Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  “Nay. Nowt like that. Just ye.”

  Time enough to pursue that matter later. “There are still White Canon monks here?”

  “Aye. We’ve only what they call a comm…comm…er.”

  Corbin rolled his eyes. “Commendatory abbot?”

  “Aye, that’s it, after Abbot Gilbert was shipped off to Edinburgh and charged with enticing folk to Popish ways. We’re a mite far off the beaten track, ye might say. The monks still observe Divine Office. I reckon the ’Piscopalian powers-that-be will bide their time until the last brother dies, and then…”

  Corbin couldn’t believe his luck. It appeared he’d been spared and delivered to a remote monastery obliged to offer him help and sustenance, a place where he could plot his revenge on Maxwell. “How far to Caerlochnaven?” he asked.

  The old man pointed. “Nay far. Five miles, maybe. Ye can see it across the Nith. Is that where ye fell in?”

  Corbin peered into the gathering gloom, his determination strengthened by the sight of Caerlochnaven’s distant towers. “Just trying to get my bearings,” he replied, climbing back into the wheelbarrow. “Take me to the abbot.”

  Scowling, Cladh tossed the sweetgrass away and lifted the handles. “Best ye mind yer language when ye meet Abbot Septimus,” he warned as he pushed the conveyance forward.

  Unanswered Questions

  Broderick sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward that Lily remained on the steps as he dismounted and helped his prisoner down from Lark. Holding tight to Kyla’s waist, he felt the warmth of her skin, even through the damp clothing. It sent his thoughts scurrying once more in a carnal direction. This definitely wasn’t the moment to answer the questions that were no doubt swirling in Lily’s head.

  Who is she?

  My prisoner.

  Prisoner?

  I sank her boat.

  Why?

  He forgot all about his sister when Kyla put her hands on his shoulders. He found himself incapable of letting go as their eyes met. The urge to pull her to his inconvenient arousal and nuzzle the cascade of damp red hair was overwhelming. Green eyes flashed as her nostrils flared and she licked her lips.

  Anger? Or did she once again feel the attraction between them?

  But his throat tightened when he realized the color had drained from her face. He took her weight and gathered her into his arms as she swooned.

  Lily rushed to keep pace as he carried Kyla into the keep. “Who is she?”

  Fear numbed his brain. Had her near-drowning brought on a noxious fever? “My prisoner.”

  Lily lifted her skirts and dogged his heels all the way up the stone staircase. “Prisoner?” she panted.

  Trapped in some endless maze, he replied, “I sank her boat.”

  At the end of the hallway, he kicked open the door of his chamber and held his breath, waiting for the next inevitable question.

  “She’s beautiful. I’ll fetch Doreen,” Lily assured him.

  With a whoosh of silk skirts she was gone.

  He breathed again in an effort to slow his heart as he put Kyla down on his bed and took a step back. “My sister’s growing up,” he murmured.

  His spirits lifted when the stricken woman opened her eyes. But she only murmured, “Sister?” before closing them and drifting away again.

  *

  When Kyla awoke, it took a moment or two to understand she wasn’t in a cell. Relieved, she let her gaze wander around the candle-lit chamber, enjoying the warmth of the crisp linens—until she stretched and realized she was clad in a nightshift. She sat up and threw off the sheets. The high-neck garment was old-fashioned, but exquisitely embroidered. She wondered briefly whose it was, but the more pressing question was…

  “Belonged to my mistress,” a gravelly voice explained.

  A face loomed out of the shadows. “I’m Doreen, and before ye ask, ’twas me undressed ye, so ye needna worry.”

  Still half-asleep, Kyla peered over her shoulder at the sour-faced woman now pounding the bolster behind her. “Ye’re a maidservant?”

  Doreen’s scowl deepened. “Served my lady until she died, God rest her soul, and now I take care of Lily.”

  The fog began to lift. “Yer laird’s wife died?”

  Doreen eyed her as if she’d spoken Greek. “Pshaw, lass. Laird Maxwell’s ne’er been wed. Ye’re likely the first woman to warm his bed.”

