“Why me?” Aileen asked. “Why Dornoch?”
Because his mother had died there. Because when he’d gone home to Castle Aird, his father had blamed him for her death, beat him, and made his life a living hell for passing the ague to her.
But it was Aileen who’d been sick first. Aileen had given it to all of them.
She’d killed his mother, and for the rest of his life, Gilbert had borne the blame.
She was his now. His to punish. And for the years of torture she’d put him through, punish her he would.
He’d seen her several times throughout her childhood, but he was a grown man by then and had kept his distance. Waiting ever so patiently. Then he’d gone away to England for a time and returned to find her married to Walter Munro.
The first time he’d seen her with Munro, he’d been devastated by her beauty. She’d grown more alluring than he could have possibly imagined. It had nearly broken him to see the object of his obsession claimed by another man. And her cruel, icy behavior had enraged him.
Gilbert blinked, staring at the woman who’d brought him a lifetime of pain and misery, who stood before him meek and naked, her dark head bowed. Her breasts were rounded, the nipples taut, cherry red. One of her hands rested on the chair back, bunching the woolen fabric of her plaid in her fingers.
Gilbert’s fingers went to the ties of his breeches. “Bend over the bed,” he growled. “Prop your arse high into the air so I can see it.”
For a long moment, she stared up at him through her lashes, unblinking and unmoving. He dropped the ties and gazed back at her, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. But just as soon as he began to wonder whether she would force him to push her into position, she slowly walked to the edge of the bed, bent over and stuck her tight little buttocks upward. “Like this?”
“Exactly. Don’t move.”
The knot of his breeches was being stubborn, damn it to hell. He drew his dirk and sliced it free, then kicked his clothes off and dropped his blade on top of the pile.
Turning back to Aileen, he saw her fear. A trickle of sweat dripped in the hollow between her shoulder blades. A tremulous vibration shook her body from head to foot. Suddenly, he wanted to make it worse for her.
“I’m going to fuck you hard.” And perhaps in the process he’d cure her of her irritating condition. His wife wouldn’t give birth to another man’s child—not if he could help it.
Something like a strangled sob emerged from her throat, but she didn’t try to cringe away. Instead, she pressed her face into the blankets.
He licked his hand and fisted his fingers around his shaft, pumping hard. His prick had waited a long time for this moment, and it was so hard, it was difficult for Gilbert to think straight. Satisfaction was so close, he could taste it.
By God, it tasted sweet.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to make you suffer, after all. Make you scream for mercy.”
It was disappointing that she didn’t try to run after that threat. He would have enjoyed a little game of cat and mouse. But that was for another day. Instead, she whimpered and clutched the bed tighter, her fingers clawing the blanket.
Grasping her hips, he yanked her against his groin. Ooh, that felt good. Her crack cradled his prick, and her cool, soft skin soothed the hot blood raging through it.
With a hoarse cry, Aileen twisted in his grip.
Something swiped through the air, glinting silver, heading right for his heart.
He ducked away, but not fast enough. The dirk sank deep into the fleshy part of his shoulder.
Oh, Jesus. The pain. It seared through him, hot, cold, he didn’t know. The blood—the blood was hot. It hurt.
She yanked out the dirk and stabbed him again, this time lower.
He staggered backward, the hilt jutting from his flesh, knowing his eyes were wide as he stared at her. His docile, sweet wife? The beautiful, cooing babe he had once held in his arms?
Nay. The murderess of his mama. Now she’d kill him. What a damned bloody fool he’d been for believing her charade. She’d planned it all along.
He remembered her… Her grandmother was a witch. After his dear mama passed, she had come to him, stared at him with those wicked purple eyes and cast a spell of evil upon him.
Now he knew Aileen was the same. She had enchanted him when she was a babe, and he’d succumbed to her spell again tonight.
Gilbert’s back slammed into the wall. His knees buckled. Hot blood trickled down his chest. He sank to the cold stone floor.
The last thing he saw before his vision faded was her face. Dark purple eyes narrowed in hatred. Pink lips twisted with rage.
