“Oh, aye, now that’d be a fine sight!” a slurred voice agreed from somewhere in a back corner.
The bawd’s painted lips curved in a lascivious smile.
Giving a throaty laugh, she caught hold of her skirts with both hands and slowly pulled apart a hitherto hidden split in the fabric to offer the men a glimpse at the lush nest of dark red curls springing betwixt her fleshy thighs.
Madeline gasped.
Iain MacLean swore.
He shot to his feet, dragging her with him. “I knew that was the style of this place!” he fumed, swallowing back a harsher retort lest he truly shock the lass.
His temper a beetling threat beneath thinnest restraint, he tossed a glance at the door arch to the kitchen. “Where has the ale-draper betaken himself?” he demanded, raising his voice above the cacophony.
Ever careful to keep a shrewd eye on the two men pawing the whore’s breasts.
Craven dastards he meant to question Madeline Drummond about at first opportunity.
His malcontent a palpable, living thing inside him, he raked the other carousers with a blazing-eyed glare but harvested little more than one or two owlish stares.
All other buffoons lining the trestles ignored him, their drooling gazes fixed on the whore as she deftly unfastened the lacings of her bodice to fully expose the heavy white globes of her breasts.
“A plaguey stewhouse,” Iain muttered, turning away in disgust.
And hoping he’d done so swiftly enough to prevent her from seeing the whore’s garish performance.
His jaw clenching, he tightened his arm about Madeline’s shoulders and kept scanning the smoke-hazed murk for the ale-keeper.
On impulse, Madeline gripped his hand, squeezed it. “I shan’t swoon on you, sir. I’ve heard all alehouses are frequented by one or two such women,” she said, glancing at him. “Even fine inns.”
He arched a brow at her. “Say you?”
She nodded, her gaze seeking the bawd.
The woman had hooked arms with her newly lured customers and was drawing them into the shadowy realm of the common sleeping room, where Madeline suspected she relinquished a portion of her profits for a well-stuffed pallet in a dark and private corner.
“Whether such women are welcomed in an establishment or nay, a lady ought not be confronted by them… or be troubled by the knowledge of their existence.”
“I know of much that weighs on my heart, sir,” Madeline admitted, pushing away her own troubles before they could seize and crush her. “Greater cares than one joy woman and her night’s trade.”
She sighed.
And wished for the hundred thousandth time that she wasn’t privy to all she knew.
Iain MacLean eyed her sharply, his dark eyes brimming with silent questions. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she touched two fingers to the spot, pressing gently until the jerking ceased.
“As I just banished the twitch in your jaw so, too, does the joy woman serve a need,” she said, quiet-voiced… and thinking of Nella.
She drew the arisaid tighter about her shoulders, repressed a shudder. Not that her common-born friend had e’er trod as lamentable path as an alehouse whore.
But Nella had known her own sorrows, fetched as she’d been at the first bloom of her womanhood to bear sons for a landed man whose barren wife couldn’t produce heirs.
A faint echo of Nella’s long-ago anguish rippled through Madeline. She shuddered and hugged her waist, grateful the years had changed Nella’s pain to numb resignation.
But Madeline’s indignation o’er her friend’s past had ne’er lessened.
Straight teeth, clear eyes, and a robust condition had decided Nella’s fate, thrusting her into a life she’d come to accept and even to joy in… until she’d made the grave error of showing too much affection to the young boys she could ne’er claim as her own.
And falling in love with the wellborn man whom she still refused to name.
Her admiration for Nella steeling her own backbone, Madeline cast another glance toward the sleeping dorm. Its low-arched entry loomed empty, but muffled grunts and the ragged rasp of heavy breathing drifted from within its shadowy depths.
She turned back to Iain. “If anything,” she said into the hush stretching between them, “such women are to be pitied.”
Greatly pitied, but ne’er scorned.
Nor could she condemn a single one amongst their ranks.