  A thousand conflicting emotions swirled in Kyla’s befuddled brain. It hadn’t dawned on her until now that the trophies of war adorning the walls bespoke a man’s chamber. “This is his bed?”

  Before Doreen could confirm it, another question popped out. “Who is Lily?”

  “For someone lying in the laird’s bed ye dinna seem to ken much about him.”

  Anger surged in Kyla’s throat. The woman thought she was a trollop. She slid from the bed, holding on to the mattress when her feet touched the carpeted floor and her knees threatened to buckle. “If ye’ll fetch my clothing…”

  “The men’s togs, ye mean?” Doreen replied. “I doot the laundress can do aught with them. What’s a young lass doing wearing such…”

  Panic soared up Kyla’s spine. “But the plaid? I must have my plaid.”

  Doreen chivvied her back into bed. “A true Highlander, worried about a scrap o’ colored wool. I’ll see if I can find it.”

  The maid’s tone had softened but her facial expression hadn’t and Kyla was too exhausted to challenge her further. She yawned and blinked her eyes closed when the candle was blown out.

  “Lily is the laird’s sister, by the way,” Doreen said before closing the door of the chamber behind her.

  Kyla lay in the darkness, listening to the creaks, groans and echoes of an unfamiliar castle. Her restless mind grappled with her situation. She’d survived the tunnel and escaped being locked in a cell. But she was in the laird’s bed. Did he intend to return and take advantage of her?

  He had no wife.

  That was a good thing.

  She gritted her teeth. Nay. It was a bad thing if it meant…

  Too tired to fathom what it meant, her thoughts drifted to Lily—probably the bairn she’d espied on the steps of the keep before she swooned. She’d always wanted a sister.

  However, Lily was Broderick’s sister. And when had she begun to think of Maxwell as Broderick?

  She snuggled into the linens, hoping things might become clearer in the light of day. But the tears flowed when she remembered her father’s birlinn at the bottom of the Solway. Nothing would change that, and Broderick—nay, Maxwell—would have to pay.

  *

  Broderick tried to keep a rein on his impatience. After all, Lily had only recently lost her father to the executioner’s axe and was coping with the horror of it reasonably well for an eleven-year-old lass.

  He made a point of tucking her into bed every night and staying with her until she fell asleep, but this night he itched to rush off to make sure Kyla was recovering.

  Doreen had made no bones about tutting her disapproval of Kyla MacKeegan sleeping in his chamber, and she was right. It wasn’t appropriate, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time.

  The redhead seemed to have that effect on him. She heightened all his senses, especially his suddenly rampant male ones, but rendered his brain incapable of functioning.

  Even as Lily’s eyes fluttered closed, his tarse was urging him to his own chamber.

  He was about to snuff out the candle when his sister asked, “Why did ye sink her boat?”

  He might have known the reprieve was only temporary. “It’s complicated. I thought she was smuggling.”

  The memory of green eyes flashing with anger confirmed his belief Kyla wasn’t a smuggler. But Corbin Lochwood had been aboard her galley and his refusal to heed the command to stop had led to the sinking. Whatever he was hiding had cost him his life.

  “Why was she wearing men’s clothes?”

  Another question he hadn’t anticipated. “I suppose ’tis difficult to
captain a galley in a frock,” he replied.

  Lily’s eyes widened. “She was the captain?”

  “A woman can be a captain.” Feeling like a wise older brother, he tucked the linens up to her chin and added, “Indeed, a woman can do anything she puts her mind to.”

  Lily pressed a finger to the dimple in her chin. “On the morrow, I’ll tell Doreen to find me boy’s clothing that fits.”

  He groaned inwardly. He’d walked straight into that trap and could only imagine Doreen’s outrage at the idea. He foresaw an argument between two stubborn females.

  He kissed her forehead. “We’ll see.”

  “Will I get to meet her?”

  He hesitated. There was no telling where that might lead, but Lily needed a female presence in her life other than an elderly maidservant. “Of course.”

  Lily yawned. “What’s her name?”

  “Kyla MacKeegan,” he replied, knowing the sound of it would rattle round in his brain all night. He snuffed out the candle and left, resigned to a sleepless night in a guest chamber.

