Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  “Liddie lass, be that ye?” Farnsworth rasped, his papery voice scarcely more than a feeble whisper.

  “Aye, Da. It’s me.” She rushed to his bedside. “Ye had a fall.”

  He blinked in confusion, then winced and touched his head. “Did Gordon leave? I wished to speak with ye both.”

  Chapter 21

  Early the next morning, Lydia paced to the drawing room’s window seat before spinning round and retracing her steps, loitering for a few moments before the fireplace to warm her hands.

  The day promised to be warm and sunny, perfect for a walk by Galanock Water. A much-needed reprieve she fully intended to indulge with Esme a bit later, and toward that end, she’d worn practical half-boots and a soft gray woolen gown complimented by a rose and black spencer.

  Grizelda had twisted Lydia’s hair into a simple knot at her nape. She’d even willingly asked Cook to prepare a small picnic to eat beside the river at Lydia’s behest.

  Nothing fancy. Fruit, cheese, oat rolls, perhaps some shortbread—she did adore the buttery treat—but something to hold her over until dinner.

  Her stomach gurgled, and she pressed a palm to her hollow middle. She’d not eaten last night and had nothing yet today, and the organ protested loudly and frequently.

  Before she’d broken her fast, she’d sent for Alasdair, interrupting his morning training with the men. He’d come straightaway rather than wait for the exercises to end, which bespoke his concern too. And hopefully his eagerness to see her as well.

  If his night had been anything like her sleepless thrashing, his mind would be full of unanswered questions and troublesome suspicions too.

  They’d had no chance to discuss their possible union with Da, of course. Not with the doctor fussing over him and Esme flitting about the bedchamber while Alasdair interrogated Jinnah in Da’s sitting room.

  Once Doctor Wedderburn determined Da wasn’t concussed, he’d given him a sleeping draught then drew Lydia into the corridor.

  “Grief fer yer brothers and mother has robbed the laird of several years. He still misses her terribly.” Eyes rimmed with sympathy and sorrow, Doctor Wedderburn patted her shoulder. “He’s nae likely to leave his bed again, me dear. Nae as weak as he be now.”

  “How can that be? Barely two months have passed. You said Da had six months. Perhaps even a year.”

  Lydia had shaken her head. No. It was too soon. She wasn’t ready. Wouldn’t ever be. Da was supposed to have had more time, at least a few more months. Too much remained unsettled.

  Patting her shoulder, Doctor Wedderburn’s face folded in sympathy. “Ye have me deepest sympathies, lass, and I hope with all me heart I be wrong. But I dinna think I am.” He pulled his earlobe. “I ken Bailoch well and have nae doubt his affairs are in perfect order. That should brin’ ye some peace.”

  If only they were.

  “But if there be any thin’ that needs his attention, I’d nae wait.” Doctor Wedderburn had forced a jolly smile, but no cheer lit his eyes or colored his voice. “Och. He might surprise us and recover. Out of sheer orneriness.”

  Presenting her back to the fire, Lydia drank in her fill of Alasdair, silhouetted in the window. Just gazing upon him brought such peace. Such joy. Different than what she’d felt for Flynn, but far more remarkable and multi-faceted. She couldn’t quite label the emotion, actually. The sentiment was beyond mere words’ description.

  “Last night, Da asked for Uncle Gordon, Alasdair. As if he’d just been there, moments before. Not days ago.” She shot a short glance over her shoulder to her father. “We need to discover if he was, indeed, here. If he saw Da. I fear my father has become even more confused or perchance has slipped into delusions. Though, I suppose Gordon might have slithered into the house unseen.”

  Not easily with the extra watch assigned. Someone must’ve helped him, unlocked a door. Someone capable of distracting the guards. Say, a voluptuous, shameless flirt wearing a starched apron and a seductive smile.

  “Does Jinnah truly expect me to believe Da accidentally dropped his will in the fire?”

  Codswallop.

