Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  Understanding dawned in her intelligent gaze, and she nodded slowly and tapped her lips with two fingers. A musical giggle escaped her and she wagged her head excitedly. “Aye, the contestants will be furious, but since I’m positive Tornbury, rather than my irresistible allure, enticed them to enter in the first place, I would rather enjoy defeating the lot.”

  She is irresistible.

  “I’d enjoy seein’ it, too.” And by God, he would.

  She would be marvelous. A Highland version of the goddess Diana.

  He laughed, imagining the men’s disgruntled expressions.

  She returned his jovial smile. “It’s not really fair, but how often does a woman have the opportunity to best men so soundly?”

  There was the confident woman he’d seen slay three Highlanders.

  He bent close to her ear as they passed into the darkened kitchen. The air hung heavy with spices, herbs, and yeast. A single candle burned in a holder atop a thick, scarred table. “Show the laird and yer clan the resourcefulness, the shrewdness, I ken ye have in ye.”

  She nodded, pushing her hair off her shoulders. “I’ll announce the change tomorrow. Da cannot object because I’m still honoring his wishes for a competition. Just not quite what he had anticipated.”

  Her lips tipped up at the corners, and she pointed to a stout chair by the table. “Have a seat, and I’ll see to your shoulder. You’ll need to remove your vest and shirt.”

  Her soft, delicate hands on his flesh might send him careening head over arse into insanity.

  Or have him kissing her senseless.

  Seducing experienced, eager lasses accustomed to raising their skirts for a quick tup mightn’t prick his conscience, but only a cur dallied with innocents.

  Most particularly a married cur.

  “Alasdair, your shirt?” Holding a damp cloth, she approached him.

  Best for them both for him to be away. And swiftly.

  “Nae, I’ll have one of the men patch me up. I bid ye goodnight, and also ask that ye refrain from wanderin’ about alone until yer uncle be apprehended.”

  How could he wiggle out of her training session tomorrow? They shouldn’t be alone together. As if he could prevent that for any length of time. Perhaps invite a few more women to participate?

  Aye, that’d do.

  Who?

  Miss Adams, for starters.

  Maybe even a few maids and other female servants?

  It couldn’t hurt for them to know basic defensive moves. A woman never knew when she might be set upon. And the notion would appeal to Lydia.

  He paused at the door, permitting himself to drink in her beauty.

  She stood framed in the doorway, weariness apparent in her sluggish blinking and slumped shoulders, yet even in her fatigue, he detected resolution in the angle of her chin and set of her jaw.

  “Lass, I’d like to include more females in the trainin’. I dinna see a reason why any who are interested shouldnae join ye. I’ll limit the practice to an hour so their chores aren’t neglected overly long.”

  Her face brightened, and she put the cloth aside. “That’s a superb idea, Alasdair. I agree. All the women should be afforded the same opportunity.”

  And that’s how it came to be. That the next morning a passel of women ranging in age from fourteen to—well, toothless Mistress Beechum was five-and-sixty if she was a day—came to be sporting a variety of knives, from butter to short sword, under Alasdair’s watchful eyes.

  Bleary eyes, truth be told, since the clock had struck two before he slipped into a fitful sleep, only to drag his exhausted body from bed at half past three.

  Several women fumbled with their inadequate blades. That would never do. Tomorrow, he’d see they each had a knife that they could at least handle with ease.

  “Are ye off yer head, mon? Mistress Beechum? She nae have any worry about havin’ her virtue compromised. I doubt any mon’s sampled her dried up wares in decades.” McLeon leaned a shoulder against a post and, arms folded, tilted his head. “But it isnae her charms yer keen on samplin’, be it?

  His mouth slid into a taunting grin, and Alasdair all but growled, “Wheesht!”

  “Crotchety as an old tabby, ye are, McTavish. Be yer shoulder painin’ ye? I’ve me flask if ye need a swig.”

  “My shoulder be fine. I’ve had hangnails that hurt worse.”

  Straight up lie, that.