Hadn’t she, mere moments before, strained against Iain MacLean’s chest? Known wonder at the hard-slabbed contours of his muscles, evident even beneath his leather hauberk and the folds of his plaid?
Indeed, she had reveled in the solidness and warmth of his masculine strength, breathed deeply of the essence of him—and still ached for more.
She’d gloried in his kisses, all but begging him to deepen each one. And she’d ached for him to slip his tongue between her lips and let it tangle with her own far more often than he had!
Truth be told, she was nigh onto begging him to kiss her again.
There and then.
Forthwith.
And fully heedless of the flustered-looking ale-keeper hurrying toward them.
The man’s half-anxious, half-bursting-with-pride countenance gave him away. Their quarters were ready at last.
Madeline’s stomach dropped to her feet, her bravura evaporating. “Oh, dear saints,” she got out, sudden panic surging inside her.
Jerking free of her shadow man’s grasp, she looked down, made a bit of a show at smoothing her rumpled skirts… anything to keep him from seeing her cheeks flame.
Or noting the desire still skipping along her nerve endings.
Her true feelings for him.
“Aye, most dear,” he agreed, his earlier anger gone from his voice. He hooked a finger beneath her chin, lifted her face. “Dear, and far too sweet.”
“Too sweet?”
He nodded. “Too dear and sweet for the likes of me, fair lass,” he said, his husky tone doing strange things to her knees. “And much too desirable to suffer a life of abstinence and fasting behind convent walls… no matter how many bumbling poltroons are after you.”
Madeline’s gasped. “You knew?”
“My great lacking is my inability to hold my temper, lass. There is not and ne’er has been aught amiss with my wits, I assure you.” He gave her one of his lopsided would-be smiles, its very imperfection splitting her heart wide open.
Lowering his head, he dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Or dare I hope you find me so irresistible you couldn’t help but throw yourself into my arms?”
“I—I…” Madeline stumbled over her tongue. She’d grown too light-headed to think clearly.
“Your pardon,” the ale-keeper addressed them, from behind, and cleared his throat.
Iain MacLean whirled to face him. “Our room is prepared?”
“And none too soon, it would seem.” The man cast an eloquent glance at Madeline, his words and the look like a knell tolling on her heart.
Iain’s hand encircled her wrist… as if he sensed her sudden urge to bolt. “Is the chamber clean? I’ve no great wish to sleep fully clad.”
Ignoring the jibe, the proprietor used his drying cloth to mop at his sweating brow. “’Tis full to the rafters we are, my good sir, but I’ve prepared the room myself and warrant you’ll find it well-appointed and”—he slid another glance at Madeline—“privy enough to serve your needs.”
Her heart racing faster than the rain beating on the window shutters, Madeline looked away, let the moist air pouring through the wooden slats cool her heated cheeks.
A sharp skirl of throaty, female laughter sounded from the sleeping dormitory, and a wash of ill ease spilled down Madeline’s spine.
Iain’s brows lifted, his handsome face darkening with displeasure. He turned a keen eye on the ale-draper. “The chamber is not used for…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Not a bit nonplussed, the ale-draper took a lantern off a shelf and deftly kindl
ed its wick. He gestured to a narrow, dark stairway at the back of the room.
“None save quality climb those steps, I assure you,” he said, his barrel chest swelling a bit. “All others take their pleasure belowstairs. You, my lord, shall pass the night in a blessed haven.”
“Then pray take us there,” Iain put to the man.
The ale-draper nodded, clearly pleased. “I bid you follow me,” he said, and raised his lantern.
With surprising agility for such a well-fleshed man, he turned and struck a swift path through the press, making straight for the far wall and the spiral stairwell cut deep into its thickness.
Iain strode after him, his viselike grip on Madeline’s wrist leaving her no choice but to hasten in his wake, her uncomfortable gaze fastened on the looming threshold.
Draughty and dimly lit by a few sputtering wall torches, the stairs wound upward into the dark unknown, though, truth be told, Madeline knew exactly what awaited her beyond the well-worn stone steps.
