Not much chance of that with this wind.
Another hellish blast of air slammed into her, turning her blood to ice.
“Even if I disappear, Da will never name you laird, Gordon. He told me so, just this afternoon.” She sought something to use as a weapon. A few twigs, one or two decent sized, lay scattered on the stone-riddled ground, but could she reach one in time?
Her attention fixed on him, she edged toward an arm-thick branch.
“I nae believe ye. Ye’ve poisoned his mind toward me, ye have. He said I be like his own son.” Gordon slapped his chest. “When his sons obliged me in cockin’ up their sainted toes, I should’ve been next in line. Not ye, a silly scrap of a lass.”
He spat the last contemptuously, small puffs of steam floating from his mouth. How bloody low had the temperature dropped? Low enough she shouldn’t be outside in a night robe.
She shook her head, her unbound hair billowing around her shoulders as the wind snatched at it with grasping fingers. “He said you are too rash, too hotheaded, and not strong enough to lead.”
“And who filled his head with those lies?” Gordon jabbed a forefinger at her. “Ye did.”
“Gordon, I’ve been the one to defend you. I asked that you be given second chances. Sadly, tonight you’ve proven Da’s every fear has been justified.”
Uncertainty tightened his features. “Nae. He loves me, as if he’d beget me hisself. He wadna speak against me unless ye influenced him.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Get over your high opinion of yourself.” Perhaps the untarnished truth would finally get through to him. “I was being kind earlier. What Father really called you was a temperamental, mewling, teat-sucking bairn unworthy of even the estate steward position, and he should’ve let your sorry arse rot in prison all those years ago!”
Chapter 16
At Gordon’s furious growl, Lydia scooted farther away. Unwise to have let her temper get the better of her and rile him further.
“Ye be lyin’, wench.” His countenance grew more vicious. “After yer brothers died, he relied on me.” He pressed his thumb to his chest. “Me, Lydia, not ye.”
Lydia took another covert step backward.
Raising his ire hadn’t been the better part of discretion either. She could scream and pray the sound brought help.
“I’m curious.” She retreated two more paces. “Why did you persuade Father to host the tournament?”
He chuckled nastily. “All manner of knaves and ne’er-do-wells turn out fer this type of event, and accidents and attacks nae be uncommon.”
Gordon whipped his dirk from his stocking, the blade wickedly sharp and ominous in the half-light.
He meant to kill her.
“Alas, she didna even have time to cry out,” he warbled in a singsong voice.
Lydia shrieked as a huge form charged through the gate at a dead run, shoving her roughly to the frozen ground as he barreled past.
“Stay down.”
Alasdair.
She landed hard on her side, scraping her hand in gravel as her thigh connecting painfully with a skull-sized rock.
“Wrong on that account, ye goddamned sod.” Fury rendered Alasdair’s voice a harsh roar. “She had time to scream, and ye can bet yer snivelin’ hide, these woods be crawlin’ with men within minutes. Ye’ll regret the day ye ever threatened her.”
Uncle Gordon launched his dirk, and the blade hurtled through the air, impaling the tip several inches into Alasdair’s shoulder.
Lydia shrieked again. “Alasdair!”
His visage drawn into murderous lines, his pace didn’t slow a jot as he yanked the knife free, and after tossing the blade into the shrubberies, let loose a warrior’s thundering roar.
Lydia’s scalp tingled and her stomach clenched at such ferociousness as she scrambled to her feet. Uncle Gordon had gravely miscalculated, and like any wounded beast, Alasdair would show no mercy in retaliation.
Panic flashing across his pasty face, Gordon sprinted into the trees. Alasdair raced after, his great strides making short work of the distance between them.
As he’d predicted, clansmen and contestants, a few holding lanterns and some wearing only kilts or trews, streamed through the gate. Even MacHardy’s men trotted into the grove, though after a few moments, they wandered to a stump, and the tallest lit a clay pipe.
