Loving the Enemy [Highland Menage 10] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Reece Butler

  She ducked her head, fighting tears. She had failed him, yet it was on the orders of their king.

  “Nay, Meg,” he said tenderly. “I ken ye had nay choice. But there’s more, things he canna speak of. Somerled will, in time, understand the truth. Until he does, he will shun ye.”

  “Shun my lady?” demanded Aggie. She stuck out her elbows, flapping them like a broody chicken.

  “Aye. Meg is to go to her chamber and stay there, silent. Somerled said ye may bring her meals.” He winked. “I suggest ye bring all Meg may wish to have for the next few days, her sewin’ and the like. I wish I could help, but my laird says I canna touch ye.”

  He looked up the long flight of stairs to the lower hall. She’d have to climb them somehow, then crawl the whole length of it and down another passage to get to their chamber. But once there she could lie in her soft bed. She could sit in the narrow slit of light when she was awake, so would want her chair. She’d always disliked sewing as she’d been beaten for each mistake, but it was different now. She put her arms down as if she were in her armchair and then made a motion of sewing.

  “Master Niall, would ye put my lady’s chair in her chamber? ’Tis yer fancy stitching ye wish, nay the mending, aye?”

  Meg grinned at Aggie, who returned it. Both knew Meg would not do drudge work now. She’d been wanting to work on scented sachets to help Ewan sleep and now she had time. And she would sleep!

  “I dinna like to think how ye’ll get up the stairs,” said Niall. “Mayhaps Torquil could carry ye.” She held up her hands, palms facing him, and shook her head. He quirked an eyebrow. “Ye wish to do it yerself, slow and painful, so he kens what he is doin’ to harm ye?” She winked, making him chuckle.

  “I canna do all,” said Aggie. “Lady Meg’s been working with the village women about the Gathering. If she canna go to the village or speak with ’em…”

  “I see by that look ye have an idea,” said Niall dryly.

  “If our lady canna go to the village, the women must come here. They’ll have to ask aye or nay questions, which might take a wee while. Of course they’ll bring their bairns, mayhaps leave the wee ones in the bailey under an older lass.” Aggie smiled with satisfaction. “I ken the laird likes things quiet unless he’s the one making the noise. A line of chattering women with bairns from the village passing through will keep the laird thinkin’ on what he’s done to our lady.”

  Niall chuckled. “How will ye get them here?”

  “Well, we was weeding Nessa’s garden when Torquil rode up,” said Aggie. “All will have seen them ride back. The men will come to hear of Artair and Zander’s adventures, and the women will wish to see what’s on the packhorses. They’ll all wonder what happened to their lady, and will hear the story of the blond laddie. If I send the women up to see Meg they’ll wonder why the laird ordered her to be silent. The wives willna ask the laird for fear of shamin’ their husbands, but the old grannies might.”

  “Especially if someone puts a word in their ear?” asked Niall.

  “Ye are a good man, Niall MacDougal,” said Aggie with a grin. “Good enough for my Lady Meg.”

  Chapter Eight

  Somerled headed for the castle with his four youngest brothers, all of them carrying Isabel’s gifts. Calltuin was named after the grove of hazel trees which Isabel used to make strong, light baskets. They were a welcome gift, as well as what was inside them.

  He grinned as Artair and Zander boasted of their exploits. It faded when Finn and Dougal told of the changes since Meg’s arrival. He hadn’t realized how much she affected the others. He knew the food was better and the castle cleaner, especially since Aggie arrived, and of course there was Fearchar, Meg’s wild kitten.

  He hadn’t thought how his brothers would be influenced by her laugh, or the way she teased them. They would not be pleased he’d banished her to her chamber. Aggie would be furious at him. She’d best not spike his food with something vile in revenge.

  There would likely be wrestling this eve as Finn and Dougal wished to prove they were still better warriors than their younger brothers. Finn, Dougal, and Artair had been born just a few weeks apart, to different mothers. Artair’s recent training might allow him to show his barely older brothers up. That was something to look forward to.

  It would also keep their mind off Meg’s absence. He hoped.

