Traitor Or Temptress

by Helen Dickson

  ‘No. I—I’ve only recently become aware of my condition. I’m just so afraid that, if the King’s men come and arrest me, my child will be born in prison. That is something too terrible to contemplate.’

  Lady Barton reacted by standing up and looking down at her granddaughter’s bent head, her face set in hard, determined lines. She knew it was no good waiting for fate to take a hand. She would have to deal with this affair herself.

  ‘It won’t come to that. We will take the initiative. I shall take you to London and seek advice from my good friend Elizabeth Billington and her husband—and maybe seek an audience with King William.’

  Lorne jerked her head up, dumbfounded. ‘You cannot mean that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. And we will start first thing in the morning. I shall go and inform Pauline at once. I would like your condition to be kept between ourselves for the time being. Time enough later to tell Pauline and Agnes.’

  As Lady Barton prepared to leave for London, when she thought of what the Earl of Norwood had done to Lorne, her anger was so intense, so great, that she no longer trusted herself to stay in speaking distance of her family. If she were a man and younger she would kill him for what he’d done. He had hurt and humiliated Lorne, shamed her, and that was not to be borne. Her granddaughter had told her he was an honourable man, the most honourable man she had ever met. Well, Lady Barton would see just how honourable this Scottish earl was after she had laid her case before King William.

  King William scarcely understood the deep divisions between the Gaelic-speaking Highlanders and the English-speaking Lowlanders, but he knew the Highlands to be a hotbed of troublesome savages.

  When the news leaked of the Earl of Norwood’s abduction of Lady Barton’s granddaughter, Lorne McBryde, it spread like wildfire through the Court. The King was most displeased with the Earl’s behaviour, a displeasure that increased when his ministers informed him of Mistress McBryde’s mysterious deliverance from her captivity, and that she had become directly involved in the escape of her outlawed father from the Tollbooth at Inveraray.

  The day after William had granted an audience to Lady Barton and listened without comment to her complaints against the Earl of Norwood, and her impassioned plea that her granddaughter be exonerated from the crime of freeing her father from his prison—an outlaw who was now deceased, if Mistress McBryde was to be believed. On being informed that the Earl of Norwood was in London, the King sent for him. After much consideration, realising recent events in Scotland could be used to his own advantage and the realm’s, he was determined to be as reasonable as possible, from common sense if not from compassion.

  Despite being a popular and much sought-after figure at Court, there were those who were of a malicious nature with nothing better to do than vilify others. They laughed at how Scotland’s powerful Earl of Norwood had been duped by a mere girl, who had outwitted him by escaping from his Scottish stronghold and played him for a fool when she had ridden to Inveraray, where, under the very nose of his military guard, she had freed her father from the Tollbooth and secreted him out of Scotland.

  In his present mood, the wave of whispering that seemed to follow Iain wherever he went shattered something inside him, splintering his emotions from all rational control.

  Despite his outrageous conduct of late, the King liked Iain Monroe and had always believed in his sincerity. His strength was his steadiness of principle and his loyalty to the Crown, and it was these virtues that persuaded him to take a lenient view of the abduction of Mistress McBryde to settle a personal feud between the Monroes and her warring family.

  Iain listened calmly as the King chastised him for his kidnapping of Lorne McBryde. Wordlessly he stared at him, his expression almost comical in his disbelief as the King told him that Lady Barton demanded recompense for her granddaughter’s ruined reputation and that he, Iain, should do the honourable thing and marry her. The King went on to say that for the good of the realm—in the hope that a union between a McBryde and a Monroe might go some way to quietening the conflict that existed between some of the marauding Highland clans and settling their blood feuds—he saw marriage as a sensible solution.

  It was important that Iain wed Mistress McBryde without delay, and if he did not comply then he would be called upon to answer the serious charge of abduction and imprisoned. If he agreed he would be pardoned, indemnified and fully acquitted of his crimes.

  White-hot fury went pouring through Iain’s veins like molten lava at the thought of wedding that deceitful, scheming bitch. Realising that he’d lost the battle to distance himself from Lorne for all time, the fury at having to capitulate in this humiliating way was ready to explode.

