Chapter Two Chapter Eleven & Twelve
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven & Eight
Chapter Thirteen
On her way to the solar one afternoon, Onora rounded a corner in one of the vaulted passageways and collided unexpectedly with Lachlan MacDonald.
"Well, well, well," she purred, taking hold of his tartan and pulling him into the shadows of an alcove. He followed her up against the wall and rested an arm over her head.
"Have you been following me, Mrs. MacEwen?" he asked. His eyes were playful, his voice seductive, and she quivered with pent-up desire.
Heaven help her, she had not yet recovered from her conversation with him the night before, when he crossed the Great Hall, whispered hotly into her ear, and teased her with sweet flatteries. He was a captivating man-the kind who knew just how to charm a woman onto her back in two minutes flat. Onora would be more than happy to volunteer to become his next conquest, even though she was ten years older and a woman of vast experience and reason.
"Certainly not, sir," she replied, rubbing a finger down the center of his chest and wishing she could do so much more. "Perhaps you are the one who is following me."
A glimmer of interest lighted his eyes. "And what if I was? Would you call the castle guards and have me reprimanded?"
She shook her head at the outrageousness of it all, for she had never been one to let any man affect her this way. It was usually the other way around. Her lovers often became obsessed with her, and perhaps, because of that, she had grown overconfident in recent years.
But Lachlan MacDonald was not like other men. He was extraordinary darkly handsome and divinely muscled-and his devastating smile promised sexual fulfillment with a teasing confidence that drove her mad with longing.
Men like him ought to be outlawed, she thought petulantly, as she fiddled with the tartan that was draped over his shoulder for they committed the worst kind of offense. They turned strong women like her into pathetic, pining fools.
"Will you come to my chamber later tonight?" she asked, frustrated that she had to ask, when he should be the one making the proposition.
He glanced up and down the passageway, making sure there was no one about, then gave her a brilliant smile and spoke teasingly. "Tsk-tsk, Onora. You are, without a doubt, a stunning and desirable woman, but we are practically related."
"Not by blood," she replied, with a spark of mischief in her eyes.
He ran a finger from the bottom of her ear, along the line of her jaw to her chin, and focused on her lips. "Nevertheless, you shouldn't tempt a man so. It's terribly cruel. You'll break his heart."
Her body burned hotly with need. How was it possible that he could turn a rejection into the most thrilling, intoxicating form of flattery? The man was too charming for words.
"But Lachlan, I can promise you a night of wicked pleasures, and make all your fantasies come true. It's the least I can do, to reward you for your superb efforts as our new Laird of War.''
He smiled again. "Your offer is very tempting, madam. You know exactly how to make a man suffer." Then he backed away with a seductive glimmer in his eye and left her standing there breathless, almost faint with desire. "I'll see you later in the hall," he said casually over his shoulder, as he continued down the passageway.
"Perhaps," she called after him. "Though I cannot guarantee I'll be there early, for I'll be enjoying a hot bath, while rubbing sweet-smelling perfumes over my naked body... thinking of you, of course."
He disappeared around the corner.
Onora continued in the other direction, then stopped suddenly and sank onto a bench against the wall. Frustrated with herself, she squeezed her hair in both fists and let out a near feral growl.
Flirting with Lachlan MacDonald was supposed to be about power and strategy, not fluttering hearts and girlish crushes. If she was going to accomplish anything here, she would have to work harder to control her impulses, for this was a volatile situation that required a cool head and a steady hand. She could not afford to become infatuated.
She stood up, smoothed out her skirts, and hurried to the stairs.
***
That evening, after the music and dancing had begun, Angus lounged back against a stone column in the Great Hall. He used his knife to cut into an apple, one slow slice at a time, and placed each juicy sliver into his mouth on the edge of the blade.
He watched his wife across the crowded room, dancing a reel with other members of both clans. The music was lively, the spirit of the room infectious with laughter and merriment, but it was all he could do to watch Gwendolen with narrowed, ravenous eyes while he absentmindedly ate his apple.
A young MacEwen lad with red hair and bony legs encouraged her to dance a second time. It put Angus in a foul mood. The mere idea of any man touching her or bringing a smile to her face sent his thoughts into a storm of possessive hunger.
