Frederick's Queen: The Clan Graham Series

by Suzan Tisdale

  It made his gut uneasy whenever he thought of her, of Lila McLaren. She’d been such a beautiful woman, but, as he learned the hard way, looks were deceiving. The woman had had a black heart. On their wedding day, she had pledged her undying love and devotion to him, swearing there could never be another man who could ever take his place.

  In the end, it had all been nothing but a lie. She had betrayed him—a fact he hadn’t learned until after her death. Had betrayed him in the most unscrupulous of ways.

  Had he learned of her betrayal before her death, he could have punished her, made her pay for her indiscretions. It was nights like this, when he sat alone in his rooms, that he wished she was still alive. Not because he missed her or still loved her. Nay, he only wanted her alive long enough to kill her, but not until she had suffered.

  He took another drink of whisky and stared into the fire, alone in his misery, examining his life. Were it not for Lila, he would not be the chief of this clan. And were it not for Lila, the only woman he ever loved, he would not be reaching the end of his days feeling so utterly miserable, betrayed, and alone.

  He felt cheated. Cheated out of so many things. Most of all, cheated out of being able to make her suffer as he had these past few years.

  Although he did gain some measure of satisfaction in punishing Aggie for the sins her mother had committed, it lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. He would have gained far more pleasure from inflicting his punishments on Lila. But since that was now impossible, he would simply have to make do with what he had.

  Someday, he mused drunkenly, I’ll get me revenge on Lila, even if I have to go through her daughter to have it.

  Thirteen

  ’TWAS AN ALL too familiar dream, in which Aggie was running toward Rose’s home, out of breath, trying to scream but unable to find her voice. Sweat rolled down her face and her back as her heart pounded relentlessly against her breast bone. No matter how fast she ran, Rose’s home grew farther and farther away.

  He was an arm’s length away, hurling threats of what he’d do once he caught her. She no longer possessed the bliss of a little girl’s ignorance for she was a woman full grown now. Aggie knew exactly what he would do, knew how much it would hurt and how it would leave her feeling filthy and less than what she had once been.

  In the dream, he always managed to cut her face while she ran, out of order from the reality of that day. Blood and sweat blended with her tears, vomit and mud. Rose suddenly appeared, like an apparition in the distance, holding Ailrig as they both cried and screamed for her to keep running.

  The rain came, again out of tune with what had truly happened that day. Aggie ran for the wide stream that ran through the glen. She plunged into the frigid water with the hope of losing the man who chased her as well as the smell of his whisky and his pungent body odor. No amount of water could wash the stench away.

  She was completely under the water now. It had somehow managed to turn from an ankle deep stream into a wide, raging river. In reality, Aggie could swim quite well, but here, in the darkness of her dream, she had forgotten how. Her lungs hurt, panic swelled as she fought to rise up out of the water in search of air.

  A large hand plunged into the water, grabbed her hair and pulled. It was him, with his nasty, crooked teeth and dark wild eyes. Laughing, laughing, laughing. He pushed her under the water and held her down. She kicked and clawed at his wrists, begging to be let go.

  The water turned to blood, the cloying scent of it blended with his pervasive scent. He would hold her under until her lungs felt ready to burst. Again and again, he’d hold her under until the last possible moment, then pull her out long enough to gulp in a lungful of air. Each time she was drawn up, she could see the blood run in rivulets down her face and body, as if she were standing on the banks of the river watching the scene unfold.

  He lifted her out again and flung her through the air. She landed, naked, covered in blood, inside a dark cave. Her teeth chattered, her body convulsed with fear and cold. Oh, so very cold, cold, cold! In the next moment, she was pinned beneath his weight. She fought for each breath, could not find her voice to scream, had no strength to fight. He was going to rape her again as he made the promise that after he took her for his wife, he would do this to her night after night after night.

  Before he could make good on his promise, Aggie shot up in her bed as a wave of nausea swept over her. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe and remember where she was. With sleepy eyes, her gaze darted about the room. For a moment, she swore she could smell vomit and blood, and worse yet, him.

