“I don’t belong to a clan,” she lied.
She renewed her struggles, forcing Brochan to tighten his thighs around her. He sincerely wished she wouldn’t do that. It was having an undesired effect, one he was sure she didn’t intend.
“Ye had a whole gang o’ lads with ye,” he said. “I saw them.”
“Could be the Moffats,” Rauf suggested. “They own the adjoinin’ property. There look to be five or six young men.”
The reiver’s brow creased, and Brochan could tell Rauf was right. “Are they your brothers then?”
She clamped her lips closed, obviously unwilling to say.
“Come on, lass,” he reasoned. “If ye don’t tell us, we won’t be able to collect the ransom. Ye’ll be stuck here.”
“Ye can’t keep me here,” she said, adding with a sneer, “unless ye plan to sit on me all night.”
That idea did sound pleasant to less honorable parts of his body, parts that hadn’t been used in more than five years.
But he had other plans.
“That won’t be necessary. I have shackles.”
Mabel gasped, as if he’d said he was going to string the lass up by her braid.
Consequently, the lass, sensing an ally in Mabel, pressed her advantage. “Ye’d put me in shackles? Like a common criminal?”
“Damn it all! Ye are a common criminal,” he argued, aroused and exasperated that he was aroused. “Ye were reivin’ my bloody coos.”
“Da!” Colin cried with glee. “Now ye’ll have to clean the garderobe!”
Cristy half expected Macintosh to turn on his son and backhand him across the mouth for his impertinence. That was what her uncle would have done. But the laird only muttered more oaths under his breath, mostly cursing himself.
Meanwhile, Cristy agonized over her predicament. It was bad enough that she’d been caught by the very man whose cow she’d been trying to steal, Laird Macintosh himself. But when her uncle found out…
Not only would she lose any hope of gaining his respect. She’d probably get a beating for her carelessness. She supposed it was no less than she deserved. But her cousins would never let her accompany them again.
She couldn’t let that happen. She had to find a way to escape.
As much as she hated how helpless she felt, at the mercy of the self-satisfied brute—the way his hands dwarfed her wrists, how his eyes burned green fire, the unsettling weight of his body on top of her—she couldn’t let him put her in shackles. Then she’d never be able to flee.
Perhaps it was in her best interests to go along with the laird after all. If she could get him to trust her, convince him she was harmless, maybe he would let down his guard. Then she could outwit him, escape, and return to the Moffat keep before morn.
Fighting all of her instincts, she relaxed beneath him, as if surrendering to his will.
She sighed, lowering her eyes. When she spoke, it was in the soft voice of defeat. “’Twasn’t my idea to reive your coos, I swear.”
The old woman took the bait at once. “Did they force ye, lass?” She clucked her tongue. “‘Twas one o’ them gave ye the black eye, wasn’t it?”
Cristy nodded.
She felt the pressure on her wrists ease up the slightest bit.
“I knew it,” the woman said. “’Twas those Moffat lads, aye?”
She nodded again.
When Macintosh spoke once more, his voice was gentle, compassionate…vulnerable. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Cristy.”
“And ye’re a Moffat?”
“Aye.” There was no use hiding her identity. Besides, honesty would serve to gain his trust. “They’re not my brothers. They’re my cousins.”
As predicted, his grip on her loosened. “If I let ye up, ye won’t do anythin’ foolish, will ye?”
The temptation was great. But every scenario she ran through her head—lunging for the sword, elbowing back the old woman, diving for the door—ended with Macintosh back on top of her.
So instead, she obediently shook her head.
He released her cautiously, rocking back on his haunches. As if he’d read her mind, he immediately slid his sword across the rushes, far out of her reach.
He held out a hand to her. She resisted the urge to spit on his palm, instead taking his hand and allowing him to help her up. To her consternation, he didn’t let go. And to her annoyance, his grip felt possessive and commanding.
“She’s very bonnie,” one of the lads said in a very loud whisper.