“Witch,” he whispered.
She swung something at his head. And then everything went black.
***
The men had made camp hours ago, but Niall couldn’t sleep. He sat on a riverbank, tossing stones into the water. The recent snow had melted, and the stream ran high, sloshing over its banks. The sound of the rushing water soothed Niall, prevented him from doing something rash—like riding ahead to try to rescue Aileen alone.
Knowing she was with her kidnapper nearly killed him. The man could be hurting her. Raping her.
Gritting his teeth, Niall stared hard at a swirling eddy at the edge of the river. There was nothing he could do. He didn’t know Gilbert’s castle. It would be no use to try to infiltrate it on his own.
No, he had to wait for his army to rest. They had to do this the customary way.
Overwhelmed by frustration, Niall stared at the water, his patience as thin and brittle as a sheet of ice. If he moved, he would crack. He would do something foolish. Even now, tiny fissures formed along his resolve. Aileen needed him. He had to save her.
A dry leaf crunched behind him. Niall spun around, his hand on the hilt of his claymore. But it was only Aileen’s man, Iain, who’d volunteered to join the force Mackenzie had gathered to rescue her.
“Sorry to disturb you, MacRae.”
Niall made a noncommittal noise in his throat and turned back to the water.
Iain cleared his throat. “I…ah… You’ve my promise. I’ll stand behind you to do whatever it takes to avenge milady.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve never been to Castle Aird?”
“Never.”
Iain knelt down to pick up a handful of pebbles and methodically began to toss them into the water.
“I have.”
***
Aileen’s marriage celebration was still going full swing in the great hall, and the castle passageways were deserted. After quickly dressing in her soiled shift and plaid, Aileen ran out of Gilbert’s bedchamber. Biting her lip, she began to descend the twisted stairway that led down to the ground level. She kept to the shadows as she crept down the corridor, moving away from the noise of the party. Finally, she turned down a second corridor. At the far end, she found a door that led to the back of the castle.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped outside, intending to take cover and then run as far and as fast as she could.
She turned, sidling down the edge of the wall, approaching another door. The door swung open, and before Aileen had a chance to move, a laughing woman carrying a bowl of discarded bones stepped out.
The woman nearly ran Aileen down. She reeled to a halt, dropping the pan with a clatter, bones tumbling every which way.
It was the woman who had brought her food every day, the kitchen maid who had been so kind. “Lady,” she gasped. “What in heaven’s name are ye doin’ out here?”
There was no reason to lie. She could only pray the woman would help her. “I’ve escaped from your master.” Aileen glanced to her right and left. Nobody else was near, thank goodness. “Please help me, Mary.”
Uncertainty crossed over Mary’s face, then fear. “Och, lady, I canna—”
“Please,” Aileen begged. “You know what he’s done to me. He’ll kill me, Mary. Please.”
Mary glanced waril
y around them, then bit her lip. “Aye, I’ll help you, lass. But ye must hurry. Follow me.”
Chapter Fifteen
Niall and Iain had left the rest of the men behind and traveled to Castle Aird in record speed. The other men would require an extra day for the journey, but when they arrived, they would provide additional muscle if it was needed. Niall hoped he’d have his work done by the time they arrived.
Niall and Iain came upon the castle in the dead of night. They’d tethered their horses a mile back, and covered the remaining distance on foot.
They were several hundred yards from the gates of Castle Aird, in a circular clearing surrounded by trees but now covered with weeds and grass. Iain told Niall that this was the old pagan gathering place where the cailleach was burned. He explained that the cailleach was a log carved with the face of an old woman representing old winter, and the pagans had burned the log every Hogmanay to symbolize the passing of the old year and the fresh start of a new one.
In the center of the clearing, moonlight shone through the trees onto a circular fire pit grown over with moss and vines.
They were searching for an old Roman tunnel Iain had played in as a child. Iain said the tunnel had been in disuse for hundreds of years but led directly into a secret room beneath one of the castle turrets, just below the master’s chambers.
