by Laurel Adams
“Aye, and Malcolm,” he called back into the night.
“For the love of Christ,” someone said. “Get in the castle, you dumb bastards.”
Chapter Ten
“Arabella!” Her name was shouted across the slushy, torchlit courtyard, her sister running toward her with open arms.
Breaking away from the knot of men who had pulled them up from the fishing boat, Arabella cried, “Heather!” She didn’t care that she wasn’t supposed to speak her sister’s name anymore, since she’d been cast out as a harlot. Arabella cared nothing bout any of it anymore. All she wanted was to fly into her sister’s embrace, and that’s what she did.
“Bella,” Heather said, using her childhood nickname, pulling her into a tight and familiar embrace. So familiar, in truth, that tears pricked at Arabella’s eyes. Dear God, she had missed her sister. Arabella had feared to think too much about her family, lest she fall apart. But now that she was near again…
But oh, Arabella’s sister was so different. The same beauty and uniquely violet eyes. But no longer a simple crofter’s daughter, no. Heather was mantled in an expensive fur. Her hair was plaited and styled. Her skin, sweet smelling and clean.
Whereas Arabella smelled like dead fish.
Grasping Arabella by the face and studying her as if to be convinced she was unharmed, Heather let go of a little sob. “The last time I saw you—”
“I know. They took me.”
Now it was Arabella’s turn to sob. Heather had been there when the Donald men attacked. And Heather had fought for Arabella. In spite of the knife at her throat, she remembered that much. “I’m so sorry you were taken, Arabella. So sorry. Conall brought word that you were safely rescued, then the snow storm came and I was so afraid for you. But now…”
But now the castle was under siege. And they were all safely inside, but trapped there too. Arabella understood all this without her sister having to say it. With a shiver of cold and a shudder of fear, Arabella whispered, “I know.”
“Let’s get you inside and tended to,” Heather said, her voice taking on a strange sense of authority. As if she had the run of the castle. As if she could speak for the laird.
Arabella started to follow after her older sister, just as she’d done when she was a child and in need of care. But one look over her shoulder at the men whose bodies she’d found such solace in, and she remembered she was not a child anymore. “Not without Davy and Malcolm,” she said. “They must be tended, too. Malcolm was badly injured. I fear his wound re-opened on the way here.”
“They’re my laird’s men. They will be tended to, never fear.”
Both men were watching Arabella, staring after her with something akin to longing in their eyes, and she wanted to go back to them. “But—”
“We’ll talk inside,” Heather insisted, tugging her by the hand. “Or do you want us all to catch our deaths in this cold?”
The castle was crowded, many villagers having come inside the walls for protection. And Arabella soon learned it was her abduction that had served as the warning in the countryside, spoiling the surprise attack.
At least it had served some purpose, she thought.
Though, in truth, it had served more than one. She would never have spent time with Malcolm or Davy if she hadn’t been taken. Never have known of their bravery. Never become so attached to them. And she was attached. She had taken them together, because she wanted no man to feel a claim on her.
But she hadn’t considered that she might feel a claim on them.
And she must feel it. Otherwise, why did her heart ache so much to be suddenly apart from them? In Heather’s chambers—yes, she had chambers, more opulent by far than the cottage where they’d come of age—a servant brought hot water.
A servant! Arabella could scarcely imagine how this had come to pass.
The servant bathed Arabella and asked to take away her filthy clothes. Conall’s clothes, really. Was he here, in this castle? Had he told everyone of her shame? These questions only plagued Arabella for only a moment before she decided that she just did not care. She cared more about the fact that Heather seemed to be extraordinarily well treated, with jewelry and a maid at her service.
Did the Macrae treat all his harlots so well?
“This might fit you better,” the servant said, offering Arabella a dress.
“It’ll be perfect, Brenna,” Heather said to the servant girl, then pulled Arabella into another embrace, as if she couldn’t get enough of her. “My sister. My sweet sister.”
