Chieftain By Command Read online

  God’s teeth, when the moment came for him to fly, Kathryn would be with him. Every Instinct told him to thrust his thumbs through the curls hiding her sensitive woman’s flesh, told him he must take her with him when he flew. Flew higher and higher until they fell—together.

  Kathryn came to her senses splayed across Gavyn’s chest. Though the room had cooled, they were both drenched with sweat—mostly his—yet she didn’t find it unpleasant lying atop him, her head tucked into the curve of his wide shoulder and his large hand splayed across her bottom, holding her close. Through the ear pressed against him, she heard, felt, his breath shudder in his chest. And she knew she had found her power, but dare she use it?

  Did she want to sink to her cousin Brodwyn’s level, taunting, teasing men with her lush curves and flirtatious glances?

  She couldn’t do it, couldn’t trick him into wanting her—wanting the whole Kathryn Comlyn, even if she occasionally acted like a bad tempered shrew. Her father hadn’t cared who he used to get his own way, whether it was her sister Astrid, the daughter he loved, or Kathryn the one who loved him.

  Love. Did she have it in her to settle for less?

  Gavyn reached for her twice more during the night.

  Aye, his side ached, but he didn’t feel the wound when he was moving inside her. He tried to tell himself that’s what made him turn to Kathryn, pull her close and take her with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock. He knew he was making excuses, like the excuse he made for rejecting advances made to him while they were in France. His honour was at stake—a guid enough explanation, but only he heard it. Only his thoughts had wondered whether his honour should forbid his wife that which was his for the taking.

  But only while he was inside her could he put aside the thought that mayhap he liked her over-much, and that hadn’t been part of his bargain with the king.

  The king wanted a warrior in place to check any movement by the men of the north. He hadn’t counted on a man who could be distracted by the wife he had been given as part of a bribe for his services.

  A good reason for never letting his thoughts wander.

  And he enough on his mind settling this murder, for the last kind of trouble he needed was another occurrence that would set the Dun rife with rumours and the clansmen and his mercenaries at each other’s throats. To that end, he had sent a man on horseback after Andrew Finlay, who had set out on foot. Once they came back, he hoped that would be an end to it and he could concentrate on keeping the Dun, as well as the lands, safe from raiders. The Dun, the lands and his wife—his last thought as he pulled Kathryn close, wrapped her in his arms and fell asleep.

  Chapter 16

  The next day the riders came back without Andrew Finlay. That settled the matter as far as Magnus was concerned; Finlay had murdered Grogan and run off to avoid punishment. Gavyn wasn’t as certain as his constable. He’d had a conversation with the lieutenant responsible for giving Finlay his orders. He had sent him to relieve one of two mercenaries whose tasks were patrolling the boundaries of Comlyn lands, and the tale that the lieutenant had had from Finlay had been all about getting his silver and settling down with Flora.

  To Gavyn’s mind, it didn’t sound like a man out to murder his rival, though the notion of Finlay’s share of the bounty being divided amongst the other mercenaries had put a grin on some of their faces, living up to their names.

  While all the mercenaries and clansmen at Dun Bhuird had tasks to keep their hands and minds busy, it wasn’t so bad; it was in the evenings over the meal and too much ale that quarrels broke out. How many heads would he have to knock together until they settled down?

  The Highlanders felt their places were being usurped; on the other side of the problem, he had promised the mercenaries who were willing to stay with him that they would have a place to live, to make a home. In return, he had the use of their experienced sword arms. Peaceful as it seemed for the moment, he knew that couldn’t last, and he was ever a man who liked to plan ahead.

  Within another day or so, Dun Bhuird settled back into its normal way of doing things. The barley was harvested and the brewmaster rubbed his hands together, forecasting ale of an exceptional quality since the summer had been long and dry. The masons were making progress on the curtain wall; the most noticeable difference was in the rising gate towers. If Gavyn closed his eyes and squinted, he could imagine them standing grey, tall and threatening above the gates with his men guarding the heights against intruders, and as he considered how it might appear to invaders, Harald Comlyn returned to Dun Bhuird.

