Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  It must have been something quite tragic for his family and the servants to have never breathed a word of it. Maybe they didn’t know either.

  He blew out a long breath and shook his shaggy head. “Nae distance can scrape the memories from my mind.”

  “I’m a good listener if you ever want to talk to someone about them.” She dared lay her hand atop his rigid forearm but immediately snatched it away when he stiffened. To hide the heat suffusing her face, Lydia took another sip of her wine. “I beg your pardon. That was much too forward of me.”

  “Nae a bit.” He leaned back as a servant placed a bowl of cullen skink chowder before him. “I like a bold, saucy wench.”

  “I don’t doubt you do.” Jealousy most definitely did not cause her tone’s dryness.

  Probably had more than his share of such chits.

  Even tonight, plenty of willing and brazen lasses had turned an interested eye his direction more than once.

  Truthfully, she rather liked one particular bold, saucy Scot herself. A blond giant of a Highlander, but this sensation was more of an easygoing, trusting comradery than a whisked-off-her-feet-with-giddy-emotion as she’d experienced with Flynn.

  She wouldn’t describe her feelings as brotherly either, more of a deep, abiding, familiar friendship. It had always been thus between them.

  Lifting her spoon, Lydia managed to keep from wrinkling her nose as the chowder’s aroma drifted upward. She didn’t favor haddock, but years of politesse drilled into her made her take a dainty sip, nonetheless.

  She even managed to suppress the automatic shudder that followed. Almost.

  Alasdair answered a question put to him by a much-too-pretty red-head on his left. Miss Reid, if Lydia remembered correctly from their introduction yesterday.

  Sweet and cordial, if a bit of a consummate flirt.

  The girl pouted prettily when he promptly turned his attention back to Lydia and spoke softly.

  “As laird, Lydia, ye’ll need boldness, courage, and confidence. Nae all men will take to a female chief in the beginnin’. Ye might want to consider acquirin’ yerself a husband soon.”

  He sounded like Da. Did men think women were incomplete unless secured within the bonds of matrimony? Bonds being the key offensive word.

  “Why, so he can tell me what to do, and try to usurp my position? He winna be laird. I shall be.” Well, she would if Da appointed her. Most men didn’t take easily to having a woman lead in any capacity. It threatened their masculinity or some other nonsense. Utter hogwash.

  “Aye, and I didna mean any offense. I just meant that ye’ll need someone at yer back, and yer twiddlepoop of an uncle—” Alasdair jerked his head to his left. “Well, he has his own motives and agenda, I be thinkin’.”

  She couldn’t agree more.

  Finger to her chin, Lydia sent Uncle Gordon a sidelong, speculative glance.

  His eyebrows cinched tighter than a parson’s purse, he applied himself to his food, ignoring the guests on either side.

  Though she hated to admit it, even to herself, she didn’t entirely trust Uncle Gordon. For certain she watched him more closely in recent weeks, and she didn’t like what she saw.

  Suddenly, Gordon peered past the fiery haired beauty and consternation lined his face as his dark gaze shifted back and forth between Lydia and Alasdair. Etiquette prevented him from addressing either down the table, but given his compressed mouth and the message fairly screaming from his eyes, he had something he couldn’t wait to say to her.

  Or Alasdair.

  “I have a suggestion, Alasdair.”

  She swallowed another mouth of soup and managed not to grimace. Wasn’t the next course about to be served? How much more chowder did she have to gag down?

  No more.

  She laid her spoon against the bowl’s rim. “Agree to come to Tornbury for a short while, say a fortnight, and train me in weaponry. And then if you find it’s not to your liking, you can be on your way to your spectacular escapade.”

  Wish I could go away too. For a time, at least.

  Traveling the world did rather appeal more than mediating disputing tenants, collecting taxes, or cajoling disgruntled clansmen.

  Disbelief swept Alasdair’s face and for an instant he appeared to have swallowed something terribly foul.

  The soup, perhaps? She well understood his aversion.