  Iain bowed and went out, but once outside the door he did not move. For a full five minutes he continued to stand there, his dark head bent, his fists clenched, his mind locked in furious combat against the idea of marrying the woman whose image had scored its memory on his soul. That green-eyed witch had humiliated him and made him a laughing stock, and he damned her conniving heart.

  At St James’s Palace, Lorne was to meet Iain alone. Impeccably groomed, faultlessly arrayed in scarlet and black, he was half-turned from her, staring through the small panes of glass as if he displayed an utter contempt for the whole of mankind.

  Lorne paused, her eyes riveting on his beloved face, on his thick black hair curling to his collar, loving every line of his form. An ache touched her heart, because everything about him was so achingly, wonderfully familiar. Her whole soul reached out to him through her eyes, which gazed and gazed at him.

  She spoke softly, feeling the silence too hard to bear. ‘Iain.’

  His entire body tensed and his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle began to throb in his cheek. Slowly he turned his head and looked straight at her, cold, dispassionate, and completely in control. His gaze snapped on her face and his expression hardened, his eyes turning an icy, metallic silver. In frigid silence Lorne waited for him to speak, desperately wanting to justify herself and bring back everything they had shared at Norwood. But she couldn’t. There was no possible way of resurrecting that one night with this wholly contained, authoritative stranger.

  His hostility was like a tangible force inside that small room. Wetting her lips, Lorne took a deep, steadying breath. ‘All this is most unpleasant. I—I realise how difficult this must be for you—as it is for me,’ she said quietly, in an attempt to diffuse his wrath. ‘I also realise that you must despise me.’

  ‘Correct,’ he informed her icily, with no trace of pity or humanity in his glittering eyes. ‘I am here because the King commanded me—for no other reason. He has decreed that we shall be wed—and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. He has some crazy notion that a union of this kind is a step in the right direction to bringing peace to the Highlands.’

  ‘If that is what His Majesty believes, then he has no understanding of the character of the Highlanders.’

  Iain looked at her sharply. ‘And you have?’

  ‘I have a better understanding than most. I know there will be no peace in the glens until a Stuart is restored to the throne—and that the majority of the clans strive towards that end. They would rise at a moment’s notice should James Stuart across the water commission them to do so. A union between you and me will only succeed in exacerbating the bitterness that already exists between our families. We know that. It’s a pity that the King doesn’t.’

  ‘I have made my feelings on the matter quite plain. The King is aware of my abhorrence of a marriage between us, but he remains deaf to my protestations. If I refuse, I shall be stripped of all my worldly goods and, I dare say, my head. His Majesty has granted us a pardon—but it comes with a high price.’

  Lorne took a hesitant step towards him. ‘Iain—I am so sorry.’ Even as the words passed her lips she saw his face tighten with furious contempt.

  ‘For what? Being a McBryde? Murdering my brother? Breaking my trust in you?’

  Lorne’s cheeks f
lamed at the injustice of his cruel remark, and his stubborn refusal to listen to the truth. She drew herself up to her full height, her tone edged with frost as she retorted, ‘I did not murder your brother. Wouldn’t it be sensible to let me tell you everything about what happened that day? I swear by my hopes of salvation to conceal nothing. Just give me one single chance.’ She looked at him directly, and his imperious silver eyes looked right back. It was clear from the cold look he gave her that he was not prepared to listen. Even now, the words she said did not seem to pierce through the armour he had built around himself.

  ‘Shut up,’ he warned with deadly calm, his teeth gleaming in a savage grimace. ‘I told you never to speak my brother’s name to me again, and by God I meant it.’

  She nodded, swallowing down her disappointment. ‘I know you did,’ she replied bitterly. ‘But no matter what you believe, I did not break your trust. Bearing in mind that I was your prisoner at the time, when John Ferguson took it upon himself to release me, there was nothing I could do but leave Norwood. What would you have had me do? Oppose him?’

  ‘No,’ Iain conceded, turning away from her and concentrating his gaze on what was happening on the other side of the window once more, as if he could not stand the sight of her.

