Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties)

by Veronica Bale

  When she had reclaimed some semblance of composure, she resumed walking. A short distance later she encountered Lord Reginald, followed by his retinue, on his way to meet her.

  “There you are, my dear. We were just coming to collect you from the widow Margaret’s home.”

  Jane swallowed the chafe at the casual way he’d spoken of Margaret’s loss, and plastered a demure, if somewhat unconvincing, smile on her face.

  “I have finished, my Lord, and was returning.”

  “Why were you visiting the widow?” his eyes narrowed slightly.

  “I only wished to extend my condolences. She is so young, and with a young boy and a babe on the way it cannot be easy for her so soon after her loss.”

  “Her loss?” Lord Reginald spoke carefully, but Jane sensed a darkening in his voice, a warning that she was treading on dangerous ground. “She lost a husband who laid siege to a castle that was not his. His death was of his own making. Is that a loss for which you should express sympathy?”

  “Forgive me, my Lord, but these are the people you now lead. I only meant my visit to be a gesture of good will. Perhaps it will be easier to lead your people if an attempt to mend bridges was made.”

  The baron studied her for a moment as if judging her sincerity. She felt as if his gaze was penetrating her very soul, and for a moment she feared he might be able to divine her true heart. But then, he smiled.

  “An excellent idea. Quite a keen young mind you have, my dear. I hope your efforts were fruitful. Now please, let us continue our visit.”

  She allowed him to drape his arm over her shoulder protectively. Possessively. She accepted the gesture outwardly—what choice did she have?

  Inwardly, she was seething.

  Chapter 10

  Jane was practically hopping from foot to foot for the rest of the evening. She was eager to confront Robbie with the knowledge she’d inadvertently gleaned from Margaret MacGillivray, and waiting for that time was proving to be torturous.

  Her agitation was not lost on Ruth. Her maid watched her with suspicion as she was readied for bed that night.

  “Where is it you’ve been going every night, my Lady,” she enquired finally as she let Jane’s hair down at the vanity.

  Jane met Ruth’s gaze through the glass, her eyebrows rising with surprise.

  “I know not what you mean,” she insisted.

  “I am not daft, my Lady,” Ruth persisted. “I know you sneak out each night after you’ve been visited by Lord Reginald. I suspect you are going to the same place where you spend your days, thought I confess I know not where that is ... or with whom you spend your time.”

  Jane’s cheeks warmed. “And you disapprove?” she challenged.

  Ruth’s suspicion faded from her face, and her hands came to rest on Jane’s shoulders. “My Lady, I do want very much to disapprove, but for your sake I cannot. I see every day that you are discontented with Lord Reginald, and I do not blame you—I only want for you to be happy. But take care you do your duty by your husband; give him your body when he desires it and make sure you give him an heir. Whatever else you do to fill the remainder of your time, you shall hear no criticism from me. I only ask in return that you take care you are not found out.”

  Jane read the sincerity on Ruth’s face, and patted her maid’s hand lovingly. “My Ruth, it is not like that.”

  “Perhaps not yet,” Ruth answered knowingly. “But I suspect from the blush on your cheek and the sparkle in your eye that it very soon will be.”

  “I am not like Amelia.”

  Ruth chuckled gently, and squeezed Jane’s shoulders. “I think you shall find there is a vast difference between married and unmarried women who seek the pleasures of men. Amelia, beautiful though she may be, is a fool girl. Men know when a maid is no longer a maid. Whoever takes your sister for a bride will have to be made aware from the off that she’s impure, for he’ll not believe otherwise when it’s his turn at the gauntlet. With married women,” she continued when Jane laughed in astonishment at her bluntness, “there’s no way to tell. And I think you’ll be surprised at how often it goes on. Oh, my dear girl. Take your pleasures where you can. I could not bear the thought of you living life without happiness.”

  Jane pondered Ruth’s words long after she left her chamber. She wondered if her maid, the woman who had been a second mother to her for the whole of her life, would be so sympathetic if she knew who it was she was visiting each day. Somehow she doubted it.

  Her thoughts hopelessly snared, she waited impatiently for Lord Reginald to come. He’d claimed her body every night since she’d wed him, but this night he was significantly delayed. An hour passed, and then another, and still he did not come.

  Finally, desperate to have her nightly duty be done with, she slipped from her chamber to enquire after him.

  “Excuse me,” she said to a passing ghillie, “but have you seen the baron this night?”

  “In the great hall, my Lady,” the boy said with a gangly bob of his knees. His voice cracked comically with the onset of manhood.

  She thanked the boy and continued through the castle. Stopping at the door to the great hall she saw that the ghillie was right. Lord Reginald sat at the head table on the dais with two companions—all three men were sound asleep. Their heads rested on the wood tabletop in front of them, and empty ale goblets were scattered close by.

  The reprieve of her wifely duties came to Jane as a great relief. With no further prompting needed, she hurried through the halls of the castle to escape. So eager to get away was she that she did not even bother to return to her chamber to change from her shift.

  Robbie did not mention her state of undress when she burst through the door of the hut a short time later. Indeed he looked rather glad simply to have her there.

