Traitor Or Temptress

by Helen Dickson

  Any decent, self-respecting woman would despise her captor, an enemy of her kin, and do everything within her power to escape him. Bitter self-revulsion rose up like bile in her throat and almost choked her, for that wasn’t what she had done. Instead she had allowed him to kiss her, to fondle her and speak soft endearments of desire and want—and worse, she had enjoyed it, encouraged it, even, because she was hopelessly attracted to him and had responded with shameless fervour. Her behaviour had been unforgivable and inexcusable.

  ‘Castle Norwood will offer Mistress McBryde refuge until her father sees sense and surrenders himself, at which time due provision will be made for her safe transport to Drumgow,’ Iain bit out before Lorne could reply.

  Iain looked at her, sensing her distress and self-castigation. Her face was guilt-stricken, her eyes alert and oddly tortured by shame. Too late, he realised that Galbraith’s words of reproach had penetrated her heart and mind and that she had withdrawn from him. Iain seethed with indignation, overwhelmed with an animal instinct of possessiveness. The antagonism he felt towards Galbraith filled him and he couldn’t wait to be rid of him. Clenching his jaw so tightly that a muscle jerked in the side of his cheek, he addressed Lorne.

  ‘Return to your chamber.’

  Lorne’s eyes flamed with revolt. ‘I have every right to stay to hear what is said.’

  Iain’s jaw tightened at this final piece of defiance. ‘I told you to go to your room.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Do as I say.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.

  Frustrated by his commanding tone, Lorne clenched her fists. At that moment Iain Monroe was every inch her gaoler, and as icy and indifferent as justice itself. Any fears she might have of what would result from Duncan’s unexpected arrival were because she knew what power this ruthless Earl of Norwood possessed to make her and her kin suffer. She glared at him as their eyes parried for supremacy in a silent battle of unspoken challenge. Iain slapped his riding crop impatiently against his leg. It was Lorne who looked away first, and without further argument she swivelled on her heels and left.

  Duncan was struggling to control his manic fury as he watched her go. ‘I command you to let her go,’ he snarled, his hands bunched into fists by his sides.

  Iain’s look was one of cold contempt. ‘Let her go? I have no intention of doing any such thing.’

  ‘You dared,’ Duncan uttered through clenched teeth, ‘you dared abduct her, and by doing so think by this means to bring Edgar McBryde to heel.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Then you do not know him.’

  ‘No—and I thank God for it,’ Iain drawled. ‘He knows the score. If he gives himself up, then I promise to restore his daughter to her brothers at Drumgow unharmed.’

  ‘Do you expect me to believe the word of a—’

  ‘Lowlander,’ Iain finished for him. ‘It seems to me that you have no choice. McBryde is taking his time over this and I grow impatient—but not too impatient. His daughter is proving to be the most charming diversion,’ he added smoothly. ‘I’d be willing to wait a while longer for McBryde to give himself up if it allows us to become better acquainted.’ His mockery was both subtle and direct, its meaning bringing a furious purple flush to Duncan’s cheeks—and a sudden alertness to John’s eyes.

  ‘I imagine you would,’ Duncan seethed. ‘Damn you, Monroe. I’d sooner see her burned in hell than see you get your hands on her.’ The words were spat from his lips.

  Iain smiled. ‘I believe you, Galbraith. It seems to me that her father is too fond of his own hide to submit to the authorities and suffer the ultimate penalty for his past crimes, but if he cares one whit about his daughter, he will do just that.’ Impatient to put an end to the audience, Iain turned away. ‘There is nothing more to be said. The way out is behind you.’ He turned on his heel and strode towards the stairs.

  Incensed at being dismissed like a lackey, Duncan glared after him. ‘You’ll get what you deserve one day, Monroe.’

  Iain turned and regarded the younger man with disdain. ‘I live in hope,’ he drawled.

  ‘I demand that you remember Lorne is not a prize to be won or conquered. If you think she is, then you will answer to me with your sword.’

