The Reiver

by Glynnis Campbell

  Even the stalwart Rauf, who rushed forward to close the door behind them, blinked at the foul curses.

  Eager to be rid of his noisy burden, Brochan carried the lass into the hall and set her abruptly on her feet, so abruptly she nearly tripped on the hem of her kirtle.

  She tossed her head, and her long black braid slapped him in the face. He had just enough time to see her snarling white teeth—the teeth now imprinted upon his palm—before she did the unthinkable.

  While he was disentangling himself from the hissing she-cat, the lass laid her hands upon the hilt of his sword and pulled it from its sheath.

  Brochan leaped back just in time to avoid the edge of the blade. It whistled past, missing him by inches.

  Before he even had time to curse himself for his carelessness, she stabbed forward. He fell back, grabbing a lit sconce from the wall to use as a weapon.

  “Put the sword down,” he warned.

  She glared at him through damp strands of her dark hair, but still she held the blade aloft in both hands.

  “Put it down,” he repeated.

  When she refused to comply, he lunged forward with the sconce, forcing her to skitter back.

  With a determined growl, she slashed again and again at the space between them. Her swings were reckless and wildly unpredictable.

  Defending himself with the sconce, he managed to keep her from doing too much damage.

  “Nay, Rauf!” he barked at his man, who was trying to sneak up on the lass. “Stay back!”

  He didn’t want anyone injured by a stray blade. Besides, if Brochan couldn’t handle this minikin of a lass on his own, he didn’t deserve to be laird of the tower house.

  “Whoreson!” the lass spat. “Satan’s spawn!”

  Brochan frowned. He wondered if she kissed the lads with that filthy mouth.

  She took another swipe at him, and he fended it off with the sconce, extinguishing the candle.

  He could have brought the heavy piece down on her head at that point and knocked her out. But he hated to resort to such violence when it wasn’t necessary.

  Besides, the way the lass was fighting—with all her pluck and every bit of her strength—she couldn’t last much longer. He’d just wait for her to tire.

  “Ye hedge-born bastard!”

  Brochan shook his head and deflected another wayward swing.

  As he did, he caught a glimpse of Cambel and Colin, who’d heard the noise and come downstairs. They peered out from the shadows of the stairwell with their wooden swords in hand, ready to do battle.

  He grimaced. They’d probably witnessed the whole sordid incident and were hanging on every blasphemous word.

  Chapter 3

  Cristy dared not show it, but she’d never been so scared in her life.

  The evening couldn’t have gone more wrong.

  Her cousins had deserted her.

  She’d been captured and spirited away by the enemy.

  A fiery star was headed for the earth.

  And now she was fighting with a weapon so heavy she could scarcely wield it—against a man who looked as big as an ox.

  He was going to kill her. She knew it.

  He’d caught her going after his cattle. And now he was going to make her pay.

  Her heart was pounding. Her palms were sweating. But she knew she couldn’t show an ounce of fear. For if she did, he would surely finish her on the spot.

  So she tossed her braid over her shoulder, kicked her skirts out of the way, and attacked again, cursing at him with courage she didn’t possess. “The devil rot ye and your coos!”

  “Na-a-a-a-a-y!” A high-pitched war cry announced a young child in a long white leine as he came running out of the shadows toward her, wielding a wee wooden sword.

  She hesitated an instant, and a second child followed, looking like a mirror image of the first.

  Before she could even blink in astonishment, the man she’d been fighting bellowed, “Nay!”

  In one sudden movement, he dropped the sconce and lunged for her, heedless of her sword.

  His momentum knocked her backwards so hard, she was sure her head would crack upon the stones. But at the last instant, he turned with her, cushioning her head with one hand and landing mostly on his shoulder.

  “Stay back, lads!” he called out to the children.

  His warning was unnecessary. The fall had loosened her grip on the sword. It had clattered out of reach on the rushes.

  He rolled her quickly on her back, straddling her and pinning her wrists to the floor.

  Now she was helpless. And frightened. If she wasn’t careful, she’d erupt in full-scale panic, which would give him even more of an upper hand.