  McLeon’s eyes rounded in manly appreciation as he flashed his teeth and angled his head. “Now that be worth watchin’.”

  Alasdair veered a glance to where he looked.

  Miss Adams and Lydia, both wearing breeches from God only knew where and far too form-fitting for Alasdair’s sadly neglected lower regions, practiced the basic lunge-and-twist maneuver he’d taught them.

  Lydia’s black leather breeches pulled taut across her slim legs and plump buttocks.

  Saints help me.

  One of the more robust maids dropped her dagger and another held hers so timorously, she might have gripped a writhing viper.

  Hell, McLeon was right.

  Alasdair was off his damned head.

  A few more men, including the MacHardys, wandered over to observe, joined momentarily by several uncouth fellows.

  Bloody perfect.

  Alasdair and McLeon exchanged a glance, and with a subtle inclination of his head, Alasdair beckoned Lennox.

  “Good thing we dinna have to rely on the lasses to protect us. Especially that ancient hag.” A MacHardy chuckled, and nudged his cohort nearest him.

  “Aye, but protectin’ not be what I’d be wantin’ them fer.” Another crudely grabbed his crotch and rocked into his hand.

  Bloody arse.

  Mayhap tomorrow, the women’s exercises should be broken into smaller groups that could be trained indoors. Say, in the ballroom. Without a bevy of lustful men looking on.

  Little good that would do his sullen member.

  Alasdair whistled, and the women promptly turned their attention to him. “That be all fer today, lasses. Well done to ye.”

  A fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, Lydia wove between the women, patting their arms and nodding as she strode his way.

  How often would she gallivant around in men’s wear, for God’s sake? Nae, nae. She needed to become accustomed to wielding a blade while attired in skirts.

  For his sanity and peace of mind.

  Half the barracks now gaped at her slender, leather covered thighs and curvy bottom. Jealousy, jagged and hot, tunneled through him as he scowled at the ogling Scots. He couldn’t very well pulverize all of them.

  I could try.

  Tomorrow he’d insist she wear a gown. A big, ugly, shapeless, tent of a thing. In a ghastly shade of cow manure green or drab brown or stone gray.

  A nun’s habit would suffice nicely.

  He clamped his jaw. No blasted nuns in Scotland.

  “That was fun, Alasdair, but I fear, I still haven’t quite mastered the grip.” She turned her wrist this way and that. “I suppose I’ll only improve with practice.”

  The shortest MacHardy, the one with the scar running from ear to chin, licked his bulbous lips. “Me name’s Angus Stewart, and ye can practice on me blade anytime, lass.” He thrust his hips forward. “I dinna care how ye hold it.”

  A growl bubbled up Alasdair’s throat, but the bevy of objections mixed with a few snickers smothered the sound.

  Lydia’s eyes narrowed to slits, only the irises visible, as she swung to face the crude churl. She eyed him up and down, despairingly. “Is that so, Stewart?”

  She smiled sweetly, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. Then in a move so adept, Alasdair wouldn’t have thought her capable of it if he hadn’t witnessed it with his own
eyes, she levered her arm, bringing the blade within a hair’s breadth of the man’s nether regions.

  His trews gaped open where she’d neatly slit the fabric.

  At the near swipe, Alasdair’s groin contracted in male sympathy, and startled oaths and gasps escaped the others. More than one man defensively covered his male bits with both hands, his eyes rounded in horror.

  Snarling an oath, Stewart jumped back while his comrades pointed and burst into laughter, shoving and elbowing each other in glee.

  Someone muttered, “Guid help us. With knife-wieldin’ wenches, we’ll all be gelded by week’s end.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Admiration filled Lennox’s voice, and he raised his hand to his forehead in a neat sign of respect. “I salute ye, Miss Farnsworth. Well done, ye. Most fun I’ve had in ages.”

  “She almost nipped off yer bitty jewel, Stewart.” Wiping his nose and snickering, his rotund companion slapped Stewart’s back. “Ye only have the one measly ballock—”

  Stewart’s hearty slug to his friend’s midsection bent him double.

