The Reiver

by Glynnis Campbell

  Cristy bit her lip and looked at him uncertainly. She was Douglas Moffat’s own flesh and blood, and it didn’t stop him from hurting her.

  Brochan searched her face, shaking his head as if he were trying to figure out the strange workings of her mind. Then he reached out toward her hair.

  Out of instinct, she flinched away.

  Too late, she realized he didn’t mean to clout her.

  “Och, lass,” he said in disbelief, his hand still raised, “are ye afraid o’ me?”

  She lifted her chin, putting on a brave face. “Nay.”

  But he didn’t believe the lie. And the fact that he’d scared her made him look utterly crestfallen, so much like his wee sons that it squeezed her heart.

  “Well,” she amended, “ye are very angry.”

  He lowered his hand and stared down at his feet for a moment. “I am angry.” Then he scoffed at himself. “I was angry.” He lifted his head and locked gazes with her. His eyes were earnest and impassioned. “But I’ve never raised a hand in anger to my sons. And I would never, ever hurt a lady.”

  She gulped. Somehow in her heart she knew that. It was only habit that had made her duck away. Brochan was not at all like her kin. He was kind and noble and just.

  He approached her again, this time with caution, as if she were a wild cat. “May I?” He lifted his hand, slowly.

  His fingers in her hair were almost soothing as he plucked out a stray piece of straw. Then he locked gazes with her.

  She held her breath. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her with such compassion or touched her with such tenderness. She felt herself drawn into the deep verdant pools of his eyes.

  It was a wee bit frightening.

  She’d worn invisible armor for years now. It served to protect her against her cousins’ subtle cruelty. It might not be strong enough to ward off her uncle’s fists, but it kept her safe from his demeaning words.

  Now, the way Brochan was touching her with measured care, looking at her with affection and concern, it felt like he was gently stripping away that armor, link by link.

  A new fear fluttered in her breast.

  But it wasn’t dread.

  It was anticipation.

  Her gaze fell to his mouth, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to press her lips to his, to melt into his welcoming arms, to feel perfectly safe and protected.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding. It came out on a tremble.

  She was going to do it. She couldn’t help herself. She was going to kiss him.

  Brochan couldn’t believe he was going to kiss her. Every instinct told him not to. No good would come of it. He could think of at least a dozen good reasons not to do such a reckless thing. And he would list them all…right after he finished the kiss.

  Their attraction was as inevitable and unavoidable as the pull of steel to a magnet. The distance closed between them with natural grace. When their mouths met, it felt like coming home.

  Her lips were soft, warm, and vulnerable as she pressed them tentatively against his mouth.

  She was shaking. Perhaps she’d never kissed a man before. But since he hadn’t kissed a woman in five years, he too was out of practice.

  Yet instinct swiftly took over. He moved his hand to cup her silky cheek, drawing her closer. He closed his eyes, angling his head to capture her lips between his.

  She responded with a soft gasp. She placed her hands on his chest—not to push him away, but to clench her fists in his leine.

  The long-banked coal of his desire flickered to life.

  He threaded his fingers through her silken hair. He circled her ear with the pad of his thumb, deepening the kiss.

  She answered instantly, seeking out his mouth, striving to get even closer.

  Encouraged by her response, he circled her waist with his other arm and drew her up against him. He groaned at the familiar and divine sensation of a woman’s body pressed firmly to his—the supple yielding of her breasts upon his chest and the sweet curve of her hips below his palm.

  Then she slipped her tongue out to taste him.

  Like lightning striking dry grass, his passion flared to life. Hot blood raced through his veins as he opened his mouth, granting her access.

  His tongue danced with hers, lightly at first and then with more devotion, and they sang the music of desire. Like a starving man, he feasted upon her, and she drank his greed as if it were wine.

  Suddenly her hands were everywhere, skimming his chest, roving over his shoulders, weaving through his hair. He explored her beautiful contours as well, delving his fingers into her inky tresses, tracing her delicate throat with his fingertips, and venturing lower, daring to brush his palms atop the sensitive tops of her breasts.

