At The Laird's Command (Sword and Thistle Book 3) (7 page)

Ian came to me and snatched the jar from my hand. “You can’t read it because these are rune symbols. No doubt a gift from some woman in the hills. Witchery or some such.”

My pleasure at realizing that my reading skill was not to blame for my lack of comprehension was overcome by disappointment that I wouldn’t be able to help Arabella. “Can you read rune symbols?”

“No, but there’s a book in the laird’s library somewhere on it,” Ian said.

“Why don’t you go look for it, lass,” the laird suggested, not unkindly, but I hesitated because it was a dismissal, and I felt as if I needed to make up for my error. But it was clear he wanted to be alone with his kinsman, so I was forced to accept my laird’s warm kiss upon my cheek, then retreated back down the stairs.

THE LAIRD

John watched as his kinsman stared out over the loch where enemy ships were staying just out of range of their fire, all while blocking escape. Then Ian said, “I don’t know why you feel the need to explain yourself to your—”

“You don’t dare take me to task on that,” the laird interrupted before his kinsman provoked him. “Not when you forced the matter by bringing her up here to me, demanding that I explain myself.”

“You’re not going to tell her about the marriage offer, are you?”

The laird felt his heart frost over at the notion. He’d sent Ian to the most recent parley with the enemy, and the terms Ian had returned with had been troubling. The message from the enemy was clear: If Laird John Alexander Ramsay Macrae would turn over the castle and marry the daughter of the Donald clan chieftain, they’d let him live. It wasn’t just an offer to let him keep his head, but also one of a proper marriage alliance that might bring an end to the seemingly endless feuding.

 
But it brought John no joy whatsoever. “What would be the point of telling Heather?”

“No point at all,” Ian said, slowly. “Best you not tell anyone until it’s done.”

The laird’s chin jerked up. “
Bloody hell
, Ian. You don’t think I mean to accept, do you?”

“It’s that or your head! They want you dead. A thing I’d have not predicted, truthfully, given your mother’s bloodline.”

“That my mother was herself a Donald only makes them hate me
more
. That I have their blood but still fight them…that’s
why
they want my head.”

Ian shrugged. “S’pose it doesn’t matter why they want it, just that they’ve offered you a way out if you break your alliance with the Mackenzies and turn over the castle.”

John’s gut clenched. “I’m a sworn friend to the Mackenzies!”

“Aye, but the Mackenzies don’t seem to be keen to show their friendship to us. Where are the Mackenzie reinforcements? I don’t see them. There’s not even been word of them. No one is coming to relieve us. It’s winter. This is the strongest position you’ll be in to negotiate for your life and for the clan. We have supplies, the enemy is in a more difficult spot. But come springtime…”

Everything Ian said made perfect sense, but it was a matter of honor. The laird wasn’t about to be the first Macrae chieftain to surrender the castle at
Eilean Donan
. Not even if it cost him his head.
 

Nor could he see himself clear to marrying the Donald chieftain’s daughter.
 

Oh, he’d made a fine speech to Heather about all the pragmatic choices he made when it came to the lives of others, but when it came to his own life he found himself quite intractable. Heather was the woman he loved, the only woman he wanted. He knew he couldn’t have her for his wife, but he also couldn’t see his way clear to marrying anyone else.

Interrupting that dangerous train of thought, Ian asked, “So we’re just to sit about waiting, praying for a squall?”

“Aye,” the laird replied. He was hoping for a squall. A blizzard. Any winter calamity that would make the enemy flee. But all the laird saw was sunny skies overhead. And he was fairly certain that the enemy would send an assassin to kill him long before the spring thaw. Which would, amongst other things, leave Heather utterly undefended. “They’ll accept a surrender of the clan if I’m dead—which I think everyone in the castle knows—so where do you put my chances?”

Ian’s jaw clenched. “I’m not a betting man.”

But if he were, he’d bet against the laird’s survival. John understood. He wouldn’t put a wager on his own chances either. The laird cleared his throat. “You say the villagers asked Heather for help, as if they thought she had some sway with me?”

