A Taste of Sin (39 page)

Christy’s thoughts turned to Sinjun. She’d had long hours during her captivity to consider the things she would have done differently were she given a second chance, and she wondered if she could ever make tilings right between her husband and herself. She had erred in so many ways. When she’d first arrived in London she’d had no intention of falling in love with her immoral husband. Everything she’d heard about him had indicated that he was devoid of character, thoroughly decadent, a rake, a man who changed his mistresses with his linens. But at the time none of that mattered. All she’d wanted was an heir for Glenmoor.

It had never occurred to her that she’d fall in love with her husband. She’d hurt him, yet he was still gentle with her. His love for his son was unconditional and his family meant everything to him. And he had a good heart.

During the following weeks she thought he had begun to care for her, and then she had shattered what happiness might have been theirs by telling him their bairn had died. They still might have had a future together, however, had she not left him and Niall in London and rushed to the aid of her kinsmen.

Distraught and remorseful, Christy finally fell asleep. But her dreams were not placid ones. They invaded every part of her body. She dreamed of unspeakable passion, of nostalgic lust, of unrequited love. After a fitful night, she awakened pale and exhausted.

Sinjun was dressed in a crisp white shirt, Macdonald plaid, and Highland bonnet, sporting a cocky feather, pulled low over his brow. He joined the Highlanders gathered in the hall to break their fast. If he felt uncomfortable baring his knees and lower legs, he gave no indication. He was dressed like a Highlander and was surprised at the pride he took in that fact.

“No one is to make a move without orders from me,” Sinjun reminded them as he rose from the table and tossed down his napkin. “I don’t want Christy hurt. Calum is a loose cannon, no telling what he’ll do if cornered. Are we all agreed?”

A chorus of ayes followed his short speech. “Arm yourselves. We won’t go like lambs to a slaughter.”

Sinjun strapped on a sword of fine Toledo steel. Unlike the unwieldy basket-handled claymore preferred by the Highlanders, Sinjun’s sword was a finely honed rapier, lighter and more deadly when wielded with precision. It was a weapon in which Sinjun was skilled, having taken lessons for many years from the masters.

At Sinjun’s silent nod, the Highlanders filed out the door, their faces grim, each man ready to fight should it come to that. They were as loyal to Christy as she was to them.

Christy stood in the Cameron courtyard awaiting the arrival of her kinsmen. The Mackenzies had arrived earlier and were conferring with Calum. They appeared uneasy, and Christy didn’t blame them. Calum was so determined to seize power for himself that some of his own kinsmen feared he had gone too far.

Christy gazed out over the moors as the sound of music floated to her on an errant breeze. They came. Almost two hundred strong, Macdonalds and Ranalds, all dressed in their distinctive plaids and bonnets, marching across the heath to the mournful wail of bagpipes. Her heart swelled with pride. These were her clansmen, each and every one prepared to die for her should she request it of them. Teeth clenched, jaw firm, she silently vowed that not one drop of blood would flow on her account.

Calum’s allies lined up in the courtyard, plaids swinging in the breeze, weapons clenched in sweaty fists. Calum stepped forward. Murdoch, an elder of Clan Macdonald, strode forth to meet him.

“State yer business, Murdoch Macdonald,” Calum said.

“Release The Macdonald.”

“She is my mistress. Christy has already shared my bed.”

A wounded sound escaped from Christy’s bloodless lips.

“Bastard!” Rory cried. If Murdoch hadn’t held him back, he would have launched himself at Calum.

“Release our laird or prepare for battle,” Murdoch repeated.

“Why? Her husband willna have her now so I will keep her.”

Christy saw the danger. One move toward weapons and a battle would ensue. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Shoving aside Camerons and Mackenzies, she positioned herself between them and her defenders. “No bloodshed,” she pleaded. “I have a solution.” She whirled to face Calum. “I have a proposition for you, one you won’t be able to refuse.”

“Verra well, lass, state yer proposition,” Calum said dismissively, “but dinna think ye can gull us with words.”

“All the clansmen who call me laird are gathered in one place.”

“What are ye getting at, woman?”