  Waiting by the auld gates, Gavyn watched him ride across the short, dry stubble left by the harvest. There was a manner about him and the way he rode that spoke arrogance—said that he would have taken the same route whether the crops had been harvested or still waved in a sea of gilt in the long glen.

  Harald pulled up beside him but didn’t deign to dismount, simply gave a half-hearted salute, a crooked finger to the side of his bonnet like a snide insult. Truth to tell, it took but a moment’s study to realise Harald was a poor version of subtle, so Gavyn replied in kind, “A lot of folk hoped you had decided to stay away from Dun Bhuird, me among them.”

  “I’m sorry to thwart their expectations,” Harald smirked. “Nae that’s a lie. It gives me nae end of pleasure to disappoint them all. Just one of my wee foibles.”

  Gavyn supposed this was what they meant by being talked down to, but if he meant to intimidate, Harald Comlyn had once more chosen the wrong man, as he did on the night he tried to kill the McArthur. The horse might give him an arm’s span in height, however the broad sword he wore across his back gave him more than an advantage of mere distance. It was a fluke that Harald had cut him. Aye, he could fight and with another opponent with less experience it might have been different, but during that training bout, Gavyn had read his every move. It was Kathryn—and his growing obsession with her—who had accidentally given Harald the opportunity to strike.

  With a curl of his lip, Gavyn told him, “Aye, well, a man’s entitled to be mistaken in his beliefs. The word was that you had scampered away in case you had killed me, but either way, I knew you would come back. Where else do you have to go?”

  “Och, that would be telling,” the smirk was back. “However, Kathryn is nae my only family. I have other cousins, yet Dun Bhuird has always been home. My father and my father’s father were born here. The Bear was the only one who ever banished me, and few could gang against the Bear.”

  “The McArthur managed it, but then he had good reason. Here’s a wee piece of advice: Don’t give me a reason.” Without another word, he turned his back on Harald and walked away. A risk mayhap, but one he felt he had to take.

  Carefully watching her footing, Brodwyn approached the stables, she didnae mind the smell of horses, in fact she rather liked the heat and the humidity, especially with a fine figure of a man between her legs. She just didnae want their droppings on her shoes. Today she was bored and, if fortune was on her side, young Ruthven would be there.

  Harald, surprisingly, had become disappointing, less enthusiastic than Jamie. Her cousin made her work to get what she wanted. The pity of it all, she had discovered there was something to be said for enthusiasm.

  Harald strode toward her, actually smiling. “It didnae take ye long to discover I am back.’ He grabbed her by the elbow and began to edge her into the stables.

  “Nae, not here. Ye never know who’s watching these days. Wait till tonight.”

  His mouth flattened. In a minute he would be sulking—a thought he soon proved true, saying, “So you didnae miss me.”

  “There’s hardly been time. Ye might have acted wisely, avoiding the Laird after slicing him,” she let that sink in, “however unwittingly. With all the excitement, I didnae notice ye had gone at first and then, when the mercenary disappeared, there was such a ruckus.”

  She’d caught his attention and his eyes sparked with interest. “Excitement? Ruckus? You must tell all. What
has been happening?’

  Brodwyn began walking and he followed. Did he notice her quickening her pace—a necessary burst of speed for a woman who wished to avoid being in the uncomfortable position of meeting with two lovers at the same time? “First there was the murder.”

  His eyebrows lifted as though in surprise, though his eyes gleamed as he said, “Murder?”

  “Aye. I’m told it was gruesome.”

  His eyes smiled and she imagined him saying, ‘even better.’ Instead, he murmured, “Excitement, aye. The first murder here in living memory. The Bear and our forefathers would never have stood for anything such as that. But then they were iron-fisted men. Farquhar is naught but a Northumbrian pretending to be a chieftain. He’ll never understand the hearts and minds of Highland clansmen.”

  A laugh she couldn’t afford to let loose caught in her throat. In some matters, she could twist him round her finger, but always at a cost. He shared her ambition that one day Kathryn and her Laird would be gone, replaced by the true inheritors of Bienn á Bhuird, Harald and her; but she knew it was her nagging that kept him on the right path. She was the instigator, the provider of all the notions needed to get what they wanted. As for hearts and minds … she would lay her life on Harald being every bit as bewildered as Farquhar.

