The Laird's Right

by Mageela Troche

  Each sip slashed through her insides and tasted of pure sweetness, the sweetest thing she had ever sampled. Drops fell from the corners of her mouth and cooled her skin from a heat still raging within her. Alec pulled away the cup before she had her fill. Using her last reserve of energy, she lifted her head for more.

  “Rest. Tomorrow you will be better.” He sat at the edge of the bed. He peeled her sticky strands of hair from her face.

  “Don’t leave,” she said.

  He lowered his head so she repeated her request.

  “Rest, Portia.” He placed a tender peck on her forehead.

  “Can’t.”

  Her eyes closed, heavy and final but not before she heard him say, “The baron will not come for you.”

  * * * *

  Faint sunlight softened the dimness of the chamber. Alec was gone. That she wished he was here was one emotion she pushed aside. She did the same with the linens. Her toes curled as her bare feet touched the cold floor. Not that it mattered, she thought, as she rose and held her breath. She clutched the bed’s edge. At any point, she could release her hold but if Alec found her a crumpled mess on the floor, she’d be confined to the bed until her old adage. She let go and her legs trembled and her muscles were mush but she remained on her feet. She knew what the next test was—walking. She took a step. For the first time, Portia understood what it felt like to be the last leaf on the tree as the winter winds blow.

  She gripped the bed curtains. The red and blue tartan was made of the silk and caught the firelight. She smoothed out the fabric, leaving behind wrinkles. Everywhere in the room, she saw displays of wealth—silver trays, weapons of the finest design, and tapestries with gold filigree even leather books from the Greeks that now flowed into the lands. The water pitcher and bowls were made of gold and bore the badge of Clan Cameron. On every spot, there were gilded crosses of various sizes, boxes that might be shrines. Drinking horns of ivory, water pitchers of silver even seals forged in silver. There were some of the finest tapestries procured from monasteries or nunneries even a Gryphon’s egg on silver mountings. She couldn’t say whether she spent too much time in the room or the lack of warmth but this space was lifeless. Not like Alec.

  She stopped at a clock. Rubies caught the light and flickered against the gold and glass. She ran her fingers over the Celtic knots. Not a speck of dust marred the clock. Someone cared for this.

  The door opened. She hoped Alec had come, instead two women entered the room. Their faces were both familiar to her. Both women were very different in their looks. One had glowing red hair scraped off her face, though strands still broke free, showing her untamed curls. Her green eyes shined from her face, which was graced by freckles. The other was pale and small with delicate features and light skin, though her hair and eyes were of pure brown, not marred by any other hue. They had cared for her.

  “My lady, you are awake.” The brunette’s braid swung as she hurried to Portia’s side. She wrapped an arm around her waist. Her head was even with her shoulder.

  Portia bore her own weight as her body burned the last of her will. She couldn’t brace herself on the woman, she was too small to carry Portia’s gangly form. “I feel well but for the pain on my side.”

  “Nevertheless, you should rest.” The tall one straightened the bed sheets.

  “Perhaps, but I cannot remain in that bed.”

  She steered her to the chair. “This will be fine then.”

  “You are very kind. What are you called?”

  She pressed a hand to her chest. “I am Leah.” She curtsied. “And this is Cairine.” The redhead curtsied as well.

  “The laird must trust you to allow you to care for his captive.”

  “You have met my husband—Hurley.” Pure joy had Leah smiling. “And she is Quinlan’s wife.”

  “Two fine gentlemen.”

  “Tis been hard to make them that,” Cairine said, earning a nod of agreement from Leah.

  Cairine answered the quick rap on the door. A towering man handed over a pile of clothing. Portia twisted her neck for a glimpse and spotted two guards planted at the door. The man actually had guards outside the door. Did he expect her to crawl from the chamber?

  “I must thank you for your care of me.”

  “Our pleasure. Though, Laird cared for you most of the time.” Cairine shrugged.

