—when my father was outlawed, as I have already told you I was sent to live with my grandmother.’

  ‘And now? Is there a reason for your return?’

  She nodded, growing cold on being reminded of what awaited her at Drumgow.

  Iain’s brows drew together into a slight frown as he looked at her, seeing her eyes were tinged with sadness. ‘Is it so very terrible?’ he asked gently.

  ‘It is to me,’ she replied quietly. ‘It is Robert’s wish for me to marry one of his neighbours.’

  ‘I see.’ His expression sombre, Iain considered her for a space, then asked, ‘And is this prospective bridegroom known to you?’

  ‘Yes—and to you, too, I believe. It is Duncan Galbraith.’

  There was a moment’s silence as Iain digested this news and then he looked deep into her eyes. ‘So that’s the way of things. And do I detect a reluctance on your part?’

  She nodded, seeing something in his eyes akin to compassion. ‘Because I was so far away I was unable to participate in the betrothal negotiations. With my father’s permission Robert proceeded without me. Duncan is Laird of Kinlochalen now. His older brothers were killed in a skirmish with a rival clan. Both Robert and Duncan welcome a union between our families and are eager for the wedding to take place as soon as I arrive at Drumgow.’

  ‘What I see in your eyes tells me that the bride is not so eager to sacrifice herself on the altar of matrimony merely to unite two ancient bloodlines. Why don’t you want to marry Duncan Galbraith?’

  Lorne’s eyes fell from his. ‘I have my reasons. I am not obliged to share them with you,’ she answered quietly, wondering what his reaction would be if she told him that it was Duncan who had betrayed the whereabouts of Iain’s brother that day to Ewan Galbraith, and that because of it she had sworn an oath never to speak to Duncan again for as long as she lived. She could never forgive him, but nor could she convey the knowledge of what he had done to Iain Monroe either.

  ‘I don’t want to marry him—and I will beg my brothers’ understanding, but I fear my protests will be to no avail against Robert’s determination—and my father’s, if, as you say, he has returned to Scotland. In fact, I strongly suspect that it is my father who is behind it.’

  Iain gave the proud young woman within the circle of his arms a long, assessing look. By kidnapping her he had inadvertently, but effectively, ruined all her chances of acquiring a decent husband in her grandmother’s genteel world—unless the scandal her liaison with Rupert Ogleby had caused had already put paid to that—but his instinct told him that these things would not concern Duncan Galbraith.

  She was the precious property of Edgar McBryde, and—if young Ogleby was to be believed, at least in part, which he was inclined to do, for he strongly believed there was never smoke without fire—had already been enjoyed by one man. A lazy grin suddenly swept over his rugged face, for he would derive immense satisfaction and a good deal of pleasure in tasting for himself the delights of Galbraith’s lovely young bride before she reached the marital bed. It was the most exciting thought he had entertained in many months.

  ‘If you were hoping for a turn of fate, then perhaps I have inadvertently brought it about,’ he said, his iron-thewed arms tightening slightly about her slender waist and a slumberous expression appearing in his heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘Oh? In what way?’ Lorne asked, becoming much too conscious of being held too close, and the magnetism of his powerful frame, that made her heart leap into her throat.

  ‘The way I see it, I may have done you a favour by kidnapping you. I may be saving you from a fate worse than death. Perhaps Galbraith will not be so eager to wed you when he knows I—his sworn enemy—am keeping you, since I am the one responsible for bringing his father to the gallows. He may even find someone else to marry.’

  Lorne sighed, shaking her head slowly. ‘No, he won’t. Duncan and I were friends once. He was fiercely protective of me and always there. I was grateful to him—in fact, if it hadn’t been for Duncan and Rory, his younger brother, I don’t know how I would have survived when my mother died. But I remember him as an arrogant, possessive youth, and when he made up his mind about something, he would not let go easily.’

  Iain looked down at her, his gaze attentive. ‘You have an interesting past, Lorne McBryde.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so, my lord. I would call it extraordinary.’ She focused her attention on the few remaining hairs around the cut on Iain’s cheek, eager to complete her task so she could break free of his hold, for she was aware of a gnawing disquiet settling on her at being held too close for too long. Somewhere deep within her a spark flickered and flared, setting her skin ablaze and filling her body with liquid fire. Despite her rioting nerves, outwardly she remained calm.

  ‘Now, hold still,’ she breathed. ‘Apart from the hairs around the wound I’m almost finished.’

