Betrayed

by Bertrice Small

  Above the treed bens the clouds began to mass, leaving torn patches of bright blue. The late afternoon sunlight turned the castle golden, reflecting brightly into the loch. It was so beautiful. She had never been in such a lovely place. Her father had taken so much from them in his cruel quest for Glen Hay, and in the end he had not even possessed a handful of ashes. Perhaps if he had made his peace with her grandfather, none of this would have happened. Perhaps she might have even been honorably betrothed to the laird of Loch Brae. Fiona shook her head, laughing softly at herself for being a fool. Dugald Hay had gone to his grave cursing his father-in-law and the unkind fate that had denied him what he believed was rightfully his. He had left his daughters poverty-stricken. And she, the daughter of a proud clan, had sold herself for the good of her sisters. She slipped from her niche and walked slowly back to the castle.

  In her chamber Nelly greeted her worriedly. "Where were ye, lady? Black Angus could not find ye, and has been in a terrible state!"

  "I am used to being out-of-doors, not confined within the walls of a castle," Fiona said. "I didn't leave the island. There is a large rock by the shore with a notch in it. It makes a fine seat upon which to sit and think while watching the water."

  "Ye miss yer sisters," Nelly said wisely.

  Fiona nodded. "I have never been alone before. I don't know what to do with myself."

  "I have yer bath ready," Nelly replied. "After a good soak ye'll feel better. The piper is to play tonight in the hall."

  When Fiona had bathed and dressed herself in a clean skirt and blouse, she followed Nelly down to the hall where Angus Gordon was already at the high board.

  "Where have ye been?" he demanded, his dark green gaze fastening on her. "I thought ye had run off and that I would have to send the hounds after ye, lassie." He shoved a platter with a roasted joint upon it down the table at her while signaling with his other hand that her goblet be filled with wine.

  Fiona tore off a piece of the joint, taking a bite from it. "Because I am yer mistress, my lord, does not mean I lack honor. We have made a bargain, and I intend to keep it." She chewed the venison, washing it down with the wine, then reached for the bread and cut herself a chunk. After smearing butter across it with her thumb, she bit off half of it. Her look was intractable. She would not be bullied by the likes of Angus Gordon.

  He said nothing more, nor did she. When the food had finally been cleared from the board, a piper came forward, stood before them, and began to play. A faint smile touched Fiona's lips. The music made by the pipes was a raucous sound, yet it touched her heart to its core, understanding her sadness, sympathizing with it, soothing it. She sighed deeply as the piper finally ceased and walked away into the shadows of the hall. Without another word Fiona arose and went to her chamber, Nelly on her heels. Angus watched her go, his look, for the briefest moment, thoughtful.

  Nelly helped her mistress to disrobe, handing her lady a soft linen camisia with flowing sleeves. Fiona tied the two halves of the garment closed at the neckline. After bathing her hands and face, then carefully cleaning her teeth with pumice, she was ready for bed. Nelly busied herself with folding the discarded garments and laying them aside.

  Fiona went to the window and pushed the shutters open. The night air was cool, autumnal. "Go to bed, Nelly," she said. "I'm not yet ready to sleep. Too much has happened today."

  "God give ye sweet repose then, lady," Nelly said, closing the door behind her.

  There was a quarter moon tonight. It glowed brightly down on the waters of the loch, silvering the little wave tops. The wind was light, but definite in its course. Fiona smiled as it caught a tendril of her hair before she began to braid it. Fastening the single thick plait with a bit of ribbon, she sighed and, placing her hands on the sill, gazed deeply into the night. She was alone. For the first time in her entire life she was truly alone. Her sisters were all scattered. Old Tam and Flora were gone from her. It was an odd sensation, almost like having no body or floating free and not knowing where she was going. What was to become of her, she wondered, but Fiona was neither sad nor frightened by her silent question. She was simply curious as to what life held in store for her. She could not remember a time when she was not responsible for her siblings. What on earth was she going to do now that they were all settled?

  The arm that slid about her waist was not unexpected. She had sensed that he would come tonight. It had been more than a week since he had lain with her, and she was shy all over again, but at least this time she knew what to expect.