  But then she peered at the man through the disheveled veil of her hair. The blood had drained from his face. He had a fretful look in his eyes. He looked as if…as if he’d expected her to run those children through with the sword.

  Now her fear gave way to outrage and anger.

  She frowned and spit a lock of her hair from her mouth. Did he really believe her capable of such violence? She might reive a cow or two, and she would definitely stand up to an ox like him. But she didn’t slay innocents in cold blood.

  “God’s eyes,” she muttered, “I wouldn’t have harmed them.”

  He stared down at her with such ferocity that she couldn’t look away. “Hurt my sons,” he bit out so softly she could scarcely hear it, “and I’ll kill ye.”

  She gulped. A dark fire burned in his emerald eyes, searing her soul. His sons. He must love them fiercely to make such a vow.

  Finally, growing apprehensive beneath his intense glare, she mumbled, “What kind o’ monster do ye think I am?”

  “Ye were thievin’ my coos,” he pointed out.

  “Thievin’ coos isn’t the same as murderin’ bairns.”

  “I’m not a bairn,” one of the lads pronounced with indignation.

  “I’m not a bairn,” the other mimicked.

  The man’s furrowed brow softened fractionally, but his grip was still steel-hard.

  What were his intentions? She shuddered to think. In some parts, cattle reivers were punished as severely as murderers.

  “What do ye mean to do with me?” she challenged him, though her mouth was dry with fear as she spoke.

  He didn’t answer her. He only continued to stare at her in silence while his flinty green eyes seemed to entertain a host of grim possibilities.

  She nervously licked her lips, her mind racing. He obviously cared deeply for his sons. He was protective of them. She wondered…

  “Ye wouldn’t kill me in front o’ them, would ye?” She glanced at the two lads, who were staying obediently back, but who still clung to their wooden swords. “Ye won’t let them watch while their father slays a helpless lass.”

  It was a risky bluff. He might be the sort who wouldn’t hesitate to demonstrate to his sons what happened to people who reived their father’s cattle.

  On the other hand, when he’d knocked her to the ground, he’d turned onto his shoulder to soften the blow. That proved he wasn’t without mercy.

  “Are ye goin’ to slay her, Da?” one of the lads asked.

  “Da wouldn’t do that while she’s unarmed,” the other assured his brother. “’Twouldn’t be chivalrous.” Then he added, “He’ll give her a sword. Right, Da?”

  Cristy doubted that. Still, the lads’ words had served to diminish the vengeful fury in their father’s eyes. In fact, she would almost swear she saw a glimmer of amusement in his gaze as he let out his breath on a sigh.

  A pounding footfall announced someone coming up the stairs from the lower level. Eager for any kind of distraction that might allow her to twist free, Cristy tossed the hair from her eyes to get a better look. Out of the shadows emerged a hefty woman with iron-gray hair, snapping eyes, and a heavy black skillet.

  “All right!” she bellowed as she came. “Where’s that connivin’ cattle reiver? I’ll give him such a wallop that he w
on’t…”

  The woman stopped in her tracks when she laid eyes on Cristy. She lowered the skillet, knitted her wiry brows, and then gasped. Handing the skillet off to the gray-haired man who’d answered the door, the woman rushed forward to peer down at Cristy. Her expression transformed swiftly from outrage to motherly concern and then back to outrage as she looked at Cristy’s captor.

  “What the devil are ye doin’, m’laird?” the woman demanded.

  Cristy’s eyes widened. M’laird? Was this Macintosh himself?

  “Can’t ye see the poor lass is hurt?” the woman said, clucking her tongue.

  Cristy almost choked in surprise. The last thing she expected from the skillet-wielding giantess was pity.

  “Hurt?” Macintosh scoffed. “This is the lass who’s been reivin’ my cattle.”

  The woman bent forward to stare down at her with kindly eyes. “Was it ye who gave her that black eye then?”

  “What?” He peered down at Cristy, apparently noticing her bruise for the first time.