He finished the apple, slipped his knife into his boot, and strode with purpose to the center of the hall, where she was still dancing the reel. All it took was one look, and her smile transformed into a shared sexual awareness that burned in her eyes. When the dance ended, she placed her hand in his, and he led her out of the hall toward the stairs to her bedchamber in the East Tower.
He had never known such desire could exist and for the first time, he didn't care if he was distracted by it. All he wanted to think about was kissing his wife and burying himself in her soft, heated depths.
Everything else, he could lay aside until morning.
***
Onora watched Angus stalk through the crowd toward Gwendolen.
It was lost on no one that the great MacDonald chief had become infatuated with his wife and was growing more obsessed with her each day. He looked at her like she was something delicious to eat, and he was a starving man.
Gwendolen responded in kind. They were two young lovers overcome by fresh passions, which was an astounding turn of events, to be sure for on that first day, Gwendolen had loathed their conqueror with such intensity, she'd wanted to see him hanged.
Onora's gaze traveled across the hall to Lachlan, who was taking a young MacEwen clanswoman onto the floor.
Though one could hardly call her a woman. What was she? Seventeen? Eighteen? She was slender and blond and looked as stupid as a bag of hammers, but Onora nevertheless felt a harsh pang of jealousy in the pit of her stomach.
Was he attracted to such youthful innocence? she wondered irritably. Would he set his sights on seducing that trembling young lass tonight, instead of coming to her bedchamber for a more advanced and sophisticated program of activities?
"What has you lookin' so melancholy, Onora?"
Startled by the interruption, she turned toward Gordon MacEwen, the castle steward. His belly was round, his head bald, and there was a film of greasy perspiration on his nose.
She had taken this man to her bed many times when he was master of Kinloch in all but name. But now, after flirting with a brawny champion like Lachlan MacDonald, she felt rather disgusted by Gordon.
"Nothing of any permanent importance," she replied.
She sipped her wine and regarded him congenially over the rim of her glass, for she would never be so foolish as to allow her passions to get the better of her. She had to keep all options open. She might find herself in need of Gordon's assistance in the future.
"I see that your daughter has found some contentment in her marriage," he said.
"Indeed."
"No doubt, she has been greatly conflicted by it," he added. "It's been such a short time since her father's passing. She's barely had time to grieve. And her brother... Well. He will certainly regret his absence when he learns of her personal sacrifice to Angus the Lion.''
Onora pondered her daughter's happiness over the past few weeks and decided it was not turning out to be such a terrible sacrifice after all. The passion Gwendolen felt for her husband was genuine, and no political differences of opinion could change it. She was falling in love with the great Highland Lion, and despite her own personal loyalties, Onora was happy for her.
"I suppose they won't return to the hall tonight," Gordon remarked.
"Probably not." Onora felt a hand on her shoulder just then, and found herself gazing up at Lachlan's dark and handsome eyes.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked.
"Not at all." She handed her glass to Gordon, so that Lachlan could lead her onto the floor.
A thrill of anticipation shimmied up her spine.
"He's too old for you," Lachlan said with a smile, as they began to dance.
"He's exactly my own age," Onora replied. "If anyone is too old for anyone, I am the one who is far too worldly for you."
"But I, too, am worldly," he told her, leaning close. "I am an experienced man of war who has seen things most virtuous young lassies like yourself couldn't even begin to imagine.''
"Virtuous young lassie'?" Onora laughed out loud. "Are you drunk?"
"Does it matter?"
She smiled at him appreciatively, while an emotion she did not welcome began to grow inside her.
It was a feeling of affection, she supposed.
Or perhaps desperation.
Either way, it worried her.
***
"First you must learn how to select a sword," Angus said, as he unsheathed his claymore and held it out, point up, for Gwendolen to admire.
She had convinced him to teach her something about swordsmanship by telling him she would not remove her gown until he satisfied some of her curiosities.
"The basket-hilted broadsword is the best weapon for battle," he told her,
"but even the mightiest blade is useless in the hands of a man or woman who is not calm or lacks judgment on the field."
"May I hold it?" she asked.