“Only this. I no longer wish to be laird.” Though she said it with conviction, her heart was sadly burdened. Breaking her grandfather’s trust was painful, but she could think of no other way to prevent bloodshed. Christy turned to address the assembled crowd.

“‘Tis my wish that you accept Calum Cameron as the new laird of the clan. In return, he must agree to release me without a fight.”

The Macdonalds and Ranalds brandished their weapons amid shouts of protests. Christy had no idea her words would cause such an uproar and feared a battle was inevitable as both sides moved toward one another with grim purpose.

Suddenly a man pushed and shoved his way through the angry crowd. He wore the Macdonald plaid and distinctive bonnet. His white shirt was stretched tautly across his broad shoulders, and his plaid barely covered his knees, revealing muscular legs firmly planted against the earth. The dirk stuck in his belt looked lethal, but not nearly as deadly as the rapier belted at his waist.

Christy’s startled gaze flew to his face. The breath caught painfully in her breast when she looked into Sinjun’s dark, menacing eyes. She heard Calum spit out a curse and realized she wasn’t the only one who recognized the Marquis of Derby. She made a move toward Sinjun, but Calum reached out and brought her roughly against him.

She felt Sinjun’s hard gaze sweep over her, and she nearly buckled under the heavy weight of his intense scrutiny. Was he angry with her? She knew he had to have heard Calum’s bald-faced lie about having made her his mistress and wondered if Sinjun believed it. What was he doing here?

“Release her,” Sinjun ordered. “There will be no deal. Christy Macdonald is now and always will be laird. No one’ can take that from her.”

Calum brought his dirk from his belt in one smooth motion and pressed it against Christy’s neck. “Where is yer pride, Englishman? Dinna ye ken? Christy is my whore. I put my cock inside her.”

Christy saw a muscle jerk in Sinjun’s jaw and realized that his control was swiftly eroding.

“Christy is my wife,” Sinjun declared fiercely. “Let her go now or prepare to defend yourself.”

“Yer a fool, Englishman. No Highlander would risk his life for another man’s whore,” Calum sneered.

“We are all willing to risk our lives for the laird,” Rory shouted, brandishing his weapon.

“Hold!” Sinjun ordered. “Before you wield your weapons, consider the consequences. The English garrison at Inverness isn’t so far that they wouldn’t hear of the fighting and come to investigate. Is that what you want? Other clans will rise to your aid. The situation can escalate into another war, bringing destruction and death to the Highlands.

“The Crown will not tolerate an uprising. Soldiers will come by the score, mere will be many deaths. You’ll lose your homes, your friends, your loved ones. Are you willing to give up what freedom you have now for one man’s ambitions?”

The Camerons and Mackenzies traded nervous glances and shifted restlessly as they considered Sinjun’s dire prophesy.

“Dinna listen to the English bastard,” Calum exclaimed as he pressed his blade deeper into Christy’s neck.

Sinjun saw a drop of blood on Calum’s blade and was seized by a raging fury. She looked so pale, so fragile; he feared Calum had hurt her in ways that didn’t show. If Christy’s life had not been at stake he wouldn’t have hesitated to attack the coward. Instead, he continued taunting those men allied with the Cameron chieftain.

“Surely you remember Culloden. You’ve all lost loved ones in the battle, some of you were made homeless when your lands were confiscated by the Crown. If you follow the Cameron chieftain you stand to lose everything you’ve gained since Culloden. Aye, I am English, but one day Glenmoor will belong to my heir, Christy’s son, and I don’t want to see any part of it or its people destroyed.

“Go back to your homes, Mackenzies. Have done, Camerons. This matter can and should be settled between me and Calum.”

“Stay and fight!” Calum screamed when he saw the Mackenzies start to melt away. One by one they turned and left the courtyard, until only the Mackenzie chieftain was left.

“The Englishman is right, Cameron,” he stated. “We canna afford to lose our sons, fathers, or brothers in another war. I dinna mind stealing my neighbor’s livestock, but killing our own clansmen is wrong. My kinsmen stand firmly behind the Macdonald laird.”