  The breath she raked in was so raw with need that he felt the surge in his trews like the powerful wave of a stormy sea.

  All the lust that had been bottled up for the last five years streamed through his veins at once in a brilliant flare, blinding him to reason. He tore away from the kiss and nudged her up against the wall, wanting her so badly he could scarcely breathe.

  Somewhere in the depths of his soul, he knew he was behaving like an animal. But what he glimpsed in her eyes wasn’t pain or fear. It was a desire as strong and pure as his. She wanted him. She wanted this.

  In another moment…

  “Hallo!” he heard from outside the byre.

  Cristy’s eyes went wide.

  Brochan stepped away, silently using every foul oath he could think of.

  Curse Brother William. Naught could douse the flames of passion faster than the voice of a monk.

  Yet Brochan’s fire was far from extinguished. The evidence of his lingering desire displayed itself as proudly as a pennant pole in his trews. With a look at Cristy that was half apology, half exasperation, he turned his back to her, made the necessary adjustments, and prepared to face the monk.

  “I’m in here, William.”

  As William entered the byre, Brochan suddenly remembered that the monk might have news that could upset Cristy.

  He turned to her. “Will ye go see to the lads?”

  She seemed glad of an excuse to leave, especially when she saw their visitor was a man of the church. She gave him a curt nod in greeting, picked up her skirts, and scurried off.

  “Was that…” William began.

  “Aye, Miss Moffat.” He didn’t feel like excusing his lack of an introduction…or detailing why they were alone in the byre…or explaining why the woman he was holding hostage apparently had free range of the property. “What news?”

  “I’ve brought a missive from her laird,” William said, handing over a small rolled parchment.

  Brochan hesitated, stricken by an urge to destroy the thing without reading it. Part of him would rather leave things just as they were, with the lovely, sweet-lipped lass under his care.

  But he was a man of honor. He’d offered a fair exchange. He had to be true to his word.

  So he popped the seal and opened the document.

  On it were scrawled three words.

  Keep her. Moffat.

  Brochan kept staring at the letters. He couldn’t be reading that right. There had to be some mistake.

  But no matter how many times he read it, the message was as clear, raw, and brutal as it could be. He tightened his fist around the missive as rage slowly burned inside him.

  “Is somethin’ wrong, m’laird?”

  Beyond speech, Brochan clenched his jaw and handed the parchment to the monk.

  William frowned as he read the note. “I don’t understand. ’Tis only five coos. Surely he wants the lass back.”

  Brochan’s heart twisted with fury and sorrow. How could a man be so cruel? Did he truly value his cattle above his own niece? Was he so apathetic about the lass that he would casually cast her aside? What a monstrous man he must be.

  “How will I tell her?” he wondered aloud. “How will I tell her her
own uncle doesn’t think she’s worth five coos?”

  William shook his head. “’Tis a travesty. She looks to be a lovely lass too. Most men would trade a whole herd o’ cattle for a beauty like her.”

  Brochan had to agree. With her night-black hair and deep brown eyes, she was as bonnie and enticing as a dark faerie queen.

  He rubbed his hand across his mouth, wondering how he was going to break the news to her. “Wait. What did ye just say?”

  “I said she was a lovely lass.”

  “Nay, after that.”

  “Most men would trade a whole herd o’ cattle for a lass like that.”

  “That’s right. They would.” Suddenly inspired, he snatched the missive from William’s hand. Then he clapped his palm on the perplexed monk’s shoulder. “Thank ye for takin’ care o’ this, William. I’m grateful for all ye’ve done.”

  After bidding the monk a hasty farewell, he headed toward the tower house. Halfway to the keep, he ripped the missive in half and tossed it away. By the time he reached the door, he’d weighed all the consequences and made up his mind.

  It was completely reckless and irresponsible of him to keep Cristy in his home. His sons were growing too fond of her. Mabel was growing too fond of her. And he was growing too fond of her.

