“I ken it, but I find I like it. I liked it the first time, too. I wanted to rub myself all over ye. It troubled me a wee bit, but it doesnae trouble me anymore. I love ye and so I love all that is part of ye, e’en if it includes big pointy teeth and a strange thirst.” She laughed along with him but then grew serious again. “And, Heming, it makes me feel verra good to ken that I have something in me that can always be used to heal ye.”
“I think that is when I first began to think ye were my mate. Your blood healed me with the swiftness and strength of the blood of one of our Elders. It shouldnae have, for ye are an Outsider, but it did. Oh, it would have healed me anyway, but much more slowly. Another mystery, aye? I must be sure to remember to tell Maman about it as she is trying to gather all the information she can on the many strengths and gifts of the clan. Since she found out how we can hold our mates at our sides with a wee sip now and then, I can only praise her work.”
“Will it be all right, Heming? Ye living here? I ken that the MacNachton clan is verra close and ye willnae have any of them here. ‘Twill also be difficult for them to visit verra often.”
“It will most certainly be all right. And I willnae be the only MacNachton here. Several of my clansmen have decided to stay here too. It grows quite crowded at Cambrun now that children are being born again. It seems Rosscurrach has beneath it some verra fine places that they can make their own.”
Heming rolled on top of her and smiled when she wrapped her arms around him. “Aye, my clan is large and lives closely together, but ye are my soul, Brona. This is your home and so it is mine.” He brushed a kiss over each of her eyes when they glistened with tears. “Others of my clan have left Cambrun and have been most happy with their new homes and their mates. I will be most happy with mine.”
“And I will be most happy to have ye stay here, my demon. Holding me. Loving me. Giving me golden-eyed bairns. Giving me happiness. Thank ye most kindly, my beautiful demon.”
“Nay, love, your demon thanks ye for blessing the long life he has ahead of him with hope and laughter.”
Brona was afraid she was going to start weeping and so reached down between their bodies and curled her fingers around him. “And lots and lots of pleasure.”
“Aye, lots of it. Forever.”
“That is my dearest hope, Heming, my love. My verra dearest one.”
THE CAPTURE
Lynsay Sands
One
Lucy glanced around the inn, uncomfortably aware of a strange buzz of excitement in the air. It had started when the two Scots had entered.
Nay, before that even, she thought with a frown. Everything had seemed relatively normal when she and her brother had first been ushered inside by Wymon Carbonnel. He’d insisted on seeing them back to the boundary of his land after their day at Carbonnel castle, and then had been equally insistent on their stopping for a meal at the inn on the border where his property met theirs.
Lucy had not been pleased with the delay. It had already been growing dark and she’d just wanted to go home and get this uncomfortable day behind them. It had been a long day for her. She’d spent the better part of it on tenterhooks dreading the proposal she’d feared coming, and dreading even more the man’s reaction when she refused him. Wymon could be dreadfully unpleasant when crossed.
However, all that anxiety had apparently been for naught. The man finally had proposed before they’d left Carbonnel, but he’d taken her refusal much better than she’d expected, merely nodding with a half smile as if he’d expected it and was untroubled by the rejection.
Lucy supposed it was partially out of gratitude for his easy acceptance that she’d allowed herself to be convinced into stopping for the meal. She knew it was also the reason her brother, John, had given in gracefully and allowed the delay in their returning home. There had simply been no polite way to refuse and neither of them had wanted to be churlish when he’d taken her refusal so well, so had agreed to the meal.
Apart from the fact that they really hadn’t wished to be there—or perhaps because they’d been distracted by that—nothing had seemed abnormal at first. The inn had been surprisingly busy for that hour of the evening, the innkeeper and two serving wenches bustling to serve the men their ales and good hearty food. Although Lucy had been uncomfortably aware that, despite how busy it was, she was the only female there besides the two serving girls. Other than that, however, everything had been fine. . .But then one of Carbonnel’s men had entered and nodded at Wymon and the room had suddenly gone oddly quiet for the briefest of moments, all conversation dying as the other men noted the gesture.