  "What are ye thinking?" he asked, surprising her.

  "Of my sisters," she said, wondering if he would really understand.

  "Ye miss them?"

  "Aye, and I wonder what my life is to be now I no longer have them to care for, Angus Gordon," she told him honestly.

  "Ye are my mistress," he replied, bending to place a warm kiss in the place where her round neckline revealed her skin.

  Fiona laughed in spite of herself. "What does a mistress do, my lord?" she queried mischievously.

  "Why she… she-" He stopped, confused by her question.

  "Exactly," Fiona told him. "If I were yer wife, 1 would have the care of this castle and its people, but I am not yer wife. What is it that I am, then? I am not a toy to be put in the corner when ye don't want me, my lord."

  The laird was astounded. By Fiona, by their very conversation. What did she want of him? "Una and Aulay have charge of the castle," he began, but he realized that had he a wife, they would defer to her.

  "Una and Aulay have their proper place, as do all those here at Brae. They know what is expected of them each day. I do not." Fiona's backbone seemed to stiffen as she spoke. Why on earth had she even begun this conversation? He would think she wanted to be his wife.

  "Yer place is in my arms, in my bed," he told her. "That is the duty of a man's mistress, lassie."

  "I canna spend all my time in yer arms, in yer bed," Fiona said desperately. "I need something to do. I am not used to being idle!"

  His mother had died when he was relatively young. He scarcely could remember what she did with her days, if he'd ever known. He'd been out and about as much as possible from the earliest age, a male absorbed in male pursuits. As far back as he could recall, Una and Aulay had run the castle. "What do ye want to do?"

  Fiona thought a moment. "I want to learn to read and write," she said. "Can ye read and write, my lord? My father could not, although my mother said she could write her name. Nothing more, mind. Just her name. I never saw her do it, though."

  "I learned to read and write when I was a boy in England with the king," the laird said slowly. "My brother, Robert, has learned these skills at Glenkirk Abbey, but neither Jamie-boy nor my sisters nor Hamish Stewart, for that matter, can read or write. If it is what ye want, lassie, I shall teach ye," he promised her.

  Fiona nodded, satisfied.

  "The moon is bright tonight, is it not?" he said finally.

  "Aye."

  His fingers began to undo the ribbon tie at her neck. Her camisia opened to the navel. His hand slipped inside to capture a breast. It nestled like a small round apple, just filling his palm. Her skin was very soft and warm with pulsing life. He began to rub the nipple with his thumb, his lips again finding the almost invisible hollow where her shoulder met her neck. His mouth lingered for a long moment.

  "I left ye alone these past days not because I don't desire ye, but so ye might have time with Jeannie and Morag," he murmured against her ear. His tongue delicately explored the pink whorl of it.

  "I know, and I am grateful," Fiona replied, shivering at the warm wetness in her ear. This love play of his was exciting, but at the same time it was a little frightening. She shifted nervously, trying to fix her attention upon a bright star just above the bens on the other side of the dark loch, but it was impossible. She wanted to snatch his hands away. Instead her arms lay by her sides, her fingers clenching and unclenching nervously.

  Angus Gordon could
feel the tenseness in the lassie, and it was no wonder. An enthusiastic student when her initial fears were overcome, she was still greatly inexperienced. Gently he drew her camisia off her shoulders. It slid down her torso to puddle about her ankles. Slipping his hands beneath her arms, he reached up to cup both her breasts in his hands. He fondled the delicate flesh.

  Fiona's breath caught achingly in her throat. Unable to help herself, she shuddered hard.

  "No, no, hinny lamb," his voice caressed her. "Don't be afeared. Do ye not remember how sweet it was between us the last time?"

  "Aye!" She forced the word out. It had been sweet between them that only time he had made love to her, taking her virginity in a blaze of hot passion.

  "It will be sweeter this time, lassie, I swear it!" He turned her about to brush her lips with his.