“Aye,” whispered his brother.
“Lads,” Macintosh warned them. Then he turned to his man. “Rauf, I’ll write a missive to Moffat, demandin’ the return o’ my coos in exchange for his niece. Ye can send it with Brother William in the morn.”
“Right,” Rauf replied. “And I’ll stand watch o’er the herd tonight, in case the Moffat lads return for the lass.”
“Good.” As Rauf headed outdoors, Macintosh nodded to the old woman. “Mabel?”
“M’laird?”
“Can ye see to the lads?”
“O’ course. Are ye sure ye’re…” The woman glanced at Cristy, as if she suspected Cristy might have mischief in mind.
Cristy did have mischief in mind. But she lowered her gaze and tried to appear suitably humbled.
“I’ll be fine,” Macintosh assured her. “But be sure and close the lads’ chamber door.”
“Kiss us, Da,” one of them said.
“I’ll come and kiss ye when ye’re in your bed,” the laird said.
For an instant, Cristy felt a pang in her heart. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed her goodnight.
“Goodnight, bonnie lady,” the other lad called from the stairwell.
Caught completely off-guard, Cristy mumbled back, “Goodnight.”
Hand-in-hand with Mabel, the lads climbed the stairs, disappearing into the dark.
And then there were just the two of them in the great hall.
Now that she could get a good look at the laird, she realized how tall and formidable he was. He stood a full head above her, and his shoulders were nearly as wide as a doorway. It must have taken yards of linen to make a leine broad enough to span his chest.
“Cristy, is it?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Ye can call me Brochan.”
“Brochan.”
“Aye.”
He was still holding her hand. It felt very improper now. With the casual air of a courting gentleman, he escorted her across the hall, stopping in front of a great cupboard.
“Listen, Cristy, I don’t want ye to fret.” He gave her hand what was probably supposed to be a comforting pat. “I truly mean ye no harm.”
It took all of Cristy’s willpower to appear docile and obedient, resisting the urge to snatch back her hand.
Until he opened the cupboard door and pulled out the shackles.
Chapter 4
Brochan hadn’t been fooled for a moment by the lass’s meek and mild behavior. She might appear to be tamed. But he’d seen the intrigue seething behind her innocent eyes.
He’d raised twin sons, after all. He’d encountered every manipulation known to man.
As predicted, once she saw the shackles, she began screaming in fury.
But he was prepared for her resistance. And now that his sons were safely upstairs, behind a closed door, he could ignore her screams. While she tugged back frantically on her captured hand and batted at him with her free one, he simply bent down and slipped one of the shackles around her ankle.
Then he lifted up the wee cursing lass, carried her to the hearth, and clapped the other shackle around the heavy iron fireplace crane.
“I may be kindhearted,” he told her, “but I’m not a fool.”
He gave the long, thick chain between the shackles a shake, testing its strength. Then he removed all the fireplace tools she might consider using as weapons.
While she called him every foul name he’d
ever heard, he returned to the cupboard for a chamber pot. From the oak chest against the wall, he pulled out several thick sheepskins.
She was practically hoarse from screaming by the time he dumped her amenities beside her.
“Now ye have a choice,” he said between her curses. “Ye can either stop your squallin’, or I can fetch a gag to stuff betwixt your teeth. So what’ll it be?”
That stopped her cries. But her dark eyes contained such smoldering hatred that he almost felt singed by her glare. Her hands were curled into tight fists. Her jaw was clenched as tight as a cockle. And her whole body heaved with the passion of her anger.
For a brief moment, he thought it was a shame she was so full of fury. She was actually quite a lovely lass. Her hair was as black as night, and the tendrils that had come loose from her long braid curled gracefully over her shoulders. Her eyes matched her woolen kirtle—a deep, rich brown, like the color of a brook trout in a shadowy loch. Her skin looked as smooth and sun-kissed as honey, and her lips were a soft, inviting pink.