  “Train ye? But yer already an expert archer.” He stared at her as if she’d gone daft.

  Was the notion so repugnant?

  She kicked her pride and consternation under the crowded table. A chief must be able to defend the clan as well as herself.

  “Yes, but a laird should know how to shoot and wield a blade or two proficiently as well. Most particularly a female chief. I’m thinking I might quite enjoy the short sword.” She canted her head and shifted her gaze to Seonaid. She’d always fancied wielding a sword. “I happen to know all of the Ferguson woman have weapons training, and I’ll wager my monthly allowance you helped with their instruction.”

  Touché.

  From his immediate, shuttered expression, she’d hit the mark square on.

  “Train ye,” he muttered again, more to himself than her. “God help me.”

  Irritation’s bevy of little pointed barbs stabbed her. He needn’t sound so blasted incredulous or put upon. It wasn’t as if she were a pox-ridden hag or failed to bathe or cleanse her teeth daily, for pity’s sake.

  What she’d do if he left after the fortnight, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—begin to speculate. So preoccupied with the distressing notion, she absently raised her spoon, almost gagging as the tepid soup met her tongue.

  Gads.

  Time to deal with the obstacle of Alasdair leaving later.

  In any event, she had to persuade him to come first. She slid a glance toward the dais. “Your laird didn’t specify how long you had to stay, did he?”

  “Nae. He didna.” As he took her meaning, Alasdair slowly shook his head, an even slower, shrewder grin lighting his face and eyes. His focus, too, shifted to the laird. “I like yer way of thinkin’, lass. I do, in truth.”

  “Well then, he couldn’t object if you decided to depart sooner, rather than later, could he?” She arched her eyebrows knowingly.

  “Aye, I could stay fer a shorter while, and he’d have to fulfil his promise.” A low, triumphant chuckle rumbled forth, and he tore a piece from his roll. “He’ll be absolutely furious. That alone prompts me to say aye.”

  “Good. It’s settled then.” Brilliant. She hadn’t a doubt her broad smile revealed her relief and pleasure. Two weeks to tempt him to stay longer.

  How?

  Money?

  No. She didn’t have access to a sum large enough to tempt anyone besides a pauper.

  A promise of a position? Land?

  Could she finagle either? Both?

  She’d think of something.

  She had to.

  “You look extremely pleased, Miss Farnsworth.” Mr. Brownly finally turned his attention from ogling the buxom widow seated on his other side.

  Lydia’s modestly covered, less-than-impressive bosom met with his insultingly brief scrutiny.

  She didn’t care a whit.

  “Indeed, I am.” She nodded and smiled wider. “Mr. McTavish and I have entered into a most exciting agreement.”

  Fishy odor assailed her nostrils.

  Drat it all. Mr. Brownly had distracted her, and she held another spoonful of scaly wretchedness to her lips.

  Inhale deeply.

  She filled her lungs.

  Mr. Brownly struck a dramatic pose and clapped his hands. “How splendid.”

  Hold your breath.

  The air lodged in her chest, she tentatively e
dged the spoon nearer.

  “Let me be the first to offer my congratulations!” he chirped, overly loud.

  Sip quickly.

  She shoved the offensive liquid between her pursed lips.

  “When do the nuptials take place, or perhaps haven’t you settled upon a date? I suppose those details have yet to be decided.” He clapped again. “Oh, this is most exciting.”

  Swallow—

  “Another wedding at Craiglocky.”

  WHAT?

  Chapter 8

  Lydia choked on her chowder, and only by slapping her serviette across her mouth prevented the soup from spewing forth and spraying the table and other guests.

  At Mr. Brownly’s giddy pronouncement, several nearby diners’ heads whipped toward them, and Seonaid’s jaw gaped for an instant before she snapped it shut with an audible click.

  Alasdair dropped his knife, and the utensil’s abrupt clattering onto his plate drew everyone else’s attention.

  Gregor snorted into his soup.