  She was surprised to find he was naked. She had been so concerned with herself that she hadn't even noticed the feel of his skin against hers. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. His big hands enclosed her buttocks and pulled her close against him. Fiona could feel the hard length of the rampant manhood against her thigh, and her cheeks burned again.

  "My Gordie has missed ye, lassie," he murmured suggestively.

  "He's a bold fellow," she said softly, and reaching down with a hand, she stroked him softly. "Ah, yer so hard, my lord!"

  "I want to be inside of ye, Fiona Hay," he told her harshly. "Ye canna know how I burn for ye, lassie. 'Twas not easy to resist grabbing ye every time I saw ye these past few days, but I kept to the proprieties for the sake of yer sisters." His mouth took hers again, but this time the kiss was fierce and demanding.

  Fiona responded, sliding her arms about his neck, her breasts pressed hard against his chest, her fear melting away in a rush of desire. He lifted her, palms beneath her bottom, sheathing himself within her, and instinctively her legs wrapped about him. She was astounded by what he had done, by what they were doing. He pressed her back, and she felt the sill against her spine as he groaned into her mouth, his lower torso pushing and thrusting against her. She matched his rhythm, amazing herself, but finally she pulled her head from his, gasping. "Ye’ll cripple me, Angus Gordon, if ye dinna stop pushing me into the stone of the window!"

  He replied by ceasing the action of his loins. His arms tightly about her, he walked across the chamber, then placed her on the edge of the bed. Standing over her, he continued the savage meter once again, driving himself hard and deep within her ripe body.

  Fiona raked her nails down his back, her passion burning so brightly, she was surprised it did not light up the whole room. She felt as if he were devouring her whole, yet at no time was she afraid, even when he grasped her wrists and, pinioning her to the mattress, growled, "Don't claw me, lassie," just as he ground into her as far as he could. Ecstasy washed over her, catching her up in a rapture so intense that she felt as if she were being transported to the heavens and back. Then the great throbbing within her burst. With a cry he fell across her breasts, half sobbing. Fiona stroked his dark hair, well satisfied with his efforts. There had been no pain this time. Indeed, there had been nothing but utter pleasure. Did all women feel this way after such a bout of passion? Did wives? Or was it only a man's mistress who enjoyed this special delight?

  Angus Gordon breathed slowly and deeply, working to recover his equilibrium. He was somewhat surprised at himself. He hadn't realized his lust was so great that he would take her in such a primitive fashion, but Fiona had not seemed to mind, except for reminding him that he was bruising her back against the windowsill. Her legs fell away from him, and she sighed deeply. Raising himself up on his elbows, he stared into her face. "I'm pleased to see yer every bit as brazen as ever, lassie," he said by way of a compliment.

  "Get off me, ye great oaf," she replied, and when he had raised himself just a bit more, she rolled away from him, getting off the bed and hurrying across the chamber to gather up the basin, which she filled with water. She then cleansed herself and looking to him, she said, "Come and let me wash yer Gordie, my lord. Ye'll not want to sleep with him dirty."

  He complied, coming across to her, asking, “Where did ye ever learn such a thing, lassie?"

  "My old Flora said I was to do it. She says a manhood can become diseased if it is not kept clean." Pushing back his foreskin, she washed him most competently, dried him, and then, drawing the flesh down back over the knob, she smiled up at him even as she gave it a pat. "There now, 'tis done, and ye'll be all the better for it."

  He laughed, charmed by her ingenuousness, but then he teased her, "Yer tender ministrations will but encourage my Gordie, lassie."

  Her eyes widened. "Ye don't mean we could do it again tonight, do ye, my lord?" To his amusement her look was very hopeful.

  “When I was yer age, Fiona Hay, I could do it a dozen times a night. Now, alas, I can but manage three or four. Get into bed," he ordered her, his look suddenly menacing.

  She caught her lower lip with her teeth, and to his surprise she giggled. "How many times do ye think ye can do it tonight?" she demanded wickedly. "I like it when ye take me, Angus Gordon."

  "So I've noticed," he said. "Get into bed, lassie."

  Her tongue slid seductively over her lips. "Three times or four, my lord?"