  He’d allowed enough time to pass so that his wife would have scampered, or more likely stomped, up to her tower. He didn’t wish to see her. Knowing she’d been false to him all along made his heart ache. He’d have to hide that well. As laird he should be hard and unyielding, especially to Campbells.

  “Watch for the blood,” called Dougal as Somerled reached the stairs.

  “Blood?” He looked down. Each step was marked with dark spots, though only the first had a full footprint. The prints were so small they could only belong to Meg. “What is this?”

  “She must’ve ripped ’em when she ran,” said Artair, his voice tight. “She’s a lady like Isabel, yet she didna wear boots.”

  “We saw Aggie washing her feet by the kitchen, but she wouldna say why,” said Finn.

  “Ye said ye saw her run, laird,” replied Zander. His voice held an edge. “She went hard and fast, liftin’ her skirts so she wouldna trip. She ran over sharp rocks and through a nettle patch. Ye kenned it, aye?”

  The lads had grown. They’d seen something other than Duncladach and had learned from it. Because of Meg he was no longer perfect in their eyes. Yet another thing to blame her for. If she hadn’t run to her lover his youngest brothers would not be giving him looks to make him feel shame for making her walk from the stables.

  “Ye kenned this and didna carry Meg, with her feet bleedin’?” demanded Dougal. “I thought she’d banged her toe on the step or sommat.”

  Now he had two more brothers angry with him. “She said naught of it,” he muttered.

  “Ye ordered her to be silent, laird,” reminded Zander.

  He went up the steps two at a time, hoping the marks would end. They didn’t. Meg must have gone quickly up the steps, leaving little trail, but then limped slowly through the passage where none could see her. Each drop of blood stabbed his heart. Though she was a prisoner, and he had to think of her as one, he should not have allowed her to walk in such pain.

  That she was a Campbell didn’t help his shame. She was still his wee Meg. He didn’t like feeling disgusted with himself. It was yet another thing to blame her for. His righteous anger hardened his heart until he entered the bailey and looked to his right.

  Meg sat on the third step. Her eyes were closed, her face contorted in obvious pain. She put her hands on the step behind her, lifted herself on palms and heels, and shifted her arse up one step. Her feet were well bandaged. No, it wasn’t just her feet. The wrappings went past her ankles. He had an immediate suspicion that the bandages were false, for sympathy. He’d done the same when the first herald arrived at Duncladach to order him to Stirling Castle. He’d smashed his toe and, wishing an excuse not to ride, splinted his entire leg. He didn’t believe in lies, so the ruse hadn’t lasted long.

  Then he remembered Zander said Meg had also run through a nettle patch, holding her skirts out of the way. Unlike them, she didn’t have coarse hair to protect her tender shins. He bit back a curse and put his burden down.

  “Ye could have carried her in, laird!” Aggie glared up at him. She was on her knees scrubbing bloodstains off the flagstone path. “My lady willna be able to walk for days. Look at that blood!” She pointed to the trail they’d all avoided stepping on. “Ye call yerself a laird and my lady’s husband, and ye treat her so?”

  “Dinna speak to yer laird in such a way,” he ordered.

  “My Alfie hasna bent his knee to ye. Until he does, ’tis the Lady Meg I serve.”

  “Alf calls me laird, so he’s my man. He should punish ye for speakin’ so.”

  “My man kens how Edgar Campbell treated his servants. He willna raise his ha
nd to me.” Aggie curled her lip at him. “Are ye the same as Campbell of Duntrune, puttin’ yer own anger on those beneath ye?”

  She dared compare him with Meg’s first husband? His fury at the insult exploded. “I be a MacDougal!” he roared.

  Aggie’s face turned white, but she didn’t cringe. She hardened her jaw and her eyes at him.

  “Then best ye act like one, aye?” She waited a moment and then pointed toward the stairs. “Yer lady is hurt. Will ye shame her by havin’ her crawl? Laird MacDougal?”

  The last two words were meant as an insult. He looked at Meg. She’d gone up two more steps. There was a sheen on her forehead. Sweat, or fever? No, it was too soon for a fever. He heard his brothers muttering behind him. He could not win here. He did not want Meg to be seen as a martyr.

  Three strides and he was at the stairs. She shook her head and fought off his hands, but he lifted her anyway. She felt too good in his arms.

