Varden's Lady

by Maren Smith

  "It's not a good plan."

  "It was working well enough for me up until a minute ago."

  "Ah, but if we continued with this plan then I would have to leave tonight without first escorting you through the dungeon."

  Mallory stopped walking so suddenly that Varden had to sidestep to avoid bumping into her. She turned to look at him. “You're going to take me to see the dungeon?"

  "You did show a rather morbid interest in it. I thought if I had the time, and if you were so inclined, then we could take a quick walk through the cells.” He leaned toward her when she didn't answer right away. “The candles are already there, waiting for us."

  Her desire to explore a real, live medieval castle dungeon was beginning to outweigh her anger. Her resolve wavered. “Is this an apology?"

  "Let's call it an acknowledgment of differing view points.” He picked up a lock of her hair and twirled it around his finger. “Madame wife, may I have the pleasure of your company?"

  She glared. “Only a few weeks ago you couldn't stand the sight of me."

  "Perhaps I can see something now that's worth saving."

  At least he no longer hated her. That was an accomplishment, considering the short time that she'd been here. Maybe she was expecting too much out of him too quickly. Give her a couple of months or even a year more and who knows, she might be able to convince him to actually believe in Mallory and not just call her by name.

  "Well, I would like to see the dungeon,” Mallory admitted.

  "All right, then,” Varden said. “I have just enough time to take you through it. I hope you won't be disappointed, though. It's not very exciting."

  Kenton was waiting for them at the round, iron grate trapdoor entrance with a small handful of unlit candles. As he handed them to Varden, he said, “If you're looking for a romantic setting, Your Grace, could I suggest a walk in the gardens or, perhaps, a picnic on the hillside?"

  "This will do.” Varden handed Mallory the candles. Together, he and Kenton heaved the grate open, the heavy iron hinges screeching in protest. “The ladder should be fine, but I'll go down first. You two wait here."

  "I'll do my best not to abduct her in your absence,” Kenton drawled as Varden lowered himself down into the passage below. From the bottom rung, he held up his hands and Mallory passed the candles down to him.

  Giddy with excitement, Mallory watched through the bars as Varden lit one and then disappeared down the corridor as he lit other candles and put them into the wall lamps. He came back to the ladder and held out his hand. “I'll help you down."

  Mallory pulled her skirt close around her thighs and sat on the edge of the grate. She felt for the ladder with her feet and, finding the first rung, rolled onto her side and stood. Varden's warm, rough hand settled on the back of her calf at the same time that Kenton braced one foot against the open grate door and took hold of her arm.

  "Don't be afraid to lean on me,” Kenton said.

  "And try not to kick me in the head,” Varden called from below.

  With their combined help, she managed to get down the ladder without tangling the skirt of her nightgown around her feet.

  "Welcome to my dungeon,” Varden said as her feet touched the cool stone floor.

  "I'll leave the grate up,” Kenton called down. “Have fun."

  It was plain by his tone that the valet thought them both out of their minds.

  The dungeon was strangely clean. That was the first thing Mallory noticed. There were no cobwebs and very little dust anywhere. Behind her, the corridor ended in a small, empty room without a door. In front, the corridor widened enough to allow two people to walk side by side before a second door of iron bars blocked their passage.

  She ran her finger between two stone blocks in the wall, then looked at it.

  Varden laughed. “I had a few people come down yesterday to clear out the cobwebs and sweep up the worst of the dust. However, you can expect to get a little dirty."

  "How long has it been since this place was used?” Mallory asked as he unlocked the door.

  "Forty-two years. My father was sixteen when construction of the new gaol was completed. My grandfather hated this place."

  She looked around. “Why?"

  "It's cold in the winter, wet and slimy every time it rains, and by the fall, the mildew smell is overwhelming. It was a miserable place to be, for the guards as well as the prisoners.” Varden held the door open for her. “But the biggest reason, I suppose, would be the man we had in the second to last cell down the right side."

