Chieftain By Command Read online

  “It’s our clan now.”

  “Not yet. The clan will not regard itself ours merely on the King’s say-so. You will have to prove yourself afore that happens.”

  He reached back and captured her hand. “With my wife by my side?”

  “If God wills it. Time will tell.”

  Gavyn had a feeling that she meant to imply he would have to prove himself to her first. As for the clan, Kathryn was not wrong. However, he hadn’t had this high position offered to him by taking any particular result for granted. He had learned how to plan, knew how to take care of his mercenaries, keep them safe from unnecessary risks. Could a clan be any worse to look after than that?

  With some reluctance he released her hand, filled with the sudden knowledge of the most certain way to bring the clan around his thumb.

  He needed an heir and realised that the getting of one would be all pleasure. What he needed to bring that notion off successfully was fulfilment of the fantasies that had haunted his dreams from the moment he had ridden away in the direction of France. The King had given his command; however, that didn’t mean everything would simply fall into place—not without a deal of work, no matter how pleasurable the prospect of some aspects might be.

  And with that thought to the forefront of his mind, he stood and turned to face his wife, naked, rampant. Kathryn’s jaw dropped, and he hoped that the drawn out, “O-o-h” that left her mouth was one of delight, or at least anticipation.

  She might as well have been naked as well the way the fine linen shift—wet, translucent—clung to her breasts, offering no obstruction to his eyes.

  He swooped, slipped his hands under her arms and would have lifted her into the tub beside him, until he felt her quiver. The linen covering her rucked higher between his hands and her body, hands fumbling in an attempt to keep her shift in place.

  He felt a surge of excitement but tamped it down. Soft, slow, easy … Kathryn was his wife and as such deserved more than a quick tumble to satisfy urges long held in check. Soon their presence would be required at the high board, the new Chieftain and his Lady. Until then a taste would have to satisfy—both of them.

  Her heart raced. Blood flowed through her veins like a burn in spate, surging, a swift current that flushed her skin and made her breasts swell. Almost against sense, against need, she slid her arms round his neck and clung, moving more by instinct than design.

  Gavyn’s hands went to his neck and undid her hold. A gasp of protest left her mouth and was cut off immediately, frightened it might appear that she wanted this, wanted his attentions when in truth she was a bairn in the wilderness, lost in the wild moor, needing to plead for succour but had forgotten how.

  Arms loosened, she stood at the side of the tub as Gavyn took her face in his big hands and stared into her eyes, which she was certain must show fear, confusion. “Later, lass, later…” words bound up in a sigh. “One wee kiss is all I dare if we are ever to join the others in the hall.”

  She looked up, way up. He was so much taller than her, his arms banded by muscles and littered by auld scars, yet the one that caught her eye was hardly more than a scratch, a pink line still on the inside of his wrist, as if it refused to heal—memorable since Gavyn had made the mark himself’.

  Done it for her.

  She had hated him from the moment he had walked into her hall, all swagger and confidence to take what was rightfully hers, while she’d been all claws, hair and spite, determined to give him no quarter. And she had hated him for an action designed to make her look on him with favour. Her insides had quivered when he drew his dirk, but it was his own blood he’d shed. Even today, Kathryn was unsure which had shocked her more, that he had smeared red atop the linen and asked, “What say ye, wife—enough blood to look like a broken maidenhead?” As if she would have any notion what that looked like.

  Or did she despise him because for an instant he’d almost won her over, made her feel vulnerable and robbed her of the urge to fight.

  His dose of compassion hadn’t lasted until the blood dried.

  Now he was attempting to fool her again, and she might just let him, for all thought left to her and soon all she could feel, taste, smell was Gavyn—his lips on hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, and the scented soap with the added element of tension.

  Heaven and hell centred between Gavyn’s thighs as his tongue took advantage of another of the moans she released and dipped between her lips once more.

  It was everything he had imagined while away and more, but Kathryn didn’t need to know that. Not yet. He dragged his mouth from hers. Stood with her in his arms, water sluicing off his chest and arms onto Kathryn’s shift as he set her aside. “Time for us to get dressed. We need to show a brave face to the clan. Give them something to cheer about the arrival of their Laird and his Lady.”