  Cristy was a dangerous temptation. There was every reason to return her as soon as possible, whether or not he got his cows and whether or not her uncle wanted her back.

  Keeping the peace between clans was the right thing to do. Holding on to her and risking a clan war with his own neighbor was rash and reckless.

  Fortunately, Brochan didn’t mind being rash and reckless.

  Chapter 7

  It took all Cristy’s willpower to keep up a calm appearance for the lads when her emotions were writhing around her brain in a tangled mess.

  Kissing Brochan, she’d never felt so alive. One moment in his arms, and all her cares had vanished. He’d opened a locked chest inside her and revealed a treasure of new feelings.

  It felt like a sultry wind had blown through her soul and awakened every fiber of her being. Yet within that sharp and wakeful clarity was a mist that softened the edges of reality, making it seem like the inside of a dream. Her sense of reason might be muted, but the rest of her senses had been heightened to dreamlike intensity.

  Then that cursed monk had ruined everything.

  In one moment, she’d felt like a warhorse primed to charge across the field.

  In the next, she’d felt an abrupt backward pull on the reins, preventing her from moving.

  And now she had to pretend that naught had happened, to speak to the wee lads as if she hadn’t just been dallying with their father in the byre.

  Colin shook his head. “I should never have asked ye to show us how to reive cattle,” he said, his voice full of regret.

  “And I should have protected ye,” Cambel said ruefully. “Da says gentlemen are supposed to protect ladies.”

  Cristy gave them each a fond squeeze. But she was only half listening, trying to settle her rattled nerves with a cup of ale as she stared into the fire.

  “What do ye think he’ll do to us?” Colin asked his brother.

  “He might make us scrub the chamber pots,” Cambel gravely decided.

  “Or pick up the coo pats,” said Colin.

  “Or wear stick tails,” Cambel said with a shudder.

  “What?” Cristy asked. What were the lads going on about?

  “Once,” Cambel said, “we tied a stick to a hound’s tail for fun. Da tied stick tails onto our belts and made us wear them for two days.”

  “To shame us,” Colin explained.

  “Aye, to shame us.”

  Cristy blinked. If her uncle ever picked up a stick, it was to beat her.

  “What about ye, m’lady? What do ye think he’ll do to ye?” Colin wondered.

  A dozen wildly inappropriate ideas popped into Cristy’s head, and she almost spat out her ale.

  Cambel suggested, “Maybe she’ll be rescued by her uncle before Da has a chance to punish her.”

  Cristy hoped not. After that blissful embrace, she’d be willing to clean chamber pots, pick up coo pats, and tie a stick around her waist just to see where that kiss would lead.

  Still, the reminder that she didn’t belong here was sobering. She wondered if the monk had brought news from her uncle. Was he going to return the cattle today?

  “I don’t want ye to go,” Colin admitted.

  “I don’t want ye to go either,” Cambel said, leaning against her thigh.

  A lump lodged in her throat. She knew how they felt.

  At that moment, Brochan came in, stomping the dirt from his boots at the door.

  Cristy was afraid to look at him. She was afraid of what she might see in his eyes. What if the monk had brought bad news? What if Brochan was still upset about the cows? Worse, what if he regretted kissing her?

  Brochan wondered if Cristy was sorry she’d kissed him. She stood near the fire with her eyes downcast. But it was hard to believe she hadn’t felt the same world-shattering desire he had, the longing that didn’t seem to be going away any time soon.

  He wouldn’t do anything about it, of course. As pleasurable as the kiss was, it had been impulsive and improper. It was dishonorable to seduce innocents. Besides, he owed his loyalty to the mother of his sons. Didn’t he?

  Those sons flanked Cristy at the moment like knights standing guard, ready to defend their lady. The sight almost made him wish he could just forget about their disobedience. Almost.

  “Ye’ve all had time to consider your actions,” Brochan said with forced calm, closing the door behind him. “So tell me, which o’ ye deserves the punishment for this?”

