Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

“And?” Alasdair’s smug self-assurance conveyed that he already knew the answer.

  “If you think I’m going to discuss kissing you—” She hunched her shoulders and shook her head once, plucking at her robe’s satin cuff. “I’ve got no business dallying. I must come up with a plan, but God only knows I can keep my word and still not exchange vows.” She pulled a face and sighed deeply. “It’s a rather hopeless plight, isn’t it?”

  He touched her nose, though she had the distinct impression he wanted to plunder her mouth again.

  If only he would.

  “Things nae be as glum as they seem,” Alasdair said, seductive flames still flickering in his eyes.

  “You would marry me then?” Hounds’ teeth, she’d just practically proposed. “If you win, that is.”

  “Och, ye can count on me winnin’, but we’ll nae have to wed.” An unexpected gruffness edging his words caused her to lift her head and peer at him curiously.

  A log tumbled, sending sparks exploding up the chimney. A small ember shot from the grate. It glowed hotly on the stone hearth for a moment before dying.

  “How can you be so certain, Alasdair?”

  She leaned away, and he promptly released her. An odd sense of abandonment engulfed her.

  Silly.

  They’d hugged just this once, and only for a few short minutes at that. “I’ve all but given my oath, and my honor requires me to keep my word, unless I can justify why doing so would cause the tribe harm. A chief must exemplify integrity, or they cannot lead with any authority. The people won’t follow me if they don’t trust me.”

  Alasdair raked a large hand through his fair hair, and a blank, unreadable expression descended upon his striking features.

  Nonetheless, undisguised pain glinted in his arresting eyes, framed by surprisingly thick, dark eyelashes. What happened to cause such lingering woundedness in this tough warrior?

  “Aye, lass. I can win, and yer father canna force ye to wed me.”

  “But—”

  He covered her lips with a forefinger. “I already be married.”

  Chapter 12

  Married?

  As in, exchanged vows before a cleric?

  With a woman?

  No, with a duck.

  Lydia would never be sure how long she gaped at Alasdair, questions and accusations clanging about in her head louder than a full tinker’s wagon careening over uneven cobblestones.

  She’d never heard the slightest whisper.

  Ever.

  And she’d lived at Craiglocky for months.

  Who was this mystery woman that Alasdair kept so well hidden? Was she so very scandalous, the family abhorred speaking of her?

  “And yet you kissed me, Alasdair? Why?”

  Had receiving him in her nightclothes given him cause to think she’d invited his attention? Flim flam. The Alasdair she knew wasn’t an opportunistic cull.

  “Call it an impulsive lapse in my judgement or stupidly yieldin’ to a moment of temptin’ insanity. Forgive me, please.” Genuine contriteness shadowed his face and words.

  She’d reached to trace the lines bracketing one side of his mouth as Bernard rubbed against her leg, his loud purrs vibrating his sleek length.

  He gently dug his needle-sharp claws into one bare foot, jerking her back to full awareness, and she swiftly let her hand drop to her side.

  She shouldn’t encourage Alasdair but admitted he intrigued her in a way no other man had Not even Flynn. Perchance he enthralled her because he was such an enigma.

  Who was he, really?

  A loyal McTavish clansman? Good-natured brother and cousin? Fierce warrior? Cuckholded husband? Discontented wanderer?

  Or an aggrieved soul like her, trying to put a broken heart behind him and forge a new destiny, perhaps even reinventing himself?

  She’d rather yearned to do that, too. But the unbridled truth was, the matter was altogether out of her hands. As a dedicated daughter of the laird, Lydia knew her duty.

  Blast loyalty and conscience to hell’s bowels.

  Those double yokes permitted her no reprieve. Her wishes, wants, and dreams had no bearing.

  “Yes. Well.” She pulled the vee of her robe together, feeling more bereft and vulnerable than she could recall.

  Not a speck of room for compromise.

  Married. He ought to have told her. Before she—

  Never mind, fool.