  Chapter 8

  Nhaimeth sat at the far left end of the high board, his feet not quite reaching the floor. He couldn’t have cared less. Occasionally, he felt Rob’s penetrating gaze on him but didn’t seek a reason. He was too caught up in his own thoughts, speculating on the Bear’s reaction if he had been able to see him at the high table, imagining the bellow he would let out.

  Tonight everything felt strange, out of place, though Nhaimeth had lived in Dun Bhuird every day of his life until Astrid had taken him to Cragenlaw. The view from here of the clansfolk was something he had never thought to see. On the surface, the hall itself had changed little. Behind him, the great shield, passed down from father to son, glimmered in the torchlight, yet it would never be his. And rightly so, since he would be hard pressed to lift it. The smell of the torches scented the air. In the centre, a dark space that used to house the firepit was cold, bare of the fuel used to heat the griddles and cooking pots. Above it, heavy chains hung from the ceiling, neglected.

  Whilst Astrid still lived, he had capered and jested in the foreground, played the Fool well enough to earn the rough edge of Erik the Bear’s tongue—but one of the reasons he and Astrid were sent away to Cragenlaw.

  Never afore had the truth about his life been brought to his consciousness with such pitiless malice. He wondered if the auld gods laughed. Surely the one Rob and Jamie sometimes worshipped couldn’t be so deliberately cruel. It had been many years since he had wished and wondered what might have been, what might he have done, if he hadn’t been born misshapen. If, he had instead, resembled his half-brother Alexander, the golden lad.

  Ach, Nhaimeth couldn’t put the blame on Alex, couldn’t lay his envy upon a lad whose life had been stripped away and him barely straddling the line that would have made him a man, could never have wished death upon a lad he had just begun to ken and like.

  He felt Rob nudge his elbow. “Aren’t ye hungry wee man?”

  The words didn’t match the look in Rob’s eye or the question he read there. Rob knew him too well. They were like brothers of the soul and had found each other at a point in each of their lives when the way ahead appeared dreich and scary. Throat tight, Nhaimeth found it difficult to answer. “I’ve lost my appetite, help yourself.”

  Rob was always hungry. Like yin of the young seabirds on the cliffs at Cragenlaw with its beak aye open, he grew so fast his belly was hard to fill.

  He had hoped Rob might leave it at that, but wisdom didn’t come with height, it came with experience. Rob was always ready to barge into fights and places in a way that age would eventually temper.

  “I know what’s going on in yer head, and can’t say I blame ye. But look at Gavyn, married two years and caught in a web of Malcolm Canmore’s making. Then look at us three. And you can take that smirk off your face, for I’m counting Jamie as well. We’re young, we’ve all but served our apprenticeship, and soon we’ll all be free to have an adventure.”

  It was on days like this that Nhaimeth felt a hundred years aulder than Rob, a damn sight more than the handful separating them. “Ye make a guid point, lad. I’d bet you a hundred silver shillings to a handsaw that Kathry
n won’t let him escape his duties so easily next time.”

  “And where would ye find a hundred pieces of silver?” Rob leaned closer, cupping his mouth with his hand to whisper close to Nhaimeth’s ear. “Did you see their faces as they walked through the hall to take their places at the high board. Grim. It would appear she’s grown up since the day she rode up to Cragenlaw in Erik the Bear’s shadow.”

  Nhaimeth nodded his agreement. “The lass I knew would hardly have dared shoot an arrow at a wee sparrow without Comlyn’s urging.”

  For the first instance that e’en, Nhaimeth felt like grinning as Rob said, “I’d be hard pressed to say I envy Gavyn. Ach, when the man rides up on the back of that braw grey of his, the image of a parfit gentle knight, or mayhap yon Frenchman he’s been fighting alongside, then gets shot at, it’s enough to make you wonder.” Hand shielding a guffaw, he gave a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of Gavyn and Kathryn. They held a sort of court flanked by Magnus and Abelard. All the while tidbits of food were waved under their noses for their delectation.