  "Did he die?” Mallory asked, wide-eyed. She clutched his arm in a sudden burst of excitement. “Oh! His ghost is haunting the place, isn't it?"

  "My, you are a little ghoul, aren't you? No, he tunneled up through the drainage system and escaped. It took thirteen years, and in all that time no one ever noticed what he was doing."

  "You're kidding!"

  "Well, the man stunk so bad no one wanted to go near him."

  Laughing, Mallory wrinkled her nose. “That's awful."

  "You asked."

  The door opened into a long rectangular room, lined with twelve small cells on each side. Shackles still hung from the walls in some of them, while thick metal cast iron support rings protruded from the bare stone in others.

  "What are those?” Mallory pointed at the far end of the room.

  "Stocks,” Varden said. “I don't use them."

  Mallory turned back to him, smiling. “Because you're a man ahead of your time, in tune with a special awareness toward what's cruel and unusual punishment?"

  "Because they are both riddled with wood rot. The new ones are located in the center of Wooler, if you'd like to see them."

  "Uh, no thanks."

  Varden unlocked and opened one door for Mallory. “This is a three man cell,” he said as she went inside. The only thing left in it, aside from the shackles on one wall, was a tattered mat of woven straw on the floor. A bed of sorts, she supposed.

  "I don't think one man could fit in here comfortably."

  "It's not intended for comfort. If it were, everyone would want to live in one instead of working for a living. We'd all starve to death."

  Standing up against the wall, Mallory slipped her wrists into the shackles that hung there. “These don't seem so bad. I wouldn't mind having a pair in my room.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  He arched one of his own in return. “My, my,” he said, stepping through the open cell door. “Yet another side of you I've never before suspected."

  "I've never seen it before, either. Maybe shackles are too extreme. What about silk scarves? I could be a seductive harem girl, dancing for my attentive sultan. Have you ever heard of the Dance of the Seven Veils?” When he shook his head, Mallory said, “I'd wear nothing but seven scarves to cover me. And every time I danced close to you, you could reach out and take one, until I'm dancing for you wearing nothing at all."

  "I suggest a different locale for that fantasy."

  "True, and we are here now.” Mallory shifted against the wall, the chains clinking softly above her head. She sighed with mock disappointment. “I suppose we're stuck then. I'm your prisoner, Varden, my stern and merciless gaol keeper. What, have I shocked you?"

  "A little,” he admitted.

  "Have I scared you?"

  A corner of his mouth turned slightly upwards. “It takes a lot to scare me."

  "Then why are you standing way over there.” Mallory looked up at the narrow shackles around her wrists, then smiled at him. “I'm your helpless prisoner. I can't hurt you, but you'd better do something with me before I escape."

  Varden came slowly toward her. “I have the only key to the doors. So unless you're willing to crawl through the drainage system, I'm afraid you'll simply have to remain my prisoner until I decide to let you go."

  "I might have something that can pick the locks."

  "That's unlikely."

  "Maybe you should strip search me, just to be sure.”
Though she blushed a little as she said it, her smile never wavered.

  He took another step toward her, his blue eyes smoldering. “You could even be armed."

  "You never know what could be hidden in my hair."

  "I'm more concerned about the contents of that nightgown.” He reached up to check the shackles, opening them as far as they would go.

  "Have I just been freed?” Mallory asked.

  "Not until you've paid for your crimes.” Varden lowered his head to press a light path of kisses down the slope of her neck. “But I don't have a key for these. The last thing I want is to have to summon a blacksmith and explain what you're doing chained up to the wall in the old dungeon."

  She began to lower her hands. “Then I probably shouldn't—"

  He caught her wrists and put them right back where they were. “I like the image,” he said against her throat. “And since I am the warden here, my wishes take precedence over that of the prisoner."

  Mallory shivered as his hot mouth nibbled the shell of her ear. His hands glided down her arms, over her ribs to her waist, the heat of his palms burning through the cloth and into her skin. They slid up her stomach to cup her breasts. Two fingers dipped into the neckline to stroke the satin-softness of her cleavage.

