Chieftain By Command Read online

  Gavyn could be here within minutes, and already she wished him gone from this place where he’d disparaged her—where they had disparaged each other. Her eyes glanced towards the entrance to her chamber more often than she would have wished. The Chieftain’s apartments were the largest private space in the hall. Her father had been a giant of a man, and whilst he’d occupied the apartment, it hadn’t seemed enormous the way it did with only Brodwyn sharing it with her.

  Somehow, after two long years, she still couldn’t stop remembering how small, how intimate it had felt with only her and Gavyn in it together—so small she could hardly breathe, remembering.

  The curt message Abelard had delivered from her husband echoed in her ears as she watched the level of the water rise towards the tub’s rim and pondered the circumstances that made it possible to be caught betwixt two such contradictory emotions: antagonism and apprehension.

  With a fingertip, Lhilidh tested that the water was hot, as the Laird had requested—ordered—instead of drawn straight from the ice cold well, which might have cooled his temper. Her every move was delicate, pretty, and for that reason Kathryn had kept her close by, aye and untouched. After Geala had spilled her secrets this morning, Kathryn had felt a sudden surge of optimism, been glad of it. Glad to look on Lhilidh as the wee sister she’d never had. Glad to no longer feel so alone.

  She laid a hand on the young lass’s the arm to attract her attention, leaning close to murmur, “Best fetch out a few of yon linen cloths laid by in the auld wooden kist. The laird’s a big man and he’ll expect more than one length to dry himself.” As she looked toward the kist, a stray thought brought a smile to her lips. “And when yer done, Lhilidh, have someone bundle up Brodwyn’s things and move her bedding into the hall.”

  Kathryn heard a gurgle of laughter escape Lhilidh’s mouth. “Tis nae surprise that she has escaped moving it herself. That besom likes to pretend she’s a lady, but I’m pleased ye nae longer have to put up with her presence.”

  Young though she was, Lhilidh had gradually begun inserting herself between Kathryn and her cousin, as if to protect her mistress. Brodwyn, being older, oten thought it fell to her to point out how Kathryn should order the affairs of Dun Bhuird. “As a wee treat, Lhilidh, I’ll let you inform her where her bedding has gone.” They both grinned.

  “My Maw was never taken in by her; she warned me about Brodwyn afore I moved into the hall to tend to ye. Mayhap, the Laird will show that one her rightful place and save us a lot of grief.” Lhilidh quirked a dark, arched eyebrow as she spoke. Usually Lhilidh never had anything but good to say about folk and always appeared happy, but then again, Lhilidh had no inkling of the real situation between her and Gavyn.

  For two years, her husband had pretended she didn’t exist. And today, the best she could say about his return was that at least she could rid herself of Brodwyn’s company.

  No matter. She hadn’t the time to take any pleasure in that, no’ when Farquhar might be upon them at any moment, so Kathryn ignored the thought and instead told Lhilidh, “I’m sorry to burden ye with all these extra tasks. As soon as we’re done I want you to go and make sure Geala’s all right and have her taken back home.”

  “That’s kind of ye. I’ll be sure to tell Maw. I wonder if she’s heard about the all the gold and silver the Laird brought hame with him—a king’s ransom. They say he’s brought yon big ugly dogs wi’ him to guard it all.”

  Lhilidh’s lips formed a sweet smile as if even big ugly dogs didn’t fash her. “They’ll be fierce, I’ll be bound. Something else he’ll have found in France for they’ve likely got all sorts of weird things o’er there. Even so, I’ll feel sorry for them chained up in the dark under the mountain.” Lhilidh chattered on, remarking on the news she had gathered out in the hall.

  Striding through the great hall, he heard an inquisitive murmur rising from those preparing the feast meant to celebrate his return. At the far end of the hall, the Bear’s gold shield still hung and Gavyn wondered if it were his imagination that the last red rays of the setting sun were caught in its carvings, dancing like flames that spun off its surface to lick at huge beams supporting the roof. Too well he remembered the last time he’d watched Erik the Bear use the shield like a weapon. That had been the day Comlyn died.

