He felt guilty dealing behind Broc’s and Iain’s backs, but once Page was gone, and they could think clearly once more, they would thank him. He was certain of that fact.
Och, but her da was a bastard of the worst kind. He would certainly not wish to be FitzSimon’s daughter coming back into his fold.
But that wasn’t Cameron’s problem.
Cameron found FitzSimon’s camp easily enough. How it had not been discovered as yet was a mystery to him. The English were an arrogant, spoiled lot. As though he thought himself untouchable and did not care who knew of his presence, he flew his banner high from his gaudy silk tent.
Cameron might not have the experience of Iain or Broc but even he understood the stupidity in heralding your whereabouts in the middle of foreign territory. If a man did not wish to be caught upon enemy land, he slept upon the ground and covered himself with bracken. If he were idiot enough to make himself known, he would certainly bring more than seven worthless men into the fight.
But then, FitzSimon was an English moron who evidently cared more for his own comfort than he did for his life. If Cameron did not so heartily believe he deserved his bloody daughter back, he would be inclined himself to show the Sassenach bastard what it was to deal with real men—call him a boy, did they!
“I’m here to see FitzSimon,” he told the three who greeted him—if it could be called a greeting. Making themselves a human barrier, they stood between him and their puny camp. Cameron eyed them with some measure of amusement. The idiots did not even know how to treat an ally.
“Are ye now?” the middle man asked, puffing out an oversized chest. He stared down at Cameron with bright beady eyes.
“I am.” Cameron spat upon the ground at his feet. He shook his head at them. “You’re not verra bright,” he informed them. “Are ye? Oof!” he exclaimed when one of the men gut-punched him. He wasn’t sure which, because they all at once fell upon him, beating him.
“What the devil is going on here—leave him!” a voice boomed. “Think, ye halfwits! We don’t need to give him something more to explain!”
Cameron recognized the voice, though he couldn’t see FitzSimon just yet with the mountain of men atop him. He struggled beneath them, and cried out when a knee was shoved in his groin as they rose.
“Scots bastard!”
“Bring him inside!” FitzSimon commanded.
They dragged him toward their master’s tent— lackeys all of them!
Cameron landed inside the tent at FitzSimon’s feet. The fat English bastard was seated in a bloody chair! What the hell was wrong with this? he thought. He peered up at the man through eyes that were already beginning to grow puffy from their blows, while the taste of blood lingered upon his tongue.
He heard a snicker behind him and decided he was going to kill one of these fools before they left. Aye, he’d help FitzSimon get his daughter, all right, because that was most important, but the blood of one of these English vermin was going to feed Scots soil before they left!
Cameron peered up at the blurry figure of FitzSimon seated before him. “Is this how ye treat yer allies, FitzSimon?”
FitzSimon leaned forward, coming clearer in Cameron’s line of vision. “I have no allies,” he said softly. He patted Cameron’s head. “Boy,” he called him again and smiled.
Cameron dragged himself up, wiping the sweat from his face. He peered down at his tunic. Blood. Gadamned Sassenach bastards! How the hell had they extracted so much from him with such short work? He peered over his shoulder at them, eyeing them malevolently.
They burst into laughter.
Cameron’s face heated with a mixture of chagrin and anger. They were standing guard at the tent entrance, blocking it. Christ but he’d come of his own free will. Idiots.
“Where is my daughter?”
“I told ye, FitzSimon! I would not drag her from Iain’s bed. There has been no opportunity to bring her to ye.”
“I grow impatient, laddie,” he said, in a poor imitation of a Scot’s brogue. It annoyed Cameron, but he said nothing. Something was very strange here. They had never treated him with a modicum of respect but something was not right.
“I came to tell ye of a new opportunity,” Cameron began.
FitzSimon cocked his head, listening. “Aye?” There was a new gleam in his eyes, something that disturbed Cameron. “Well, speak, man!” FitzSimon demanded, though not in anger. If anything, his tone was filled with a patience that was disconcerting.