Not so sweet anymore, Arabella thought.
But it wasn’t a shameful thought. In truth, she was rather proud of herself as she told Heather how they had ridden out in snowy forests, stolen a fishing boat, braved the waters of the loch, and ducked flaming arrows…
Heather’s hand fluttered to her throat. “The risk!”
“But I came through it well,” Arabella insisted. “More than well. I’m only worried for Papa and the little ones.”
“They’ve gone into the mountains for safety,” Heather said. “Papa ought to have come here, but you know he would not trust the laird with his safety.”
“Do you?” Arabella asked.
She watched her sister’s expression melt into sweetness itself. “Oh, aye, Bella. I trust him more than any man who ever lived.”
“After what he did to you?” Arabella asked, unwilling to believe it. “After he made you promise to be his whore, to belong to him, until he should tire of you like a cast off shoe?”
Heather’s violet eyes misted with emotion. “What he did was bring me happiness. So much happiness. I cannot explain it all now, but he is a man with a lion’s heart. And he and his warriors will beat back these invaders from the castle. You must believe it. You must have faith in him.”
Arabella did not know if she could have faith in John Macrae.
But she had faith in her sister and two of his warriors.
Faith, deep and abiding.
And it would have to be enough.
~~~
How strange it was to awaken in a bed by herself, not tangled together with the two men who had given her such exquisite pleasure. It had only been one night, Arabella thought. But somehow, when she opened her eyes, she expected to be back in that cottage, trapped by the snows. Warm hands on her. Warm mouths seeking her neck, her nipples, her cunny…
Instead, she’d awakened in her sister’s chambers. In Heather’s bed. And where Heather was…well, she could guess. It was no secret anywhere in the castle that her sister spent the night, and every night, with the laird. And yet, that was still less scandalous than what Arabella had done. Less scandalous by far than her new fantasy….with an imaginary bed, big enough for Malcolm and Davy both, without squishing her too much in the middle.
Though she supposed that would never happen again.
It was a night they wanted from her, and a night she gave them.
A knock upon the door interrupted her thoughts, and Brenna, the serving girl, was standing there. “Do you need help dressing?”
“Dressing?” Arabella asked.
“For the laird,” she said. “He wants you to appear before him.”
Arabella gulped, a shudder of dread working its way down to her belly. It was all well and good for her sister to praise the laird. For Davy and Malcolm to praise him too. But what Arabella remembered of John Macrae was his cold promise to execute her Papa—a thing she wasn’t sure she could forgive.
Still, Arabella was a crofter’s girl. She had no right to judge the laird or question him. She was only meant to say “Yes, my laird” and “No, my laird.”
And that was only if she was spoken to.
So why let herself get so roiled up inside with rebellious thoughts?
“He’s waiting for you in his library,” Brenna explained. “You might want to let me do your hair…better than how you have it now.”
“I can do it myself,” Arabella insisted, taking a brush from the table. She
hadn’t ever had a servant before, and she wasn’t sure she liked the idea of having one now. Worse, Brenna obviously wanted to make her a pretty lady in a pretty gown with pretty hair. Arabella was already missing her men’s garments.
When she was presentable—though Brenna may have disagreed—Arabella followed the maidservant through the castle to the room where the laird sat amongst maps and swords and soldiers. It was a war room, of sorts. And at his side were two warriors who looked up at her, each with a different expression of pleasure. Davy with a warm and radiant smile of welcome. Malcolm with a searching look in his dark eyes, as if it distressed him that he could not simply grab her and pull her into his arms.
Of course, Malcolm wouldn’t do such a thing. Not in front of the other men. Not in front of his laird. But it made her happy to think he wanted to. And his presence made it easier to look up on John Macrae and Heather, who stared adoringly at her laird, as if she belonged at his side.