In the next moment, her dark bruise caught his eye, and he wondered what kind of heartless brute would clout such a bonnie lass across the face.
Then he realized it was none of his affair. His hands were too full, raising his own lads, to be concerned with how the Moffats treated their cousin. Even if he did feel sorry for the lass.
Nodding to approve her choice of silence, he returned to the cupboard for a sheet of vellum, ink, and a quill. Then he sat at the trestle table.
“Your uncle’s name?” he asked, dipping the quill.
She glared at him in silence. The lass was decidedly more stubborn than his sons.
“Fine. Ye have another choice to make. Ye can either tell me, I’ll write the missive, and then I’ll leave ye in peace,” he said, “or I can stay here, waitin’, until ye feel the need to use the chamber pot. Maybe then ye’ll tell me.”
She glowered at him in disgust. “Douglas,” she spat.
He wrote. “To Laird…Douglas…Moffat.”
While he finished penning his demand, Cristy arranged the sheepskins to her liking and flounced down upon them, deliberately facing away from him.
He picked up the candle on the trestle table.
“Goodnight, Cristy. I’ll send this out at dawn. If all goes well, Moffat will return my coos, and ye’ll be back home, safe and sound, by midday.”
She didn’t answer him, but he doubted she was asleep. As vexed as she was, she’d probably toss and turn half the night before she finally drifted off.
Carrying the candle, he started toward the stairs. He’d promised his sons a goodnight kiss. It was something the lads insisted upon. And he was glad to do it. One day, they’d grow too old for the ritual. And he’d miss it.
As curious as it was, when he passed by the lass, he was tempted to stop and give her a kiss as well. She might be fierce and angry, but he sensed that beneath the surface, there was something vulnerable, some sad, neglected part of her that was starved for affection.
Again, it was not his affair. He couldn’t save every small, suffering creature that crossed his path. He had too many other things to look after.
Colin and Cambel were sleeping back-to-back in their big bed when he eased open their chamber door. It was still odd to him that strangers couldn’t tell the difference between the lads. To Brochan, they were as different as night and day.
The stars shone through the narrow window. It was a balmy evening, so he left the shutters open and banked the coals of the fire.
When he bent down to press his lips to Colin’s brow, he suddenly remembered the comet. He glanced out the window, but it wasn’t visible from here. He’d have to take the lads out to see it on the morrow.
He leaned over farther to kiss Cambel’s brow. And it was then he recalled the tavern wench’s prophecy.
She’d told him he could change his stars tonight. Was it just a coincidence that she’d chosen that word? Or was it possible she’d seen the comet as well?
It was accepted knowledge that comets foretold change. Brochan didn’t really believe that. But it was admittedly eerie to have a tavern wench predict that his destiny would hang in the balance, this night of all nights, when a stranger had just entered his life.
Cristy thumbed away the stupid tear trickling down her cheek and gazed into the blurry flames on the hearth. There was no use in weeping. There was naught she could do now to change what had happened. Or what was going to happen.
Brochan Macintosh was going to get his cows back. What other choice did the Moffats have but to return them?
Her uncle would be furious. Her cousins would be disappointed. She was dreading their banishment almost more than the beating Douglas Moffat would give her.
After Macintosh had headed upstairs, she’d tried to free herself. She’d struggled with the shackle until her already twisted ankle was scraped raw. But it was no use. She couldn’t escape.
She supposed it could be worse. Macintosh could have run her through with a sword. He could have hanged her. He could have decided to keep her prisoner. At least he was willing to ransom her.
And it wasn’t so terrible here. He’d given her sheepskins to lie on. They were softer and warmer than the scratchy wool coverlet she used at home. The fire was pleasant, though the summer air was mild enough not to need its warmth. And he’d left her a chamber pot.
She rolled onto her back and peered around the great hall. It looked a bit unkempt. But he’d only lived here a short while. And it appeared his only servants were the pair he’d called Rauf and Mabel. With so few inhabitants, it was no wonder her cousins had been able to steal his cattle so easily.