  Iain grinned, fingering the hilt of his sword. ‘You tempt me to put you to the test, just for the sheer hell of it.’ Noting the alarm that sprang to Galbraith’s eyes, and how he suddenly stepped back before the threat, his lips curled with contempt. He was beginning to suspect that the man was all noise, a coward at heart, and to face down an enemy, let alone wield a sword, was beyond him.

  ‘If you harm one hair of her head,’ Duncan shouted in a fresh burst of bravado, his voice ricocheting off the walls in the vaulted hall as he slowly backed towards the door, ‘there is no hiding place in all Scotland safe enough to keep you from my vengeance.’

  Fury ignited afresh in Iain’s eyes. ‘You spout brave words, Galbraith. But have a care what you say. You will do well to remember that I have a vengeance of my own to exact if I have a mind.’ So saying, he climbed the stairs and disappeared from view. Who could blame him if he let his lust for revenge drive him to consort with his enemy in the tenderest way? Would he not be justified in using Lorne McBryde for that purpose?

  Gnashing his teeth in a savage snarl, Duncan turned and strode out of the hall, knowing it had been a mistake to come to Castle Norwood. Nothing had been gained—or had it? He had not reckoned on John Fergusson following him out to the gate.

  John had become increasingly alarmed of late by the interest Iain was taking in their captive, an interest John suspected would soon become an obsession if she remained at Castle Norwood for much longer. John knew that if Iain became completely enamoured of the girl he would be hard to deflect from his purpose, and he wouldn’t let Galbraith or her brothers stand in his way. This was unthinkable to John, who hoped for Iain to wed a healthy young woman with a Lowland pedigree worthy of his own.

  And yet John had come to like the lass, the vital and bonny daughter of their enemy, who had captured Iain’s heart. But a liaison between them would never do. Never. John was determined to steer them away from each other, though it would sour his soul to do it.

  When Duncan was mounted, he glared down at John. ‘Is there anything else you have to say to me?’

  ‘Word has reached us that McBryde is too busy trying ta outmanoeuvre the redcoats to give much attention to his daughter.’

  ‘True—but don’t let that lull you into relaxing your guard. The Laird of Drumgow can handle a dozen redcoats single handed,’ Duncan sneered. ‘What of it?’

  ‘You didna ride south alone, Galbraith. Where are the gillies who rode with ye?’

  ‘Encamped five miles north-west on the drove road,’ he told him, not bothering to conceal the fact.

  ‘Then perhaps ye should remain close to Norwood for a couple of days or so—in the event that McBryde is captured and our prisoner is released. She will require an escort to Drumgow.’

  With her senses reeling dizzily and with tears in her eyes, Lorne returned to her chamber, holding them back until she had closed the door behind her. She sat on the bed and covered her face with her hands and cried wretchedly, the hurt and shame that engulfed her past bearing.

  Never having seen anyone so distraught, in alarm Janet sent for Flora, who came immediately, but she could find no words to reconcile the heartbroken young woman.

  Cradled in Flora’s arms, Lorne wept, her emotions tearing her heart in two. Flora’s voice, as she muttered soothing words in her ear and smoothed her hair with one hand, was so full of sympathetic concern that she cried all the more. Biting despair, bitter self-recriminations, fear and confusion, guilt, hate and helplessness—she felt herself consumed by all these emotions and others she could not define. She wept bitterly, surrendering to her heartbreak and confusion until she was drained and empty, trapped in some kind of void between her past and her future and unable to live in the prese
nt.

  Astley Priory, her grandmother and the wonderful life she had known were denied her, and her brothers and Drumgow were strangers. And here at Castle Norwood, her sanctuary from her future was also her prison—she was an outsider, an enemy, not wanted. As she wept she felt a loneliness such as she had never known.

  When she could cry no more she removed her head from Flora’s chest and mopped her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘Better now?’ The older woman brushed the hair from Lorne’s wet cheeks. ‘I know it can’t be easy for you here among strangers, but you’ll soon be going to Drumgow.’