So saying, he turned and followed his kinsmen back to his own stronghold, leaving Calum standing alone with his kinsmen, who had already shown their unwillingness to bring mayhem to the Highlands by withdrawing a respectable distance from their chieftain.

“You’ve lost, Cameron,” Sinjun observed. “Very carefully, remove your blade from Christy’s throat.”

“‘Tis just you and me, English dog,” Calum snarled as he removed his dirk from Christy’s throat and sent her hurtling toward Sinjun.

Christy stumbled, then hit Sinjun full tilt, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle of skirts and legs. Air hissed from between his teeth as he fought to regain his breath. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Calum leap forward and raise his claymore. Sinjun had little time to think, much less react, as his arms came around Christy, rolling with her a heartbeat before the sword hacked a groove into the ground where they had lain scant moments before.

Immediately a dozen Macdonalds leaped to his defense. As many Camerons stepped forward to meet them. Fearing an out-and-out battle, Sinjun pushed himself free of Christy and helped her to her feet, shoving her toward Rory for safekeeping. Then he drew his rapier.

“This is between you and me, Cameron. Let’s keep it that way. Do you have the balls to meet me one on one?”

“I have more balls than ye, Englishman,” Calum snarled. “That pretty sword of yers is no match for my claymore.” He glanced at his kinsmen, who were still poised for battle and awaiting his orders.

“Back away, Camerons, while I teach his lordship how a Highlander fights.”

Sinjun motioned the Macdonalds away, and a space was cleared for the combatants.

“Sinjun! No!”

He heard the terror in Christy’s voice but ignored her as he concentrated on Calum, assessing his weaknesses and his strengths as they circled warily. Calum made the first move, feinting for Sinjun’s gut. Sinjun easily sidestepped. Then the battle engaged in earnest with a series of thrusts, lunges, and evasions. Calum’s delivery was frenzied, fueled by anger. Sinjun’s moves were calculated and deadly accurate.

Blood was drawn. Sinjun bled from a shallow slash on his arm, and Calum sustained a thigh wound. Neither opponent had been badly hurt yet. Calum hacked away with his claymore, putting all his strength behind it, while Sinjun found openings and lunged in for vulnerable spots. Sinjun didn’t want to kill Calum, though he knew that Calum would have slain him with little remorse.

Sweat rolled into Sinjun’s eyes, and he dashed it away with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his brow. His arm was beginning to tingle, and he realized he should end this soon, before Calum got in a lucky blow. He turned aggressor, feinting and slashing, while Calum could do little more than defend himself against Sinjun’s flashing rapier.

It soon became apparent to the spectators that Lord Derby was no novice at swordplay. Obviously Calum realized it too, for he tried to regain the offensive with several hacking strokes. But he was powerless before Sinjun’s superior skill. Employing a deft movement that was faster than the eye could see, Sinjun sent Calum’s claymore flying out of his hands. With a twist of his wrist, Sinjun pressed the deadly point of his rapier into a vulnerable spot beneath Calum’s chin.

“Ye’ve got me, ye bastard!” Calum snarled. “Go on, kill me.”

Sinjun was sorely tempted. Calum had touched Christy, taken from her what was Sinjun’s alone, and he deserved to die. Sinjun firmed his jaw and flexed his wrist.

Suddenly Christy came flying at him, her eyes softly pleading. “Sinjun! No! Do not kill him.”

He spared her a startled look. “You want him alive? After what he’s done to you?”

“It’s not … you don’t understand. Do not kill him, Sinjun, please.”

With marked reluctance, Sinjun slowly lowered his rapier. “Very well. He can keep his miserable life, but only if he kneels at your feet and swears fealty before his clansmen.”

Calum looked ready to explode. His face was red and swollen, his eyes narrowed, and Sinjun feared he was going to refuse. “Well? What will it be, Cameron? Death or fealty to the laird?”

Calum’s gaze flitted about wildly, finally coming to rest on his claymore, lying some distance away. Sinjun promptly kicked it out of his reach.

“Ye bastard! I choose to live,” Calum spat as he knelt clumsily in the dust at Christy’s feet.

“Say the words,” Sinjun demanded.