  She stared at the bed. He had stood over her. What had he said to her? Orders to get better, though he had softened his demands by tucking the linens around her. She had come to depend upon seeing him at her side. Truth was she wanted to prove that she wasn’t weak.

  “You are very lucky Alec kidnapped you, right, Cairine?”

  “Aye, the Chattan are devils.” She twisted her mouth in disgust.

  “Have you met the chieftain?”

  Both women shook their heads and Leah said, “He’s a disgusting man, a fat man with fishy lips. He spits over everyone. And he smells.”

  “They say he eats with his dogs. My lady, you don’t understand—from the same trencher he does. I sneak treats to my dog but he won’t eat from my plate.”

  With each passing word, Portia sickened. Her stomach rolled. Her sister would have never allowed that and if she did, she must have had a reason. No matter, her father should arrive soon.

  “MacKintosh wished to wed you to that vile man. Thank God, our laird kidnapped you. You are so very blessed.” Cairine shivered in disgust. “To be away from those devils.”

  “Devils?”

  “They encroach on our lands, thinking we are weak. We are Camerons. They smear the laird’s name, spreading an awful tale that he killed his father.”

  “I have heard the tale. He poisoned his father slowly to control the man while acting as laird.” Portia had heard the tale spoken as proof of his evilness and cowardice. She couldn’t comprehend the tale then and now, knowing the caring of the man she couldn’t believe it but still held on to the possibility that it was true.

  “Lies,” Cairine said with a faith that had Portia believing the talk was lie.

  “They will be run from our lands.” Leah’s soft voice was at odds with the vehemence steeling her words.

  “That they will. The previous laird would have killed them all—women and children.” Cairine crossed herself.

  “All…” In these dangerous days, such an act was not unusual however, she witnessed the suffering the peaceful villagers dealt with when they only wished to have a successful harvest and care for their families.

  “The old laird was a man who never let anything stand in his way of power or retribution. Poor Ailsa, she suffered from his cruelty.” Cairine shook her head in sympathy.

  “Ailsa?”

  “Alec’s sister—she’s Lairdess MacLean now,” Leah answered.

  “Even his first born son’s murder was not a reason to stop his grand plans. Connor was a good man.” Cairine crossed herself, sending a quick prayer for the deceased.

  “Connor?” She wished she wasn’t quite so intrigued by Alec. But she couldn’t stop herself from discovering more about the man.

  “Connor was killed by the MacDonalds, but the old laird didn’t care about righting the wrong. He was greedy.”

  Portia saw that. The chamber revealed that truth. She had been a victim to a man’s cruelty and had no power to fight against it, except her wits. Was she caught in the same web with Alec? He kidnapped her to use her to get the land and wipe out a clan.

  “Is Alec like his father?”

  “Nay,” Cairine said in a hard tone. Leah shook her head.

  “Alec is a good man. The clan is better with his leadership. Don’t let the men hear this but the times have been peaceful.”

  “How long will it last with me here?” Not long.

  Again, she was under the control of a man who wanted something from her. Would he harm her too?

  The ladies fell silent when two men entered bearing a tub, followed by a line of bucket carriers. Cairine dipped her hand in the stea
my water after each pour. When she was satisfied with the temperature, she gave them a nod of approval.

  “Alec ordered a bath for you. I was against it.” Leah laid out linens and soap.

  “Do you require assistance, my lady?”

  Portia shook her head. Steam waved off. Portia crossed her arms over her middle. Both ladies waited for her to undress. “I can do this alone.”

  “We cannot allow that. You are still weak,” Leah said.

  “We have seen the scars.”

  Leah gaped at Cairine along with Portia.

  “You are safe here.”

  “Aye, Cairine is correct. No one shall know the evil you faced unless you wish to share of it.”

  Portia bit the inside of her lip. She wished to believe it, to be safe again even as she was being chased. Since they had cared for her, she knew she was acting foolish and began to undress. Hunched and twisting her arms to cover her scars, she climbed into the bath. Thankfully, the ladies did not stare or whisper about the marks. Perhaps, they were waiting for later, but Portia lacked the will to care.