  The Abbey

  After only a day, Corbin knew for certain whoever had named Darling Abbey had never resided there.

  The rough wool of the monk’s habit he was obliged to wear chafed his skin. He itched all over, but resolved to put up with the torment as long as he could. The garb might prove useful. He surreptitiously scoured the laundry, searching for his undergarments, to no avail. Who knew monks wore nothing under their habits? It bordered on the barbaric.

  A sleepless night in a cramped dormitory with a dozen snoring men twice his age was more difficult to stomach, especially since one or two of them eyed him like a piece of fresh meat. He planned to filch a knife from the kitchens before evening prayers and keep it hidden, just in case.

  Evidently, eating swill was part of the penance the monks had to endure. Once this escapade was over, he’d stuff himself with the finest meals Caerlochnaven’s cooks had to offer. And if Maxwell had taken Kyla MacKeegan there, he’d satisfy his appetite in that regard as well.

  The thing that stuck in his craw the most, however, was having to feign subservience to Abbot Septimus, but at least the pompous ass seemed to have accepted his claim of amnesia regarding his name. He treated the monks in his charge like imbecilic children and expected total obedience. It wasn’t in Corbin’s nature to tolerate dominion from such a demagogue, but he would grin and bear it if it meant having a safe place to hide while he plotted. The abbey carried on the observance of Catholic rituals amid a sea of religious reformation—testament to its isolation and quiet obscurity.

  However, it was frustrating that he couldn’t seem to settle on a workable plan. Maxwell’s castle was probably well defended. A man disguised as a monk could infiltrate, but then…

  It might be wiser to make his way back to Glenkill Tower and muster an army to invade Caerlochnaven. However, many of his tenants had lost interest in feuding, seemingly content to sow crops. And if King James got wind of it…

  The prospect of transportation to Ireland made him nauseous.

  If he waited too long, Kyla MacKeegan might disappear back to the wilds of Skye. He couldn’t let that happen. She and Maxwell had foiled his plans to refill his coffers and they had to pay.

  Patience

  Kyla lay awake, staring into nothingness. The sun was up. Normally, she’d be out of bed long before it rose, but what reason was there to rise? Her galley was no more, and she was a prisoner in a castle far from home.

  She’d slept fitfully, troubled by terrifying memories of her near-drowning, and an aroma on the linens she wasn’t used to. Not unpleasant, just—male.

  The prospect of formulating a plan to get herself and her surviving crew home was too daunting to contemplate.

  She took a few deep breaths to allay the anxiety churning in her belly. “Be patient,” she said softly.

  “That’s what Broderick always says.”

  She swiveled her head, surprised to see a pouting lass perched on the edge of the mattress, arms tightly folded across her chest.

  Lily!

  She sat up and pulled the linens to her chin. “How long have ye been here?”

  “A few minutes. I’m Lily. I was waiting for ye to wake up and I remembered what my brother always says about being patient. Then ye said exactly the same thing.”

  “I’m pleased to make yer acquaintance, Lily. I’m Kyla.”

  “I ken. Why can I nay wear trews?”

  “I dinna understand.”

  “Doreen says lasses dinna wear trews, but ye wore men’s clothing when ye arrived.”

  Kyla hesitated. She had strong feelings about the matter, but contradicting the sour-faced Doreen likely wouldn’t be wise. “I wear garments fashioned after men’s clothing when I am sailing my ship, though they’re tailored specially for me. It makes life easier.”

  The pout softened. “But my brother sank yer boat, so now ye’ll wear frocks?”

  It was a sharp reminder of the catastrophe, but there was no use railing at the lass for the actions of her brother. “Truth be told, I used to wear boys’ clothing when I was a little lass. I was what they call a tomboy.”

  Lily sighed. “I want to be a tomboy.”

  Kyla recognized a kindred spirit. “Being a tomboy doesna necessarily mean ye canna wear frocks. I used to like doing things girls are nay supposed to enjoy.”

  “Like what?”

  A fond recollection emerged. “I was a better shot with a sling than any lad.”

  Lily unfolded her arms and inched further onto the bed. “What’s a sling?”