If she allowed her passions to get the better of her.
But she wouldn’t.
No matter how much her lips tingled and ached for more of her shadow man’s kisses.
And despite the way her heart clutched at the mere thought of sharing darker, deeper intimacies with him. The kind they’d shared countless times in her most secret, damning dreams.
Fisting her hands, she closed her mind to the lurid images. But they whirled a mad dance across her sensibilities and—were she not careful—threatened to trample everything she held as right and honorable.
Convinced he’d becharmed her, she mounted the turnpike stair behind him, the chaos of conflicting emotions inside her waging a fiercer battle with each ascending step.
“Have a care, lass, the last few stairs are slippery,” Iain warned over his shoulder. Releasing her wrist, he laced his strong, warm fingers with hers.
The touch, the warm pressure of his firm but gentle grasp, sent tingles speeding up her arm.
Have a care, he had said.
The words almost made Madeline laugh aloud.
A nervous laugh, for little he knew what great care she already exercised. Even the simple words of caution, issued in his deep, golden voice, melted her bones.
Jellied her knees so badly she could scarce maneuver the nonslippery steps.
Feeling trapped, apprehensive, and excited in one, she followed him onto the landing, and the moment she set foot on the somewhat slanting wood-planked floor, a cold wave of jitters swept away the last remnants of her fortitude.
She began to tremble.
No longer just her knees, but the whole of her body a quivering mass of jelly.
For good or ill, she was about to spend the night with her shadow man.
Candlelit hours alone with the man who’d branded his claim on her soul the very first time she’d felt him wrapping himself so warmly around her heart.
“That be your room,” the ale-keeper declared with pride, his voice overloud in the quiet of the landing.
He gestured toward the end of the short, poorly lit corridor where the merest hint of soft, golden light leaked from beneath a surprisingly stout-looking door.
He started forward, his raised lantern casting weird shadows on the walls… each one of them seeming to point long, accusing fingers at Madeline.
Iain MacLean squeezed her hand, but the gesture he’d surely meant to be reassuring only flustered her more. That wee physical contact sent little bolts of heated flames skimming across her every nerve ending.
As if he knew, he tossed a quick glance over his shoulder, one brow lifted in silent question.
Was she ready?
She gave him an equally mute nod, sparing herself the shame of voicing a lie.
Beyond him, the ale-draper had reached the end of the darkened passageway and was already opening the door to their room. Welcoming yellow light poured from within, its inviting glow banishing the shadows.
Madeline’s heart leapt to her throat.
She gulped.
But then she set her jaw and consigned herself to making the best of what she couldn’t change.
Retiring was no longer an option.
And only the morrow’s rising sun would prove if the long hours between then and now would leave her filled with bitter regret or glad-hearted relief for not seizing hold of what she knew would be the sweetest of bliss.
The same wet and windy night, but in far less commodious quarters deep in the bowels of Abercairn Castle, Sir John Drummond, true laird of the castle and all its surrounds, drew a wheezy breath of chill, musty air. ’Twas the best he could hope for in his dungeon cell.
He silently thanked the saints that, as a young man, his first act upon becoming laird had been to abolish use of this selfsame hellhole.
A cramped and dank niche scarce larger than a garderobe in the lowliest of keeps and equally foul-smelling.
An abomination beneath any man’s dignity.
Sir John prided himself on being a just man, a fair and kindhearted one.
And it was his great softheartedness, the lack of steel and fire in his blood, that made him a much-loved father to his people, but a not so notable laird.
A poor laird, were anyone callous or outspoken enough to speak the truth.
A truth that had landed him in his present predicament and would no doubt cost him his life.
But not his beloved daughter’s.
And for her—to ensure she lived and remained unharmed—he’d draw on the strengths of the more stalwart Drummond lairds who’d gone before him and, for once in his life, be intractable.
Firm and unbending.
Wholly resolute.
He’d do it for her, for Madeline, even though she’d never know. It would be his last gift to her, the daughter he loved more than life itself.