"Aye." He moved to stand behind her, and she reveled in the sensation of his body brushing up against hers. "Take it in your right hand like this. That's it. Now left foot forward.''
She let him guide her into the proper stance.
"If I had my shield," he said, "I'd show you how to hold that, too, but since I don't, we'll just have to use our imaginations." He closed his hand around her left fist and lifted her arm. "You would hold it right here, like this, close to your face at an angle, or lower, to protect your sword arm, depending on what your opponent was doing. If you were charging into a bayonet line, you'd keep it low to guard your belly."
"Good Lord." She turned her head slightly to look up at him. "How in the world would you charge a bayonet line and live to tell about it?"
He moved around to face her again, and the instant he let go of her sword arm, the heavy point dropped to the floor.
He sat on the footboard of the bed, curling his big hands around it. "It's a sophisticated technique, lass. Only the strongest, most able of men can manage it."
She was both amused and aroused by his confidence. "And I suppose
you fall into that category?"
"Aye. I'm the best there is."
"Is that a fact?" She leaned the sword against the wall by the door and smiled at him cheekily. "Why don't you describe to me the details of your supreme talents? I long to know them."
He inclined his head at her, then moved into position to demonstrate. "It goes something like this. You approach the bayonet line at a run, then dip low with the left leg, thrust the bayonet upward with your shield, then move ahead with your other foot, strike the soldier to the right with your sword, while you dirk the front-ranked man in the chest."
All her muscles went weak as he showed her the complex maneuver.
"That's it?" she replied, however, folding her arms at her chest. "Sounds simple enough."
In a flash, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She shrieked with laughter and sighed when he came down upon her, kissing her deeply on the mouth.
"If you're not impressed by that," he said in a husky voice, "I will impress you some other way."
"I have no doubt that you will."
He tossed her skirts up and settled into a very different sort of charge that displayed an equally supreme set of skills.
For hours they made love without inhibitions, and each stroke of a finger, each kiss, each whisper of endearment, lifted their passions to new heights.
Gwendolen fell asleep in his arms, exhausted and satisfied. But not even the blissful haze of her dreams could diminish the terror she experienced when she woke up to an explosion of feathers beside her head, as a steel blade came slashing through the air and cut deep into Angus's pillow.
Chapter Fourteen
Instantly awake, Angus rolled off the bed just in time to avoid the strike. He leaped to his feet and strained to see through the darkness as the intruder sliced through his pillow and nearly took Gwendolen's head off in the process.
The prospect of her death hit him like a punch in the gut. It was followed by a wild fury of rage and a debilitating dread that was completely unfamiliar to him, for he had never experienced a fear like this in any previous hand-to-hand combat. But he was not just thinking of himself tonight. There was another to protect.
Naked and unarmed, Angus backed away on agile feet to draw the man away from the bed. The enemy clansman was already spinning on a heel to swing his blade.
"Angus! Take this!
Gwendolen tossed a dagger at him the same one she had used to defend herself against him when he first came to her bed.
He caught it by the grip and tossed it into the air, then caught it again in an overhanded hold. Dropping to the floor, he rolled to avoid another swing of the intruder's sword. A pulse beat later, he was plunging the dirk into the Highlander's side.
The man crumpled forward with a raspy groan and fell to the floor, dead at Angus's feet.
He immediately disarmed the intruder, while Gwendolen scrambled across the bed and dashed into his arms.
"Are you all right, lass?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. Is he dead?"
"Aye." He crouched down to turn the Highlander over. "Go light a candle. I need to see this man's face."
Gwendolen moved to the table, fumbled with the flint, then struck a flame. She brought the candle closer and held it over the dead man's body.
"It's the MacEwen tartan," she said.
"Do you know him?"
"No, I've never seen him before. What was he doing here? How did he get in? The door was locked."
Angus searched the man's sporran, belts, and scabbards, then stood up and donned his own shirt and kilt. "He doesn't have a key on him now. Someone must have let him in." He belted his sword around his waist, then went to the door, which was slightly ajar, and looked up and down the corridor. "How many keys are there to this room, and who has access to them?"
"Besides the one you carry, there is only one other key, and my mother keeps it."
He looked at her fiercely. "Would she want me dead?"