  Disdain dripped from every word, cold as a melting icicle. Lydia folded her arms and rested her hips on the settee’s arm. “Why was his will out to begin with? I wasn’t aware Da kept a copy in his chamber.”

  It seemed there was much he’d kept from her, and his wariness nipped, ragged and needle sharp. What else hadn’t he trusted her with?

  Lydia wanted to shout her frustration before she went mad with the powerlessness she felt, but lairds maintained their outward composure, even if inside they’d crumpled into sobbing heaps.

  Alasdair, his expression grave, turned from gazing into the garden with its hexagon hedge maze. The first daffodils, their sunny blossoms a bright spot of color, bravely turned their faces to the austere sky.

  “Another question fer which we dinna have an adequate answer, but like ye, I dinna believe the maid’s story. I can see the falsehood in her eyes. She be a slippery one, and I’d keep my eye on her. Lies roll off her tongue like warm honey from a spoon.”

  Uppity and lippy, Jinnah’s behavior surrounding Da’s accident was wholly unacceptable and the final straw for Lydia. The maid’s story had changed twice more after she first claimed Da threw his will in the fire, because he’d decided to update it.

  As if she’d be privy to that information, cheeky chit.

  “Well, you may rest assured of one thing, Jinnah will be on her way today. Without reference, too.” Harsh, but necessary, else another unsuspecting house retain her for service. Dishonest servants couldn’t be borne.

  Alasdair crossed to Lydia and, bold as brass, drew her into his arms. He spoke into the top of her head, his voice soothing and reassuring. She could stay like this all day, secure in his embrace, the gossips be hanged.

  “As much as I’d like to see her gone, lass, I think we might learn more by lettin’ her stay fer a bit longer and watchin’ her. Ye ken somethin’s afoot.”

  “Aye.” Lydia didn’t need to be a genius to know something was horribly amiss. God help her, and her snake of an uncle, if her suspicions were even partially founded.

  Did she dare voice her concerns to Alasdair?

  It would be lovely to confide in him—to have another to help carry this haunting burden.

  His tone contemplative and questioning, Alasdair spoke into her hair. “And Doctor Wedderburn said he doubted a fall caused the knot on the laird’s head. I think someone struck him, but I want to keep that to ourselves, fer now at least.”

  Which was another reason a message had been sent to Mr. Gwyres, Da’s solicitor, yesterday, requesting he attend Da today at his earliest convenience and to bring a copy of Da’s will.

  The room fell silent except for the mantel clock’s rhythmic ticking and the fire’s usual sputtering chatter.

  Standing chest to chest and thigh to thigh with Alasdair, Lydia closed her eyes, soaking in his presence. His breath warmed her scalp as he gently massaged her shoulder and spine.

  She could love this man, might already if she’d had the time to really examine her feelings without chaos constantly interrupting. Weeks had passed since she’d mooned over Flynn, and when she did ponder him, familiar pain didn’t well within her chest.

  She didn’t give a whit that people might frown on her marrying a divorced man, except for how it would affect the clan. In any event, Alasdair had already earned acceptance and respect from the tribe. In fact to such an extent, that if she were a lesser person, she might become jealous.

  Instead, tremendous pride filled her.

  They would lead well together.

  How long did a divorce take?

  Was she terribly wicked to want the match? Immoral to even entertain the notion? If only Alasdair had approached her after he was fre
e, guilt wouldn’t plague her as it did knowing she had become the other woman.

  But Searón had left him. The marriage had ended long ago, except legally.

  “Lydia?”

  “Alasdair?”

  Her face pressed to the wall of his chest, his leather vest warm against her cheek, she relished his comforting embrace. She gave a small smile, releasing a soft, joyful sigh as she nudged his solid back. “You first.”

  Chuckling, the deep rumble vibrating his chest, he hugged her a bit closer. “I think it be time to post a watch outside the laird’s door too, and although he be fragile, he needs to ken what’s happened with yer uncle and about the May Day plans.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s wise, I think, although it’s sure to cause him upset. And he must name the next laird in his will, and announce his decision soon. He cannot delay any longer. The tribe is restless.”