  Lady Ferguson’s roll slid from her fingertips and plopped into her bowl.

  Craiglocky’s laird completely missed his mouth and dumped wine onto his lap.

  Her serviette still pressed to her mouth, Lydia shot Alasdair a panicked sidelong look.

  Murder simmered in the stare he leveled Mr. Brownly.

  “What are ye babblin’ about?” Gordon practically shoved the petite Miss Reid flat against her chair as he rudely leaned across the table and glared at Alasdair.

  Miss Reid huffed her displeasure and, with a furious glare, shoved his arm away. “Uncouth brute. Remove your elbow from my person at once.”

  “Lydia isnae marryin’ McTavish,” Uncle Gordon denied, his voice strident.

  Lydia had heard of rooms growing quiet as death, but never experienced the phenomenon before. However, at the moment, an ant’s tiny toot would’ve resonated cannon-blast loud in the great hall.

  Several of Alasdair’s family exchanged shocked or confused glances, and surely granite was more malleable than his stony expression. Awkward scarcely described the palatable tension hovering round the table. One of the Keep’s ancient lochaber axes wielded by a pict couldn’t have sliced it.

  “Ye. Be. Mistaken in yer assumption. Sir.”

  Each word of Alasdair’s clipped speech slapped sharply against Lydia’s tender pride.

  Of course, Mr. Brownly was incorrect, but Alasdair’s keenness to set the chap straight bordered on belligerent.

  Uncle Gordon laughed and whacked the table, rattling the dinnerware and earning him reproachful glances. “I’ll say he be. Lydia has nae choice in who she marries. Farnsworth has arranged a competition for her hand. The announcements and invitations were sent the day we left. Any mon who can afford the ten-pound entry fee can contend.”

  A wave of rage sluiced through Lydia, so intense, her vision blurred for an instant, and she thought she might swoon. She gripped the table’s edge, determined to maintain her composure.

  Chiefs did not have fits of the vapor or cry when outraged.

  Da wouldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t.

  Unless some demon taking human form—namely one uncle seated two chairs to her left and now openly gloating—had suggested the ridiculous farce.

  Oh, if only she were a man, she’d call Uncle Gordon out, family or not. He’d be the first to find himself a new position once she was named laird. He’d proven where his loyalty lay, the traitorous cawker.

  She darted Alasdair another peek, and found him sending frigid warning glances round the table.

  Hounds’ teeth.

  What kind of bloody competition had Da arranged? And apparently, Craiglocky hadn’t been sent an invitation. Most interesting, considering the McTavish clan was known far and wide for their physical strength and prowess. No need to speculate who’d been behind that particular oversight.

  Gordon, God curse the vermin.

  Worry about that later.

  “Uncle Gordon, this isn’t the place, and during dinner certainly isn’t the time. We shall discuss that matter in private later.”

  My, she sounded quite chieftain-like.

  Settling her serviette atop her lap once more, she squared her shoulders and swept the table with a cool gaze.

  “Mr. Brownly.” Lydia forced a genial smile. “Mr. McTavish has merely agreed to act as Tornbury Fortress’s temporary war chief. I assure you there has never been any discussion of marriage between us.”

  “Aye. Never.” Alasdair shook his head fervently. “Nae once.”

  His enthusiastic agreement had her reaching to pinch him before catching herself and snatching her fingers away to serenely clasp her hands upon her lap.

  How utterly degrading.

  Soundly rejected.

  In public.

  No worse than having her hand won at Highland games, though. That she wouldn’t acquiesce to as mildly, no indeed. Too bad she couldn’t compete herself.

  ~ ~ ~

  Alasdair clamped his teeth until pain shot along his jaw and squeezed the chair’s edge so tightly, a less sturdy piece of furniture would’ve snapped under the pressure.

  Damn Brownly and his bloody assumption.

  What a hellfired nincompoop for jumping to such an inane conclusion.