  The room was dark, save for the glow from the fireplace. Her teeth chattered as the blood pounded in her ears. She hated the dark, she hated the dream and the sense of dread that it always left in her heart.

  Relief battled against panic, awareness against sleep. Lord, how she hated that dream!

  Gulping in deep breaths of air, she swiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands. Will this ever end? she wondered. When would the dreams cease to haunt her?

  Not much time passed before her back began to ache and sting, a painful reminder of what had occurred earlier. If her dreams did not bring forth madness then the reality that was her life certainly would.

  As she sat and tried to steady her nerves, Ailrig’s head popped up from the floor. She jumped and let out a frightened squeal.

  “Sorry, Aggie!” Ailrig said sleepily. He crawled into the bed next to her. “I didna mean to scare ye!”

  Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile. “Wh-what are ye d-doin’ here?” she exclaimed breathlessly.

  “Yer talkin’!” Ailrig said with wide eyes. “Are ye no’ afraid someone will hear ye?”

  Aggie took a deep breath and patted Ailrig’s head. “Aye, I b-be t-talkin’, but only t-to y-ye and Frederick f-fer now.”

  Ailrig’s brow furrowed as he gave consideration to her statement. “Frederick kens ye can speak?”

  Aggie nodded her head and pulled the fur up to cover her shoulders.

  Tears filled the little boy’s eyes. “When does he leave?”

  “He says it m-matters n-no’ how I speak. He says h-he’s no’ leavin.”

  From his expression, Aggie could tell he did not believe her. “Ask h-him yerself, Ailrig,” she told him as she pulled him into her bosom. “I b-believe he sp-speaks the truth.”

  Ailrig wrapped his arms around Aggie, careful not to hug her too tightly. “I like him, Aggie. He and Ian have been verra good to me.”

  Aggie kissed the top of his head. Her husband, it seemed, had won over both Rose and Ailrig, the two people she cherished and trusted the most. Fervently, she hoped Frederick would not let either of them down. Neither Rose nor Ailrig gave their trust easily. They’d been living with Mermadak and his men for far too long. They had learned the hard way not to be too trusting of others, no matter how nice they might appear on the outside. Looks could be quite deceiving.

  Ailrig gave Aggie a gentle hug then pushed himself away. After studying her closely for a few moments, he asked, “Why did ye let him ken ye could speak?”

  She was unable to explain it to herself, let alone a boy of nine. The decision hadn’t been made lightly. Aggie had assumed that once Frederick had heard her speak, he would leave. Her hope had been that he would possess enough of a heart that he would take her, Ailrig and Rose with him. It had been an attempt to get as far away from her father and this horrid place as she could. She had been beyond astonished when Frederick said he wouldn’t leave her.

  He will no’ leave me, she reflected on his promise.

  “I th-think I t-trusted him,” she whispered. In truth, she hadn’t trusted him from the start and still had many lingering doubts about this man she’d married. But she could not share those doubts with Ailrig.

  Ailrig smiled up at her, the light of the fireplace flickering in his brown eyes. “I trust him too!” he said. “And he trusts me!”

  Aggie was about to ask him what he meant by that when Ai
lrig pulled the little wooden sword from behind his back. “He gave me this,” he explained cheerfully. “He trusts me to keep watch over ye.”

  It warmed her heart to see Ailrig smile with such pride and could not remember ever seeing him so happy. The wooden sword looked to be quite old and well used—dark brown with hints of gold, its blade nicked in a few spots. Ailrig held it as though it were made of the finest steel. Aggie swallowed back tears of joy.

  “He g-gave ye this?” she asked.

  “Aye, he did! Just this morn. He and Ian say they’ll teach me to use it proper. Ian says I’ll make a fine warrior someday. Frederick says he’s never met a lad my age with such a good heart.”

  Ailrig beamed up at Aggie and it made her heart swell with pride. He was such a good little boy, with a fine sense of right versus wrong, a good natured boy who wouldn’t hurt a soul. Like Aggie, he’d been teased and taunted relentlessly. But unlike Aggie, Ailrig had only one defect: he’d been bastard born.