  A slow smile curved his lips. ‘Are you sure you have the stomach for it?’

  A rueful smile brought up the corners of her lips. ‘I have a cast-iron stomach, my lord—although I must warn you that if you do not hold yourself still, it will hurt more before I’m through with you. I might even be tempted
to mar your features permanently and make you look like Lucifer, as recompense for kidnapping me—which would certainly put paid to your handsome looks and amours with the ladies.’

  ‘Or enhance them,’ Iain countered softly, his eyes capturing hers with an intimacy that made Lorne’s blood run warm. ‘To be so disfigured might intrigue them—and make them wonder what it would be like to bed with the devil.’

  As Lorne gazed at his proud aristocratic face, unable to conceal her naïveté, visions of such a thing happening brought two bright flags of scarlet to her cheeks and an uneasiness coursing through her. He was speaking to her as if he had ceased to think of her as his enemy, but as a lover, almost, and she was at a loss to know how to react. Deciding it was best to make light of the situation, which she always did when she was presented with an awkward moment, she gave him a beguiling smile.

  ‘And it will be their hell to pay if they do. Still—I’m sure you know what’s what.’

  He gazed at her, eyes amused, a smile curving on his lower lip. ‘I’ve never had any complaints.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve had a lot of practice. Maybe you and the devil aren’t so very different after all—and I must consider myself fortunate that our relationship is already established.’

  ‘And what is our relationship?’

  She cocked her head to one side and looked at him squarely. ‘We are enemies, of course. What else?’

  His eyes glowed wickedly. ‘What else indeed. I do not claim to hold your family in any esteem—but you—you are a different matter, Lorne McBryde. You intrigue me and I have a yearning to get to know you better. For the time we are together, can we not, in common agreement, strive to be as gracious and mannerly as it is possible for enemies to be towards each other?’

  ‘That depends on whether or not you hold still and allow me to finish the task you gave me. And do not forget that I still hold the knife,’ she reminded him quietly, with a glint of mischief sparking in her bright green eyes, and a puckish smile on her lips.

  ‘Then I am yours to command and surrender myself to your ministerings completely.’ Iain chuckled, unmoved by her gentle chiding.

  Lorne’s hands trembled slightly as she bent her attention to her task, having to use all her concentration to steady them as she passed the blade close to the wound. She gazed at it through a blur of hot tears. With her own deep sensitivity, she hated to think she had caused his injury.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Is it horrendous?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. The wound is quite deep, but it doesn’t need stitching. Although—it might leave a faint scar.’

  ‘’Twill not be my only scar—although the others are mementoes of the wars.’

  ‘And do they attest to other men’s deaths?’

  ‘I will just say that I have survived better than my adversaries.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, suddenly overcome with remorse when she focused her eyes on the wound. ‘I’m so—so sorry.’

  Iain heard the sincerity in her tearful voice and he was touched that she could express so much compassion and gentleness for her enemy. He suddenly felt vaguely ashamed of what he was doing to her. ‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured achingly, his voice hoarse. ‘’Tis only a scratch.’

  Hearing the strange, compellingly gentle quality in his deep voice, Lorne lifted her eyes and met his steady gaze. ‘It isn’t. It’s much more than that. I didn’t mean to make you so angry or for you to hurt yourself—or for Archie’s horse to go galloping off like that.’

  The tender apology of her reply almost demolished Iain’s reserve and his throat constricted around an unfamiliar knot of emotion. Paralysed by what he was thinking and feeling, he stared at her soft mouth with a hunger that he was finding difficult to control. Her eyes were awash with tears and when they began to spill over her lashes and run slowly down her cheeks, it almost unmanned him.

  ‘Please don’t cry,’ he murmured, pulling her into his embrace and wrapping his arms around her, his one desire being to calm her, to hold her, but in that moment another kind of desire, potent and primitive, swelled inside him, one he wanted to savour and enjoy. Lowering his mouth to hers, he succumbed to the impulse that had been tormenting him and kissed her long and deep and undemanding, feeling the softness of her lips and tasting the salt of her tears. His arms tightened across her back, pressing the contours of her body to his, and he almost lost his head entirely when he felt her lips open under his and she kissed him back.