  Alasdair cocked a brow at her, and she unapologetically lifted her shoulder an inch. Quite obviously, Lydia professed much more experience with a dirk than she’d let on.

  What other secrets did she hide?

  Lydia tapped the dagger on her palm. “I think it best if you left.” She pointed her dirk tip at each of the MacHardys in turn. “Today. The terms of the tournament have changed to a single event, archery, and you no longer qualify to participate. Unless you possess a bow and arrow?”

  Stewart scowled, looking to his comrades for confirmation. “We paid the entry fee—”

  “Actually, Sir Gwaine paid your fees, which I shall promptly reimburse. Wait here, and I’ll fetch the funds. Mr. McTavish, please accompany me.” She tossed the knife over his shoulder, and it stuck fast in a support beam.

  Alasdair released a low whistle.

  Luck, or skill?

  “McTavish,” Stewart mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Yer like a bairn in leadin’ strings, doin’ the wench’s biddin’.” He elevated a derisive eye and scratched his filthy neck. “Makes a man wonder what yer after. Or, maybe,” his lustful perusal shifted to Lydia’s rear end, “yer gettin’ what ye want already.”

  “God’s bones, ye’ll pay fer yer insolence,” Alasdair roared.

  Chapter 18

  Lydia spun around in time to see Stewart crumple to the muddy stones, his nose clearly broken and blood oozing across his grimy cheek.

  Good.

  She arched an approving brow. “You need to teach me how to do that, Mr. McTavish.”

  Without breaking her hand.

  “Nae likely, lass.” Alasdair rubbed his reddened knuckles, a brazen grin kicking his mouth upward at one side.

  “I trust your exertion didn’t worsen your shoulder wound?” He should’ve allowed her to tend it last evening. If infection set in . . .

  “Nae a bit.” His grin widened.

  Not the least repentant, and she didn’t blame him. Stewart deserved what Alasdair had dealt him. And more.

  “I’m sure you all have someplace you need to be.” She waved her hand at the other gaping Scotsmen. “And I’m equally sure this isn’t this first time you’ve seen a man laid out.”

  Two of Stewart’s friends dragged him to his feet where he sagged between them.

  Lydia pointed to the fourth man. “You, come with me. The rest of you MacHardys, collect your things and wait at the outer gate. I never want to see any of you on Tornbury Fortress lands again.”

  Outwardly composed, inside she quivered like newly set jelly. Still, she’d almost whooped in glee when she heard bone crunching behind her.

  What did that make her?

  Vengeful? Hateful? A bloodthirsty monster?

  No, just human, and very much a woman insulted. Alasdair jumping to her defense had been magnificent. And she was unashamed to admit, she appreciated his championing her.

  Minutes later, she handed the other seemingly contrite MacHardy the entrance fees.

  He shuffled his feet and wrung his hat in his hands, his auburn hair plastered to his less than clean scalp. “I’m truly sorry, Miss Farnsworth. I said this was a bad idea to begin with. We be owin’ Sir Gwaine no allegiance, the way he treats us. He promised us a big purse though, and ye ken, times are lean fer our tribe.”

  Yes, especially since your lord is a selfish, wasteful sot.

  She’d gargle scalding tea if Sir Gwaine actually intended to make good on his promise to pay them.

  “He meant to cause ye more mischief, and I beg yer forgiveness for my part in this.” Attention glued to the ground, his cheeks flushed bright crimson, his speech surprisingly refined for a man of his station.

  Lydia tilted her head. “What’s your name?”

  He glanced up briefly before his attention swooped downward once more. “Shamus Robertson, miss.”

  “Well, Mr. Robertson, I could use some ears in Sir Gwaine’s encampment. Perhaps you’re interested?”

  His gaze flew to his comrades, slouching against the entry wall, Stewart cradling his injured nose.

  Probably stupid to trust this man, but it couldn’t hurt to build allies in the enemy’s camp. She’d be out naught but a few coins if he proved a liar.

