Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  His mouth curved into a sizzling smile, heating her from her toes to her hairline.

  After an awkward bow, Robertson trotted to the others.

  “I wonder what excuse he’ll offer Sir Gwaine?” Lydia crinkled her nose. “I hope the baron doesn’t give him a difficult time.”

  “Most likely, that fat, crusty buzzard hasnae a clue what Robertson does, or even who he is, except fer when Sir Gwaine needs somethin’ from him.” Alasdair took her elbow and spun her toward the mansion.

  “Probably true,” she managed without sounding like a breathless ninny as another wave of awareness flooded her.

  “I wanted a word with ye.” His regard slid to her breeches. “I think it best if ye stick to wearin’ gowns fer practice. Yer current attire be a might disruptive.”

  Because men can see my legs and bum?

  Lydia pulled her arm free. “How so? Men wear breeches, trews, pantaloons, and kilts. And you don’t see women ogling them.”

  All right, a kilt might be a bit distracting; fine, verra distracting—depending on who was wearing it.

  Women were simply more discreet in their leering, hiding their lust-filled gazed behind fans and lowered lashes.

  “Lass, I ken I have nae right to tell ye what to do, but if ye insist on wearin’ those,” he flicked a glance at her lower half, his attention lingering a trifle longer than truly necessary, “I’ll have to have ye train indoors. I canna have the men unfocused or preoccupied.”

  Did that include him too? What a lovely, disconcerting thought.

  “It nae be safe when they be handlin’ weapons,” he said. “An accident might occur.”

  Some validity there, but movement was so much easier, the breeches so freeing, she was reluctant to give them up.

  “What say you, that for public training, I wear a gown, but you will also privately school me? I can still wear my breeches for that. I’d like to learn some defensive moves that don’t include weapons. Say, some of the wrestling maneuvers I’ve seen you use.”

  They stood at the entrance stoop, and Alasdair blinked at her like a simpleton for several lengthy, disconcerting moments.

  “Wrestling moves?” he repeated in a strangled voice, sounding like he’d swallowed a pickled egg whole. Or she’d asked him to milk cows, wearing nothing but pink stockings and a silk bonnet.

  “Yes,” she pressed patiently. “So I can escape or fight if someone tries to seize or ravish me.”

  He drew in a long, raggedy breath and forked his fingers through his supple blond hair. Wrath darkened his arresting eyes and creased the planes of his face. “I’ll bloody well kill any mon who lays a hand on ye, lass. That be why I’m here.”

  Must he go all dramatic and male bravado on her?

  She’d only asked for a simple grappling lesson. Nothing too terribly difficult, but something clever and unexpected to give her a slight advantage.

  A few moments ago, she’d relished his brutishness, but this possessive attitude simply irked.

  “Alasdair, you aren’t my personal guard. It’s not your role, as you perhaps ought to know, and you cannot be with me every waking moment.”

  Or sleeping ones either.

  Another wayward memory flickered to her mind’s forefront.

  The day after she’d arrived at Craiglocky, she’d become lost in the Keep’s maze of corridors. She’d happened along the passage outside his chamber as his manservant exited, allowing her a brief glimpse of Alasdair rising splendidly naked from his bed.

  Naturally, she’d pretended absorption in the toes of her half-boots until the door clicked shut, but she’d had an extended look at his magnificent form.

  Such naughtiness. But deliciously so.

  Truly, mythical Roman and Greek gods had nothing on him.

  He opened his mouth, and she presented an outthrust palm to him, cutting off whatever he’d intended to say.

  “I need to be able to defend myself to the best of my ability, even if I am only a woman. And the truth is, I wouldn’t feel comfortable having another man so intimately train me. Besides, you’ll leave one day soon.”

  Too soon for her liking, but he’d already fulfilled his obligation, and she no longer needed him to stay for the tournament.

  “Lydia—”

  Alasdair’s tone puckered her skin.

  In anticipation or wariness?