“They know she does. Truthfully, we all do. It’s not a good thing to have your men wondering if your head is on the siege or filled with love poetry to be murmured between her creamy thighs.”

The laird stiffened, swallowing down his anger. Ian had no right to be speaking of Heather’s creamy thighs. Except, of course, that Ian had seen them. He’d seen them because the laird had insisted Ian witness her in her shame. And there was little doubt that Ian lusted for her ever since.
 

Ian wanted her.
 

Ian
wanted
his Heather.

But did Ian want her enough to protect her if the worst came to pass?

The forbidden question leaped up from the boggy thoughts at the back of the laird’s mind, where it had been thrashing for quite some time. What would happen if the laird should die, either in battle, or through treachery? In surrender, Clan Macrae would turn to Ian for leadership. John had always known that. Always counted on it. It’s why he tolerated from his kinsman what he’d tolerate from no one else. Without sons of his own, Ian was the closest thing the laird had to an heir. And John believed, truly believed, that he could trust the clan to Ian should it come to it.
 

But what of Heather and her little sister, for that matter? If Heather survived the laird’s downfall, would Ian provide for her? Would he take her for his own?

Oh,
that
thought twisted in John’s gut like a poisoned knife.
 

But it was a far better thought than the alternative.

He should
hope
that Ian would take Heather as his own. He should want that for her. He should go to his grave glad for her to be safe and protected and with Ian, a man who was more honorable than not. A man of letters. A man of good birth. If the laird should die, there was no better man for her than Ian Macrae.

But would Ian have her?
 

The laird’s kinsman wasn’t sentimental. There’d be no reason for Ian to protect Heather against the enemy unless he could somehow be
made
to be sentimental about her…

It hurt John to think what he must do to make
that
happen. It burned a searing hole possessive rage in him. But he must accept that pain of jealousy as his due. It was no less than he deserved. After all, he had created this mess.
 