  "A warden must be thorough in his job,” Varden said against her ear. The heat of his breath prickled her skin, and she closed her eyes. “I can't afford to make mistakes."

  His hands were on the move again, sliding down over her waist, her hips and her thighs. He bent, laying kisses down her chest and between her breasts, his hands following the length of her legs until he found the bottom hem of her nightgown, then his fingers slipped underneath it. As he stood, the skirt of her gown came up with him. Mallory trembled, feeling the cool air against her skin, as the fabric bunched around her waist.

  "So far I haven't found anything to confiscate."

  "Perhaps,” Mallory said, clearing her throat. “Perhaps you should perform a more in-depth search."

  He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound, before his mouth claimed hers, hungry and demanding. Mallory didn't realize that she had let go of the chain until she felt his hands on her bottom, cupping and lifting her off the ground even as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. Before she knew what had happened, she was on the floor with the straw mat at her back and Varden hard above her, his eyes a stormy-blue hue, dark with desire. He rose just far enough above her to jerk his shirt up over his head and throw it aside. She helped him with his pants, laughing breathlessly as she glimpsed real proof of his passion.

  "Of course,” Varden said, cupping her woman's mound. “No stay in the dungeon is complete without at least one torture session."

  "I'll never talk,” Mallory said, trembling as he caressed her.

  His smile was nothing short of wicked. “We'll see."

  He kissed her mouth one last time, then his hands pushed her thighs apart and he moved further down.

  Mallory didn't just talk; she moaned, gasped, and cried out. Her hips moved against his fingers and mouth as she arched and writhed against him. She grabbed the mat and then her own legs, shivering and trembling, arching up into his touch and then sobbing as he brought her right to the brink of ecstasy's abyss.

  His mouth found hers again and she was consumed by his intensity, the demanding mating of tongues broken only when he entered her. Together, they fell over the brink.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was three in the morning when the horizon was lit up by the warning fires at Barton-Under-the-Hill, a half hour's hard ride from Yetholm where Varden and the Kincaid were hunkered together under the same prickly bush. Less than a mile from the village, they nearly collided horses with the six-man troop of reivers, galloping hard for Scottish soil. Two of Varden's four soldiers stationed in Barton-Under-the-Hill rode fast up behind them.

  The reivers grouped closer together even as Varden and the Kincaid surrounded them with twice their number in troops. Killing them would have been easy and just. The problem was the little girl held fast on the saddle against the lead rider. Crying and calling for her father, she was still in her nightgown, her blonde hair braided and mussed from sleep, her eyes wide and frightened. The leader promptly put his knife to her throat.

  "Let us go,” he told Varden. “I'd kill a bairn t’ save me skin and nae think twice aboot it."

  "Dinnae listen,” the Kincaid said to Varden's left. “We've got them now, let's end this!"

  Ignoring the Kincaid, Varden told the reiver, “Give her to me now, and for tonight I'll let you go."

  The thief laughed. He shook his head, inching the knife tighter against the girl's throat while she wailed in renewed terror, her small hands clutching his arm. “There be a glen two miles t’ the north, wi’ an old tree stump in the middle, wider than a mon is tall."

  "I know it,” the Kincaid said.

  Varden nodded. “So do I."

  "Ye give me half an hour's ride, and I'll leave the wee one for ye there."

  "If I agree, what assurance have I that you'll leave her alive?"

  "I assure ye she'll be dead if ye dinnae,” the reiver said bluntly. “Give me half hour, and ye'll find her there safe and sound. I swear it."

  "Dinnae ye let that bastard go,” the Kincaid warned. “Ye'll nae see that bairn alive anyway. Dinnae ye let them go, blast ye!"

  Ignoring him, Varden concentrated on the sobbing child. When she looked at him, he said, “Wait for me at the stump, do you understand? I'll be there soon, little one, and I'll take you home."

  "Aye, he'll take ye home.” The reiver relaxed his knife and moved it away from her throat, but didn't put it away.

  To the reiver, he said, “If she isn't there, I will hunt you down."