  “’Tis a fine sword, Ailrig,” she told him a she tousled his dark curly locks. “I agree ye’ll be a fine warrior someday.”

  “I promise I’ll no’ let anyone harm ye again, Aggie.”

  It nearly took her breath away to hear Ailrig speak words that were identical in tone and promise to those that Frederick had spoken earlier. It was a strange, nearly unnatural feeling that danced in her stomach and seemed to explode to her fingers and toes. Aye, she’d heard Ailrig make that promise many times, usually prefaced with when I’m older. But today, now, he said it with such firm resoluteness that she could not doubt him. The boy seemed to have grown up overnight. She reckoned that having men like Frederick and Ian at his side had more to do with it than anything else.

  Her cuts began to sting and her muscles to throb. “Ailrig, f-fetch Rose f-fer me, please,” she said, masking her pain and discomfort.

  Ailrig gave a nod of his head before sliding down from the bed. At the door, he gave a grand bow at his waist. “As ye wish, m’lady.”

  Aggie giggled. “My, what a f-fine young m-man ye are! I b-be v-verra glad to have ye as m-me ch-champion.”

  Ailrig looked so very serious, standing taller, a proud and fierce expression on his face. If the lad had been born with red hair, he could very well have passed for Frederick’s son in that moment. He had no response to her compliment other than another curt nod of his head before he quit the room.

  Fourteen

  IAN CAUGHT SIGHT of Rose as she walked down the long corridor, away from the kitchens. Draped across her arms were fabrics of varying color, kind and quality. She was a bonny young woman, with pretty blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Though he hadn’t had the opportunity to spend any real time with her, from afar, she seemed to be a pleasant enough woman.

  He had asked around the keep about her and learned that she was a widow. Her husband had died more than three years ago. He also knew that she was not currently involved with any other man and hadn’t been since her husband’s death.

  Normally, Ian preferred to share his bed with women who were already attached to someone else. He liked the challenge of the chase and the excitement of knowing he was bedding another man’s woman. There was also next to no possibility that the woman would be tempted to leave her husband for him. Since he had absolutely no desire for a wife, married women were far more appealing than sweet and innocent lasses.

  Being the gentleman he usually wasn’t, he decided to offer Rose some assistance. Crossing the gathering room in long strides, he reached her before she could disappear.

  “Let me help ye with that, lass,” he said, flashing her one of his most brilliant smiles. ’Twas the kind of smile that usually left the lasses flustered and giggling. For some strange reason, it did not have the same effect on Rose.

  Rose eyed him suspiciously, with a raised brow and pursed lips. Instead of looking flattered or at the least grateful for help, she instead, looked perturbed. “Ye needn’t bother.” She didn’t so much as falter in her step or pause to thank him.

  “But they look heavy,” Ian said as he walked alongside her. He was, to say the least, baffled at her demeanor and tone of voice. He and Rose had spent very little time together over the past days.

  “Aye, they are, but ye needn’t bother over it,” she said as she walked briskly down the long corridor. “I’m sure ye’ve better things to do.”

  Ian chuckled. “Mayhap, but I canna think of anything I’d rather do than help a bonny lass.”

  Rose huffed, rolled her eyes and shook her head and kept walking.

  For the life of him, he could not think of anything he could have said or done to deserve the frigid shoulder she was giving him. He rested a hand on her arm and pulled them to a stop.

  “Have I done something to offend ye?” he asked as he searched his own mind for the tiniest clue. Seeing that they had barely spoken more than a few words since his arrival, he couldn’t recollect a moment where he’d been rude or untoward. He had also remained sober—for the most part—and knew he hadn’t taken a tumble with her during some drunken night of debauchery.

  “No’ yet, ye haven’t, but I’m sure ye will,” Rose said as she looked up at him.

  Ian raised a brow. “What does that mean?”

  Rose sighed heavily. “It means I know yer kind. ’Twill no’ be long before ye and yer other men are slobbering’ all over what few available lasses we have here. Whisperin’ sweet words in their ears and makin’ promises ye do no’ intend to keep.”