  All laughter fled, Rob murmured, “Aye, but do you never imagine what it would be like? Not the chieftain part, I ken fine I’ll come to that sooner or later—later, God willing. But then…” He jerked his head in the direction of the Ruthven heir at the other end of the high board next to Kathryn’s cousin, Brodwyn. “Jamie already has seventeen years. As for you, you’ll soon have twenty under your belt, six more than me. And what do we have to show for it between us? Jamie’s visited the king’s court with his father. He’s seen all the falderals the nobles wear. Not that prancing around, bending the knee to folk who believe they’re superior whets any sort of envy.” The hint of a groan left his lips as he admitted, “I suppose being a bastard has its compensations, for the likes of me would be unacceptable—”

  ‘Hush, lad,’ Nhaimeth shushed. “Who cares for that? However, it begs the question why you’d ever want to be bothered learning to bow the way Jamie does?’

  Then the reason dawned in his mind and he raised an enquiring brow as he thought of both lads’ reaction to Lhilidh.

  Rob smirked, a mere curl of the lips. Nhaimeth could always depend on the lad to cheer him up and was about to tell him, ‘Even though I’m auld, I will still wait on ye…’ Suddenly, Rob’s cheer turned to a scowl, so ferocious as the lad usually reserved for cateran and their like.

  “God’s blood,” the lad spat out the curse. “What is that scoundrel doing here?” He began leaping to his feet until Nhaimeth grabbed his elbow. For once, Rob shrugged his hand off. “Can you see who’s sitting at the end of the board closest to the wall? That is the self-same, cowardly cur who crept up behind the McArthur and tried to kill him within a day of Astrid’s dying.”

  Rob slammed down his cup of ale, sent it slopping across the wooden boards.

  With the half of his brain that wasn’t in shock, Nhaimeth noticed an ale stain spreading on the sleeve of his new linen shirt, a gift stitched by one of Morag’s women and worn this e’en’ for what had seemed like an occasion. None of that blinded him to the knowledge that Rob’s dander was up.

  Nor, he noted when he glanced past his friend, had it escaped Gavyn’s attention.

  Listening to Magnus with but half an ear, Gavyn pondered the tactics he’d taken with Kathryn earlier, unsure if the mental tongue-lashing he’d given himself while dressing would do his conscience much good. No use excusing himself with faux protests such as two years abstinence, or blaming the temptation of Kathryn’s beauty for making a blunder equal to a ship’s captain sailing side-on to a storm while the waves toppled his vessel. No matter that they’d been wed for two years, she was still a maiden, unprepared for the rough-and-tumble play of long-time lovers.

  Thank the Lord he’d never pulled her into the tub with him as he’d intended. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t do the same after they knew more of each other’s likes and dislikes.

  Kathryn was a handful—courageous, with more of the Bear in her make-up than might be good for her husband. However, he was willing to set aside both their mistakes and start anew.

  Start that night.

  He’d conveyed his decision to his young wife. In response she had been close-mouthed, attending to her wifely duties but saying little. In a world of silence, she had tended to his hose, tied his cross-laces and helped with slipping his feet into the soft leather boots he’d had made in France. It had been her gesture of bringing him a Breacan-an-feile then helping him to kilt it around his waist in the way of a true Highlander that had pricked his conscience.

  “This was one my father had woven as a dress Breacan-an-feile for Alexander. It’s a fine worsted but warm, and the weavers drew their dyes frae the countryside around Bienn á Bhuird, the better to blend into its surroundings. He never wore it, and it’s a shame to let it go to waste.”

  Never one to ignore a concession given in good faith, Gavyn said, “I thank you for the compliment of letting me wear it. Though I didn’t reach Cragenlaw in time to meet him, the McArthur had naught but good to say of the lad. Alexander was brave. Not one to stand back when a friend was in danger.”

  Her lips thinned. “And I believe you brought that friend here with you to the Comlyn hall,” she sniped, her fingers working on the long length of chequered worsted, pleating and tucking it around his waist.