He would bloody well clean it up…

“The lass is to me no more than she should be,” the laird said, forcing himself to meet his kinsman’s gaze. “Believe it. Come to my chambers this evening and I will prove it to you.”

~~~

HEATHER

That night, I poured over a book of old Norse runes, fascinated by the drawings. I didn’t think this jar could possibly be as old as the Vikings who pillaged here long ago—if it were, what an archaic treasure it would be! More likely it was some relic of more recent witchery, and given the accusations I’d heard against my sister for her knowledge of herbs, I might be wise to smash it upon the ground or throw it into the loch.

“What’s in the jar?” the laird asked, startling me.

I could never seem to accustom myself to how silently he moved for such a big man. Nor could I really accustom myself to being discovered in his rooms without feeling the need to apologize, as if I didn’t belong there. “I—I’m not certain,” I replied. “Some sort of powder. Nothing for you to trouble yourself with.”

Because he did look troubled. There was a new wrinkle in his brow, a weary slump to his broad shoulders. He was a man carrying much weight, and so I rose to help him out of his cloak. Shrugging out of it, he eyed me hungrily. But instead of devouring me in a kiss, he sat at his chess board and beckoned to me with one hand. “Come. Play with me.”

He’d taught me this game. I was getting better at it. But I should think he’d had enough of thinking and strategizing for one day. Still, I did as I was bid and opened the game by moving my chessmen in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“
Och
! Bold move, lass. Mayhaps even a little reckless.”

“As I was today?” I asked, sheepishly.

“You ought to be disciplined for that,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the board. “Go fetch the paddle.”

I swallowed, remembering how, in his hands, that paddle had become the instrument of the devil. I had wanted him to use it on me. I wanted it still. But that didn’t stop me from trembling a bit in anticipation of the pain. “Yes, my laird…”

I rose to fetch it, my legs a bit wobbly under me as I contemplated both the way being spanked with it was likely to make me cry, but also relieve me of my guilt. Very humbly, I laid the paddle on the laird’s plaid-covered lap, then waited for him to make his move.

He pushed his queen into place, lifting his eyes to me. “I very much enjoy paddling you, Heather.”

I nodded, my eyes dropping to the floor.

He reached for my hand. “It’s a good tool that both serves as a true deterrent to misbehavior while giving us both so much pleasure as it did before, is it not?”

I nodded again, silently.

“But, lass, it’s not the only means I have of disciplining you. And asking you to bend over my knee is not the hardest thing I will ever ask of you.”

I felt a quiver of arousal in my belly at those words. What was so very wrong with me that whenever the laird proposed to do some dark and wicked thing, I was not only frightened, but filled with a pulsing, throbbing, desire to experience it? Surely the churchmen would condemn me for it. But then, as a harlot, I supposed I did not need to worry what the churchmen thought!

“Lass,” the laird said, very seriously. “I must ask for your obedience tonight.”

Quite proudly, I asked, “Have I ever disobeyed you, my laird?”

He raised a brow, then smiled. “Once.”

I gasped, my pride stung. “
When
?” I demanded to know.

“The first time you took me into your mouth,” he said, pulling me forward to kiss the tip of my nose with amusement. “I feared I would finish upon your tongue. And I told you to stop but—”

“
Oh, no!
” I cried, burning with sudden embarrassment and arousal at the memory of how eagerly I’d sucked him, marveling at the taste, the weight, and the feel of his member in my mouth.
 

I
had
disobeyed. Worse, I might do it again in the same situation…

He chuckled at my mortification. “You say
oh, no
! I say,
oh, aye
. And you swallowed my seed down, because you told me that to do otherwise would have seemed contemptuous…”

“I won’t disobey you again,” I promised, fervently believing it. “If I do, you must punish me as you should have punished me then.”

“T’was a minor matter, my sweet. I was so charmed—and so sated—that I would never count such delicious defiance against you. But the things I will ask of you henceforth, well, they matter a great deal more. It’s very important to me that you obey me, Heather. So I must know, before the the matter comes to a head, if you will resist my commands.”

It was important for me to be seen obeying him. He was the laird; he did not like to be disobeyed by
anyone
, but he it would cause him mortification if anyone should ever see
me
do it. At a time he needed sorely not to be challenged by anyone in the castle, I certainly would not challenge him. “I will never resist you,” I said, heartened to think that it was not merely his pride that made it so important—but also my own. It had become a matter of trust between us. It was our bond. Our promise to one another. The more I gave myself over to him in surrender, the better he seemed to care for me.

As if to prove it, the laird set the paddle aside, then drew me to him, so that I was kneeling upon the woven rug, my body wedged between his knees. “Do you remember, Heather, that I told you once I might share you with my men?”

It was good that I was kneeling because the world felt suddenly swept out beneath me. My chest tightened because I did remember it, though it seemed a lifetime ago. He had said this before taking my maidenhead. But afterward, he had also said that he might love me, and that he was not apt to share. Had this changed? “I remember…”

“You told me that you were mine to take or to give away.”

I nodded, numbly, remembering that too.

“Do you still feel this way?” the laird asked.

This question unleashed inside me a vicious war between the naive girl who foolishly wanted to be the laird’s lady love and the wanton woman who desired for him to do with me as he pleased. Still, I did not want him to share me. I didn’t want to have any man’s hands on me but his. I loved him with every part of my being. I loved him and only him. I had taken my pride and my solace in pretending to be less a harlot than his beloved mistress. But now he wanted to give me away?
 

Tears sprang to my eyes as I fought with my answer.
 

But there was only one answer. “I
am
yours, my laird. I have pledged it.”

He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing every line of my face. “Even if it should please me to share you with another man?”

He should have accepted my answer and not pressed me. I was too fragile. Too swiftly becoming unravelled. And still blinking back tears, I whispered, harshly, “Aye, but
why
should it please you?”

His stern gaze softened. “Because it is an act of largesse from me to my men and because I enjoy the way a lass writhes when she feels entirely overpowered. I like listening to her try to stifle lustful cries that eventually overwhelm her as she tries to pleasure more than one man. When I have done it before…well, I told you that I like to leave my mark on a woman. Sharing her leaves a mark on the inside. Like a brand. Nothing can make her understand better that she belongs to me.”