  He threw a swift glance over his shoulder and cast his eyes o’er the assembled maids and servants as the last flash of sunset blinked out, leaving naught but pitch-tipped torches to light the huge hall. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, to turn back in the direction of the Chieftain’s chamber, his heart thumping at the knowledge his wife awaited.

  Of those going about their business, only a few brave souls nodded, recognising him with a “Guid e’en, Laird” that he appreciated as he walked with a measured stride.

  Laird wasn’t a title he’d ever expected to wear—a name he’d seldom been called since leaving Bienn á Bhuird. The big surprise was how easily it fitted him, like a comfortable old robe that had grown into his shape. Not that the clansfolk were aware of the fact. With every fibre of his being, he could sense their eyes on his back as he neared the chieftain’s apartments. Practically every member of his household had seen Kathryn launch an arrow at him. Now they avidly awaited the outcome, and only a seer could predict what that might be.

  For a man usually comfortable in his own skin, the knowledge that they speculated on tonight’s outcome merely served to make his tough hide shrink around his bones until every step felt like an effort. At the forefront of his mind, he had a notion they fancied seeing a battle royal played out between two strong-minded natures—by a man who had fought, won, and returned with a treasure beyond anything the clan had ever seen and a woman who, more than likely, believed herself the equal of any man. Folk who had a clear memory of her father, Erik the Bear, expected a hasty temper from her.

  Gavyn had nae interest in satisfying their curiosity.

  Whatever kind of tussle ensued between him and Kathryn it would take place in privacy, well behind the closed door of the chieftain’s apartments.

  Kathryn’s chest tightened as out the corner of her eye she caught sight of a tall figure entering the chamber. A sigh escaped her at the shape of a pail he carried by his side—a sigh she felt rise through the soles of her feet to squeeze at her heart. It made her realise she was far from ready to face her recalcitrant husband naked.

  She recalled that moment when she released the arrow, the feel of the bowstring vibrating as it grazed her cheek. She had known in that instant there would be a reckoning, that there would be no avoiding it, and that time was drawing close.

  Lhilidh returned, her arms full of the rough lengths of linen Gavyn would use to dry off his big, tall, muscular, bare—Kathryn blinked away the image—something she had avoided thinking of since the day he had left her behind—left her a virgin—and led his men to the wilds of France.

  Upon occasion she watched the maids flirt with the men, coy. Brodwyn was a mistress of the art. But not her. Not Kathryn Comlyn.

  She had to be above such trivial concerns.

  She’d had no other choice. Responsibilities. Aye, she had grasped them with both hands, relished the thought of holding the reins of Dun Bhuird. The sudden change from daughter into Lady of the house meant there had been no chance to learn to play.

  After Astrid’s death, her father had taken one look at her and envisaged his youngest daughter as Astrid’s replacement. Even she, who had loved her father more than any living soul, had baulked at offering herself to the McArthur on the night of Astrid’s funeral. It wasn’t that she blamed him for rejecting her so soon after her sister’s tragic end. No. She blamed him for rejecting her because he’d already formed the intention of taking Morag Farquhar—Gavyn’s sister—to his bed.

  Erik, her father, wasn’t a man to let sense get in the way of what he considered a rebuff. When he had arranged for Astrid and the McArthur to wed, he’d known of the curse, known of the disasters that had befallen the McArthur’s
first two wives. However, it seemed the Bear had had plans for Cragenlaw and wasn’t about to let a little thing like a curse get in his road. He’d sacrificed Astrid and would have done the same to her. As head of the Comlyn clan, he had sent a priest with Astrid to see to her spiritual comforts, but Kathryn now knew the truth. Her father’s God hadn’t been found in a chapel. The deity Erik the Bear worshipped resided on a battlefield. Like all men, he’d revered power.

  Aye, as her husband did, and had proved it by rushing off to France with a sword in his hand. Gavyn Farquhar was little different from her father. He’d told her that when she had son’s they would be Farquhars—another insult. Kathryn Comlyn had no reason to love that name. First she had been rejected for Morag, a Farquhar. Next, her father had arranged to marry her off in an alliance with Gavyn’s brother, Doughall, another one of them.