  “If there’s blame to be laid at anyone’s door, it’s that of my brother, Doughall Farquhar. First he attempted to take my head off and left me for dead then colluded with his catamite to kill our father. Rob and my sister Morag were next on his list of folk who stood in his way, and if not for Alexander’s bravery, he might have had his wish.” He clenched his teeth, remembering Doughall’s death. “Aye, he became Baron but his position was no more tenable than the Norman who rules Wolfsdale today.”

  Her breath had caught in her throat, he could see it work as she swallowed and was aware he had worried her, for all her protestations about ability to rule at Bienn á Bhuird without him. “No, lass, I have no plans to take it back. I have too much to do to make Dun Bhuird safe for me and mine to be leaving you behind. I think it was obvious how much I want you, and tonight when I get you in that big bed I’ll show you.”

  She’d rewarded him with a nervous sniff that gave him hope. Unwisely, he had almost begun his seduction in a tub of water, but he would finish it once and for all in the big bed that took up most of the chamber.

  For a big man, Magnus was soft-spoken, and Gavyn leaned closer as the constable began making enquiries about the masons Gavyn had hired, wondering about the expected date of their arrival.

  Glad to have his thoughts dragged away from Kathryn and the way he should have handled their reunion, he said, “I’m expecting them any day now. Graeme McArthur’s Keep that Euan was having built is on his northwest boundary, so it’s not too far a journey, but until they get here I won’t know whether or nae they can make use of the local stone.”

  Out the corner of his eye, Gavyn noticed that Kathryn’s head had turned his way, taking her attention away from Abelard to focus instead on him. No doubt it was the mention of the McArthur and the fact of young Rob being with them at the high table. Kathryn wouldn’t be swayed; she held the McArthurs responsible for Alexander’s and her father’s deaths—as if the Bear’s grim determination to have his own way had nothing to do with the demise of both himself and his only son.

  Dragging his own focus back to his conversation with Magnus, he said, “You will have known that the McArthur’s cousin, Graeme, married to a Ruthven, Jamie’s sister, has been given the duty of minding the boundaries and reporting any disturbances. The new Keep has more comforts than one would expect, but Euan is fond of Graeme. Besides, for years the man was his constable at Cragenlaw.”

  “I mind him fine. Graeme McArthur always did his job well. And he’s one of the kind you would feel happy standing next to in a shield wall.” A high compliment, decided Gavyn, but Magnus wasn’t done, for he told Gavyn. “That kind of loyal
ty deserves a Keep and he won’t let the McArthur down.”

  “That said, Magnus, I won’t be offering up a keep for your command but, as constable of Dun Bhuird, I’ll be expecting your help with the curtain walls. A man of your experience is bound to know which areas of Dun Bhuird be most vulnerable to attack. Together, we’ll make plans for the new defences.”

  A stir at far end of the hall drew Gavyn’s attention away from both defences and his constable. He’d made no mention of Magnus’ limp. Time enough for that; the day would come when Magnus felt sure enough of his new Chieftain to tell him of his own accord.

  Gavyn was well aware his mercenaries were feeling exuberant. Who could blame them for feeling their oats—certainly not Gavyn Farquhar. Witness his own recent moment of practically throwing caution to the wind. His men had been at war most of their lives, just as he had.

  However, on the morrow he would have a canny word with his men about taking care not to upset the local lasses and, more importantly, any clansmen who had a claim on them. Many a lass’s eyes would light up at the notion of a man with a heavy purse. They didn’t have the slightest notion that there was more to his mercenaries than riches, and that went for him as well. Aye, there were days when it appeared all the wealth in the world was theirs, just sitting there for the taking. At the heart of matter, what remained was the sheer daily grind of commanding more than fifty mercenaries whose greatest enjoyment was fighting. Upon occasion, the blood they spilled came from the same warriors they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with in the shield wall—a change in personality that always amazed him.

  Some days, yon great vicious brutes of dogs that he’d brought back from France seemed more easily controlled; on other days, Gavyn thanked God for staunch and reliable lieutenants and their willingness to keep his warriors in check. That iron grip on his mercenaries extended to having his lieutenants make certain that only the most trusted of them helped shift the silver in the bullock carts that allowed them to know the exact location of the fortune they had brought to Dun Bhuird.