  He grinned at her. "Ye’ll not know, lassie, until we get back into yer bed." He chuckled. "I think, however, I can manage four."

  She pulled him eagerly by the hand, and when they lay sated a second time, Fiona thought to herself that being the laird's mistress was not such a bad fate after all. She was still of the same mind when she awoke in the morning, sore, but certainly more than well satisfied.

  Chapter 4

  Robert, Duke of Albany, brother of the late king, Robert III, uncle to the young captive king, James I, and regent of Scotland, had not been the most popular man in the land, but his rule was a strong one.

  The moment he'd assumed the regency for his captive nephew, the Duke of Albany had renewed the peace with England, then grandly declared that during his tenure as Scotland's temporary ruler no burden should be placed upon the poor by his administration. It was an extremely clever move, for the differences between the highland Celtic population and the more civilized Scots of the lowlands were becoming more and more pronounced. There was utter anarchy and lawlessness throughout Scotland, which while more manageable in the lowland regions, was impossible to control in the highlands. There each powerful chieftain renewed his independence in the ways that the clans had been independent prior to the rule of Robert the Bruce. The Duke of Albany sought to overlook what he could, which was much.

  The lords of the Isles were the worst offenders, possessing a fleet of their own with which they harassed the rest of the coastal regions of Scotland at their convenience. The MacDonald, the most powerful of the chiefs, had made his own peace with England. He considered himself their ally. The regent, a man far more interested in adding to his family's wealth and power, pointedly ignored The MacDonald.

  The English held two hostages of interest to the regent: his nephew, the young king, who was technically his overlord; and his own son, Murdoch, Earl of Fife. While Albany's first duty was to negotiate the release of the king, his aims in that direction were lukewarm. It was his own son for whom he had interceded with all the passion in his ambitious soul. It was greatly to his advantage that his nephew remain in England, but in a calculated and tender show of familial concern, he had sent the young sons of the Scots nobility south on a regular basis to keep their boy-king company. Angus Gordon had spent two years with his king, during which time he had learned to read and write. It hadn't been easy, but young James Stewart had insisted.

  "When I come into my own again, Angus, I'll need men of intellect, as well as those who are good with a sword," he had cajoled his youthful companion.

  "Ye’ll need men who are loyal to ye, my liege," the boy Angus had replied. "Remember that yer uncle murdered yer brother to keep him from the throne. He'd just as soon ye remained i
n England. He has ambitions for yer throne, and this English king who holds ye has gotten his crown by usurpation as well. He understands the regent's desires, for they are his own."

  "There is more to it than that," the king replied to his friend. "There is a rumor that the last English king, Richard II, was not murdered at Pontefract Castle, but escaped to the isles where he was captured by Lord Montgomery, and given to my father as a hostage. It is said my father maintained him, that now he lives in royal state, cared for by my uncle, Albany. I saw the man once. He indeed looks like a portrait of that king that I have seen here in my captivity in England. King Henry keeps me here so that the regent will not send his rival back to England to dispute his claim to the throne. They counterbalance each other, Angus Gordon. Only when this man dies will I be able to return home again, I fear."

  And so the fragile peace had continued between Scotland and England. The death of Henry IV changed little but that Albany was able to finally regain custody of his own son, Murdoch, Earl of Fife, in exchange for the young Earl of Northumberland, son of the famed Percy lord known as Hotspur. Henry V went to France to fight for its throne. He took with him the young king of the Scots, for the wily regent was allowing Scotsmen to fight for the French. Having the Scots king fight by the side of the English king was a psychological victory, and many Scots withdrew from the French army, feeling torn between their national loyalty and their desire to earn their keep, for many were younger sons. The regent died at the age of eighty, to be succeeded by his eldest son, Murdoch, for whose release he had struggled so hard.

  The new Duke of Albany unfortunately lacked his father's political astuteness. He was neither crafty nor ambitious, although he certainly didn't wish to give up all the material gains that his father had garnered. He was a basically lazy man of easy character, unable to wield much authority over the land, let alone his own family. He was quickly bored with trying to manage an administration that was in fact unmanageable. The country slipped deeper into anarchy.