  Brodwyn had taken great delight in telling the young, naïve Kathryn what kind of man he had been. A catamite. To her father’s credit, he had done her the favour of killing the toad and saved her the trouble. It hadn’t taken long for Kathryn to be aware that the ill-favoured union would have come to the same end.

  Fated, like her father and Doughal, to kill one another.

  Her final, crushing rejection by that family had been on her wedding night.

  Ach, so what did it matter if she’d rejected him first. She had been angry at losing everything she’d come to know and love and, worse yet, lost it all to a Farquhar.

  Kathryn seldom made excuses for her actions, and only she was cognisant of the whole reason. Combine her anger with the truth of her mother dying before Kathryn had reached the age of puberty and it all made sense—to Kathryn. She had been left without another soul but Brodwyn to ask. Her cousin had whispered the unconceivable truths about men and women in Kathryn’s unguarded ear, with a warning that it wasn’t maidenly to appear eager to consummate the vows.

  Vows made in front of a Bishop sent by the King.

  Was it any wonder she had felt some trepidation when she’d been wed to Gavyn Farquhar by the King’s command, only to be rejected once again?

  Chapter 6

  Kathryn picked up the linens and straightened them in neat squares on the foot of the bed to transfer her thoughts from Gavyn and the night ahead of her.

  She’d noticed that after helping her wash and change, Lhilidh had also changed the linen sheets on the bed. Her father had preferred wolf skins to sleep upon, and it had taken a muckle amount of them to cover the huge bed. That tradition wasn’t to her liking, except mayhap in the midst of winter when snow covered the mountains and icicles adorned the edges of the roofs.

  She passed her palm over the linen cloths, stroking, smoothing, and immediately her mind sprang back to that second on the rim when she had let her arrow fly and, in the next moment, had wondered what her punishment would be.

  The thought had barely formed when she lifted her gaze to her husband’s, felt his eyes burn into hers in a way that made her feel captured, unable to turn away. The scar that marred one side of his face was partially disguised by the roughly trimmed hair of a man who had tended to his self overlong, and the firm jaw she remembered hid behind a scraggly beard. No matter, naught could disguise the deep blue colour of his eyes or the heated gaze that travelled her person from top to toe.

  Whilst she felt chained to the floor, Gavyn strode into the room like a predator—one of the mountain lynx mayhap—claiming its territory. Kathryn wasn’t the only person still as a statue. Lhilidh and the men carting the pails of water remained fixed in place, apart from the water that slopped o’er the pail’s edge at the sudden halt of movement.

  All of them stared as he dipped the fingers of one hand into the tub. The water rippled and carried the reflection of the candles in widening rings of gold, but Gavyn was not a man interested in the little things that transformed a vision from dross into something precious and back again, simply saying, “That’ll do fine. Place one or two filled pails beside the tub for later, then leave.”

  No one moved a muscle but every eye turned to her.

  “Get out!” he barked and, though shadowed by his beard, his top lip curled.

  His glance landed on Lhilidh whose reaction was to move closer to Kathryn’s side. An eloquent jerk of his head in the direction of the doorway would have been enough, but he added, “Aye that means you as well, bonnie lass. Your presence while I bathe is hardly necessary. A man with a wife capable of anything has no need of another’s help.”

  So that was the way it was going to be?

  “Hmmph,” she snorted, uncaring if her prodigal husband could hear. If Farquhar thought to hurt her with sarcasm, he could try. She had faced worse the first day she took his place at the high table to judge miscreants and settle disputes. That day she’d been a wee bit of a lassie, daring to meddle in men’s affairs.

  They’d soon learned she wouldn’t be intimidated. Fear could roil in her belly, but she refused to be cowed or back down. Today their attitude had been the opposite. They hadn’t looked upon her as a mere woman, a wife; she’d been the head of the clan, if only a notional one.

  “What happened to yon lad, your squire or whatever name they go by in France?” She bit out the words past the lump in her throat, as if all the ire she had felt on that long ago night when he’d wed her then rejected her had settled beneath her chin.