"Of course not! She encouraged our alliance from the beginning."
He came back inside, and Gwendolen regarded him in the strangely sinister light from the candle. She felt as if she were falling headfirst into a nightmare. He had that look about him again-the ice-cold fury she had seen in his eyes on the day he invaded Kinloch. It was a callous bloodlust, and it sent a chill down her spine.
Nothing of the lover she had known since their wedding night existed in the man before her. Here stood a dangerous warrior, filled with fury, and she was frightened by his intensity.
"You cannot stay here tonight," he said. "You'll come to my bedchamber. I'll put a man at the door to watch over you."
"Where will you be?"
"I'll be looking into how this enemy got into my castle in the first place." He glared at her with steely wrath and held out his hand. "Come."
She put her hand in his and let him lead her out of the room, but first she had to step over the dead man on the floor.
His eyes were still open. Her stomach rolled with nausea.
***
Angus banged repeatedly on Lachlan's door until it opened. Gathering a loose gray blanket about his shoulders, Lachlan squinted through the flickering torchlight and stepped into the corridor.
"Get dressed," Angus said.
"Why? What's happened?"
"I woke up to the blade of an assassin."
Lachlan's eyes narrowed with concern. "Bluidy hell, Angus. Are you all right? Where's Gwendolen?"
"She's fine, but I must speak with Onora."
A few minutes later, he pushed his way through his mother-in-law's bedchamber door, and Lachlan followed him in. Onora sat up in bed and pulled a sheet up to cover her breasts.
"Have you been in here all night?" Angus asked.
"Of course," she replied. "Why? What is going on?"
Angus paced around the room like a tiger. "A MacEwen warrior just entered your daughter's bedchamber and tried to murder me in my sleep."
"Good Lord!" She tossed the covers aside and rose to her feet, where she stood naked before them. "Is Gwendolen all right?"
He regarded her shrewdly, looking for signs of deceit or treachery. "She's safe. The assassin got into the room by way of a key. Gwendolen said you are the only other person at Kinloch, besides me, who keeps one."
"Aye." She hurried across the room to a cabinet with heavy doors, which contained a small chest. She carried the chest back to the table where a candle was burning, then opened the lid and sorted through a number of trinkets, mostly jewels and hair ornaments.
"It's not here," she said. "Someone must have taken it."
Angus strode around the bed and seized her by the wrist. "If you are lying to me..."
"I'm not!" she shouted.
He had half a mind to drag her to the dungeon and employ more ruthless tactics to draw the truth out of her, because something told him she was keeping secrets.
He glared at her in the dim candlelight, while she wet her lips and took in a shaky breath.
Lachlan laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Let's take a minute to think about this," he said in a relaxed tone. "Anyone could have stolen the key."
Angus let go of Onora's wrist, backed away and crossed to the other side of the room. Resting his hands on his hips, he bowed his head.
His temper was getting the better of him. He knew it. Lachlan was right. Neither the cabinet nor the chest was locked. Anyone could have come in and taken it. And he was sure to have many enemies bent on revenge. He'd killed a number of MacEwens during the invasion. Frankly, it was astonishing to him that there had not been an attempt on his life before now.
He turned and faced them both. Lachlan was standing with his arm out, handing a robe to Onora.
Angus realized suddenly that for the first time in his life, he had let his passion for a woman take precedence over his desire to fight and defend. When he was with Gwendolen, the whole world seemed to disappear into quiet waves of sensation, and nothing existed for him outside the pleasure they experienced together.
What astounded him most of all, however, was the fact that he had no desire to reverse it. All he wanted to do at this moment was use every skill and talent he possessed to discover who was behind this murderous attempt and ensure it never happened again because nothing mattered to him more than Gwendolen's safety, especially now that she could be carrying his child. The drive to protect her was consuming him like a fever, and perhaps that was the most dangerous threat of all.
***
Late the next morning, Onora knocked on Gwendolen's door. Gwendolen invited her in and sent her maid down to the kitchen to bring back a light lunch.
"What is the latest news?" Gwendolen asked.
Onora sat down. "Angus and Lachlan both believe that Gordon MacEwen is the most likely suspect behind the assassination attempt, and I must say I concur."