  Her laughter rang hollow and brittle even to her ears.

  Bernard must have thought so too, for he stopped his contented rumbling and rubbing, and plopping his haunches onto the warm hearth, stared up at her. His citrine, almond shaped eyes glowed as his gaze shifted between her and Alasdair.

  “I’d say the tournament matter is neatly settled then.”

  “Aye, in a manner of speaking, I suppose.” Alasdair pulled at his ear, another inscrutable smile quirking his mouth to the side.

  “Why . . .?” Lydia clinched her teeth together, refusing to pry.

  His marriage wasn’t any of her business, and obviously not something he wished to speak about, or she would’ve known he was married. And still, her determined tongue formed the questions.

  “Why don’t you ever speak of her? Why doesn’t anyone?”

  Alasdair lifted a broad shoulder, his attention once more focused on the cavorting flames. A muscle ticking in his jaw contradicted his casual manner. “I haven’t seen her in eight years, and I forbid anyone to mention her name. Only a half dozen family ken.”

  “Why?” She clenched her hands.

  Damned, cursed curiosity.

  “Searón said she wisna content to suckle bairns, wipe their shitey bottoms and snotty noses, or stay faithful to one man. She wanted more excitement and adventure from life. She left me after two months.” Bleakness deepened the lines creasing his forehead and framing his mouth. “After abortin’ our bairn.”

  Good God.

  Tears welling hot and swift, Lydia clasped his arm, her horror compelling her to comfort him.

  “I don’t know what to say, Alasdair. Sorry seems so very inadequate and trite.” Stupid, selfish woman. Children were a tremendous gift. “I cannot imagine what it’s been like for you all this time.”

  “Och, one gets used to the pain, and the memories fade in time,” he said with a cynical twist of his molded lips.

  Not really.

  A person just forgot how life was beforehand. Before suffering changed them, stripped them of hope, expectation, anticipation. Made them leery and skittish, and fearful of trusting again.

  She nibbled her lower lip as Bernard meowed softly then jumped into her vacated chair. “You must have loved her terribly to still be so injured.”

  And she’d thought Flynn’s actions hurtful, though certainly not deliberate in intent by any means. He’d never even declared himself, let alone married, then cruelly abandoned her.

  Alasdair, on the other hand, was a compassionate man; a man who cared and felt deeply, though he strove to hide his gentle side beneath his soldier’s steely exterior or sarcastic, sometimes scornful humor.

  Except, if one examined him closely—really scrutinized him as she did now—devastation lurked in his gaze and ravaged his face.

  “I thought I loved her. But I was a scarcely more than a horny whelp, and she be a verra, verra bonnie lass. I ken she nae be an innocent when I took her to my bed, but I naively thought she loved me.” He reached for the thick lock of Lydia’s hair draped across her left shoulder. “Her hair be bright red, more orange like a baby carrot than coppery.”

  Lydia chuckled and shook her head, accidently tugging her hair loose. “Not the most romantic description I’ve heard.”

  “Ah, but yer hair, lass, has the richest sheen. Sab
le soft, sweet smellin’ and warm as molasses,” he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble.

  That description combined with his throaty tone caused her pulse to take wing and flitter about like an intoxicated moth.

  Dangerous business, this. He’s a married man. Remember that.

  She ought to be furious he’d taken advantage of the moment and sneaked a kiss. That she wasn’t, couldn’t in fact muster a jot of outrage, proved quite troublesome.

  Better to turn her idle musings elsewhere.

  Any nonsensical, miniscule notion she might have imprudently entertained regarding him—them—died as speedily as the ember had earlier when he announced he was married.

  Lydia wasn’t a slut who wagged her tail to entice a married man to her soiled sheets. Nor was she content to be a man’s mistress, available whenever he’d the urge to make use of her body, but never give her his name or afford her respectability and honor.