  Lydia folded her arms and jutted her chin. “What of them? Are any trustworthy?”

  Skewing his mouth sideways, Robertson sent them another a sidelong glance.

  “They’d all do about anythin’ fer the right price, but Duff—he’s the fat fellow there—has a kind heart and be as honest as any man, I suppose. He be a slow wit though. The other two?” He shook his head. “Even their own mothers wouldn’t waste a breath or prayer on them.”

  “Before I retain you, I must know if money was the only reason you agreed to Sir Gwaine’s scheme.” She’d expected Alasdair to object, but he simply stood, arms folded across his preposterously muscled chest, and watched the exchange.

  Did approval glint in his eyes?

  Why did it matter?

  She was to be the laird. Making difficult decisions would be a daily occurrence.

  True, but even a chief needed prudent counsel and to surround himself—herself—with wise and intelligent advisors. Only an arrogant fool relied totally on themselves and ignored practical recommendations.

  Something to consider in a spouse, too.

  Alasdair would’ve been a good choice. She slid him a covert glance to find him staring intently at her.

  What went on in his mind?

  Did he think her rash or unwise? Or did he approve?

  His respectful silence boosted her confidence. Exactly what she sought in a mate; someone to support her, but not override her decisions.

  Lydia wasn’t even quite sure she’d yielded to the impulse to ask Robertson the question, yet something deep in his eyes, a sort of forlorn desperation, had touched her.

  Up ’til now, her instincts had served her well. Past time she honed them further. She’d take all the help she could muster to perform her duties.

  Robertson sighed and looked past her, a wistful expression on his haggard face.

  “I have five bairns, the eldest just thirteen. Their mother—God rest Màiri’s sweet soul—died five years ago, and I can barely keep them fed.”

  Unfortunately, his tale wasn’t altogether uncommon.

  He shifted his soulful expression to her and lifted a shoulder. “I did it fer the money, my one chance to make a future fer my family if I won. I may not be much to look at, but I ken my weapons. I be a dam—er, I be an excellent marksman, a dab hand at pistols, and an accomplished stalker.”

  “How came you by such skills?” Lydia placed a hand on her hip and canted her head. Commoner
s couldn’t often boast such talents.

  “I be the third son of a wealthy gunsmith, and I had a genteel start to life. We fell on hard times, and at fourteen, I was obliged to set out on my own.”

  Perhaps Robertson would be more useful here.

  “Mr. McTavish, what say you?” She waited for Alasdair’s skeptical gaze to gravitate to her. “Mightn’t Tornbury have need of another gamekeeper?”

  He’d no more know that than she knew if he slept naked.

  A most enticing image sprang to mind, heating her face, and causing a humiliating surge of dampness under her arms.

  Good God, she’d become a fast chit. Practically a wanton.

  Flynn had never inspired lewd fancies, and he’d been very pleasing to the eye. Very pleasing, indeed.

  A small frown tugged her brows together. Oughtn’t her reaction be the exact opposite? Perhaps she’d not been as entranced with Flynn as she’d thought.

  The notion enlightened as well as disheartened.

  “Gamekeeper, miss?” Robertson perked up, his entire mien so hopeful, Lydia determined in that moment to find a position for the man, even if she had to contrive one.

  Alasdair’s blue-gray gaze—more of light slate at the moment, which usually meant his keen mind chugged away—casually scrutinized Robertson. “Aye, though I’d actually prefer him to work with firearms drills. I assume yer father trained ye, Robertson?”

  “Aye, sir, he did.”

  Lydia passed Robertson additional coins. “Return the entry fee to Sir Gwaine, then use this money to hire a wagon to bring your family here. I suggest you not mention any of this to your friends.”

  They’d relieve him of the money before he blinked.

  Fighting tears, he nodded. “Thank you, miss, and bless ye.” He jammed his cap onto his head. “I’ll be back within th’ week with me children.”

  “I shall look forward to it, and I’ll arrange accommodations for you and your family.” Feeling more light-hearted than she had in a goodly while, Lydia winked at Alasdair.