  The restorative bath cooled before Portia was satisfied. At least, the sickly sweat coating her body washed away and she felt more herself, even as the water prickled the wound on her side. The red angry welt looked ugly. She shouldn’t be vain, though in truth, she was glad it would remain covered like the others marring her flesh. She gingerly fingered the scar.

  “Some balm on that will help heal and lessen the scar.” Leah held out a jar.

  The thick ointment held a nutty smell. “It smells nice.”

  “No reason for a lady not to smell her best.” Cairine flicked out a leine.

  Cairine pointed to her cote, soiled with blood, dirt and ripped. “Shall you like your garment laundered?”

  “Nay, nothing can save it, you can burn it.” Portia scooped fingers full of the ointment.

  After rubbing in the balm, Cairine slipped the garment over her head then proceeded to wrap a berry red and pale blue plaid around her.

  “This plaid is worn by the laird’s family, but Alec insisted. You are taller than Ailsa. Luckily, her plaids do fit you.”

  As she straightened the last pleat, Alec crossed into the room. He froze two steps inside. He pushed back his hair, making the ends stick out about his ears. She lifted her hand to comb down the unruly strands only to let it fall at her side.

  “You look good in Cameron colors.” His gaze traced the curves of her form and heated as it lingered on her breast and hips. She froze under the heady perusal. His eyes held approval then disappeared as quickly as it had fired.

  Free for a brief moment, Portia smoothed down her pleats to cover the flush of heat spreading from her neck and upward.

  Leah and Cairine vanished without a sound. Alone with this man, she anticipated his touch, yearned for it. Why? She couldn’t explain even to herself. Probably in comfort or to let her know that she held more value to him than merely a captive.

  He approached her with a loose-limbed walk. Their eyes locked. The amber shoots spread among the green, giving him a fiery look. His eyes were hooded. He’s going to kiss me. Every part of her tensed, prepared for his mouth to claim her.

  “Your color has returned.” He brushed a calloused finger across her cheek, reminding Portia of the thrill of a man’s touch. She dipped her head, softened by the caress.

  “A grand feat since I have none.” Her voice warmed, revealing her hidden response.

  “Nonsense, your cheeks are the palest pink like the sunrise meeting the night sky.”

  Her lips parted, surprised by his words. He leaned in. His breath breezed across her chin. There was no need to rise to the tips of her toes. He was the perfect height for her. Her lashes drifted down. Kiss me. Please I need to feel your touch to make me come alive.

  “Ask me, Portia.” The carnal plea twisted her with a need to speak those words.

  Ask him. Ask him to make her feel like a woman again, a desired one. The force of his words slammed in to her as well as her vow never to reveal her yearning for his touch. Closing the scant space, she kissed him. Their lips molded together. Nothing, but their mouths and tongue touched, reminding her of the smoldering desire building within her. Every nerve cried out for him, to fuse her body to his. For her, this heady dizziness was all she could handle.

  She had forgotten how dizzying a kiss could be. She slipped her tongue between the crease of his lips. His warm mouth tasted of wine and him. She couldn’t describe the masculine taste, but nothing in the world held the same flavor. She controlled the kiss, the soft pressure, languid strokes and its limits. She licked her lips for one last delightful taste of him.

  He sucked on his lower lip. “Bad lass, you didn’t ask.”

  “You have to ask me next time.” She threw his words back at him. A quick flash of his eyes and he snatched up the challenge.

  “You are feeling well,” he said.

  “Are you referring to the kiss or the challenge?”

  “Both,” he answered. He pinched a lock of hair between his fingers and stroked the strand before he flicked it over her shoulder.

  “Why are there guards outside the door?”

  Alec gave no reaction.

  She searched for a blink, tic, anything to reveal his thoughts. Without hesitation, she went on. “Do you mean to keep me locked in the chamber? Shoving week old-bread and water for me to gnaw?”