  “I do, Da,” Cambel volunteered. “I should have been watchin’ o’er the lady so she wouldn’t get hurt by the coos.”

  “Nay, ’twas my fault,” said Colin. “’Twas my idea to reive Eufemie.”

  “Nonsense,” Cristy said. “Ye’re only wee lads. ’Twas my fault for takin’ ye out to the coos without your Da’s consent.”

  Brochan tried not to smile. He was actually very proud that his sons were willing to take the blame. It proved they were men of character.

  And the fact that Cristy too was trying to protect them warmed his heart. He was glad he’d made the decision he had about her.

  “And what do ye think your punishment should be?” he asked.

  “Pickin’ up coo pats?” said Colin with a sigh.

  Cambel shuddered. “Cleanin’ out the garderobe?”

  Cristy glanced up and opened her mouth. No words came out. But he didn’t think he’d be able to understand them anyway. Seeing her rosy lips again heated his blood and scattered his thoughts.

  He cleared his throat. “I think ye all bear a wee bit o’ the blame. So here’s your punishment.” He didn’t tell them it was a task he’d intended for the lads all along. “The doocot is in need o’ repair. The cracks need patchin’ so the wind won’t get through. So on the morrow, I want ye to mix up a batch o’ clay, straw, and coo dung. Then ye’ll have to daub it into the chinks to seal the walls from the weather.”

  Watching his sons try to hide their excitement over their punishment was amusing. They loved to be helpful, and repairing the dovecot was a chore that appealed to their sense of worth and independence. For Colin, especially eager to get his own flock of chickens, it was all the lad could do to keep from jumping up and down with glee.

  Cristy, however, had a puzzled look on her face. “What news did the monk bring from my uncle?”

  He hesitated. Of course, she expected she’d be going home before the morrow.

  “M’lady doesn’t have to go home, does she, Da?” Cambel folded his hands in supplication.

  “She has to stay till the morrow,” Colin declared, “for her punishment.”

  His sons apparently liked having her here almost as much as he did.

  Cristy lifted her chin in challenge, but he coul
d see her face had gone pale. “What did he say?”

  Brochan straightened. He was now positive he was doing the right thing. “Your uncle agreed to return the five coos today to ransom ye,” he lied.

  He saw her jaw tense.

  The lads wailed in protest.

  He held up his hand to stop them. “But I told him I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided five coos isn’t nearly enough for a lady o’ such quality.”

  “What?” Cristy was startled.

  “I told him the ransom was now thirty coos.”

  Thirty? Thirty?

  Cristy’s jaw went slack. She couldn’t believe Brochan had made such a demand. There was no way her uncle would pay such a price for her. That was over half of his herd.

  She wanted to tell him so. She wanted to tell him his price was too dear.

  But Brochan’s words didn’t escape her notice. He’d called her a lady of quality. That made her glow inside.

  While the twins cheered and leaped for joy around her, she couldn’t help but smile at Brochan. As hopeless as his demand was, it was immensely flattering.

  The secret smile he gave her in return took her breath away. Suddenly she imagined she was back in the byre, pressing her fevered lips to his, brazenly exploring him with her hands, tasting the hot, wet length of his tongue, and longing for more.

  Lust shadowed his eyes and flared his nostrils. He wanted her too.

  Unfortunately, there were wee lads dancing about them at the moment and a dozen tasks he probably had to finish before the day was done.

  If she helped, they’d go faster.

  Then maybe she’d steal another kiss before she broke the news to him that her uncle was never going to send him thirty cows.

  Beside her, Colin was counting on his fingers. “Thirty?” His eyes went round. “Are we goin’ to get thirty coos, Da?” Before Brochan could answer, Colin took his brother by the shoulders and shook him with joy. “Cambel, we’re goin’ to get thirty more coos!”

  Of course, the lads had overlooked the fact that they’d be trading Cristy for those cows. But her uncle wasn’t going to send that many anyway, so it didn’t matter.