Iain had worked as a man-at-arms for Gilbert Dunbar until Gilbert had killed his brother. At that point, he’d gathered his family, and they’d all escaped Castle Aird. They’d wandered north until they came to Dornoch, where upon hearing his story, Aileen had taken them in. They had been content to remain at Dornoch ever since, and Aileen had earned the man’s undying loyalty.
“There it is.” Frowning, Iain motioned to a ragged cluster of rocks and recently upturned dirt just beyond the fire pit. “’Tis odd. I’d’ve expected the grass to be grown over it. When I left Castle Aird, this tunnel had long since been forgotten.”
Together they stood over the grate, a crisscrossed circle of metal bars flung open to reveal a stone ladder leading down into a dark hole.
“Someone has been here recently,” Iain murmured.
“Aye, but look.” Niall prodded a lump of recently turned grass with his boot toe. “It hadn’t been used for some time before that.”
“Should we risk it?”
“Is it the only way to get into the castle without being detected?”
Still frowning, Iain nodded.
“Then we’ll go.” Holding his torch out to light the way, Niall descended.
The tunnel was old indeed, and at times Niall and Iain waded through shin-deep mud and climbed over piles of rocks, scraping through small spaces on their stomachs. Tree roots hung down from the top of the passage. Despite the encroachment of nature, the way was still open, and he and Iain made rapid progress through the tunnel until they encountered a second grate.
Niall looked speculatively up at it.
“There shouldna be anyone up there,” Iain whispered. “’Tis a storage room for the kitchens.”
Iain held the torch while Niall investigated. The room was dark, but the grate was partially covered with a crate of some sort, and it would hardly budge when Niall threw all his weight against it.
It took nearly an hour of awkward pushing and heaving before Niall and Iain finally emerged into the dark, silent storage room.
Brushing off their plaids, they opened the door that Iain said led to the stairs for the turret that housed the master’s chamber.
The door swung open right into the face of a maid carrying a chamber pot.
“Oh!” the lass exclaimed, her eyes wide with surprise. The pot slipped from her hands. Niall caught it neatly.
“Good evening, lass.” With a smile, he handed her the sloshing pot. “We’re here to see your master.”
It was simpler than Niall could have predicted. He gave the chambermaid a small purse of silver, and without a peep, she led them up to Dunbar’s door.
The door was made of thick planks and was solidly barred from the inside. Niall placed his hand against it. Aileen could be in there.
He nodded at the chambermaid.
“Milord,” she called, making her voice high so that her master wouldn’t be able to recognize it, “a message has just arrived from Ellandonan Castle.”
After a long silence, a gruff voice came from the other side of the door. “Well, come in, then.”
The lock squealed as someone inside slid it free. Niall gestured for the lass to go, and she sprinted down the corridor on silent feet. With a deep breath, Niall opened the door and stepped into the enemy’s bedchamber.
A man lay sprawled on the big bed in the center of the room. This must be Dunbar—Niall had never seen the man before, but his demeanor said he thought himself the master of this place. He was a big man with dark, curling hair and narrow, calculating eyes. Naked from the torso up, he looked relaxed, though his shoulder was wrapped with a large white bandage.
Niall hoped that was Aileen’s work.
A naked woman was curled up against Dunbar, her lower half tucked under a blanket. It wasn’t Aileen, thank God. This woman was pink and curvy, with pale brown hair and big eyes that sloped downward at their edges as if she were perpetually exhausted. Given her state of nudity, she likely was.
It appeared as though Dunbar and the woman had been playing a game of chess in bed. Another man, a skinny, bookish fellow with stringy blond hair, stood beside a big armchair, his arms crossed over his chest in what seemed to be an attempt to appear threatening.
Dunbar looked from Niall to Iain and back to Niall again. The surprise that lit his eyes when they’d first entered died away quickly, and a narrow-eyed sneer replaced it. “Why, if it isn’t Niall MacRae. And Iain Murray. Fancy seeing you again, you traitorous slime. You smuggled this bastard into my castle, didn’t you?”