  Ian stared down at her, dumbfounded. He wondered for a moment if his reputation as debaucher of women had already reached the keep. Still, her words wounded his pride. “And how is it ye come to be believin’ that, when we havena so much as spent one moment alone together since my arrival?”

  “As I said, I know yer kind,” she answered as she shook away his hand and headed toward the servant’s stairs.

  “And how is it ye came to such a conclusion on yer own?” Ian said, never one to back down from a challenge. He was chasing after her.

  “Och! Yer a pretty man, Ian Mackintosh.”

  Pretty? Pretty man? What the bloody hell does that mean?

  “And pretty men, such as ye, never have to prove themselves with the lasses. All ye need do is cast a look with those big beautiful blue eyes of yers, flash those straight white teeth and waggle a finger and the lasses come runnin’,” she tossed her words over her shoulder as she made her way up the narrow staircase. “Ye flex yer big muscly arms, or lift yer plaid to show them yer equally well-muscled thighs and there be verra few lasses who would turn ye away.”

  Ian wasn’t sure if he should feel insulted or flattered. Aye, he’d been told more than once that he had beautiful eyes and a brilliant smile. And he knew he was built well, he wasn’t a fool to think otherwise. “Don’t ferget that I oft bare me hairy chest,” he said to her back. “And do no’ ferget about me arse. I’ve been told more than once I have quite a nice arse.”

  His words were meant to shock her. They had the opposite effect.

  Rose giggled. “Aye, I suppose ’tis a fine arse. And I’ll take yer word about yer hairy chest and flat stomach.”

  Ian came to an abrupt halt on the steps. Rose kept walking.

  He took note then of her tiny waist and the way her hips swayed gracefully with each step she took. His groin tightened with the image of loosening that long, golden blonde braid of hers and letting it drape over her naked skin.

  “I never said anything about me flat stomach,” he called out to her as he bounded up the stairs.

  “Ye didna have to,” Rose said as she reached the top of the stairs. “With the rest of ye seemin’ to be carved out of stone, I could only assume ye have a flat stomach.”

  How did she do that? Speak with words that would, from anyone else’s mouth, seem a compliment, but from hers, they felt like insults?

  “So ye’ve noticed me, then, have ye?”

  “A blind woman can notice ye, Ian.”

  “Then why do I
get the feeling ye do no’ like me much?” he asked as he caught up with her.

  “Because I dunna like ye,” she told him as she paused outside a door in the middle of the hallway. “I do no’ like pretty men.”

  He was taken aback by her statement. “Ye prefer fat, old, hairy men with no teeth, big bellies, and no muscles then?”

  Rose threw her head back and laughed. “I didna say that, Ian. I was married to a fat, old, hairy man fer a time. Though he did have most of his teeth. Though he may no’ have been much to look at, he was a fine man.”

  The more he talked with this woman, the more confused, intrigued, and attracted he became.

  “Ye are a bafflin’ thing, Rose.”

  “Aye, I’ve been told that before.” She shifted the fabric in her arms, lifted the latch and stepped into the semi-dark room with Ian right behind her. Beams of sunlight shone in through the tall, narrow window, carrying with it a cool breeze. A rather decrepit looking chair sat next to the window which was devoid of furs or drapery. A brazier sat between the window and the table that stood in the center of the room. Unlike its beautiful occupant, the room was quite plain.

  Rose placed the fabrics on the large table and turned to face him. “Ye can be gone, now, Ian. I’ve much work to do.”

  She was dismissing him. Just like that. He studied the bonny young woman for a moment. She had rosy cheeks and lush pink lips that he thought would be perfect for kissing. Mayhap that was the lass’s problem; she’d never been thoroughly or properly kissed before. If she told the truth in that she had been married to a fat, old, hairy man, chances were she found the act of joining repulsive. Mayhap if she had a young man with a nice arse, straight teeth and big blue eyes to show her the way, she might think differently.

  Ian suddenly felt called to some unbidden challenge. “I think ye be afraid of me,” he said with a wry smile.

  “And ye’d be right.”