When the conversations had started up again an instant later, the sound had seemed a little louder, a little more hearty and—compared to what had passed before—quite unnatural.
Then the two Scots had entered. Both were tall, well-built men, both attractive in their own way. They’d taken seats away from the others and eyed the occupants of the inn with cold narrow eyes.
It was only when the innkeeper himself had gone to the table to serve the men that Lucy had realized that the two serving maids were now absent. That fact, along with the undertone of excitement in the air, was making her feel a bit nervous. There was a definite feeling that something was going to happen. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one to think so, she realized when John touched her arm and she glanced his way to see the sharp look of concern in his eyes.
“If you are finished, Lucy. I think ‘tis time we continued on home,” he said quietly.
“Aye,” she murmured, getting to her feet.
Thankfully, Carbonnel didn’t protest, but stood silently to follow them from the inn.
Lucy frowned as they stepped out into the courtyard and she saw how dark the night had gotten. The sun had been making its downward journey when they’d stopped, but she hadn’t realized how close it had been to nightfall. It appeared she and John would be making the rest of the journey in the dark, which meant they would have to travel at a more sedate pace to guard against their mounts injuring themselves on the uneven road. It would be quite late when they finally arrived back at Blytheswood, but that couldn’t be helped now, she supposed and sighed inwardly.
“You wait here, Lucy. I shall see to your mount while your brother saddles his own,” Carbonnel said with a smile, which Lucy automatically returned even as she once again experienced surprise at how well he was taking all this. Wymon wasn’t a man to take disappointment well. She supposed that spoke of how little he’d really wished to marry her. She wasn’t terribly surprised. Marrying her would have gained him very little. John had inherited the bulk of their parents’ assets on their deaths a year ago, gaining Blytheswood castle and its environs, while she’d inherited a small demesne from her mother. She had no doubt Wymon, as a second son, would prefer to bride a woman with her own castle for him to run. It was really rather surprising that he’d offered for her hand at all.
Lucy started to glance back into the depths of the stable where her brother and Wymon were saddling the animals, but paused as the inn door suddenly opened and the first of the two Scots came out. She’d noted in the brief glance she’d cast their way when they’d entered the inn that both men were attractive, but hadn’t really taken the time to examine those good looks. Now, as the two men stumbled out of the inn, she took the time to do so, allowing her eyes to slide over wide strong shoulders and sculpted features.
The first Scot was handsome enough, but for some reason her attention kept returning to the second man, getting caught on his stern, strong features in the torchlight of the inn yard. She finally forced her gaze to continue on, noting the long dark hair that fell about his shoulders, and wondering if it was as soft as it looked. Her gaze then dropped over the white tunic and dark plaid he wore, then touched briefly on the big, wicked sword strapped to his side before continuing on to his naked legs.
Englishmen wore leggings or braies on their own legs, so it was only with Scots that a girl could see the fine shape of a man�
��s knee and calf. She found herself ogling the poor man, grateful that he was unable to see her standing in the shadows of the stables.
Her eyes were still on his legs when the man stumbled. Frowning, she shifted her concentration to take in the whole scene and noted that the other Scot seemed to be having trouble walking as well. Both were staggering a bit as if drunk, though she hadn’t noticed them drinking much in the inn. Still, there was a definite wobble to their walk.
Even as she began to frown over this, first one, then the other of the two men suddenly stumbled and sank to his knees so that they knelt in the dirt of the inn yard, swaying weakly. ‘Twas obvious they were fighting whatever was happening to them, but were unable to combat it and the next moment both of them collapsed side by side in the dirt. They’d barely settled on the ground when the inn door opened again and most, if not all of the men from inside, began to pour out. Even as they began to surround the two Scots on the ground more men began to appear from the sides of the building, milling out to join the others until she could no longer see the Scots.