  Few members of Alasdair’s family knew Alasdair’s situation, but those that did knew better than to utter a word contradicting Brownly’s supposition.

  However, Lydia didn’t have a notion why Alasdair had vehemently denied the conjecture, and her set jaw and stiff posture clearly revealed her offense. And he couldn’t explain anything. Not at this moment, in any event.

  That discussion wasn’t one he’d ever anticipated having with her, and he honestly didn’t know how to broach the subject.

  By the by, Lydia. I’m married, so ye see why the notion of us marryin’ be bloody preposterous.

  Awkward as hell.

  And what purpose would there be in telling her?

  She hadn’t given him any reason to indicate her feelings toward him were anything other than cordial friendship.

  Another wave of ire battered him, thinking her father would hand her over like some trophy to the man who won her in a goddamned Highland game. What kind of contest did Farnsworth plan? One of those medieval fetes of skill and muscle?

  Ross had put Farnsworth up to the ludicrous suggestion, or Alasdair would eat the man’s malodorous socks. Given Ross couldn’t lift a clamor with both arms, let alone wield the sword with any skill, a contest of strength was all the more absurd.

  Normally the salmon in whisky cream sauce was one of Alasdair’s favorited dishes, but as he sat chewing the tender fish, he might as well have gnawed charred parchment.

  How many men had Farnsworth invited? More importantly, whom?

  Wait, Ross had said an announcement went out too.

  Did that mean any cull could attend as long as he paid the entrance fee? Damned dangerous, that.

  Though outwardly composed—magnificently poised, truth to tell—the tautness of Lydia’s shoulders, slight flare of her delicate nostrils, and chagrin lingering within her astute gaze testified to her true state.

  She’d do well as laird.

  The rest of the diners resumed their meal, though an occasional perplexed glance slid his way. Lydia too, turned her attention to the peppered salmon, except she mostly poked at the coppery fish with her fork and pushed it around her plate.

  Brownly, all contriteness, attempted a charming smile. “I beg your pardon, Miss Farnsworth. Please forgive me for my outspokenness. My tongue frequently leads my wit.”

  Lack wit, was more apt.

  “No need to apologize. It was a simple misunderstanding.” Lydia obligingly pooh-poohed h
is apology.

  Her perfunctory forgiveness didn’t fool Alasdair one iota. Her retreat into contemplative silence suggested Gordon’s revelation had astounded her as much as it had Alasdair.

  Took the wind right out of her sails, it had.

  As if possibly taking on the lairdship wasn’t enough stress, to learn her father planned on offering her up like a trophy was utterly galling, even to a seasoned competitor such as himself.

  Intent on securing the coveted position of her husband, no telling what sort of despots and riffraff would compete. For not a doubt existed that though Lydia was a spectacular prize, Tornbury Fortress and her lands were the more tempting reward by far.

  “Ye didna ken yer da’s plans?” He asked the question in Gaelic knowing full well he breached decorum since neither Miss Reid nor Brownly, both Sassenachs, spoke the dialect.

  “Nae.” Hurt swirled in Lydia’s eyes, deepened to the shade of a forest floor at twilight. “I canna believe he didn’t speak to me about it first. I’m so angry. What else has he plotted behind my back?”

  Her voice shook with repressed emotion, and Alasdair brushed his fingertips across the hand lying atop her thigh.

  Sensual awareness, undeniable and penetrating, swamped him.

  “I know Uncle Gordon’s behind this farce. What I don’t know is, why? How does he benefit if I marry? I suppose I have to someday, but not in such a demeaning manner. Like some feudal maiden.”

  This time he distinctly detected tears and a trace of fear in her husky voice.

  Devil take it.

  Alasdair shouldn’t get involved.

  Wisdom, his very bones, shrieked he’d regret it.

  “All will be well, lass.” Short of biting the unruly appendage off, he couldn’t halt his determined tongue.

  “How can you say that when I’m not even permitted my choice of a husband? I might be forced to join with an absolute stranger.”