  “I thought something terrible had happened to ye,” he said with a breath of relief. “Or that ye’d decided not to come anymore.”

  Jane shook her head, slightly out of breath herself from the speed with which she’d travelled. She pressed herself against the door, leaning on it with her hands behind her, and regarded him with a note of amazement.

  “Nay, I am fine, but I fear I cannot come as often anymore. My husband has begun to notice my absence during the day.”

  “Has he forbidden ye to go out then?”

  “Oh, no. It is nothing like that. But I do not wish to push his leniency, so I think it best I only come when everyone is asleep.”

  She paused, observing Robbie’s image in the firelight. It was an odd sensation—reconciling in her mind the Robbie she’d discovered him to be with the face that had become so familiar to her in the time she’d known him. His face flickered in the mellow light, the same—and yet so much changed.

  “What is it?” he asked, sensing her hesitation.

  “You did not tell me you were the chief of clan Gillivray,” she accused.

  He raised an eyebrow quizzically. “And ye did not tell me that ye were the Baroness D’Aubrey. So I reckon we’re on an even keel wi’ each other.”

  Jane gasped. “Have you known all this time who I was?”

  “Of course I kent.”

  “How?”

  Robbie gave her a look as though the answer was obvious. “Old Reggie is preparing to wed his bride, a young English lass from Sussex, and next day ye turn up, a young English lass from Sussex? Ye’d have to be a bloody amadan not to figure that one out.”

  She blushed and lowered her head. “I did not realize.”

  Robbie examined her intently a few moments before speaking. “And how is it, Jane Sewell, that ye learned who I am?”

  She pushed herself off the door of the hut and came to sit beside him. Pulling the hem of his shirt up, she checked his bandage.

  “How does it feel?” she asked, lifting the salve to view the wound.

  “Aye, much better,” he acknowledged. “I can get up and move about some, though it itches like mad.”

  “Yes, the healing does that. Bu
t it looks very good. I’d say you’ll soon be clear of danger that the infection will return.”

  “Jane, ye didna answer my question,” Robbie pursued.

  “I visited Margaret MacGillivray in the village. I never knew what the MacGillivray laird’s name was until she called him ‘our Robbie.’ From there ... well, I suppose I could say one would have to be a bloody amadan not to figure that one out.”

  Robbie laughed at her imitation of his accent. But then, sobering, he fixed his eyes on hers intently.

  “And now that ye ken who I am, what do ye intend to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, will ye be telling yer husband where I am?”

  “I hardly think so, considering how much effort and personal risk it was for me to heal you in the first place.”

  Noting the grin on her face, he relaxed a bit, and raised himself up on his elbows.

  “I certainly will not tell him,” she continued, “and I think there is little risk that he will find you on his own. He thinks you have left Dunloch to rally forces in surrounding lands, and is concentrating his efforts far from here. Now lay back and rest. You are better, but you are not yet well.”

  “Nay, I am alright. I’ve been lying for too long; I must sit up. So ... how is Margaret bearing up?”

  “She is grieving,” Jane admitted. “And I’d venture to say she does not have long before her babe joins us in this world.”

  “Does she hate me? Does she curse my name to hell?”

  “She does not,” she assured him. “She seems to think that Connall would have followed you to the ends of the earth if there was a reason for it.”

  “I tried to keep him out of it; I tried to keep them all out of it, but they werena having any of it. They wanted Dunloch, and they wanted D’Aubrey’s blood.” When Jane grimaced at the mention of Lord Reginald, Robbie softened. “I am sorry if that offends ye, but that’s the way of it.”

  “It does not offend me,” she answered. “I just find it difficult to reconcile the picture of the beast you paint for me with the one of the man I know myself.”

  “And what kind of a man is he behind closed doors?” Robbie enquired, his voice carefully guarded.

  “He is not cruel, not to me. He is kind—if a little distant. I have been made aware that I was a practical choice for a wife; my dowry and connections were favourable and I am in a position to bear him an heir. It is not the love of which every young girl dreams, but I find I cannot complain. He allows me my freedom to do what I will. Many women end up in worse situations that mine.”

  “And was it kind of him to use ye so roughly like he did? Jane, ye could barely sit down.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she said, reddening.

  “I dinna believe ye.”

  “Well, it is what it is, and this is an inappropriate discussion.”

  “Ye deserve better,” Robbie persisted. “Why canna ye admit that?”

  Jane exhaled sharply, frustrated. “Deserve? Robbie, do not speak to me of what I do or do not deserve. There are scores of men rotting at the bottom of that ridge who did not deserve to die, and there are wives and children left behind who did not deserve to lose their men. I see a clan chieftain before me who did not deserve to lose his lands, his home, or his clansmen, and there is a small boy in the village yonder that does not deserve to grow up without his father. What I deserve is irrelevant in comparison.”

  Robbie listened through her outburst in rapt silence. When the force of her unexpected passion died away, he reached for her hand, and pressed gently with his fingers.

  “D’ye mean that Jane? Or are ye just saying it to appease me?”

  “I mean it,” she answered. “You know, you have more sympathy at Dunloch than you realize—not much, mind, but at least a small measure.”