The Macrae was a handsome man. A commanding chieftain. A man with an aura of power about him. And Arabella would be lying if she said it did not frighten her a little when he ordered everyone to go. Everyone but Heather, Malcolm, and Davy.
Then John Macrae said, “You must be Arabella.”
“Aye, my laird,” she said, dipping into a curtsey.
“I’m told you’ve suffered quite an ordeal.”
She glanced up at Davy, who gave her an encouraging nod. Malcolm narrowed his eyes, as if to tell her that she need not share any of the details of her ordeal unless she wanted to.
Arabella swallowed. “Aye, my laird. I was taken by brutes but saved by your men.”
“As simple as that?” the laird asked.
She didn’t know what he was driving at. “They took me to keep my Papa from warning you of an attack.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” the chieftain said. “Bodies of the Donald men were found before the three of you went missing, you see. But some of them seem to have died from a mysterious ailment. Some say poison. Some say witchcraft.”
Arabella’s sister gasped at the word witchcraft.
Arabella did not.
“It was poison,” Arabella said, too weary to lie.
Hoping the truth would save her.
The laird frowned. “Pity.”
“T’was berries of the yew tree,” Arabella explained. “They meant to rape me, my laird. I couldn’t see my way clear to let them do it without making them suffer.”
At the fierceness of her words, the laird’s eyebrows rose. He gave a quick glance to his men, before turning his eyes to Heather. “Are all the women in your family such spitfires?”
“Aye, my laird,” Heather said with an adoring smile. “We are.”
Now that was nonsense, for unlike Arabella, Heather had been nothing but an obedient girl all her life. Not a spitfire at all. Unless things had changed very much…well, Arabella could see that things had changed. Heather seemed more in possession of herself. And with all her new finery, almost a lady, if she were not a harlot. Perhaps it was true that she and the laird were sweet upon one another, because she could swear that she saw John Macrae smile back with adoration of his own.
Then the laird rubbed at the back of his neck. “You’re sure you’re not a witch, Arabella? Because I could use one. The walls of this castle are near impregnable. And the castle is well-stocked to wait out a siege until our allies come to our aid. But in the meantime, a magic spell to drive off the invaders would be welcome. I would pay you well and provide whatever supplies you needed to work a curse.”
Even though Davy had told her the laird might react this way, Arabella hadn’t believed him. And now she stared at her chieftain in shock. “If a churchman heard you, my laird…”
“Do churchmen defend this castle?” the laird snapped. “No, I give not a fig for the that. I only care for the well-being of my clan, and the defense I owe the people. If that’s blasphemy or heresy, so be it.”
Well, that was all fine and good to say if one was the laird. But if one was a crofter’s daughter who was suspected of witchcraft…
“I’m sorry, my laird,” Arabella said. “I know no spells. But I am good with herbs, so if you have any yew berries, I could cook up your enemies another deadly rabbit stew.”
At that, the laird tilted his big head back and let out a bellow of laughter. Loud and clear. Laughter that seemed as if it was well-needed. “Mayhaps it will come to that, lass, since I suspect there is a traitor or two amongst us.”
Arabella blinked. “A traitor?”
The Macrae sighed and deigned to explain, “An army doesn’t attack a well-fortified castle with few vulnerable spots just as winter is breaking unless they have someone on the inside they believe will help them gain entrance before the worst of the snows come.”
Chapter Eleven
A traitor, Arabella thought, leaving the laird and his warriors to their battle plans. But who might it be? She supposed with all the villagers who had sought shelter within the castle walls, it might be anyone. And given how ill-disposed to the laird her own Papa was, she found herself suddenly grateful that he had fled with her younger siblings. Because he would be suspect. Even his daughters would suspect him. And the laird would surely hang him this time, just in case.
“Arabella!” someone cried.
She turned in the sunlit hall to see a very familiar face. “Conall?”
He grasped at her hands, his face creased with concern. “I heard you found your way into the castle last night. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you alive and well.”