  “Stop fightin’! I dinna wish to drop ye.” She stopped until he stepped into the lower hall. Then she fought once more. With none to see he held her more securely, but she still thrashed, silent. “I will bring ye to yer chamber and leave ye there. I willna harm ye!”

  There was no fear on her face. There was, however, rage and disgust. It was good she couldn’t see into his mind or she’d be even more disgusted. Her struggling had stirred his blood. She was an enemy captive and he wanted to conquer her in the oldest way possible.

  She didn’t let up her fight until he tossed her onto their bed. Her bed, now. Before he could act on his impulse and throw her skirts up to plunge deep inside her wet heat, he took his few things from their chamber and stalked out. He expected she’d throw something or wail, but she was silent. Strangely, that was worse.

  Instead of returning to the bailey he went to the upper hall. He told himself it was to bring his things there, but the truth was he couldn’t face his brothers. The only ones who might be on his side were Dougal and Finn but that wouldn’t last. Artair and Zander would tell their side of things, and then Torquil and Ewan would add what they knew.

  They’d all be demanding answers, as would Niall.

  He set his knuckles on the window ledge and looked out. The bay was calm, the tide coming in. He had everything he’d wanted so many years ago. Eight of his brothers were well married, to women who’d brought kinship links to Clan MacDougal. Most of the things lost at Duntrune had been returned. He had a lovely wife, one who’d eagerly accepted him and his twin. Yet she was a Campbell. From all he’d been taught, she was the enemy. He dropped his head.

  “Ye’r a wee bit late to have second thoughts, laird.”

  He whipped around. Ewan. “If ye keep sneakin’ up on me, one of these times I’ll draw my blade on ye!”

  Ewan crossed his arms and nonchalantly leaned a shoulder against the wall. “If ye didna have yer head so far up yer arse, yer ears would work better. And yer eyes as well.”

  “My eyes?”

  “Ye saw the laddie, but ye didna look at him. And ye call yerself laird!”

  Somerled straightened. “I looked at him. He’s a Campbell, just like Meg. And she said she loved him.”

  “There’s yer answer, laird.” Ewan turned his back and walked out.

  That was another thing that never happened before Meg came. No one turned their back on their laird! Now that the youngest two were back and there was to be a Gathering, he needed to increase discipline. He would not touch Meg. None of his brothers had a woman so he would go back to the way things used to be when the eight of them shared the hall. It would be far more comfortable now, thanks to the things from Duntrune.

  He realized he was stalling. He was not a coward and it was time to face his brothers. The best way to get rid of tension when a woman was not available was to fight. That was it! They would invite the young men from the village to join in a wrestling match. The older ones would watch and bet on the winners. The women would bring food. Meg could…

  No, Meg would have nothing to do with it. She would stay in the tower, missing the fun. Aggie could organize the food.

  * * * *

  “I’m sorry ye’ll be missin’ the wrestlin’, my lady.”

  Meg snorted a laugh as she stitched. Torquil had brought in her padded armchair as well as a footstool and cushion for her sore feet. A table held a tray of food and ale, covered with a cloth. A silver candelabra with three wax candles gave her enough light to sew fine stitches on the linen sachets she was making for Ewan. He could wear them around his neck and put them under his head to sleep. She’d chosen combinations of herbs and posies that eased a troubled mind, brought good feelings, or subdued a headache.

  As for silence, she’d decided Aggie didn’t count.

  “I willna miss a thing, Aggie. I dinna wish to watch sweaty men grunting as they grapple with each other.”

  “As ye’d rather two of ’em be grapplin’ with ye instead?”

  Meg looked up. Aggie was her only friend, and kept secrets well. “I enjoyed fighting Somerled when he carried me in and wish he’d forced his way on me. Is that wrong?”

  “He’s your husband. Whatever games ye choose to play together, is right. If ye didna trust him to stop if ye said nay, ye wouldna wish them to play with ye that way, aye?”

  “Aye,” she agreed. “Mayhaps when this is over we will have a bit of a grapple ourselves.”

  “The laird best come to his senses soon as there is much to be done for the Gathering.”

  “Mayhaps if I had an old gown I would have time to rework it in time. I ken all will wear their finery, but I dinna have any.”