  Lorne’s expression became grim. ‘To be among more strangers,’ she retorted bitterly. ‘I feel so confused. Duncan accused me of betraying my father—and he’s right. I have, and I feel swamped with guilt and deeply ashamed. He may be every kind of devil, but no matter what terrible things he has done in the past, he is still my father and I have no wish to see him hang, but I would do almost anything to avoid going to Drumgow.’ Suddenly an alert expectancy gripped her and there was a new kind of urgency in her voice when she spoke. ‘Flora—what would you say if I asked you to help me escape from here?’

  Flora’s face was blank as she replied. ‘I can’t, Lorne. I may not agree with what Iain and John are doing, but if I were to do as you ask it would cause enormous contention between my husband and I.’

  Disappointed, Lorne nodded slowly, having expected her to refuse. ‘Of course—forgive me. I should not have asked.’

  ‘John knows my feelings on the matter—I have made them plain a thousand times, but I cannot interfere. Besides, it could not be contrived with the castle so closely guarded. It would also be an incredibly stupid thing to do. Iain would soon discover your absence and ride after you.’

  ‘I know, but it is because of him that I must go,’ Lorne said quietly.

  Flora looked at her with a sad, knowing smile. ‘I know. I understand far more than you may have guessed.’ She folded Lorne’s hands in her own. ‘No matter where you are—be it at your grandmother’s house, here, or at Drumgow—it is only a matter of time before your father is taken. It is extremely doubtful now that he will attack the castle in the hope of rescuing you.’

  Lorne paled and her eyes flew to Flora’s in alarm. ‘How do you know that? Flora, tell me—tell me the truth. You know something, don’t you? Has something happened? Is he captured already? Is he dead?’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge he still lives. But word has reached us that a large party of government soldiers is scouring far and wide in the Highlands for him. It is also rumoured that he is not a well man—that he suffers greatly from wounds inflicted on him in battle when he fought in Flanders.’

  Lorne could not remain unaffected by this news. ‘I see,’ she whispered, overwhelmed with a crushing sense of guilt that she had not asked Duncan more about her father’s health. Feeling dreadfully ashamed, she hung her head, swallowing a hard lump of painful emotion.

  ‘Poor Father. He has been the cause of so much suffering—so much spilling of blood—and now it is his turn. It is right that he should be punished, but he is my father, and the idea of him hiding and being hunted like a wild animal and hanged like a felon is repugnant to me. I should hate him with all my heart for his treatment of others—of me—for rejecting me and sending me away—but I don’t. I want to see him—I want to see him before—’ She sighed, too emotionally spent to utter those final words. ‘Can you understand that, Flora?’

  ‘Yes, I can. It is an attitude I approve of. I’m so terribly sorry, my dear.’

  Lorne shrugged and gave a sad sigh of resignation.

  Towards evening Flora had a tray brought up to Lorne’s room; though her appetite was lacking, Flora insisted she ate a little before helping her into her bedclothes. She then brought her charge a hot toddy and urged her to drink it.

  ‘It will help you to sleep and dispel any bad dreams.’

  Gulping it down and handing the glass back to Flora, Lorne’s heart gave a leap when she heard the gentle rap on her door. Instinctively she knew it was Iain, and she was proved right when Flora admitted him. He wore the same grim expression she had seen earlier when she had left him with Duncan.

  Iain looked to where Janet was turning the bed down. ‘You may go to bed,’ he said stonily before fixing his gaze on Flora. ‘I would like to speak to Lorne, if you don’t mind, Flora.’

  ‘She’s very tired, Iain, and I hardly think—’

  ‘It’s all right, Flora,’ Lorne said quickly. ‘Really.’

  Flora glanced dubiously from one to the other before settling her eyes on Iain’s implacable gaze. She was familiar with that look and knew it would be futile arguing. She gave Lorne’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well.’

  When the door had closed on Flora and Janet, Iain moved towards his captive. He was a towering, masculine presence in her bedchamber. Taking judicious note of the taut set of his jaw and the small lines of ruthlessness around his mouth, Lorne felt the first tendril of fear curl round her heart. There was something controlled and purposeful about him, which, she suspected, had a great deal to do with Duncan’s visit. His long muscular frame looked resplendent in a heavily embroidered midnight blue, the rich material of his coat moulding his powerful shoulders. His hair was smoothly brushed and tied back with a leather thong.