Gwendolen sat down as well, and digested this news with concern. "Did you confess that you and Gordon were lovers?"
"Aye." Her mother began to chew on a thumbnail. "But they already knew it."
"How?"
She shifted uncomfortably and waved a dismissive hand through the air. "Oh, I might have said one or two things about it to Lachlan. I can't remember. We've been flirting for the past few weeks, and I seem to consume a lot of wine when I am in the same room with him. At least I think it's the wine that makes me so giddy." She shook her head. "But that is another matter. Your husband questioned me relentlessly this morning. He is positively ruthless. I must look a fright." She stood up, moved to the looking glass, and pinched her cheeks.
"You look fine, Mother. And yes, my husband is ruthless. That should come as no surprise to you. It's why everyone fears him, and why they do exactly what he tells them to do, the very second he commands it."
"Even you?" Onora swung around and regarded her with accusation.
For some strange reason, Gwendolen was overcome by a ridiculous urge to laugh. "I
want to do what he asks," she replied. "Not out of fear, but out of loyalty. I know you wanted me to find a way to wield power over him, but it is the complete opposite between us. He has power over me, but not because I fear him. I want more from him, and I am beginning to believe that I would do anything to please him and win his affections. Anything.''
Her mother gazed toward the window and resumed chewing on her thumbnail. "You don't need to explain it, Gwendolen. I understand." She cleared her throat. "Do you have anything to drink in here? Whisky perhaps?"
Gwendolen noticed that her mother's hands were shaking. She went to pour a dram from the decanter on the table, then returned and handed it to her. "Did he hurt you?"
"No, it's not that. It's just..." She took a deep swig from the glass. "Suddenly I feel as if my world is spinning out of control. Nothing is the same as it was before the MacDonalds invaded. I have lost the powers I once had, and I feel confused and absentminded half the time." She looked away. "I am afraid I may be going a little mad."
"It's because of Lachlan," Gwendolen bluntly said. "You're falling in love with him."
Onora stared at her dubiously, then turned away. "No, I am not. He is far too young for me, and I am no fool. But this whole situation..." She poured herself another drink and swallowed it in a single gulp. "Your husband is a very frightening man, Gwendolen. There is something cold in his eyes. I half expected him to slit my throat this morning, without the slightest warning."
Gwendolen sat down. "I am sure he wouldn't do that.
But was she really sure? She had seen that look herself that brutal, murderous contempt in his eyes. They could go from hot to cold in an instant.
When her mother finally seemed to regain her composure, she sat down also, and leaned back in the chair. "Gordon was implicated by the fact that he was the only person besides my personal maid who knew of the key's location. He denied any involvement of course, but he's being held nonetheless. They've locked up my maid, as well. Poor, sweet Madge. She's frightened out of her wits, and I cannot blame her. Something needs to be done, Gwendolen, but I was in such a hurry to escape the interrogation..."
"I will speak to Angus about it," she promised, "and ask if he will consider releasing her." Gwendolen paused. "Unless you think that she."
"Oh, good gracious, no. Madge? She would never go behind my back to steal a key, or anything else for that matter. She is as loyal as they come."
"Not even if Gordon forced her, or bribed her?"
Onora considered it for a moment, then chewed on her thumbnail again. "I suppose one never truly knows who can be trusted. These are desperate times."
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"Has anyone been able to identify the assassin?" Gwendolen asked.
"No. There was not a single MacEwen, or MacDonald for that matter, who recognized him. It was as if he flew into Scotland from some foreign land, like a migrating bird of prey." She took another sip of whisky. "Speaking of birds, I believe that tiny swallow in the Great Hall has departed for good. She flew out the door on your wedding day, and no one has seen her since."
"Is that right?" Gwendolen asked, hiding the fact that she already knew. She was extremely mindful of the little bird's whereabouts, for she had dreamed of her death in the jaws of a raven on the eve of their nuptials. Gwendolen had told no one about the dream, not even Angus, for it seemed like a bad omen, and now she was beginning to think that's exactly what it was.
She decided she would pay closer attention to her dreams in the future. And perhaps she would tell Angus about them.
But for now, she would focus on getting Madge released from the prison.
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