  Iain was fighting her, Lorne knew, trying to shut her out, and he was succeeding. At that moment she would have said or done anything to reach him. She could not believe that this cold, remote stranger was the same tender, passionate man who had made love to her—that he could be doing this to her. ‘Besides,’ she murmured, ‘what could I have achieved by staying? You had made it quite plain that there was no future for us together.’

  ‘You’re right. There wasn’t,’ he snapped. ‘It was right that you left, and by all accounts it would appear that you coped adequately enough.’

  He spoke sarcastically, with a kind of cold contempt in his voice. Anger welled up suddenly in Lorne’s heart, flushing her cheeks and bringing a sparkle to her eyes. She took a step towards him.

  ‘Will you kindly explain what you mean by that?’

  He turned on her, accusing her roundly. ‘Since you ask, I will, Lorne McBryde—or would you prefer me to call you Molly Blair?’ he snapped, emphasising the words in a menacing voice. He had the satisfaction of seeing her wince on being reminded of the sordidness of her subterfuge at Inveraray.

  ‘It is obvious to me that some misguided sense of honour caused you to feel duty bound to aid your father’s escape, and you were condemned the minute you became intoxicated with that particular sentiment. But what the hell were those crazy brothers of yours and Galbraith thinking of to allow you to pit your wits against Kilpatrick—a man whose reputation as a womaniser is as renowned as the cruelties he bestows on his fellow man? Even men of his own class detest him with a brutish passion, and to the men under his command he is evil incarnate. Weren’t your brothers men enough to do the job themselves without involving a woman—their own sister?’

  ‘Goodness!’ Lorne exclaimed. ‘The gossip travels faster in the Highlands than at Court.’

  Her apparent lack of contrition fuelled Iain’s anger. ‘Ha! So—you admit it then?’

  She stared at him in puzzlement. ‘I have nothing to admit—at least, nothing that signifies.’

  Iain loomed over her, his eyes glinting down at her. ‘You do not deny that your brothers and Galbraith put you up to it, and that they were directly involved in the plot to free your father?’

  Lorne paled, realising too late the danger and that she had fallen into his trap and incriminated her brothers. ‘I never said that,’ she burst out in a quivering voice.

  ‘No? After all this time I imagine your fertile imagination will have invented a splendid tale, calculated to appease those who seek the truth of what really happened at Inveraray and the people involved,’ he said with biting scorn, his expression incensed and bleakly embittered. ‘Do you deny playing the whore to lure Kilpatrick away from his prisoner? Were you so determined to free your father that you were prepared to wallow in Kilpatrick’s bed to do it? Answer me, by God, or I’ll make you speak.’

  Lorne’s heart quailed before the disgust and revulsion she could see in his murderous eyes. He was undoubtedly beside himself with fury, and there was a note in the hard, thickened voice that sent a thrill of fear down her spine. Having experienced Iain’s tender lovemaking, the violence of Captain Kilpatrick’s brutal passion she recalled with revulsion. He had treated her like the whore she had pretended to be. With a supreme effort of will she had perfected the technique of remaining coldly within herself, even though her skin had crawled at his pawing.

  Courageously she stood her ground in front of Iain, giving nothing away of her thoughts. Standing face to face, they were like two fighting cocks, staring at each other with the fascination of mortal enemies, each looking for the weakness in the other’s armour so as to wound the most surely.

  ‘How dare you accuse me so? How dare you criticise my behaviour? You, who forcibly abducted me and held me prisoner, humiliating me and compromising my reputation beyond recall, have no right.’

  ‘There is one inaccuracy,’ Iain stated with infuriating calm, a hard stubborn line having settled disquietingly between his black brows. ‘I was not the one who kidnapped you.’

  ‘Maybe not. It was your marauding relative who did that. But you condoned what he did—which is one and the same thing to me. And since you seem to be obsessed by my association with Captain Kilpatrick, my lord,’ she said with biting sarcasm, ‘nothing happened between us.’