  It was the first time Lorne had seen him since he had coldly dismissed her earlier, and it was like coming face to face with a stranger. She was uneasy, especially when those thoroughly dark eyes locked on hers. She had forgotten how brilliant and piercing they were, so piercing that they seemed capable of stripping her resolve not to succumb to him. He appeared to be relaxed, his stance casual; in fact, he was treating his visit to her room with a cool nonchalance that seemed inappropriate. The closer he came towards her, the more of an effort it took to face his unspoken challenge and not summon Flora back to protect her. She glanced at him with nervous apprehension, his mere presence bringing her senses alive.

  ‘Whatever you have to say to me, please tell me and go,’ she pleaded, pressing trembling fingers to her temples and turning away from him. ‘I am tired and wish to go to bed.’

  ‘I have a matter to discuss with you and it must be said tonight.’

  ‘Why now? Why not tomorrow?’ she argued tonelessly.

  ‘Tomorrow I ride to Stirling to inquire after your father’s whereabouts.’ He turned from her and moved towards the hearth, kicking a log further into the flames with the toe of his boot, causing them to leap and the log to snap and spark vigorously. ‘Are you aware that government soldiers are scouring the Highlands for him? When he heard they were on his tail, he took to the hills like a fox,’ he said, with his back to her.

  Displaying a calm she did not feel, Lorne nodded. ‘Flora told me. If you should find out that he’s been taken, will you release me?’

  Iain gazed at her for an instant. With her hair floating like a cloud about her shoulders and down her back, she was standing straight before him with the candlelight gently caressing her form, the folds of her robe falling and forming a circle round her feet. Her face was still flushed from the tears so recently shed, and her eyes were watching him apprehensively. She looked breathtakingly lovely and demure in her lace-trimmed robe and stunningly arousing. He had only to reach out and take her in his arms and wipe away the anxiety from her face. He could feel himself responding, a fact that only increased his anger, for since Galbraith’s visit he was in one of his tyrannical moods when no power on earth could have made him succumb to that desire.

  ‘I gave my word that I would,’ he said at length, in answer to her question. ‘You will be taken to Drumgow—unless you would prefer to remain at Norwood for the present.’

  Confused by what he said, Lorne stared at him in surprise. ‘I can’t do that. Ties of kinship bind me. I cannot betray my father and brothers by allying myself with their enemy.’

  ‘Then you must beg your kin’s forgiveness for bei
ng attracted to their enemy,’ Iain said, turning his head to look at her and cocking one elegantly shaped brow. His eyes captured hers against her will, holding them imprisoned and challenging her to deny it.

  Treacherous warmth was beginning to creep into Lorne’s body. The meaning in his eyes was as clear as if it were written in the stars. With trembling fingers she shoved a wayward lock of hair from her face, an innocent gesture that made Iain’s blood run warm. ‘I confess that what my heart yearns for goes against everything I deem honourable,’ she whispered, her voice trembling.

  Crossing his arms, Iain leant his hip on the arm of a chair and calmly looked at her in impassive silence, before saying in a voice that was as soft as velvet, ‘And what does your heart yearn for, Lorne McBryde? Tell me.’

  Drowning in the seduction of his gaze she shook her head slowly. ‘I can’t.’

  Her reply brought a curve to his lips. ‘My dear Lorne—you are transparent. I read you well. I know what it is you want.’ He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, touched by her innocence—in fact, her innocence was so convincing that he wondered for a split second if he could be wrong about her. She possessed a tender femininity that touched a deep chord in him. He was so desperate to have her, to bury himself in her, that he could feel his control slipping like gossamer threads under too much strain.

  Standing upright, he shifted his gaze to the fire once more, watching with indifference as the flames took hold of the log he’d just fed into it. ‘Were you surprised to see Galbraith?’ His question was a casual one, belying the anger and torment he felt at the mere thought of Galbraith wanting her for his wife, of touching her in any intimate way.