  “The lad is what they call in France tres mort. Very dead. Slaughtered on the battlefield in a foreign land, and all for the sake of protecting Dun Bhuird.”

  Her eyebrows rose, amazed at the daring of her servants as another two vessels of steaming water were set down on the floor beside a tub that had appeared huge before a scowling giant stood close by it. She might have known the blame for the Dun’s lack of defences would be hers, she thought, as the last straggle of water carriers’ eyes boggled in surprise as they scurried out of the chamber.

  Kathryn wished someone would give her that option—a futile hope. For her there was no way out. Just as there was no answer to a statement like the one he had flung at her about the squire. To her ears, protecting the Dun had sounded like a pretext to go o’er the seas and spill blood. “I’ve nae doubt you enjoyed it none the less. Most men are born to fight, and a bit of blood probably adds to the thrill. I could see that part of your make-up the first time I laid eyes on you.”

  The original notion that Dun Bhuird required mending had spilled from Gavyn’s mouth on her wedding day. As for herself, she had seen never seen the need. The Dun had stood solid, strong, through all the years of her father’s rule, as well as his father’s and his father’s father before him.

  “Is that so? But what of women? What of the woman I saw on the rim dressed like a warrior? Shouldn’t she be better turning her hand to the welfare of her clansmen and concerning herself with housekeeping and the feeding of all the folk in Dun Bhuird?”

  Deciding to place discretion before valour, she ignored Gavyn’s scorn and kept her voice pleasant, smooth as water in a still pool. Naught he said could hurt her, it simply floated for a moment then sank to the depths out of sight.

  “You’ll be wanting a basin, and soap to shave with before climbing into the tub,” she said, hoping she sounded wifely. “It’s strange that the McArthurs didn’t offer you a wee skerrick of hot water and soap to clean yourself afore setting off for Dun Bhuird.”

  “They did, and I refused. I felt the need to reach Dun Bhuird without delay.” His voice rumbled, a sound not unlike the noise of water tumbling at the foot of the waterfall as it scoured the gravel at its base—uneven, rough in a way that drowned out the calm she had been reaching for and pulled on her senses. She fought back. “Ach aye, I suppose you would have had the treasure to think on.”

  She would swear a smile flickered on Gavyn’s mouth as he reached for her.

  Kathryn looked down. The skin on the back of his hand glowed dark gold in the candlelight, as he stroked the blue weave of her kirtle o’er shoulder, breast, and hip, making her heart
still and the breath leave her. “Wrong,” he said. “What drove me on was thoughts of my wife.” And as if nae other words were needed, he re-crossed the chamber and closed the iron bound door while she sought her next breath without avail.

  At first glance, Dun Bhuird was just as Nhaimeth had left the place when Astrid took him to Cragenlaw. Arriving in the vanguard of Gavyn Farquhar’s mercenaries, he’d raised his eyes to the Dun and felt it glower down at him from the rim.

  Around Nhaimeth, the mercenaries’ resentment growled and cursed at the form of Farquhar’s greeting. A bigger band of cutthroats he had yet to meet, yet all of them loyal to the man his half-sister Kathryn had wed—albeit with little choice in the matter. All these mercenaries ready to fight, to die … to get rich.

  Though Nhaimeth was but half the size of a man, he had seen more, recognised more, knew more than anyone gave him credit for, and that knowledge told him not all of them followed Farquhar for the silver on the ox-drawn wagons. Among them were warriors who had who had staunchly followed Farquhar long afore he became a laird.

  Inside the palisade, Nhaimeth cocked an ear and listened intently. It only wanted Erik the Bear’s bellow to echo off the ring of mountains and everything would seem normal.

  Aye, but yon days were over for Nhaimeth. It was himself who’d changed. He had left Bienn á Bhuird a Fool—yin with bell and cap—and he had come back a man.

  There was muckle difference—vast—frae capering around at Astrid’s heels to marching into the Great Hall accompanied by two lads twice as tall as he—lads who showed him respect and today had warmly welcomed being let into the secrets of the hall frae one who for most of his early life had scuttled around it, hiding in corners, trying no’ to be seen by the Bear.