  “If only I could, but you will discover a way to escape. They are here for your protection.”

  Shocked cleared her mind. A grin spread slowly across her face. Alec had spoken the truth. Was he unlike other men? Was he more like her husband than she wished him to be?

  “Who is Arthur?”

  She curled her arms around herself and strolled away from him. How did he know? Had Arthur arrived here?

  Alec stood there, his hands crossed. His brow was pleated and his face darkened from an inner storm. Gone was the passionate man. He would not let the matter rest until he received his answers. There was something else, concern. The man cared for her and protected her. She could not depend on anyone. Last time, she almost died.

  “Tell me. I order you.”

  “I shall disobey.” He rushed to her and grabbed her by her arms, lifting her to her toes. “Shall you beat me?”

  The man growled as he released her. She braced for his reaction, a yell or something else to frighten her to laying out her secrets. Instead, he stood there. Anger shortened his respiration. His nostrils flared.

  “Because you are a Sassenach, you are ignorant. I do not beat women. Never besmirch my honor again.” He bit out each word so his burr lost the languid ease. “You lost the wager. Now tell me.”

  She scanned the room—to escape or for anything to divert the topic. She had refused to speak of her suffering. It never solved the problems. Action, aye, action was preferable.

  “Portia,” he stretched out her name in warning.

  “Arthur is the Baron de Mowbray.”

  “Your husband?” His tone chilled.

  “Nay,” she yelled in a panic. “I was wedded to his brother, Stephen. He became baron almost a twelve-month ago when my husband was killed.”

  “Killed, how?”

  She lifted her shoulder with a lightness she didn’t feel. “As knights do. The baron wishes to wed me before he kills me.” His unspoken question showed on the pleat of his skin between his eyes.

  “My husband and I were married less than a twelve-month. According to the marriage contract, if he perished before the twelve-month then my dowry returns to me. He covets it but not a wife. He shall torment me for that, then kill me…off the battlements, actually. It seems I am clumsy.”

  A darkness waved across his face. “What happens to your dowry if you die?”

  “It returns to the estate and my father’s heir will receive it.”

  “Your sister receives nothing?”

  “Nay, we share a mother not a father. Why?”

  Alec gav
e a curt nod and departed, leaving her question hanging in the air. She remained in the middle of the chamber, unsure of what to do next…unsure of what he planned to do.

  * * * *

  Alec swore the guards weren’t to keep her inside. Yet, the guards might have changed, but they remained outside. At first, she hadn’t minded, being too weak to do more than to spare a glance. Each day that passed, Portia began to feel like herself again. Too bad, boredom settled in its place. She had ceased staring out the windows since she knew the rugged vista better than she had known her childhood home. Worse, she started timing her day to the activities of the castle. The kitchen ovens fired before the sun came up. The stable boy then began to muck out the building when she knew her noon meal would come. When the same stable boy snuck away to nap, when the ladies went to the well, she knew the hours had been lost to her. The nights were no better. She knew when the beacons were lit, when the night guards took position even when they went for a break.

  She dared not venture outside to see more of the lands. Walking with two burly highlanders would set her apart more than she already was. She snatched her pouch from the table and shook out her dice. Gambling with herself stopped being a diversion.

  She peered over her shoulder. Could she do it? Aye, otherwise, she just might leap from the window. Being confined in a small space would turn anyone daft. In two steps, she was at the door and swung it open. The guards stared at her as if she was crazed.

  “What are you two called?”

  Both men gaped at her as if they had forgotten their names. The brown-eyed one answered first. “Callum.”

  The one with the hook nose said, “Patrick.”

  “Good day, Callum and Patrick. I am in need of company. Do either of you gamble?” She held out her hand. The dice rested in the center of her open palm. She gave a little shake, letting the dice tap against each other and raise their temptation.

  Patrick looked to Callum, ready to follow his lead. “Aye, we do.”