  A little of both, truth to tell. And it excited her.

  She marched ahead of him, resisting the urge to cover her ears like she had as a child when she hadn’t wanted to hear something.

  “Why’d you have to be married?” she whispered beneath her breath.

  The first man to awaken her feelings since Flynn, a man so worthy of ruling Tornbury beside her, one Da would exuberantly welcome to the clan, and Alasdair wasn’t free.

  Lydia pressed the door’s latch and stood to the side as he closed the remaining distance between them.

  Where was McGibbons?

  Probably soothing a ruckus below stairs again. The new scullery maid, Jinnah, a buxom beauty with a saucy mouth and impertinent attitude, hadn’t quite settled in yet.

  Lydia almost snorted.

  Actually, McGibbons had revealed just this morning, that Jinnah tearfully confessed to grating soap into the staff’s porridge—after being scolded for loitering outside Uncle Gordon’s rooms thrice yesterday, and they’d teased her about her obvious tendré.

  As a result of her prank, the other unfortunate servants had dashed to the necessary all day.

  Gordon knew Da strictly forbade dallying with the servants, but unless the chit was as brazen as a doxy, she’d been encouraged to seek him out. Likely not the first time either. All the more reason to be glad Uncle had left—even if his leaving had been unpleasant and upsetting.

  And if Jinnah’s attitude didn’t improve markedly and quickly, she’d be searching for another post. Servants who acted rashly or held grudges couldn’t be endured. Tornbury’s staff had always gotten on wonderfully well, and Lydia meant for the harmony to continue under her watch.

  Alasdair tossed a frustrated look ’round the entry before setting his mouth into a grim line, firmly grasping her arm, and then unceremoniously hauling her into the nearest open doorway.

  Though his touch remained gentle, and he strove to conceal his agitation, his rigid posture, flared nostrils, and tense mouth exuded exasperation.

  Bother, had he heard her imprudent mumbling?

  Well, she did wish he wasn’t married. That didn’t mean she wanted to marry him, only that he hadn’t suffered from his wife’s despicable actions.

  Hogwash and claptrap.

  After pushing her ahead of him into the gold and emerald drawing room, he closed the door with a distinct, and somewhat portentous, thunk behind them.

  Bernard, curled in a comfortable ball on the floral padded window seat, raised his mottled head. After a toothy yawn, he dismissed them, rolled onto his back—all four feet in the air, one fang sticking out, and the sun warming his belly—and went back to sleep.

  Must be done working for his keep today, as evidenced by the two mice and the shrew Cook said he’d left on the kitchen stoop this morning.

  She rather envied him his life. He didn’t have monstrous brutes hauling him into rooms and ordering him about, nor did he have to worry about hundreds of peoples’ futures, quite possibly at the expense of his own happiness.

  A few feet inside the room, Lydia spun around and planted her hands on her hips. “Pray tell me, what you’re doing? Why are you so upset and acting like a barbarian? I but spoke the truth. I’m not your responsibility.”

  Alasdair leaned against the door, his eyes hooded, and an almost predatory demeanor about his large form. His lips twitched with her last fiery declaration, but he ke
pt stoically silent.

  His untamed hair hanging nearly to his shoulders, golden stubble shadowing his face’s chiseled planes, and an unfathomable, wild glint in his steely azure eyes, accented his Viking ancestry. All he needed was a battle-axe and round shield to complete the image of a fierce, marauding Norseman.

  And she wouldn’t mind all that much if he’d laid siege to Tornbury. She feared he’d already done so with her heart. Oh, the plundering hadn’t been the overwhelming bedeviling of senses as Flynn’s had. No, Alasdair’s onslaught had been a subtle, insidious seduction, snaring her before she even realized she’d been led into a trap.

  He smiled then, that charming, tempting bending of his strong mouth which, despite her pique, towed at her reluctant heartstrings and sent a frisson of excitement coursing through her pores.