  Kyla chuckled. Conversing with this curious little lass wasn’t much different from trying to explain things to her younger brothers. “’Tis a simple weapon shepherds use against wolves and other predators. Most often, ’tis made from a long piece of leather. The shepherd puts a rock in it and swings it like this.” She whirled her arm over her head and then pretended to fling a rock at the door. “And the missile flies to its target. I once saved my father’s life with my sling.”

  Lily gaped. “Will ye teach me?”

  Kyla hesitated. She couldn’t make promises to this bairn. “If yer brother agrees. But ye must remember, some people will try to make ye feel guilty if ye enjoy things they think ye shouldna.”

  “Doreen, ye mean?” the lass replied.

  “Ye canna blame her. She’s nay a tomboy.”

  When Lily had stopped giggling, Kyla warned, “Like anything worth doing, it takes practice and patience to master a sling.”

  Her own father had patiently persevered with her refusal to speak for seven years, but explaining the stubbornness she herself barely understood loomed like a jagged rock in unchartered waters.

  The bairn nodded and Kyla resolved to follow her own advice. If Broderick consented, she’d at least have a weapon at her disposal.

  “Where did ye sail from?” Lily asked.

  Skye seemed so far away at that moment, Kyla didn’t know if she had the courage to speak of her island home.

  “Is yer home a long way from here?”

  “Aye,” she said softly, “Skye is a beautiful island in the Hebridean Sea.”

  Lily lay down on the bed on her belly, chin propped on her fists. “Tell me about it. Do ye live in a castle?”

  “Aye, but Dun Scaith isna as grand as this castle.”

  Lily’s eyes widened. “Dun Scaith’s a strange name.”

  “’Tis built on a rock that’s separate from the mainland.”

  “How do ye get to it then?”

  “There’s a narrow stone bridge that spans the roaring surf.”

  “How could they build a castle on a rock?”

  “They say ’twas built by the faeries.”

  Lily sat up. “Faeries?” she murmured.

  “Aye. They built it for the ancient warrior queen Sgathach. They called it the Fortress of Shadows and protected it with a pit of snakes and beaked toads.”

  The lass wrinkled her nos
e. “Eww. We have toads aplenty in the meadows around our castle, but I’ve ne’er seen one with a beak.”

  Kyla chuckled. “Me neither. Folks say Sgathach still haunts Dun Scaith.”

  “Have ye seen her?”

  “Nay, but that doesna mean she isna there.”

  Lily nodded thoughtfully. “True. I sometimes think Caerlochnaven is haunted, but Doreen says ’tis just the wind howling.”

  Sharing the ancient folklore of her home—passed on to her in many a bedtime story by her dadaidh—had soothed some of the pain of Kyla’s loss, but now she closed her eyes, hearing again the howl of the wind as it roared off the Little Minch and battered Dun Scaith. “She’s probably right,” she murmured.

  “Dinna be sad,” Lily begged, climbing off the bed. “I liked yer tale.”

  “Someday, I’ll tell ye about the Faerie Flag, given to a crusader long ago and kept at the castle where my stepmother grew up.”

  Lily stared at her for a few moments, hesitating before she asked, “Do ye like yer stepmother?”

  Homesickness swamped Kyla again. “I love her like my own mother.”

  Lily’s lip quivered. “I wish I had a mother, but my father canna marry again. He’s dead.”

  *

  Broderick chided himself for rising late. He hadn’t slept well in the strange chamber, bothered by indecision. What was he to do with Kyla MacKeegan?

  He’d spent most of the night dreaming of making love to her and woken with the evidence of his erotic dreams on the linens. However, such a liaison wasn’t an option. She hated him for sinking the galley, and he still didn’t know what her relationship had been with Corbin Lochwood. His blood ran cold at the thought of Lochwood putting his hands on her body. Yet the man had put a gun to her head—another troubling image.

  He had no grounds to pursue prosecution for smuggling. He’d have to free her and, naturally, she and her crew would want to go home to Skye.

  The overland journey would take them weeks. He’d be obliged to furnish horses and provisions. The route was fraught with dangers—treacherous terrain and bandits who’d think nothing of killing every living soul for the horses. After they’d raped Kyla, of course. He refused to contemplate subjecting her to that.