“Alison MacLean’s wedding is in but a few days,” Cameron began, all the while studying FitzSimon’s expression.
“Is that a fact?” FitzSimon asked blithely.
Cameron screwed his face—och, but it hurt. “Aye,” he replied. “’Twill be the most perfect opportunity to reclaim your daughter,” he explained. “If you do not get her there, it will be nigh impossible—she and the MacKinnon are always together.”
“I see,” FitzSimon said, nodding. “The problem is… ye see… we are running out of time. ’Tis only a matter of time before we are discovered here.”
Cameron agreed, nodding, working his jaw a bit.
Damn but someone had cast him a wicked blow.
“But I won’t return to England without my daughter,” FitzSimon continued. “Do ye understand that?”
Cameron nodded and met his gaze once more. FitzSimon was a cold man, he could see very well. There wasn’t the least bit of warmth in those eyes.
“You want yer daughter returned. I do understand that. And she belongs with her da,” he agreed, and felt it was so.
“I’m pleased we agree,” FitzSimon replied, his face growing florid. “No one takes what is mine! Do ye understand?”
Cameron nodded again, though he stared at FitzSimon now, contemplating his response.
For the first time he considered Page… whether it were truly the right thing to do, tossing her back into the hands of this man.
FitzSimon would like as not beat her to death for injuring his pride. Not once had he asked how she fared, he realized.
What manner of father was he to worry more about the return of his property over the wellbeing of his flesh and blood?
Mayhap Iain had done the right thing.
Mayhap Cameron had not given Page enough time?
Mayhap, but he didn’t like the thought of his laird wedded to the English—even if she were Saint Mary herself. Still, he didn’t have to help FitzSimon…
“Show him,” FitzSimon commanded his men.
Cameron heard them shuffle about behind him and turned in time to see something fly into the tent over his head. It landed between him and FitzSimon with a heavy thud.
His stomach surged into his throat, and his heart began to pound.
“Constance!” he shouted. He turned to the opening of the tent. “Where is my sister!” he demanded. The men answered with malicious grins. “Bastards!” he shouted at them and turned to look at Merry’s body. Broc’s sweet dog lay before him. Her tongue lolled to one side and the tiniest bit of blood trickled from the side of her mouth. Her neck had been broken, that much was obvious.
Cameron felt sick to his stomach suddenly.
That dog had been his cousin’s constant companion for as long as Cameron could recall.
What had they done?
What had he done?
For the first time, he realized the mistake he’d made in dealing with men like these. The English could not be trusted. He should have known. Hadn’t his father’s death taught him as much? His stomach churned, and he thought he would spew his guts right where he stood. He stared at Merry, momentarily paralyzed with fear. Tears pricked at his eyes.
“Bastards!” he spat, and began to shake. He looked up into FitzSimon’s face.
The man was gloating. Cameron had to restrain himself from choking the life from him. “Where is my sister?” he demanded of FitzSimon.
“Not here, of course,” FitzSimon replied. He reached out and took a pinch of Cameron’s cheek. “
Because we are not so bloody stupid as ye think!”
“Where is she!” Cameron persisted, rising up on his knees, ready to pounce upon FitzSimon. “Where is Constance?” His men moved into the tent, surrounding him.
FitzSimon’s eyes glimmered evilly. “Safe enough.”
Cameron wanted to cry with relief. “Where?”
“For now at least,” FitzSimon continued, ignoring his question. “Now,” he said, “I propose a trade…”
Cameron couldn’t think. He felt like a child in that instant, helpless. He wanted to weep! He wanted to kill the son of a whore! He stared down at Merry, blinking away tears he refused to shed. He reached out and patted Merry’s fur. She didn’t stir and his throat tightened. His da would strangle him if he knew what he had done. Broc would never forgive him. And if anything should happen to Constance…
He swallowed his emotions. “If ye harm a single hair on my sister’s head,” he swore, “If ye so much as breathe on her, I swear to God I will kill ye with my own bare hands—or I shall die trying!”