“Thank you,” Arabella said, stiffly, to the man she was to marry. “I’m glad to see the same of you. I did worry that you might be waylaid.”
But she had not worried very much. She’d been too angry. Too hurt. And those emotions hadn’t faded, so she tried to slip her hands from his. But he held them fast. “You must forgive me for the way we parted, Arabella. You disobeyed me and for that you deserve discipline, not abandonment. And when I am your husband—”
“You broke our betrothal!” Arabella cried, startled at the very idea he should think he still had any claim over her. Repulsed by the idea of him as a husband now.
“But I was wrong to do it,” Conall said. “You were frightened. And you’re good-hearted. You wanted to help the injured man. I canna blame you for it. I know you’re a virtuous girl.”
“I’m not,” Arabella said. At least not in the way that he meant it.
Conall swallowed audibly. “Whatever those men did to you, we will forget. We will never speak of it…”
He thought he meant well, she realized. He thought he was being generous and kind to her. And in the way of men, she supposed he was. He was saying that he would have her, no matter how she had been dishonored by the Donald men. But it was too late for that now. “Those men did not take my maidenhead, Conall. I told you the truth and still you don’t believe me. Which is a sorry start to a marriage, I wager. But I am no sort of wife for you now. And I am no virtuous virgin girl…”
There. She had said it. And upon saying it, she breathed easier. Meanwhile, Conall’s face reddened as he tried to understand. “If you weren’t violated by your abductors then…are you saying…do you mean to say that you were never—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Arabella said, unwilling to name Davy or Malcolm as her seducer since, in truth, she believed she seduced them.
“It matters!” Conall said, giving her a shake. “You were going to make a fool of me. A cuckold.”
“No—”
His hands dug into her arms, painfully, and his face glowed with anger. “You’re a harlot, like your sister. But who did you play the whore for? Tell me.”
“You’re hurting me, Conall. Let go.”
“I’ll let you go when—”
“Do as the lady says or I will take your head off your shoulders in one stroke.” It was Malcolm. Arabella didn’t know when he had come into the passageway and how much he’d overheard, but she
knew it was him. She would know that grim voice anywhere. And his promise of death was not a jest.
When she looked up, he had murder in his eyes.
Conall must have known it, too, because he released her at once, stumbling back. “She is my betrothed. This is none of your concern, sir.”
Malcolm’s eyes shone with a sudden flash of pain. “Is that true, lass. Do you plan to marry this lad?”
With all the spite she had in her body, Arabella said, “Never.”
“Good.” With satisfaction, the scarred warrior limped closer, his physical presence enough to intimidate Conall. “You heard her. So if I see you so much as look her way again, I will cut your eyes from your face.”
Conall’s expression twisted in defiance, but in the end, he turned and fled. Then Arabella was alone with Malcolm, her chest heaving while his breaths were deadly even. “Are you harmed, lass?”
“No,” Arabella said, her heart swelling a bit at his gallantry, even as she worried over the savagery of his threat. “You won’t really cut his eyes out if he looks at me, will you?”
“I don’t make threats I don’t mean.”
She believed him. “But we’re in the same castle together. And there may come a time when I want him to look at me.”
“Then he had better never do it where I can see.”
“Malcolm,” Arabella said, softly putting a hand to his sword arm. “Thank you for driving him off, but I don’t want you to cut his eyes out.”
“I wouldn’t be doing it for you.”
Her head tilted as she appraised him. “Why then?”
“Because it makes me bitter with jealousy to think that he once had a claim on you and threw it away, whereas I have none at all.” She couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d grown a horn from his head. And while she gawped he added, “You have ruined me, lass.”
“What?” she asked, both confused and horrified.
His hand actually trembled, and he tried to hide it by making a fist. “In all the years since my wife’s death, I have been content to sleep alone. Three nights sleeping beside you and now I cannot be content. I cannot sleep. And I need to if I’m to be of any use on the night watch.”