  “I havena unpacked all those baskets from Calltuin, my lady. There could be sommat ye could use.”

  “I would like to look my best for the clan,” admitted Meg.

  “And to make Somerled see what he is missing, aye?”

  “How is Hamish?” asked Meg, changing the subject before she got too aroused. “Torquil said he is in the west tower, nay the pit, as he promised not to leave.” He’d also said Hamish found it amusing that the MacDougals, men their father and brothers would have beaten badly before tossing deep into their own, far more foul pit, were concerned for his comfort.

  “Hamish has blankets and candles with a flint, and enough food to get him through the night. ’Tis all in one of Lady Isabel’s fine baskets so will be safe from Shadow and Fearchar. Master Niall says Hamish is yer only kin so must be treated well.”

  “Does Somerled ken this?”

  “He would if he asked, but he willna speak of it.” They shared a smirk. “Are ye set for the night? If ye are feared of bein’ alone I would sleep with ye.”

  Meg wasn’t afraid of sleeping alone but there were certain things she couldn’t do without using her feet. One of them was fetching the chamber pot.

  “Would you mind? I mean, would your Alf mind?”

  “Nay, for ’twould give Alf a reason to sleep up with the men. He hasna had a chance to ask what he could build for ’em. He wishes to prove his carpenter skills afore asking the laird if he may pledge his fealty to Clan MacDougal.”

  “Then I would enjoy sharing your warmth.”

  Aggie’s eyes lit up. She pressed her hand on the mattress. It sank in. “And I, my lady, would enjoy sleeping in a soft bed.” She laughed. “And when yer laird begs yer forgiveness and ye give in to him, I’ll go back to my hard bed and my hard man.”

  Chapter Nine

  Niall leaned a shoulder against the doorway. Across the chamber in the narrow light of the arrow-slit window sat his wife, sewing something blue. He missed her. Missed listening to her murmurs as she slept and feeling her soft body next to him, so different from his own. He missed the sex, but they’d gone without for days before. What he mostly missed was the feeling of comfort, of completeness that he felt when she was near.

  “It’s been three days, Meg. How long will ye stay in here afore storming after my stubborn twin?”

  She looked up, flashed a smile, and dropped h
er head again. Her fingers moved deftly, adding golden threads in a leaf pattern. “Once his lairdship decides I willna stab him outright he will expect me to work as long as there is light. I must finish my gown for the Gathering while I have a chance.”

  She held up her work to show him. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse. He stuck his thumbs in his belt so he’d not reach for her and sauntered over. He knew nothing of gowns but had to say something.

  “The gold thread is like yer hair and the gown like bluebells.”

  Her smile was worth the effort. “’Tis a piece of satin from Lady Isabel. I will add it to the bodice of the gown she sent, to make it special.” One finger traced a leaf. “I dinna ken what I can do to thank her. If she hadna sent this I would have naught but what I wear now.”

  “Didna Aggie bring yer gowns from Duntrune?”

  She grimaced. “Nay. She kenned I didna wish the memories. I have but the two for work that I brought from Glen Lyon. ’Tis a pity I mayna wear this lovely gown again.” She continued sewing tiny stitches. “Or perhaps I mayn’t wear it at all,” she added under her breath.

  Not at all? Did she think Somerled would not wish her beside him at the Gathering? Meg was their lady as well as the laird’s wife. Had she said it hoping he would hear? Or that he wouldn’t? For now, he would pretend he hadn’t.

  “Women wish to wear sommat special for the Gathering?” he asked, though he knew the answer. Meg wouldn’t be adding tiny leaves to a bit of shiny cloth otherwise. She looked up, stabbing him with her eyes rather than the fabric with her needle.

  “Has there been another time in all your life where women could dress pretty and think themselves special? A time they could see their husband’s eyes widen in delight as they coyly flash an ankle?”

  He’d imagined over the years what having a wife might be like. Nothing had prepared him for Meg’s beauty, mind, or for the way she made him laugh. The effect she had on his body was separate. She aroused him, but he liked the woman within the wondrous body as well. He crouched at her side so their heads were almost level. Careful of his rough fingers, he ran the backs of his knuckles over the fabric.