  It was tempting for Cristy to let everyone believe Macintosh had struck her, intentionally and cruelly. But she was reluctant to blame an innocent man for what her uncle had done.

  Still, she wasn’t stupid. She needed whatever advantage she could grasp.

  “I’m sure ye didn’t mean to do it,” she hedged.

  He wasn’t fooled for an instant. “I didn’t touch ye, lass, and ye know it. That’s an old bruise.”

  The woman parked her hands on her hips. “Is that true, lass?”

  Cristy caught her lip under her teeth, reluctant to answer. God only knew what Macintosh’s punishment would be for reiving his cattle and lying to him.

  Brochan shook his head. More than anything, he hated being blamed for things he hadn’t done.

  All his life, he’d followed the code of chivalry. He’d tried to be a decent man. He’d always done the honorable thing. He’d taught his sons right from wrong, leading by his example.

  He had willingly and singlehandedly accepted responsibility for his children, his servants, a herd of cows, and this new holding with its derelict tower.

  It was bad enough that anything that went awry was his fault. But to be accused of doing something as heinous and reprehensible as clouting a lass when he’d never dream of raising his hand to a woman…

  “Da would never hit a lady,” Colin said.

  “Aye, thank ye, Colin.” At least one person in this hall trusted his character. Brochan looked down at the bonnie reiver with smug satisfaction. “That’s right.”

  Then Cambel added, “But sittin’ on one is perfectly fine.”

  Rauf sounded like he was strangling on laughter.

  Brochan sighed. The frankness of wee lads was both a blessing and a curse.

  The lass beneath him arched her brow in challenge, awaiting his reply.

  “Nay, Cambel,” he admitted. “Sittin’ on a lady is not perfectly fine. Not usually. But as laird, ’tis my duty to make sure she isn’t goin’ to hurt my clan.”

  “Why, Da? Is she dangerous?” Cambel asked.

  He gazed down at his captive. Was she dangerous? He had her at his mercy now. But he had to admit, getting a closer look at the lass, that she was dangerously attractive. And between the feral beauty of her face, her arching bosom, and her insistent squirming between his thighs, the wee, wild wench was making him feel dangerously awakened.

  “Is she, Da?” Colin echoed.

  “Dangerous?” Brochan cocked his head at her. “Well, lass, are ye?”

  “Ye’ll find out just how dangerous if ye don’t let me go.”

  Her words were harsh and threatening. But Brochan detected a flicker of fear in her eyes. He decided she was about as dangerous as a cornered kitten with tiny claws and her fur on end—all hiss and spit.

  “I’d be a fool to let ye go,” he told her gently. “But give me no trouble, and I’ll do ye no harm. Once I get my cattle back, I’ll return ye, good as new.”

  She looked horrified. “I’m a hostage?”

  He winced. “I wouldn’t say so much a hostage as a…” He couldn’t really think of a better term.

  “I’m a bloody hostage,” she bit out, renewing her fight to get free. “Ye son o’ the devil!” She twisted beneath him. “Damn ye to hell!”

  “Ooh! She’s goin’ to have to clean the garderobe, Da,” Cambel announced.

  “Aye,” Colin agreed, telling the lass, “Da says if ye use foul words, ye have to do foul work.”

  If he weren’t so busy battling the wee wildcat beneath him, Brochan would have grinned in approval at his sons’ comments.

  The lass’s brown eyes smoldered with fury. “Let. Me. Go.”

  “What’s a hostage, Da?” Colin asked.

  “A hostage is someone you hold on to…for safekeeping,” he said pointedly, “until the person who wants her back pays the price.”

  Cambel crept a bit closer. “What price?”

  “Stay back, Cambel,” he said. He didn’t think the lass would hurt the lad, but he couldn’t be sure. She seemed very desperate, despite his reassurances. “Her price is the five coos she stole from us.”

  “Who wants her back?” Colin asked.

  “That’s a very good question, Colin. How about it, lass? Whose clan do ye belong to?”

  She froze for a heartbeat, and what he saw in her wide brown eyes spoke volumes. She didn’t want to say.

  “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 al
ong 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.”