Knowing something underhanded was happening, Lucy glanced back toward the rear of the stables to call her brother forward and see what they could do for the two men, only to freeze as she saw Wymon plunge a knife into her unsuspecting brother’s neck from behind. She and John both stiffened in shock as the blade went in, then it was withdrawn and plunged in again, this time a little to the side of the first spot.
With her mouth still open on her unspoken cry, Lucy’s horrified gaze met her brother’s. They stared at each other with shared shock for a moment, then the life left his eyes and her brother crumbled like an empty cape.
“Why so shocked?”
Lucy blinked and slowly turned her eyes from her fallen brother to Wymon. While she’d gaped in horror, he’d retrieved his knife and crossed to stand before her. She stared at him with incomprehension, her mind not yet capable of accepting anything that was happening.
“Surely you did not think I would take your refusal gracefully, did you?” he asked with a chiding smile, then shook his head and took her arm to turn her away and lead her out of the stables.
In her stunned state, Lucy followed docilely for perhaps two steps before regaining enough of her sense to begin to struggle. The moment she did Wymon paused and punched her in the side of the head. Light exploded behind her eyes, followed quickly by pain, and Lucy gasped as she began to fall. Then she felt herself scooped up and carried. She was barely conscious when she felt herself being passed off to someone else to hold.
The last thing she heard before darkness claimed her was someone saying, “Ye take the MacAdie, I’ll take the other, and guid luck to us both.”
Two
It was a constant, dull throbbing pain in her head that nagged Lucy back to consciousness. Grimacing against the relentless pounding, she squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, trying to block out the bright light beyond her eyelids that seemed to be aggravating her discomfort.
“Finally. I thought you should never wake up.”
The voice rather than the words themselves drew her eyes abruptly open and Lucy ignored the pain in her head as she lifted her face to peer wide-eyed at the man standing before her. Wymon Carbonnel. He was so close he filled her vision, blocking out everything and anything else in the room with both his imposing size and the torch he held in his hand.
Made mute by the memories rushing into her head, she stared at him with both fear and loathing and finally said, “You killed my brother.”
Wymon smiled faintly, though whether at her words or the raspy voice that spoke them she couldn’t say. Then he shook his head.
“Me? Nay. I fear you are confused. Tearlach MacAdie killed your brother,” he assured her with a smile. “And he carried you off after doing so. I have witnesses who say so.”
“Liar,” she snarled. “Murderer!”
Wymon merely arched his eyebrows with amusement. “Nay. Not I. That blow you took to the head has scrambled your sense somewhat, my lovely Lucy.”
“The blow you gave me has done naught to my memory, Carbonnel. You killed my brother and then hit me and brought me here...Wherever here is,” she added with a frown and glanced to both sides as she became aware of a gnawing pain in her wrists. The pain was explained away the moment she realized she was hanging from chains on her wrists. She was chained to the wall like a common thief.
“Welcome to Carbonnel’s dungeons,” he said easily as she forced herself to stand and take the weight off her arms. “I hope you shall soon come to think of this as home.”
Lucy turned an amazed gaze back to him. “You are mad.”
“Oh, now, is that any way to talk to your future husband?” he chided.
Her mouth dropped briefly. “I shall never marry you.”
He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “‘Tis your choice, of course. However, I still hope to make you see the benefits of marrying me and going along with my version of events.”
“Benefits?” she spat with disbelief.
“Aye. There are many,” he assured her easily. “Living, for instance.”
When Lucy stilled, his smile widened. “I shall give you a few days to consider the matter. Marriage is a grave undertaking and should be considered carefully,” he assured her with sardonic solemnity. “If you decide to marry me, we shall be wed right here in this lovely room by torchlight. We shall probably consummate it here too to ensure you do not have second thoughts.”
Lucy shuddered at the very thought of the hands that had taken her brother’s life touching her, but he wasn’t done.