  To Lorne, being kissed like that was like being cocooned in a warm world of sensuality. His lips were teasing, tormenting and provoking—not at all like that other kiss, which had been brutal and meant to punish. Her world began to tilt and the searing lips sent tremors rippling through her body, touching every nerve until they were aflame with desire. She was aware of nothing. All that mattered was the closeness of this man and the protection of his arms.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Iain raised his head and tenderly gazed down into her melting green eyes. The woman in his arms affected him like a heady wine. Her warm, open face was unable to conceal her innocence. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured.

  ‘What?’ she breathed, struggling to release herself from the trance-like state induced by his kiss. ‘What do you wonder?’

  ‘If you are as guileless and innocent as you appear to be.’

  She laughed lightly, the sound as merry and relaxed as a child at play, and as pure as the water running over the pebbles close by. ‘I don’t think so. You must have noticed that I have a tendency towards disobedience and defiance.’

  His dark eyes narrowed, studying her with quiet intensity. ‘You’re a most perverse wench, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I am merely protecting my honour,’ she countered. ‘I have also often been accused of being far too wilful and headstrong for my own good.’

  His look was one of wry amusement. ‘Aye. You have not been with us twenty-four hours and already my experience with you leads me to agree. You are Edgar McBryde’s daughter for sure.’

  When he released his hold she backed away from him. Bringing himself up to his full height, he reached out to draw her back, but when his hand touched her arm she winced and gasped. Immediately he was concerned.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I—hurt my arm when I fell—that’s all.’

  ‘Let me see,’ he ordered quietly, awash with guilt when he remembered how roughly he had handled her. He had been so wrapped up in his own anger that not once had he thought to ask if she was hurt. Taking her arm, he saw her sleeve was torn and dark with dried blood. Gently he rolled it up to her elbow, seeing the flesh was grazed, sore and bruised.

  Lorne tried to draw her arm away but he held on to it. ‘Please—don’t concern yourself. As you can see, it’s nothing, I assure you.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I should have realised you might be hurt. My mother was always telling me that my temper and my thoughtlessness are my worst enemies.’

  ‘You are not to blame. The horse balked and threw me on the sound of the horn—I assumed that he would be familiar with it on the hunt.’

  ‘Archie doesn’t ride to hunt on that particular horse. He purchased it just before we set out, and had no idea it would shy at the sound of the hunting horn.’ He grinned. ‘Which is fortunate for me that it does, otherwise I might still be chasing after you.’

  ‘What? On that magnificent beast of yours? You would have caught up with me in no time at all.’ She sighed resignedly, pouting her lips prettily. ‘Trust me to pick the one horse that has no stomach for the hunt.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I shouldn’t have gone hurtling after you like I did.’ Deftly his fingers felt the bones. ‘There’s nothing broken, but it’s bruised and you have a nasty graze there. Still, it’s nothing that a cold compress won’t help,’ he said, having dressed many a wound in his years as a soldier. Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted her effortlessly on to the rock he had just vacated. ‘Sit
there. It’s your turn to be ministered to.’

  With her permission he tore a strip of material from the hem of her petticoat. After dipping one half in the burn, he cleansed the graze carefully, washing away the dried blood with long, cooling strokes, before binding it with the other half. His hands were gentle and he didn’t speak as he bent his head over her arm, which gave Lorne a moment to dwell on what had just happened between them.

  Without his beard and with his hair falling forward in roguish curls over his brow, Iain Monroe looked youthful and more vulnerable. As she watched him she felt drawn to him, wanting to taste his kisses again—and more, knowing she would be unable to resist the desires that begged for fulfilment.

  But then, hadn’t her body betrayed her? Had she really forgot he was holding her by force and would not release her until her father was caught?

  Was she really so weak?

  Yes, she realised with startling clarity. Where Iain Monroe was concerned she was. But he was not her enemy. He never had been. In fact, he made her want to get to know him better, to step beyond the hatred he carried in his heart for the McBrydes, to tell him she had not betrayed his brother’s hiding place to the Galbraiths or her father. But how was she ever to burst the festering abscess of misunderstanding when he ordered her to be silent?

  She was confused. Last night she had sworn to make this man’s life hell while ever he held her hostage—but that was before the kiss.

  And therein lay Iain Monroe’s appeal.

  That kiss had changed everything, and she had to admit to her change of heart. Was that all it had taken, for him to kiss her? It had changed things for him, too, she sensed that. Last night, when he had realised who she was, his hatred had been intense—but now, not twenty-four hours had passed and he had kissed her with such tender passion.

  When he’d finished bandaging her arm, she held it up to inspect his handiwork and smiled. ‘I’m impressed. You should have been a doctor.’