When none of them gave her more than a passing glance, she relaxed a fraction. But only just.
“Miss Farnsworth, what happened? Be ye all right?” Mr. McLeon, accompanied by Lennox, neither wearing a shirt, burst through the gateway.
If she were of a faster bent, she’d ogle their impressive expanse of exposed flesh. Instead, she spared them a cursory glance before seeking Alasdair.
How badly was he hurt?
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. My uncle robbed us, and when I confronted him, he threatened me.”
Would Uncle Gordon have really killed her?
Squinting, she peered between the massive trees where the Scots milled about, calling to one another.
Yes, she feared, Uncle Gordon might have, and that raised a whole new set of disturbing questions. First, what had triggered his panicked robbery and flight? The second, why hadn’t he taken any more valuables? The mansion boasted many. And thirdly, why make such an irrational move now?
More suspicions crept forth, ones she couldn’t face quite yet.
Esme, accompanied by a crookedly bewigged McGibbons, hurried to her side as fast his lopsided gait allowed.
Wearing pink silk dance slippers—utterly ruined from the grass—a feather and ribbon covered lavender and emerald poke bonnet, a Spanish brown and russet pelisse over her robe, and—egads, were those yellow evening gloves?—Esme presented quite a comical picture.
Yet, Lydia didn’t doubt in her eagerness to help, the poor dear had done her utmost as she speedily donned the mismatched attire to prevent the scandal appearing in her nightclothes would create.
Something Lydia ought to have considered as well, as her disgraceful attire drew the Scots’ scrutiny. More than one man grinned and nudged another.
“Lydia, whatever are you doing outside?” Esme sneaked a glance at Mr. McLeon, and the rogue gave her a wicked smile. Up went her button nose. “I heard a scream, and when I found your chamber empty, I about cast up my cornbread for worry.”
Esme’s attention repeatedly strayed to Mr. McLeon’s magnificent bare chest, and the cocky, grinning Scot puffed out his pectorals, his abdomen rippling with muscles.
Even Lydia had to admit he was a fine specimen of manhood, though her stomach didn’t flop weirdly, and her unruffled heart beat steadily on while her knees remained firm in his presence.
Unlike when in Alasdair’s.
“I confess, I was hasty and imprudent.” A mistake a competent laird never made, and Lydia wouldn’t make again.
Lacking men’s physical strength and brute intimidation, wisdom and shrewdness must be her armaments. In the future, they, as well as cunning and discernment, would be. She was a quick study and learned from her mistakes. There’d be no repeating this blunder.
When Da heard about this . . .
Why must he know?
There wasn’t any need to burden him.
Tension eased from her. Indeed, none at all.
Gordon had fled, and even he wasn’t imbecilic enough to return. She’d notify the magistrate, have Alasdair increase the guards, and start carrying a dirk with her—the only weapon she was even remotely familiar with.
So far.
Alasdair would teach her how to use a short sword and pistol. She’d no desire to handle other weapons.
He approached, holding his wounded shoulder, scarlet seeping between his thick fingers. “The excitement be over, everyone. Return to yer beds. Mc
Leon, collect yonder bags and take them to the study. Lennox, post a half dozen extra armed watches around the perimeter and one at each entrance to the mansion.” His mouth twitched. “But put a shirt on first, mon.”
“Aye, sir. Straightaway.” Lennox waved to several men and gave them instructions.
Murmuring their consent, the others, including Esme, wandered back to the mansion or barracks.
“I’ll ask Cook to prepare hot chocolate for us, Lydia,” Esme called over her shoulder before hunching into her pelisse and shoving her hands into the pockets.
“Thank you—”
Alasdair grabbed Lydia’s upper arm and towed her to the dry stone fence, out of the others’ sight should they have turned around.
A bloody handprint marred her robe, a reminder of his untended injury.
“Never, and I do mean never, pull a stupid stunt like that again, lass, do ye hear me?”