  That sort of glorified prostitution, of which many in Society indulged, had always baffled her. And more on point, she quite abhorred selfish, conscienceless women who dallied with married men.

  Had they no consideration of the anguish their treachery caused the poor wife? Or his children, later on? Surely God reserved a special, especially vile, very hot, place in hell for the like.

  When Lydia married, she would remain faithful to her husband and whether the standard was fashionable or not, she’d expect the same from him.

  Or she’d divorce him. Simple as that.

  Another way Scotland surpassed England. Divorces were possible here.

  The first time her husband took another to bed, she’d take a dirk to his privates and see him to the door. Naked and castrated.

  She surveyed Alasdair through the sweep of her half-lowered lashes. True, he’d likely not honored his marriage bed or vows, but his wife had left eight years ago, and Alasdair was young and brawny.

  Odd that she excused his immoral behavior.

  Why did she?

  Because he was a slighted man? True, but he’d chosen to remain married.

  What did that say about her character that she could so easily excuse his adultery?

  Why hadn’t he divorced this Searón creature anyway? She sounded positively wretched. Though dying to know the whole of it, Lydia couldn’t very well ask. She wasn’t a busybody or a snoop.

  She’d seen the wenches ogling him, seen the sensual smiles exchanged, had heard the titters at Craiglocky about his tussled sheets, caused by vigorous nightly bed sport.

  So preoccupied had she been with her infatuation of Flynn, she hadn’t paid the on dit any real mind. Scots by their very nature were a passionate lot, and her brothers hadn’t been monkish in the least, much to Mum’s chagrin.

  Her parents had shared a bedchamber, even during Mum’s illness. And more than once as a child, Lydia had accidentally interrupted their intimacy when she’d climbed into their great bed after a nightmare had awoken her.

  Mum had always blushed and tutted with embarrassment, but Da had laughed heartily and tucked Lydia between them, mindful that the sheets covered his nakedness.

  The Farnsworth men made no apologies about their bedroom prowess, yet Lydia was expected to remain chaste until wed. Such hypocrisy rankled, not that she’d sought a man to warm her sheets. Though, God knew she’d welcome another body in bed during winter’s fiendishly frigid nights to keep her frozen feet warm.

  She’d not pretend ignorance or girlish reticence about what went on between men and women either. Livestock and barnyard fowl aplenty wandered Tornbury’s lands, and animals weren’t discreet when they coupled.

  Not quiet either.

  Then again, neither were people. Entirely.

  So now, why did penetrating disappointment wash her, its icy tendrils coiling about her limbs, chilling her to the core to learn Alasdair wasn’t available?

  Available for a respectable union, that is.

  He had provided her a perfect, unarguable reprieve from marrying, despite her reluctant promise to Da. And for certain, the empty feeling in her stomach had nothing to do with the tiniest, most remote notion that marriage to him wouldn’t have been unbearable.

  Might have been most acceptable, in fact.

  More likely the slight upset could be attributed to worry about Father’s reaction to the news that Alasdair had essentially tricked him.

  Chin against her chest, she fiddled with her robe’s belt. “I can’t deny this turn of event is most providential, but should you triumph, Da’s response when he learns you can’t marry me troubles me greatly.”

  Alasdair nodded, his compassioned-warm eyes fanning at the corners. “He’ll want ye to select a husband. Straightaway if possible. But, at least ye’ll have a choice in the matter.”

  She raised a skeptical brow and hitched a shoulder upward, the simple movement impeded by exhaustion and discouragement. “We’ll see.”

  He frowned but remained silent.

  Weariness engulfed her, and she hid a wide yawn behind her hand. “I’m done in, Alasdair. And I’m sure you are soon to bed as well. I know you run the men through their exercises most mornings before I arise. Still, I should like to start my training at your earliest convenience. Have you any time on the morrow?”

  “Och, at one of the clock.” He cocked his head and lightly tugged her lock again.

  The wanton tendril curled round his hand, binding them together.