“You’re in no position to make threats, laddie,” FitzSimon taunted. “But I’ll tell you truly… get my daughter back to me and you’ll have your sister back safe and sound. If not… or if ye tell a soul about this… I’ll not even deliver her so neatly as I did this devil dog. I’ll send her to you in pieces. Do ye hear?”
Cameron nodded, understanding.
“Now go,” FitzSimon commanded. “And take that bloody dog with you… before I serve its entrails to my men for their supper.”
Shaking though he was, Cameron at once scooped up Merry into his arms. He wouldn’t have left the dog anyway. What was he going to tell Broc?
“Get the hell out of here,” FitzSimon demanded once more.
Cameron cast him a glare and turned to go, carrying the dog out with as much dignity as he could. Grinning malevolently, the men parted for him to leave, and Cameron held his head high, ignoring the leers they gave him as he passed.
As he passed the last of them, a foot went out, tripping him. Amidst jeers and laughter, he landed atop Merry, but the poor animal no longer minded pain. Tears pricked at his eyes. Without a word, he dragged himself up once more, reminding himself that they still held his sister.
He could do nothing so long as they had Constance. He had no choice but to do as they said.
Chapter 13
Meghan stood at the window of her bedchamber, while her husband sat at his little desk, scribbling into his journals. It was a nightly ritual he had, one that she daren’t disturb because it gave him such inner peace. Sometimes he shared his musings, sometimes not, but Meghan didn’t mind either way.
When he was finished writing, he returned his pen to the ink well and closed the manuscript, setting it aside. He turned to watch her. Meghan could feel his gaze upon her and it made her smile.
“’Tis a beautiful sunset!” she told him. Her brother had left long before with Seana—the two of them had ridden away together upon his horse—but she didn’t seem to be able to walk away from the window as yet. The beauty of the landscape held her transfixed.
“Aye,” her husband agreed.
“I swear I can feel something in the air!” She turned, leaning back upon the window sill, to face her husband. “I can feel things happening out there tonight!” she swore. “The night is alive with possibilities, dinna ye feel it?” She sucked in a breath of sweet night air. “I have never seen Colin so preoccupied with a single woman in his entire life!”
Piers smiled at her, and she knew he wasn’t listening to a word she said. He was staring at her breasts. Well, she wasn’t quite ready to come to bed. Let him stare!
It gave her pleasure, at any rate, to see the way he watched her, made goose flesh rise upon her skin.
“Do you know that he has never brought a woman home to meet us?”
Her husband blinked. “Uh-huh,” he replied.
Meghan laughed to herself, knowing he hadn’t the least comprehension of what she was saying. She might have asked for anything at all in that moment and his answer would remain the same.
“’Tis not like him,” she continued, ignoring the way his eyes undressed her. In fact, she was in quite a wicked mood this eve herself. She took in an exhilarated breath and slipped a finger inside the sheer neckline of her gown, caressing the curve of her breast with a finger, knowing that he could see everything through the gauzy fabric.
Piers had dressed her in the finest silks, cloth such as she’d never seen in all her life. It felt wonderful caressing her skin… soft and airy and delicate… seductive as the warm summer night breeze that blew in through the window. It billowed the sheer cloth about her body, teasing her, even as her husband’s eyes caressed her. It made her feel wickedly bold.
“Really?” Piers slumped back in the chair, watching her.
Meghan had to think an instant to remember what she’d said. He had that way about him, of making her thoughts scatter, and her breath catch with anticipation of his touch.
He wasn’t in any hurry, she realized. He rarely was. Her husband was a master of seduction.
Her mouth grew dry, and she wet her lips. “There is more to this woman than my brother is willing to reveal, I think. Did you see the way he watches her?”