“Where are the jewels, Drummond? The English booty. All ken your father harvested riches from the slain English after Bannockburn. ’Tis said he spent days gathering English swords and armor, simply to pry away the jewels… and with the Bruce’s sanction!” Sir Bernhard Logie peppered him with the same questions he shot at him every day. “I’ve found your treasury stores, your gold and silver coin, but not the stolen English riches. Where are they, Drummond?”
He considered the fingernails of one hand, his face a tight-set mask. “It will go easier on you if you speak.”
But his repetitive barrage and veiled threats only earned him the same blank stare Sir John gave him each time he sought to interrogate him.
Sir John pressed parchment-dry lips together in a bold show of defiant silence that, truth be known, required little strength. Just as his limbs withered by the day, becoming too thin and weak to bid his will, so, too, did his cracked and parched tongue lie dead as a dried autumn leaf in his mouth.
Useless beyond forming a few painfully rasped words which, at the moment, he wasn’t wont to attempt.
“Where is your daughter, John? Where would she run to?” Silver Leg began his second assault of asked-daily questions. “Who would harbor her?”
Marshaling what strength he could, John Drummond turned his head to the side. He fastened his stare on the narrow air slit cut high in the opposite wall and hoped Logie wouldn’t notice that if the wind caught the slanting rain just right, a strong enough gust could send a burst of fine, wet mist spraying into the cell.
The moisture John gleaned in that way went far in keeping him alive.
And miserable though he was at the moment, neither did he want to die. Unlike most Drummond men, he lacked the courage to look death in the eye and feel no fear.
“Think you can ignore me?” Silver Leg came closer, nudged his thigh with a booted foot. “I see the serving woman brought you a plaid,” he said, leaning down to muss the length of wool Morven had so lovingly tucked around John’s shackled legs.
“She fretted you’d perish of the cold. I told her she could bring you your own plaid, the one on your bed— my two greyhounds sleep on it—but
she declined, claiming the dog hair would make you sneeze.”
And Sir John did.
The mere thought of a greyhound’s coat was enough to set his nose to twitching, his eyes a-water.
“That dire?” Silver Leg shook his head in mock commiseration. “A pity to exit this life without knowing the companionship and loyalty of a big-hearted dog,” he added, his tone softening as he spoke of his pets.
Sir John kept his face a stony mask. He struggled not to let his tormentor see he’d innocently trod upon another soft corner of John Drummond’s heart, for though he could ne’er be around dogs, he’d e’er loved the creatures.
“I told the serving wench you’d starve before you’d freeze to death,” Sir Bernhard’s voice came cold again. He snapped his fingers and a pale-faced kitchen lad entered the cell with a platter of roasted capercailzie, the large turkeylike birds so plentiful on Drummond land.
Tasty and much enjoyed throughout the Highlands, its tender, savory meat had e’er been one of Sir John’s favorite repasts. He near swooned as its delicious aroma filled the tiny cell.
His empty stomach near convulsed with hunger. His mouth would’ve watered copiously if only he’d had enough fluid in his body to allow it.
Silver Leg tore away a roasted leg joint and waved it in Laird Drummond’s face. “It would be to your best advantage to speak,” he advised, bringing the capercailzie leg so close it almost grazed Sir John’s nose.
But he yanked it away as quickly. “Think hard after I leave, and you might see the wisdom of being less belligerent.”
Recognizing the end of Silver Leg’s torments, John Drummond gave heed to his weariness and let his head fall back against the slimed stone wall behind him.
The effort to hold it upright so long as he’d been face-to-face with Logie had taxed him greatly.
Too weary to sigh, he closed his eyes and wished his sense of smell had gone the way of his useless tongue.
The faintest of smiles flitted across John Drummond’s haggard face.
He didn’t mind his tongue’s failings. And he was mightily relieved by his continued ability to repel Silver Leg’s attempts to wear down his resistance, for he could make himself understood if he wanted to speak.
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