“Understand. If you convince me that you truly have seriously considered the matter and seen the wisdom of our union, the story shall be that I hunted down the MacAdie who had killed your brother and taken you. That I rescued you and that you married me out of gratitude and, of course, undying love.” His mouth widened in a toothy smile.
“And if I do not see the wisdom of our union?” she asked bitterly, suspecting she already knew the answer, but wanting everything on the table from the start.
“If you do not?” he echoed with amusement, then shrugged. “Well, the MacAdie shall need feeding, will he not?” he said as if it were the simplest matter in the world. And then he added, “And once you are dead your cousin Margaret will inherit Blytheswood. I suspect she may be more easily led than you anyway,” he confided and then shrugged again. “One way or another, I shall have a Blytheswood bride and Blytheswood itself.”
Lucy merely stared at him blankly, her mind caught on the comment that the MacAdie would need feeding. Feeding? If she refused to cooperate would Wymon cut her up, boil her, and feed her to this unknown MacAdie? It was the only sense she could make of the threat, and really it was rather gruesome as threats went, though she supposed she shouldn’t much care what happened to her body once she was dead and had shed it. Still, the idea of being someone’s dinner was just disgusting.
“Think on that,” Carbonnel suggested and turned to move away toward the door of the dungeon. “Now, I shall go eat and relax. There is a fine new maid I should like to break in. Then I have to rest up. Tomorrow we start torturing the MacAdie for information and I do wish to be in fine form for that. I hope you two enjoy your evening as well.”
She stared silently at the heavy wooden door as it clanged shut. There was no clink of it locking behind him. Why bother locking it? She was chained to the wall and helpless to leave anyway, she supposed.
Sighing, Lucy leaned back against the cold, hard stone behind her and allowed her gaze to slide over her present home, stiffening when she spotted the man chained to the wall opposite. She would have seen him earlier if Wymon hadn’t stood directly before her, blocking her view of the dungeon. Now, she peered at the man noting that he was double chained across from her. Obviously, they hadn’t trusted one set of chains to hold him like they had her. She thought that was a bit ridiculous. While the man was big and strong looking, one set of chains surely would have held him
too.
Her gaze slid down to the chains at his ankles, noting there were two sets on each leg as well. And that he had naked knees. It was one of the Scots from the inn. The MacAdie whom Wymon had kept mentioning, she supposed. He was pale and looking a little the worse for wear, but his eyes were open and he was obviously awake and alert. She doubted he’d missed any of the conversation that had just taken place.
They stared at each other silently. Lucy was trying to think of something to say, but the only thing that came to mind was a compulsion to apologize to the man. However, she really had nothing to apologize for.
With her aching head making it impossible to think of anything intelligent to say, she closed her eyes with a little sigh in the hopes that the pain would ease some and give her back her faculties. Unfortunately, the moment she closed her eyes, thoughts of her brother filled her mind. The image of Wymon plunging the knife into John’s neck seemed to be burnt onto the back of her eyelids. Lucy’s breath left her on a small sob as the moment replayed through her head, followed immediately by recriminations. If only she hadn’t allowed herself to be distracted by the Scots. If only she’d saddled her own horse. If only she’d been close enough, mayhap she could have saved him.
Lucy knew that wasn’t really true, Wymon simply would have chosen a different method or time. No matter how it had played out, her brother would still be dead...and all because she’d refused to marry Wymon Carbonnel.
But...if she’d agreed to marry him, Lucy thought and then shook her head. Wymon probably still would have killed her brother to get Blytheswood for himself. Wymon Carbonnel was a second son. His older brother, Frederick, had inherited Carbonnel castle several years ago and left his brother to run it while he played at court. However, he’d fallen out of favor at court recently and returned home to take up the reins himself...leaving Wymon without. The man enjoyed the power he’d had and wouldn’t be eager to give it up. He would want a castle of his own to rule. She supposed Blytheswood had seemed easy pickings to him. Marry the sister, get rid of the brother, and voila! One castle and estate for him to be lord over.
Highland Thirst Page 14