Piers shook his head. “I saw only you,” he assured her. “I think I like the way you devoured that leg at the noon meal. In fact, I have something else I’d like to see those lips upon just now…”
Meghan giggled. “Do you now?”
“Aye,” he answered. “Come see.”
Meghan grinned at him. She shook her head, denying him. She slid her hand further within her gown and took the weight of her breast fully into her hand, all the while smiling at him.
He swallowed, and his beautiful blue eyes filled with yearning. “Wicked wench,” he said softly.
“I like her,” Meghan said sweetly, feigning innocence.
“Like who?”
“Seana, of course!”
He removed his tunic, drawing it slowly over his head. Meghan watched the play of his muscles over his ribs as he shrugged out of it. “Of course.” He tossed it onto the bed, and turned to look at her once more, winking.
“She claims to love Broc Ceannfhionn but I do not believe it.”
“Ceannfhionn?” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know that name.”
“’Tis not a family name. Ceannfhionn… it means the blond,” Meghan translated.
“I see.” His brows rose, as though he thought it backward to take such a simple name.
“Do not look at me like that, husband of mine!” Meghan berated. “What of yer own name, Lyon?” she asked. “Or William the Conqueror, or any number of others. ’Tis no different to name a man Ceannfhionn than to name him Rufus or even Curthose, after the length of his legs! You English are no different from we Scots,” she assured. “So dinna ye look at me as though you think so!”
He grinned at her. “Point well taken, my love. But I don’t give a bloody damn about Ceannfhionn or William Rufus right now. Come here,” he commanded her.
Meghan cocked her head at him, giving him a coy smile. “I don’t want to now!”
He reached down, tugging the tie to his breeches. “Come here,” he whispered.
Meghan giggled. “Wicked, wicked man,” she returned.
He grinned at her, and crooked his finger, urging her nearer.
Meghan went to him. “I think she would be good for my brother,” she informed her husband.
He nodded, reaching out when she neared enough and pulling her into his lap. Meghan straddled him upon the chair. She curled her arms about his neck.
She cocked her head as something occurred to her and worried her lip as she contemplated it. “She never did eat anything” she told her husband. “She asked for a sack to carry her food home for her da. I find that strange, don’t you think so?”
“Perhaps he is unwell and cannot feed himself?”
“Perhaps,” Meghan agreed.
“I know naught of Seana or her da—save what I learned today.”
He put his arms around her. “And what might that be?”
“Well… just that my brother has promised to help her win Broc’s attention… and that she loves Broc…”
“And that her father makes the most god-awful spirits.” Piers kissed one breast, then the other. “We mustn’t forget that.”
Meghan’s brows knit. “He does?”
“Aye… ’twas his spirits that was served at our wedding, my dear… so bloody strong it crossed your eyes after a single dram. I tossed mine away because I was already drunk… on you.” He bit into her breast ever so softly.
Meghan giggled. “You’re a shameless rogue,” she accused him, and smacked him upon the back.
He laughed. “Poor Baldwin never knew what hit him,” he continued, “nor the rest of my men… they were flat on their arses after a few measly tankards. Did you not notice all the poor souls passed out on the ground when we left? They fell into their cups and never stirred again till morn, I hear.”
“Aha, so that was why they were all ill the next day,” Meghan surmised. “Well, serves them all right!”
“Uh-huh,” he agreed.
Meghan sighed as he closed his teeth about one nipple through her gown, teasing it. She held her breath at the sweet sensation it brought her. A shiver coursed down her spine. She never knew what to expect from him. Each night was a journey into the unknown. He touched her body as though it were the finest treasure, and brought her pleasures she had never known existed. He drew her nipple deeper into his mouth, suckling it through the cloth.
Meghan gasped in delight.
He peered up at her, his lips curved into the roguish grin she had come to cherish. “You were saying?”
“Mayhap I shall ask Colin tomorrow,” she relented. “Perchance he knows.”
Highland Brides 03 - On Bended Knee Page 11