  His absurdly broad shoulders and marbled muscles appealed to her femininity. Why must he be so deliciously masculine?

  Still, he owed her an explanation for lugging her into the drawing room like an errant child.

  “Well?” Widening her eyes, she leaned forward a mite, demanding an explanation, irritated at his highhandedness and her wanton response. “What, you’ve nothing to say now? After you dragged me in here, like a crazed, uncivilized barbarian?”

  “I shan’t teach ye grapplin’, lass, even if I do fancy ye, and I’d make ye my own if I could.”

  Chapter 19

  If Alasdair wasn’t valiantly fighting the grin Lydia’s slack jaw and owl-wide blinking eyes produced, a grin she’d certainly take exception to, he would’ve bitten his traitorous tongue in half.

  The lazy cat, his idiotic expression half smug feline smile and half superior scorn, blinked his almond-shaped, yellow-green eyes.

  Alasdair hadn’t meant to confess his attraction, but when she said she wasn’t his responsibility—well, hell—something foreign inside him cracked wide open.

  He’d felt it give, rupture sickeningly somewhere behind his ribs.

  She bloody well was too his concern.

  Precisely when she’d become so, he couldn’t be sure. But he’d made her his, nonetheless, and the obligation went far beyond his promise to Ewan to help with Tornbury’s swordplay and defensive training.

  Her welfare, her future, her happiness must be secured.

  Except for that wrestling falderal.

  Never going to happen.

  Never.

  He forbade his mind to even tiptoe in the direction of what that would entail.

  Only a corkbrain would, for an instant, consider the intimate contact necessary to teach her rudimentary self-defense in wrestling.

  By God, he wasn’t a bloody saint, though wrapping his limbs with hers whilst pressing her to the ground did entice in the extreme.

  Thank God, he could claim societal restraints and his sore shoulder for rebuffing her suggestion. That she’d suggested it confounded him. Surely the impropriety hadn’t escaped her, or was she really so desperate to prove herself equal to a man, she would risk censure?

  Honesty forced him to admit that the minute he’d agreed to journey to Tornbury, he’d hoped something more would come of his stay, as impossible and implausible as the notion—no, the fantasy—seemed at the time.

  Farnsworth had hinted broadly, and repeatedly, that he’d welcome a match between his daughter and Alasdair. Alasdair had steered the conversation away from the touchy subject, unwilling to betray Lydia’s confidence or confess his unavailability.

  These past weeks had been every bit as torturous as he’d predicted, but satisfying, too, as he molded the men into warriors. He looked forward to conversing with Lydia daily, experiencing her keen wit, giddy humor, and genial kindness.

  And every day his admiration and respect for her had grown as she went about performing the chief’s duties with wisdom, fairness, and moderation.

  Farnsworth would be hard-pressed to find a man as worthy as she to take his place, and yet the ailing man hesitated to name her laird.

  Surely her father’s lack of confidence in her abraded, if that’s what his reluctance was. Far better permitting her to rule alone than force a union that might render her unhappy the rest of her life and, perhaps, jeopardize the clan.

  Alasdair had voiced that opinion more than once, and each time the old laird had given him a smile that could only be described as crafty.

  He’d a suspicion Farnsworth asking him to Tornbury had been a calculated scheme, one to throw him and Lydia together once more, and with each passing day, and after every meeting with the chief, that misgiving grew.

  The cunning old goat didn’t know his efforts to guilt Alasdair into proposing were wasted.

  God’s toenails, what a complicated, reeking hash.

  Alasdair couldn’t offer her marriage. Not now. Not honorably. And honestly, asking her to wait until he was free was blasted selfish too, especially since he couldn’t dare profess undying love.

  Lydia wouldn’t believe him in any event, staunch pragmatism having replaced her youthful enthusiasm and buoyancy of a few months ago. Shattered dreams, grief, and unrequited love had pummeled joy and hope from her.