  “So ye mentioned a ruckus?”

  “That I did. On the same day, the murdered man was the one who had complained to Kathryn that a mercenary had stolen his woman. I told ye right after I witnessed it. Later that day … next morning really … they found him on the ground below the rim, slaughtered. Immediately they—Magnus and Farquhar—went in search of the obvious culprit—”

  Harald cut her off with a great guffaw.

  “And,” she went on, “he was missing. Couldnae be better for us, wouldn’t ye say?”

  “I would.” His eyes creased at the corners, for once able to find humour in something. “Och, lass, it just gets better and better.”

  “Aye, and now the mercenaries and clansmen are at each others throats most of the time. We couldnae have planned it better if we’d tried.” Brodwyn turned slightly as Harald stood in place where he was.

  She twisted round to watch him stant, hands on hips a sleekit grin on his face. “Yer right Brodwyn. Who would believe it was planned? Though, I agree it would have been a good one,” he finished as he caught up with her and began talking of his visit to their cousins in Caithness—fierce descendants of the Norsemen who had settled there, the daughters of whom the Comlyn men had been happy to wed.

  “What are you looking at, Jamie?”

  Nhaimeth looked up as Rob spoke, realising that Jamie had stopped working on his gelding. Normally, the lad brushed Faraday’s hide until it gleamed like polished bronze, but now he was leaning against his mount and staring at something over its rump.

  “It’s Harald. I thought we had seen the last of him, but we’re not that fortunate, for there he is—an abscess on the face of the Dun. Putrid.” Jamie spat on the ground, and even Nhaimeth felt shocked. Though handy with a sword and lethal with an axe, the lad was usually the most mild-mannered of the three of them.

  Rob growled like a dog whose bone had been stolen. Everything about him was tense. Nhaimeth wouldnae be astonished if the hair on his head stood on end. As for him, it soured his gut to watch Harald lording it over folk. He might have the name, but he didnae have the right, and it turned Nhaimeth’s stomach to see Harald blacken his name. The man was only fit to creep up behind someone in the dark or cut them out of spite.

  “What does she see in him?”

  Rob blinked, “Who are you talking about?”

  Jamie’s chin jutted. “Brodwyn,” he gritted her name out as if it meant something to him. He had noticed the lad talking to her at the evening meal. She always appeared to sit next to Jamie, but he thought the lad was taking pity on her. Nhaimeth wondered what sort of tale she had fed the lad to make him take pity on her. Frae what he remembered of her when she was meant to support Astrid, the lass had nary a thought in her head for anyone but herself.

  She would bear watching to be sure she didnae make a fool of Jamie.

  There was room for only one of those at Dun Bhuird and his name was Nhaimeth.

  Chapter 17

  The stillroom was quiet as Kathryn worked in the light of the small window. Her mother had insisted upon having it put in when her father had the stillroom built on the side of the hall. Today, even with the door open, the small room was cloaked in a weighty silence from the flood of her thoughts—thoughts that circled rowdily in Kathryn’s mind while she held the pestle that her mother had used when she made her potions and salves. She doubted her mother’s moments of contemplation about the Bear had been as sensual as were Kathryn’s daydreams of Gavyn.

  She couldn’t escape her husband. He occupied her imagination, filled her body by night and her memories by day. Her hands formed fists, one curling around the pestle while the other gripped the worn edge of the board she worked upon. Her back curved over as her insides clenched in the kind of spasm Gavyn wrought in her during the dark hours—long, yet not long enough.

  She stayed bent over the board, dragging in the sharp scent of the herbs as if it would clear her head of him.

  “God’s teeth, Kathryn. What is it, are you unwell?”

  How could she rid her thoughts of this man when he stood there in front of her, filling the doorway, filling her gaze. She shook her head, “I’m fine—just a cramp in my fingers. I’ve been working o’er long,” she lied, yet what could she have told him? That she was thinking of him, couldn’t rid her mind of how it felt to be held in his arms. “Was there something I could do for you, Laird?” she murmured, as if to distance herself from him.