Despite the harshness of his words, Dunbar didn’t appear overly perturbed. Niall stood stiffly, every sense honed, every nerve alert.
Dunbar smiled, but his black eyes remained stone cold. “Well then. Which one of you shall I play next?” He glanced down at his naked companion. “Sorry, my pet, but this game is nearly at its end.”
“Where is Lady Aileen?” Niall said.
Dunbar raised a brow. “Why should I tell you?”
The blade of Niall’s claymore hissed as he unsheathed it. “Where is she?”
Dunbar gestured at his bandage. “Surely you wouldn’t attack an injured man.”
Niall stepped forward menacingly. He would do whatever it took to ensure that Aileen left this place safely. With him.
“In any case,” Dunbar continued, giving him a one-shouldered shrug, “Lady Aileen Dunbar is no longer any of your concern. She is mine. My wife, legally wed to me. Rufus, show him the marriage contract.”
The pasty-faced man near the hearth rifled through some papers on a nearby shelf, then stepped forward, holding out a document in a trembling hand. Niall snatched it and scanned it quickly. He swallowed hard, struggling against the despair and panic rising in his gut.
No. It couldn’t be true.
“I assure you, it is no fraud.” Dunbar’s voice was as oily as mutton grease.
“Then why are you in bed with this woman and not Aileen?”
“My wife has been indisposed.”
The way the man called Aileen his wife made Niall shake with rage.
As if he found the entire situation immensely boring, Dunbar studied his nails. “She is with child, you know.”
The statement slammed into Niall’s gut, but he held his ground.
Dunbar glanced up at him, eyebrows raised, his eyes full of some knowledge about him Niall didn’t want to explore. “Oh? Hadn’t you heard? It seems Walter Munro didn’t have as sluggish a prick as we all thought.”
Niall did a quick mental calculation. If Aileen had been telling the truth about Walter’s lack of interest in her—and he had every reason to believe her—the babe had to be his.
Aileen carried his child. And, with all those twisted, misplaced notions of honor and loyalty, he had left her alone. She and the babe were the ones who deserved his honor and loyalty, and he’d left them to Gilbert Dunbar. Hell, Niall had betrayed the only thing important to him in this world, and he’d done so in the worst possible way.
Would she ever forgive him?
“Where is she?” he ground out.
Dunbar sneered. “You have just infiltrated my home. Why would I hand my beloved wife over to you? You must think me mad.”
“Take me to her. Now.”
“For Christ’s sake.” Dunbar threw up the hand attached to his uninjured arm in exasperation. “Why in bloody hell would I take you to her? So you can proclaim your loyal, undying love? Come now, MacRae. There is nothing you can do. As much as you think you love her, you wouldn’t steal another man’s wife.”
Another man’s widow, perhaps. He was within striking distance of Dunbar. It would be so easy to slit his throat…
“And you won’t kill me either. You are too honorable to murder a defenseless man. I’ve an injured shoulder, a headache—”
Honorable? No. In the end, he wasn’t so very honorable. Was he?
Aileen, Aileen. What would you have me do?
Dunbar had hurt Aileen. He had stolen her from Ellandonan, possibly raped her, possibly hurt her—no, their—babe.
Gilbert Dunbar deserved to die.
Niall raised his claymore and swung it with all his might at Dunbar.
At the same time, Dunbar leapt from the bed with surprising, almost preternatural speed and thrust a dirk at Niall’s gut. It pierced his tunic and dug into his side before Dunbar yanked it loose.
The woman screamed. The skinny man by the fire yelled. Niall heard another hiss as Iain’s sword was unsheathed.
Niall’s blow missed completely, swinging wide. His side on fire, he spun around to avoid a second thrust of the dirk. Dunbar ducked low, retrieving a sword from beneath the bed and swapping it to the hand that previously held the dirk. Now he held a sword in one hand and a dirk in the hand closest to his bandaged shoulder.
A Naughty Little Christmas (Cowboys, Cops, and Kilts: 8 Seasonally Seductive Romances from Bestselling Authors) Page 41