  The man shrugged. “Finding me'll be the thing. I kin ye could eventually. But I'll lead ye a merry chase a-fore it's o'er."

  The Kincaid scowled as Varden motioned his men aside to allow the reivers to pass. He drew his sword and bellowed, “Ye can sell yer soul, Sassenach, but I'll nae make deals wi’ the likes o’ these devils!"

  He almost charged after the fleeing reivers but for Varden's own sword, which had suddenly found a cool resting placed against the Kincaid's throat. In an instant, every Scot and soldier followed suit and the ring of swords coming free of their scabbards was deafening on that suddenly still and very quiet road.

  Nobody moved.

  The Kincaid was the first to lower his blade, seething as he said, “We could ha’ ended this tonight, but ye let them go. Cozied right up t’ them, in fact."

  "I will not face her parents and tell them I sacrificed their child just to catch a thief."

  "How noble o’ ye. So they'll kill the bairn, and keep on killing ‘til we catch them again.” The Kincaid backed his horse until Varden's sword was no longer at his throat. “This is what comes o’ trusting the English. Nae a one o’ ye has the stomach t’ d’ what needs doing."

  But despite the Kincaid's certainty to the opposite, when they rode into the glen, the little girl was sitting on the tree stump, wringing her nightgown in her small hands, and sniffling. When Varden took her home, he discovered the full measure of damage done. Two homes, the mill, and a field were destroyed. Livestock had been slaughtered instead of taken. The little girl's father lay on the ground where he had been killed when he'd tried to prevent his daughter's abduction.

  "Congratulations,” the Kincaid said. “Thanks t’ ye, we can look forward t’ seeing more o’ this."

  * * * *

  It was past noon before Varden finally made his way home again. With less than six hour's sleep in the last three days, he was in no mood to handle another crisis. In retrospect, he should have left a message to that effect with Mallory. But since he hadn't, he supposed he deserved what he got.

  "What do you mean we had a fire?” Still in the bailey, still saddled on his horse, Varden scowled at the half-dozen house servan
ts that had charged from the castle to surround him the instant he rode through the gatehouse. He pointed at the ground. “Here? In my house?"

  "In your house,” Kenton told him. “In the third kitchen to be precise."

  "Was anyone hurt? Where was Claire?"

  "Right in the middle of it,” Kenton said, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

  "How—” Varden stopped in the act of pulling his riding gloves from his hands. He stared at each of the men and women around him, then glanced about an otherwise vacant bailey. “Please don't tell me she was responsible.” When Kenton said nothing, Varden glared. “She started the damn thing, didn't she?"

  His ice-blue gaze swept the bailey again. Half-hidden in the shadowed arch of a doorway, he caught a glimpse of red hair as Mallory peered back at him. The horse snorted and stamped his hooves as if sensing Varden's foul temper darkening that much more. Pointing at a vacant patch of ground near him, Varden snapped. “Come here!"

  Servants parted from the spot as though the devil had just condemned it; Mallory cringed back into the shadows.

  "I said, come here!” he shouted, and Mallory turned and ran the other way. “Here! Don't you run from—God damn it!"

  She fled up a short flight of steps and disappeared through the front door.

  Swearing, Varden swung off his horse, though he kept a firm hold on his saddle. For a moment as he stepped down, he was afraid his legs would not hold him. He straightened slowly. He was too old for this. “Kenton, I'll pay you to run her down for me."

  The valet snorted. “I have absolutely no desire to get involved in this, Your Grace."

  Sighing, Varden rubbed his eyes. “Neither do I."

  "Then don't chase her."

  "And let her think she's won?” He snorted. “Did anyone actually see her start this fire?"

  "No,” Kenton said. “She was seen fleeing the scene of the ... er, accident. But in all honesty, I suppose we can't be certain that it was Her Grace who knocked over the ladle, which fell into the fireplace, thereby disturbing the log, which rolled onto the rug and started the fire, as is claimed by the three maids, who were there making candles at the time."