  If she’d remained immune to him, he might have been able to move on, leave her and his heart behind when he finally departed, but her murmured comment—one he was positive he wasn’t meant to have heard—made him bold.

  And perhaps, stupidly optimistic.

  Why’d you have to be married?

  That short phrase instantly changed his life’s course, gave him renewed anticipation, made him willing to gamble on happiness once again, more the fool he.

  A happy, expectant fool, however.

  Unexpected, and wholly alien giddiness nudged him, and he hid a grin behind his hand on the pretense of rubbing his mouth.

  He had something to look forward to, to anticipate if successful. It wouldn’t be an easy course by any means. No, in fact, it would be blasted difficult, but Lydia was worth the battle.

  He relished a good fight, particularly when it involved something he cared passionately about. Something worth championing. Lydia was that and much more.

  His experience with women fairly shouted her interest in him. She mightn’t love him, not the all-consuming way she had Bretheridge. Mightn’t ever, for that matter. But a match between them would benefit them both, would certainly profit the clan, and neither could deny the physical attraction simmering between them.

  If Lydia agreed to his plan, he’d send a missive off to Ewan today, asking him to find Searón, and if she lived, begin divorce proceedings.

  Or, mayhap he ought to begin the measures to terminate the marriage straightaway, and if his wife was alive, the process would be that much further along.

  Surely a wiser, more efficient course.

  He had grounds enough, adultery and desertion, and scant doubt existed that the Kirk wouldn’t grant his request.

  But what if the church did refuse?

  On what premise?

  No. He refused to consider failure.

  He could produce dozens of witnesses to his wife’s whoring.

  Nevertheless, marriage dissolution took time and money, even in Scotland, and although humbling, he must ask Ewan to extend him the blunt he’d need. Divorce didn’t come cheaply, particularly an accelerated one.

  He’d determine how to repay his cousin later, after Lydia became laird.

  Could he persuade her to wait?

  Would her father allow her to? Would his health?

  Time didn’t favor Farnsworth, and understandably he wanted her married and established as laird before he passed.

  Alasdair considered her from beneath his half-closed eyes.

  She’d shut her pretty mouth, now turned down at the corners, and stared at her feet. What did she fret on?
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  His impulsive scheme could work to both their advantages.

  Aye, if he spoke with Farnsworth, the laird might be persuaded to permit the match he’d encouraged, despite Alasdair’s current entanglement.

  Not a particularly vain man, Alasdair wasn’t stupid either.

  He knew his value to Tornbury Fortress and to the old laird, and an alliance with the McTavishes benefited the Farnsworth clan immensely. Somehow, he’d make the laird see reason. If Lydia agreed to the suggestion.

  She’d perched her perky bum on the settee’s arm, and swung one booted foot back and forth. She didn’t respond to his blurted declaration of several minutes ago, just stared at him, her expression a combination of uncertainty and expectancy.

  He pushed away from the door, and in three long strides, stood before her. He took her small hand in his, the skin so soft and creamy compared to his tanned, callused paw. “I’m sincere, Lydia. I am keen fer ye.”

  A tiny frown furrowing her forehead, she stared at their entwined fingers before raising trusting eyes, and saying softly, “I really do wish you weren’t married, that we had more time to come up with a feasible plan.”

  “If I weren’t, would ye consider marryin’ me?” He brushed his thumb across her delicate knuckles, noting the slight tremble of her hand and lips.

  Bloody poor proposal, that.

  Her gaze drifted to somewhere over his shoulder, and she raised her fine, raven eyebrows upward in uncertainty.

  “I cannot deny you’ve the making of a perfect chieftain. The men respect you, I trust you, and I think you’d be a fair and kind leader and spouse.” A small smile bent her sweet mouth. “And I’ve no doubt Da would approve. He told me I needed to find a strapping Scot, specifically mentioning the McTavishes. And he did ask for you by name. I’ve wondered for some time now if he weren’t playing at matchmaker, truth to tell.”

  “Aye, I’ve had the same thought.”