The Moffat clan had at least a dozen servants, and four alone were in charge of the cows—two lads to watch over them and two maids to milk them each day and night. How Macintosh managed to keep track of his herd, which was double the size of theirs, she didn’t know.
Maybe his sons worked in the field. They were young, but they seemed clever enough to watch over cows.
She’d never seen two lads who looked so alike, with matching russet hair and freckled noses. They must be twins. She’d never seen twins before. She wondered if Macintosh ever got them confused.
One of the wee lads had said Cristy was bonnie.
She smirked. Nobody ever said that about her. Her hair was too black. Her eyes were too fierce. Her skin was too dark. Obviously, the lad hadn’t seen many lasses.
She wondered where the lads’ mother was. Since the old woman had put them to bed, maybe their mother was dead like hers.
They were lucky at least to have a father—a father who kissed them goodnight and taught them not to curse and would brave the edge of a sword to protect them.
She gazed into the slowly dying fire, watching the flames double and blur as moisture again filled her eyes.
Despite the fact he’d lain awake half the night, Brochan rose at dawn, as he did every morn. And as usual, he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes while mentally reviewing what he needed to do for the day.
First he’d wake Colin and Cambel and send them out to milk the cows. Mabel would be up already, baking oatcakes. Rauf was supposed to help him rebuild the stone wall around the garden this morn, and Mabel had promised to see what she could salvage of the overgrown herbs there. Brochan also had to tally the payments his uncle owed to the local vendors, for the old man had neglected to pay for some of the goods and services he’d received in the last year.
Then there were the stores that needed to be tossed out—broken crockery, soured ale, mouse-riddled grain. Once that was done, he’d have to account for what remained and replace what was necessary to survive the winter. It was going to be a long day.
Sitting up and swinging his feet over the edge of the pallet, he scratched at his stubbled jaw and blinked against the rising sun.
All at once he remembered the lass.
Damn. His well-ordered day was going to be even longer. Before he did anything else, he h
ad to get his cows back and return Cristy Moffat.
Fully alert now, he threw on his leine and trews and raked his hands back through his hair before descending the stairs.
When he came into the great hall, what he saw at the hearth took his breath away. And then it took his heart away.
Cristy Moffat—sprawled like a queen across a mountain of sheepskins, coverlets, and furs—was snoring blissfully away beside the fire. Tucked around her, fast asleep—one on the left, one on the right—were his sons.
His chest tightened with fear, seeing Colin and Cambel so close to the woman who’d come at him with a sword last night.
Then he looked at the tangle of coverlets and realized they belonged to his sons. They must have sneaked down sometime in the middle of the night. A thick knot lodged in his throat. The fact that the lads were curled up around the lass like orphan pups tugged painfully at his heart.
He heard Mabel coming up the kitchen stairs behind him.
She whispered, “Forgive me, m’laird. I didn’t have the heart to disturb them. But I don’t think she’d hurt the lads.”
He nodded.
Then she stepped beside him and cocked her head at the sight. “I fear the wee things miss havin’ a mother.”
Brochan clenched his jaw. It wasn’t the first time Mabel had brought up the subject. She nagged him at every opportunity about getting a mother for the lads. She seemed to think Brochan could easily solve the problem by just snapping up some convenient wench to be a mother to his sons. It didn’t seem to occur to Mabel that the lass would also be his wife. And that Brochan would never find a wife to equal the one he’d had.
He murmured through clenched teeth, “Don’t ye have breakfast to attend to?”
Her cheer undiminished, she replied, “Aye, and I’ve made a hearty frumenty for our guest. The poor thing looks half-starved.”
Brochan scowled at Mabel as she wheeled merrily and scurried back downstairs to the kitchens.
Frumenty? The old woman never made frumenty for him.
And guest? Cristy Moffat was definitely not a guest. She’d said it herself. She was a hostage. Brochan needed to get his cows back, and she was simply the means to achieve that.
The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2) Page 18