  “That so?” Robbie scoffed. “No one English, I’d wager.”

  “The dowager baroness, actually. It was she who first urged me to open my eyes to the plight of the Scots. When Lord Reginald informed me that he did not trust Tearlach a whit, it was Lady D’Aubrey who came to his defence. You see—not all English are bad.”

  “No,” Robbie said, squeezing her fingers again. “No, they are not.”

  The heat of his hand on hers spread up her arm and set her stomach fluttering again. Ruth’s words echoed in her ears as she met his eyes: take your pleasures where you can. She wanted to move closer to him, wanted to take his face in her hands and press her lips to his. She wanted to feel the heat of his body, not just his hand, pressed to her own. And by the soft way he held her gaze, she thought he might want all these things, too. Perhaps more ...

  Then why was her mouth as dry as parchment? Why could she not seem to unlock her muscles and force herself to move? To breathe?

  “You should have something to drink,” she said instead, pulling her hand from his and sliding over to the fire.

  “Ye’re not thinking more of that awful thyme, are ye? Ye said I were done wi’ that.”

  “No, not thyme,” she said, fishing a hot stone from the fire and submerging it in the cooking pot. “But you could do with some willow bark to help you sleep through the night.”

  “What about ale? Give me enough ale and I’ll no’ only sleep through the night but into part of the next day as well.”

  Jane laughed at his quip. “No ale. And eat something more. I see you’ve hardly touched what I’ve brought you.”

  She busied herself with tending the fire and preparing a dose of willow bark tea. All the while, she could feel his eyes on her—she could not decipher whether it was a disconcerting sensation ... or a pleasing one.

  By the time he dropped off, Jane was tired too. Her blanket, which she’d first spread out on the ground an appropriate distance from his, seemed now to be much too far away. She knew it was entirely improper, but she wanted desperately to be close to him, even if it was in slumber. Furtively, she dragged her blanket to his side and smoothed it out. Lying next to him, she closed her eyes and fell easily asleep.

  But her dreams were not restful. Quite the opposite, in fact. They were fraught with memories of Lord Reginald in her bedchamber, taking what lawfully belonged to him, of Robbie’s voice echoing a sentiment she knew to be true but unalterable: ye deserve better. Of Robbie’s naked hip, his chest, his stomach, his hand holding hers ... of Ruth’s words: take your pleasures where you can.

  She awoke with a start, her heart hammering away behind her ribs. Beside her, Robbie slept on. The low light from the dying fire played at his features, lending an air of innocence to his peaceful face. His finely shaped lips were slightly parted, his jaw relaxed. The pain and misery that seemed permanently etched into his brow were erased for a few blissful hours.

  She studied his lips—that curious longing she’d never known before, but which seemed to be a constant since she’d first encountered him, flared once more. What would it be like to kiss those lips? To feel their softness crushed beneath hers?

  “Robbie?” she whispered. “Robbie, are you awake?”

  Robbie slumbered on. His chest rose and fell evenly as he breathed, and his lips remained slightly parted.

  Silently, she slid closer to him on her stomach until her face was mere inches away from his—so close that his warm breath caressed her skin as he exhaled gently. Eyeing him one last time to ensure that he truly was asleep, she leaned forward, propped on her elbows, and tenderly placed her lips atop his.

  A thrill ran through her at his touch. His lips were as soft as she imagined they would be, and the warm blush which always bloomed when she thought about kissing him spread in her stomach, intense and heady.

  She released him, and he remained asleep. But having known the touch of his lips to hers, one kiss was not enough. She longed to nurture the odd thrill she’d experienced which still vibrated in her very soul. Leaning in once more, she pressed her lips to his again, longer this time, to savour the intense and wonderful fluttering in her belly.

  From b
eneath her touch, Robbie gave a start and opened his eyes. Jane gasped and scuttled backwards. Her eyes were wide with shock and humiliation as she stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Her mind careened with possibilities of what she might say to explain herself—none of them plausible. But no words passed her frozen lips. So shocked and mortified was she at being caught that her muscles locked in place, defying her mental order to sit up, to look away. To move.

  Before her mind could wrap itself around what she could say or do, Robbie reached across himself and propped himself up on his elbow. Twisting towards her he placed his hand behind her head at the nape of her neck.

  She drew in a breath as he pressed his lips to hers, crushing them softly, but with an urgency and desperation that stilled her heart. Every fibre in her being tingled as his lips moved over hers, urging her to kiss him back.

  This kiss was nothing like the one she’d suffered through with Lord Reginald. When Robbie’s tongue slipped inside her mouth to entwine with hers, she willingly accepted it, eager to feel and taste and experience him in a much deeper sense than she’d ever dreamed. When he rolled farther over, encouraging her to lie back, she welcomed his weight as he shifted on top of her, trapping her beneath him, safe and secure.

  She was once more being claimed by a man ... but this time she desperately wanted to be claimed, to belong to him entirely. But when his hand trailed from the back of her neck, down her throat and to the laces of her shift, her proper, chaste upbringing reared itself to protest vehemently.