  Then he was at her side. Taking the pestle from her, he lifted her hand and began gently massaging her fingers. “Couldn’t Lhilidh do this for you?”

  She flexed her fingers. Was it pitiful of her to hope he wouldn’t stop? “I let her go to Geala’s wee house. She is collecting her mother’s possessions—those she wants to keep as a reminder. There is a surfeit of mercenaries looking to make Dun Bhuird a home, Lhilidh didn’t think it fair to leave it standing empty, so one of your men is willing to pay her a wee sum … to move in with … his woman,” she told him brokenly as his thumb pressed into the heart of her palm.

  “This isn’t going to end up like Grogan with one of the clansmen complaining about my men stealing their women, I hope. We can do without any more strife of that kind,” he said, lifting her hand to kiss the centre of her palm.

  She felt her knees buckle as his eyes lifted to hers. Her heart turned over in her breast as if twisted by a large hand—his. Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to gauge her reaction. She knew well that she hadn’t married a man with a shortage of nous, but such thoughts became redundant as he pulled her into his arms, pressing his mouth firmly against hers.

  Sighing, Kathryn opened to him, revelled in the trust of his tongue against hers. A shiver thrilled through her spine as she pressed close, felt his arousal, welcomed its hardness pushing against her belly. That was all it took to feel her woman’s flesh melt with need.

  Gavyn cupped her hips in large hands, raising her feet off the floor. She quivered, needing, wanting closer but her kirtle bound her limbs, preventing that dearest desire. “Help me,” she begged, uncaring that there was no bed to fall upon. No chair, naught but the two of them to support each other’s weight as Gavyn carried her across the stillroom away from light.

  A kick of his foot swung the door to, and the press of her back against the wooden planks closed it tight. With his mouth in the curve of her neck, he hitched her skirts higher, around her waist, baring her to his need. She never noticed his plaid fall away, only the sensation of flesh against flesh—his against hers.

  She was ready for him, ready to feel him fill her up, a sensation every bit as wonderful as when she felt apart in his arms. This was the first time they had made love in daylight, the first time of seeing
the expressions on his face. His features, tanned from his time in France, appeared strained, drawn, eyes shut while he stroked inside her. She nipped at his earlobe, murmuring in the ear she held ’twixt her teeth, “Look at me, Farquhar. Show me your eyes. Open yourself to me.”

  They were blue around the rims, dark blue with touches of green like the sea lapping at the cliffs of Cragenlaw. But in the dark centre she could see a flame licking and knew he was afire for her, that she wasn’t alone in these feelings he engendered in her once-cold heart. Kathryn wrapped her arms round his shoulders, holding him tight as she scattered feverish kisses on his face and neck.

  Had he ever gazed so deeply into Kathryn’s eyes before, ever been close enough to see the glimmer of innocence and, aye, fear? In the hours of darkness, he had never noticed the way her pale blue eyes lit up at his touch, pupils growing larger as his thrusts reached deep inside her. When he first became aware of her clenching around him, clasping him inside her as if she never wanted to let him go, that in itself made him eager to stay where he was with the round tip of his shaft kissing her womb.

  The little noises she made danced inside his heart. So strange that they should have ended up here, enjoying these moments of closeness, when she had hated him at first sight. And he hadn’t dared let himself feel o’er much one way or the other and now … mayhap it was still too soon to dare. To hope…

  Kathryn’s mouth covered his, demanded. He parted his lips and let her in. Her tongue fenced with his, a duel to the finish as all thoughts floated away, unimportant. All that mattered was the moment they were in. He and Kathryn, stretching, reaching out for that bright beam, rising like the morning star coming up over the mountain, out of reach—yet still they strived, climbed, grasped. Succeeded.

  Chest heaving, Kathryn came back to earth deprived of air, for there was none left in her stillroom, naught but the breaths she shared with Gavyn, and they had been used over and over. He was still inside her, though the storm had passed and naught but the aftermath of loving rippled out of her woman’s flesh as it clung, reluctant to let him go, to have the pleasure end.