He didn’t release her, but pressed her into the rough stones, his breathing ragged.
“I beg your pardon?” Lydia tugged free and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I’ll admit I didn’t think my actions through, but I also had no reason to believe my uncle would do me harm. And I’ll thank you to not roughly handle me.”
I’ve had quite enough of dramatics for one night, thank you.
Shutting his eyes, Alasdair raised his face and sucked in a great breath. The moon played across his strong, slightly damp features. He exhaled slowly and another moment passed before he opened his eyes, staring straight into her soul. The intensity of his gaze mesmerized her.
He’d make a fine laird in his own right. He was powerful, strong, yet prudent and kind. Men respected him, women adored him—that she knew all too well—and children worshipped him. He emanated confidence, but not arrogance. Bravery, but not foolhardiness. Diplomacy and tact, but not weakness.
He was everything she desired in a chieftain, wanted to exhibit herself—was determined to become.
Da knew it well too. He’d said as much about Alasdair. More than once, an almost wistful note in his reedy voice.
“Lass, ye asked me here to be yer war chief, and I mean to see ye safe. Ye acted foolishly and impetuously, and ye ken ye canna afford to do either.” He touched her cheek briefly.
“I know, and I promise to use greater wisdom in the future.” And she would. She needed to prove to Da, to her clan, to Alasdair, and to herself that she had the makings of a laird.
“Can we please not mention this awfulness to Da? It would distress him, and the doctor said I should try to prevent upsets.” Peering up at him imploringly, she grasped his forearm, and he winced slightly.
“I dinna like keepin’ things from the chief, but his health must be considered. I’ll not mention it, but if he asks, I’ll tell him the truth.”
Lydia nodded. “Thank you. That’s more than acceptable.”
“And I want the magistrate notified,” he added while gently prodding his shoulder.
“My thought as well. Now let’s get you inside, so I can look at your injury.”
He grunted and stepped away, taking his body’s heat with him. “It nae be more than a kitten’s scratch.”
The cruel wind wound its frigid shroud around her, playing with loose tendrils of her hair, and ruffling Alasdair’s shorter mane. Her nose was so cold, she couldn’t feel the tip, and her poor toes had lost sensation some time ago.
“Nevertheless, I’d feel better taking a peek to make sure it doesn’t grow putrid. Besides, it’s freezing out here.”
“Aye, I welcome the cold.”
As they angled toward the house, she cocked her head and examined him.
I wonder?
“Alasdair?”
“Hmm?” He shot her a perfunctory, too pointedly-bland glance.
His calculated indifference didn’t fool her. “What if you weren’t already married? Would you still have entered the contest or agreed to train our troops?”
Chapter 17
Hell’s bells, nae.
Alasdair was no martyr. No saint either.
Her question had the same effect as a mule kick to the gut, and he had no intention of answering.
“I dinna live my life by what-ifs and what might be, lass. Doin’ so, I might miss out on the joys and pleasures at hand.”
Not liking the direction the conversation had meandered, Alasdair touched his aching shoulder. The knife hadn’t penetrated more than two or three inches, but the laceration pulsed with pain. Ross was bloody lucky he’d escaped, for Alasdair had meant to end the blackguard’s life.
Would end it the next time they met.
“Dinna ye agree?” He forced a lighthearted grin and wink. “Seize the moment and opportunities while ye may?”
Lydia chuckled. “Sounds selfish, and I’d say you’re studiously avoiding answering my question.”
Most women would’ve pouted or become peeved. Instead, she gleaned onto the truth and, with good humor, persisted.
“Aye. I am, at that.” She’d come to know him too well, in these short weeks.
Her head barely reached his shoulder, but the expectant gaze she leveled him prompted the truth. Given her adorable nose glowed rosy with cold, he owed her that much.
Providential he couldn’t marry. He’d never be able to tell her no. Not that marriage to Lydia didn’t appeal, but if Alasdair ever remarried, it would be because he chose to. Not because of a contest won. That seemed entirely too barbaric.