  “I can see the questions burnin’ in yer bonnie eyes, lass. Go ahead. Ask me. I’ll answer as best I can, though the subject pains me as much as a boot-toe to the ribs.”

  “I shouldn’t—”

  “Aye, ye should. I dinna want any secrets between us.”

  No good could come of knowing, and it changed nothing between them. Yet . . .

  “You were very young when you married, weren’t you?” Surely no older than Lydia’s twenty years.

  “Aye, hardly past my twentieth birthday, and she be only seventeen. I was young, foolish, and determined to have her.”

  His wide back to her, the leather pulled taut over bulging muscles, he spoke into the fire once more, self-castigation rendering his tone ragged around the ends. He wasn’t a man to give his affections easily, and he’d harbored the pain, blamed himself, far too long.

  “How did you meet?”

  Do you love her still?

  Chapter 13

  Lydia shouldn’t continue prying, but Alasdair needed to speak of this, to finally say the things she’d wager he’d left unspoken for years.

  Then, perhaps, he’d seek a divorce, freeing himself to move on, to let go of the past.

  One oak-like forearm resting on the mantel, he stared into the flames.

  “I met Searón at an inn on a business trip to in Edinburgh, and we wed within a week. She be the daughter of the owner, though we didna see him the first week we be in town. I ken she be a wild lass, but I thought marriage and bairns later on would tame her.”

  “And they didn’t.” How could they so quickly?

  He shot her a glance so loaded with irony, she winced.

  “Nae. Even when she refused to return to Craiglocky with me two weeks later, I still believed she’d honor her vows. She claimed her father be furious we’d secretly married and needed time to find someone to take her place at the inn.”

  You can’t take the whore out of a lascivious strumpet any more than you can strip the ocean of salt.

  Bernard rolled onto his back, his paws and belly in the air, and released a soft snore.

  Lydia envied the cat his oblivious rest. She ran a hand over Bernard’s belly, almost afraid to look at Alasdair, to see the pain his wretched, unfaithful wife had wrought.

  “What happened then?”

  Unfamiliar anger at t
he injustice swept her. He didn’t deserve to suffer because of his wife’s betrayal, and he ought to be allowed a second chance at love. To find someone who’d adore him, faults and all.

  “She asked me to return in a month. At first, I told nae one of the union, already suspicious I’d made a huge mistake. I finally confessed my marriage to my parents, swearin’ them to silence.”

  Which explained why, in all the years she’d known the McTavishes, no one had uttered as much as a word about the taboo subject.

  “Just over five weeks later, I be able to return, and when I did, prepared to brin’ Searón home, she refused to go with me.” He curled his lip, more sneer than smile. “She admitted she’d thought I be the laird’s son. That I had money and position. She’d nae interest in bein’ married to a lowly clansman, and even less interest in livin’ in the Highlands.”

  “How utterly awful. I don’t mind telling you, I’d like to pull her hair out.” Strand by wiry, orange strand. Almost feeling the tendrils in her balled hands, Lydia squeezed tightly.

  Alasdair lifted his head, finally meeting her eyes, raw pain deepening his to slate. “My love wisna enough.”

  “We can’t help whom we love, Alasdair, because love is a gift, freely given.” Though not always accepted or requited, and certainly no guarantee of happiness even if one should be fortunate enough to find it. That she knew firsthand.

  “Maybe, but I had nae business lovin’ the likes of her.” Each word resounded more bitterly than the last.

  One hand cradling her chin, she quirked a brow askance. “But if we try to control something so special and powerful, attempt to put parameters and conditions around the emotion, then love is stifled and eventually dies. It becomes less splendid and meaningful when we dictate its performance by our expectations.”

  He half snorted, half grunted.

  “My love didna die. It be brutally murdered, inch by torturous inch. Until the hurt became so unbearable, I begged God to feel nothin’ at all. And then, at long last, when I did become numb, I missed feelin’ anythin’ but dinna ken how to be whole again.”