  He kissed the top of her head; such a simple, husbandly gesture. “He also must ken we plan to wed, though I only want him to know fer now. I dinna want tongues waggin’. I think it will brin’ him peace, despite our havin’ to wait on the dissolution.”

  “Alasdair,” she protested softly. “I told you I needed time to think about it, and I’ve certainly not had a minute yet.” Lydia wanted to marry him. At least she thought she did. He certainly had her at sixes and sevens and invaded her thoughts constantly. She huffed an exasperated breath.

  “He could die.” Lydia swallowed, before continuing, unshed tears slightly thickening her words. “Probably well before you’re divorced. Then what happens?”

  Alasdair tipped her chin up, looking deep into her eyes, understanding in his. “All else aside, he must name ye laird and reveal his choice. Immediately.”

  “And if he doesn’t name me? Will you still want to marry me?” There, she’d asked it. When had marrying him become as important as the lairdship? It shouldn’t be.

  Tenderness bathed his features as his azure gaze slowly roamed her face. He brushed a large thumb across her cheek, his mouth turned upward into a smile so gentle, her heart moaned.

  “Och, every part of me from me bones to the air I breathe, cries out fer ye, and even though I ken I dinna deserve ye, dinna deserve yer love, I’d forsake everythin’ from now until eternity to make ye mine. I love ye, Lydia, have fer months, passionately, wildly, and unendingly.”

  He loved her? This great hulking, wonderful warrior loved her?

  Searón was a complete and utter fool for casting such a splendid man aside, and thank God she had, else Lydia wouldn’t have known him. Wouldn’t have been able to claim him as hers.

  “Oh, Alasdair, I think I love you too.”

  “Only think? I’d better see what I can do to make ye sure.”

  Lydia held her breath as he lowered his head. Standing on her toes, she entwined her arms around his sturdy neck and opened her mouth. She’d cherish this bit of heaven in the perdition that had surrounded her these past months.

  He slashed his mouth across hers, hot and desperate, pillaging and plundering. And she relished in every new sensation, boldly meeting each stroke of his tongue, slanting her neck to give him greater access.

  Yes, she’d marry Alasdair.

  Today, if only she could. If he could.

  He’d snared her for all time, and she’d wait until he was free, no matter how long it took. Even if it cost her the lairdship.

  Prepared to tell him what was in her heart, she ended the kiss. “Alasdair—”

  A sharp knock had them quickly separating. He turned toward the fire, and she sank onto the settee, her knees too soft to remain standing.

  “Enter.” Pretending absorption in a loose thread on her spencer’s decorative braid, she drew in a handful of calming breaths before painting a smile on her face and raising her focus.

  McGibbons presented a salver, atop which lay a small rectangular paper. “A letter has arrived fer Mr. McTavish, and the laird requests both yer presences in the solar.”

  “The solar?” Lydia flicked Alasdair a baffled look as he took the letter, the McTavish seal bright against the white surface. “Da felt well enough to venture to the solar? He’s better then? He still slept when I peeked in earlier.”

  “Aye, Miss Lydia, he seems much better.” McGibbons grinned and winked his good eye. “Chipper and demanding. Our laird ate a hearty breakfast, called the doctor a fussy old tabby, barked at a footman and a maid, and threatened me with his cane if I dinna promptly get my sorry, ar—er, rear below to fetch ye.”

  She laughed at McGibbons’s comical, put-upon expression. “He is, indeed, improved then.”

  “I’ll read this later. Let’s nae keep the laird waitin’.” Tucking the missive into his pocket, Alasdair offered her his other hand, and help her to her feet.

  Lydia accepted Alasdair’s extended elbow. How right the gesture seemed, though he towered over her by several inches, and the breadth of his shoulders easily surpassed hers twice.

  Petite, just over five feet tall, her small stature had been a matter of concern to her regarding the lairdship too. However, with a husband as powerfully built as Alasdair, well, he more than made up for her lack of stature or ability to intimidate.