Something his Norse ancestors might have considered.
Fancy that? Him, actually contemplating nuptials again?
Bugger me.
Farnsworth pushed the mark with his ridiculous stipulation that Lydia marry the victor, no doubt prompted and encouraged by Ross. A clever way to fill his coffers, though. In fact, now that the churl had run, Lydia should stand up to her father, demand he cancel the tournament.
“And?” She brazenly encouraged, her impish smile and twinkling eyes irresistible.
“I wouldn’t have defied McTavish and refused to assist ye. He did offer me a tempting bribe, as ye ken. But I wadna have entered the competition.”
“I suppose I ought to feign affront or some other missish silliness, but I appreciate your forthrightness. It’s rather refreshing, truth to tell.” Lydia shrugged, her attention straying to the mist hovering eerily between the trees’ fringes.
Did Ross hide there, even now watching them, or had he truly fled?
“Ye need to embrace what’s before ye, lass, and if ye aren’t happy with yer situation, then figure out what ye need to do to change it. Even a lass has choices.” Foremost, she needed to move on after Bretheridge.
She stared at him, her eyes wide and luminous, a touch of vulnerability in their depths. Strength glinted there too.
He cupped her icy, cold-reddened cheek, and her heavy lashes drifted downward, fanning her cheeks.
Perhaps she had started to put the marquis behind her.
Preposterous how his heart fluttered at the prospect. Him a hardened warrior bent on never letting a woman wound him again.
Fool.
“I had such dreams, Alasdair. None of which included being the Farnsworth chief.” Remorse and sadness lay heavily in her softly uttered words.
Her glorious hair cascading over her shoulders tempted, and he snared a thick tendril for an instant, savoring its silkiness between his rough fingers. “When dreams die, dinna try to resurrect them. The decay and rot leave a lingerin’ stench. Instead, find a new dream and focus on achievin’ it. Whether that be the lairdship or somethin’ else ye’ve longed to do.”
Ye might take yer own advice, mon.
He had.
By agreeing to serve at Tornbury for a time in order to finally have his trip abroad. He wasn’t
a man of means or station, and had no illusions about his status. He’d not have another opportunity such as the one McTavish had promised.
It would have to be enough.
It would be enough.
Alasdair lived to serve, but for a brief time, he’d be his own master. If he ever managed to put Tornbury behind him. That didn’t appear to be happening any time soon.
Lydia shivered and hugged herself, her cheeks as apple red as her nose and lips. And her fragrance, that sweet tantalizing essence that belonged only to her, wound its tentacles around his senses.
“Not everyone has the option to pursue their dreams, Alasdair. Sometimes duties and responsibilities must come first.”
He wanted to take her into his arms and warm her, except his already aroused body needed no more encouragement to torment him. Just a whiff of her scent, the touch of her small hand brushing against him, seeing her gentle curves beneath her robe’s soft fabric, all played havoc on his senses, and even the brittle air didn’t cool his ardor.
He speared a glance over his shoulder, just to be certain Ross didn’t lurk behind them. “Aye, but ye can plot a course fer yerself too, and still fulfill yer obligations.”
Puzzlement knitted her usually placid brow. “You think so?”
They’d nearly reached the kitchen entrance, where a guard already stood, palm resting on his sword. He raised a hand in greeting, and Alasdair automatically returned the salute, wincing as his injured shoulder objected.
“Put a different proposal to yer father. Show him yer cleverness and strength. Do ye think he wants ye to meekly follow his dictates? He wants to respect ye, ken he can trust ye to lead. If ye docilely allow the contest and marry the winner, how can he?” He shook his head and pressed the door handle.
She stepped across the threshold. “What are you suggesting?”
“Why dinna ye have the outcome based on a single event? Archery. And ye compete. I ken ye’d win.”
Passion and Plunder Page 12