  Iain drew closer to her and she gasped in alarmed surprise as his fingers coiled around her wrist like a striking snake and crushed it. ‘Are you telling me that your encounter with Kilpatrick did not impress you?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  ‘Liar! What was he like? Were you as delighted and eager for his touch as you were for mine?’ he jeered, wanting to put his hands around her slender throat and throttle her for defiling her body with another man, for betraying his trust in her. ‘You grubby little whore!’

  ‘Whore? No, I am not. But what are you, Iain Monroe? Tell me,’ she cried, trembling with violent fury, ‘if you can, for I doubt the word has been invented to describe what you are.’

  Iain’s nostrils flared and he jerked his head closer to hers with a violence to match her own. ‘Did it not occur to you that there might have been other, worthier ways of freeing your father from captivity? Did he thank you for it when you succeeded—or were you too ashamed to tell him?’

  Lorne recoiled as if she had been slapped. ‘No more ashamed than I would have been had I divulged that I had already been sleeping with the enemy—a Monroe who had been holding me by force,’ she hit back furiously, having to summon all her self-control to stop herself striking him.

  Iain’s eyes, burning with a sombre fire, were unrelenting. ‘You witch,’ he hissed. ‘Were you so desperate to save the life of a marauding Highlander that you would lie with a complete stranger?’

  Pain slashed across Lorne’s features that he could think she would. ‘The marauding Highlander you speak of was my father and the sacrifice was well worth it. It was never my intention to lie with Captain Kilpatrick—whatever you may suppose. You were the first man—and the only man—to set his seal on my flesh, and since we are to marry you will be the last.’

  Iain’s eyes glittered like shards of ice, and his jaw hardened. His fingers tightened viciously around her wrist. ‘Think carefully before you make the mistake of referring to that night again. You’ll regret it, I promise you.’

  ‘At least listen to what I have to say.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll listen, but it doesn’t take much imagination to guess what happened between you and Kilpatrick. Can you swear by all that is holy that you did not lie with him?’

  Hideous recollections of the events of the night in Inveraray flitted through Lorne’s mind, dragging a groan of anguish from her lips, and, unable to find innocent cause for her obvious dis
may except that of guilt, Iain glared at her accusingly.

  ‘Iain—how can you ask me that?’

  ‘Because I know the bastard. Answer me, damn you,’ he hissed, an array of emotions flitting across his face. The barbs of jealousy were sharp and pricked to agonising depths.

  ‘Yes—yes, I can. I swear it.’

  ‘And did the King speak the truth when he told me that Edgar McBryde is dead?’

  ‘Yes, that is true.’ Lorne trembled at the realisation of how much Iain must loathe her. She could see it in his eyes, staring out at her, but he could not loathe her as much as she loathed herself.

  ‘Aye,’ Iain seethed, observing her reaction. ‘’Tis wise that you learn to fear me. Since there’s not a damned thing I can do about preventing a union between us, if I should ever find out you lied to me about Kilpatrick and that your father is still alive, I swear I will wring your neck.’

  Despite the frisson of alarm his silken voice caused her, Lorne lifted her chin. ‘If you have finished, will you let go of me? You are hurting me—and I know you would like to hurt me more—but you would gain nothing by it. The King compels us to marry, and since the entire world believes you not only to have abducted me but ravished me, it seems I have no choice open to me but to marry you—although I know how your pride will suffer when you sully your ancient line with the blood of a McBryde.’

  Iain slowly released his grip. With a wry grimace she moved out of his way, rubbing her wrist where the links of the gold bracelet she wore had dug into her flesh. ‘You are a cruel, blackhearted brute, Iain Monroe, and I hate you. You brought this situation on yourself when you made me your hostage. I no more want to be your wife than you are to have me.’

  Iain stared at her beautiful face as if seeing her for the first time. It was one of those unique faces that makes everyone else look commonplace. She was wide eyed and vulnerable, and her golden tresses rippling round her shoulders shone in the dim light. He silently contemplated her eyes. They remained focused calmly on him, but their depths seemed to spread the longer he looked. Her irises were as complex as he remembered, touched by different shades of green, turquoise and peacock blue, and as exotic as the tropical oceans that lapped the sun-kissed shores of foreign lands.