  Why, simply crossing a room or the bailey he commanded attention and admiration. A born leader, he was.

  Moments later, they entered the solar.

  Da, looking remarkably well considering yesterday’s events, sat in his customary armchair before the fire. A plaid covered his knees, atop which Bernard soundly slept.

  He glanced up as they entered and smiled broadly. “Ah, there ye be.”

  “Da, should you be out of bed?” Lydia hunted for any signs of discomfort or fatigue. His color looked good, the best it had been in weeks, actually, and his caramel-brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  What was he up to?

  “Farnsworth, ye look well-rested this morn.” Alasdair took Lydia’s elbow and drew her farther into the room.

  “Och, I am. Slept like a bairn last night. Me head scarcely aches after that fusspot Wedderburn insisted I drink some foul powder mixture.”

  He motioned them to the fern green couch. “Sit. Sit. I have somethin’ to tell ye before Gwyers arrives and I sign me last will and testament, once and fer all.”

  He chuckled, the sound raspier than Lydia would’ve liked, but surely stronger than she’d heard in a long while.

  “Five times I’ve updated me will in the past year. That be plenty, dinna ye think?”

  “Undeniably.” And rather horrid that there’d been the need.

  After kissing his cool cheek, Lydia sank onto the cushion, and Alasdair took the seat beside her, leaving a respectable distance between them. Too bad they weren’t officially betrothed because she might hold his hand then. “We have a couple of things we wish to discuss with you as well, but feared you weren’t feeling quite up to snuff, Da.”

  “Och, I’m fit as a fiddle and eager to name my successor.”

  Before the contest? But he’d been so adamant she marry the victor, not that she objected, mind you. Quite possibly, word had reached him of the contest changes she’d made, and that he hadn’t objected portended well.

  Surely angels in heaven danced at this most welcome news. Quite possibly, he wouldn’t be upset by what she and Alasdair proposed then either.

  Da leaned forward, one hand on his cane, and the other on his thin thigh, his gaze vacillating between Lydia and Alasdair before another huge smile wreathed his face.

  He looked so pleased with himself, Lydia couldn’t help but smile in return, her heart lighter than she could recall in a very long time.

  The moment was at hand, the moment when she’d become the first female Farnsworth chief, and rather than being overwhelmed by trepidation or nervousness, an extraordinary
calm beset her.

  She’d passed muster, made Da proud, proved her worth to him and the clan.

  And she’d achieved the goal alone.

  No victorious betrothed or intended to make her wonder if her husband had been, at least partially, the reason Da had at last named her his successor, Lydia Farnsworth, Lady of Tornbury Fortress.

  “I ken without a doubt who the next chief will be. That be why I burned the old copy of me will yesterday. I’d already written Gwyers and told him me new decision.”

  “You burned it, Da?” Jinnah had told the truth? Then, why had she made up the other stories? “But why?”

  “I had a condition in me previous will about me successor I wanted to make sure would never be implemented. After today, everyone will ken who the next Farnsworth chieftain will be.”

  Probably the condition about her having to marry the tournament winner. That had weighted mightily heavy on Lydia, and she was heartily glad Da had eliminated that particular.

  He relaxed against his chair’s padded back, pride crinkling the corner of his eyes. “The clan’s future will be assured, and I can rest easy in me declinin’ years now.”

  Not years.

  “I be sure that eases yer mind greatly,” Alasdair said, his attention trained on Lydia. “To ken yer clan and Tornbury Fortress are in such capable, trustworthy, and just hands. That yer successor will be as diligent and carin’ as ye’ve been.”

  At his admiring smile, Lydia’s heart swelled with love, and—yes, she dared admit—a morsel of pride too.

  Alasdair’s approval mattered so very much, and she could see the sincerity and respect in his eyes. Her victory was his, and until this moment, she hadn’t really considered yet what she’d do if Da had named another his successor.

  Da beamed, his eyes bright and excited. “I couldn’t have said it better meself. And that be why, ye, Alasdair McTavish, will be Tornbury Fortress’s next laird.”