Border Lord (5 page)

Castle Kildare looked as ominous as its name.

The huge keep made of gray stone rose out of the rugged landscape, ivy clinging to its massive walls. Terri leaned closer to Brochan, seeking his warmth and comfort.

He had gone quiet on her the moment they entered the camp after their tryst at the loch. Brochan’s men had watched them, some with knowing smiles on their faces, while others looked a bit angry.

None of them trusted her. Not even Brochan.

Which made her wonder if he regretted making love to her. She hoped that wasn’t the case, especially since it had been so wonderful for her. She’d never made love with such intensity before. Secretly a part of her yearned to stay here, with Brochan…in this time.

A bell rang, ending the momentary peacefulness of early evening. Shouts sounded from the castle a second before the giant portcullis lifted, and people flooded out, ready to wel
come their laird and his men. Medieval men, women, and children, all watching her intently.

Terri swallowed past the lump in her throat as the crowd grew to well over one hundred people. Thankful she had Brochan at her back, she straightened her shoulders.

She had to remember the history here. Remember that she was an enemy to these people. Their laird’s brother had been killed by Annabelle’s father, and they were out for blood.

And it showed on their faces. She felt safe for now, close to Brochan…but what would happen when he wasn’t around to protect her?

“Thanks be to God that you found the wench,” an old man said, his gray hair long and straggly, like he hadn’t brushed it in weeks. But even with his unkempt appearance, he looked related to Brochan, tall and lean, even for his age. The green eyes the same color and shape.

“Uncle Hamish, I trust ye have kept the castle running smoothly in my absence?” Brochan asked, dismounting. He lifted his arms to help Terri down, and she put her hands on his shoulders.

The blood in her veins warmed as she slid down his body, his long fingers wrapping around her hips, reminding her of their sexual play last night.

They had made love three times in the space of a few hours, and she still burned for him. The sexual attraction to this man was so intense, unlike anything she’d experienced before.

His hands fell away and he stepped back.

“A comely lass, too,” Hamish said, his gaze moving over Terri in a way that made her shudder. Catching her reaction, the older man laughed under his breath, while walking around her, checking her out.

Brochan straightened, his eyes narrowing. If Terri wasn’t mistaken, Brochan and his uncle were not on good terms.

Hamish lifted a lock of Terri’s hair and brought it to his nose. “You smell of heather. Bet you taste as sweet too.”

Terri wished she could say the same. The man’s breath smelled foul, and a funky body odor lingered in the air.

“Uncle Hamish,” Brochan said, his voice deadly calm. “MacLellan’s daughter is my prisoner. She is to remain untouched.”

His uncle immediately let the curl fall back on Terri’s shoulder, his low laugh making her take a step back. The man had “creep” written all over him.

“Forget not who she is, Brochan. Your brother is dead because of her father.”

“And well I know it,” Brochan said, taking Terri by the hand, his warm fingers wrapping around her wrist. She would rather have had him take her by the hand, but he had appearances to worry about. His clan probably wouldn’t take too kindly to hand-holding.

She found strength in that touch, and was grateful when he started walking toward the castle, nodding to the people they passed. Terri didn’t look at anyone, but gazed directly ahead, at the drawbridge that had been lowered, and the portcullis overhead that looked like thick, black knives.

The inner bailey was larger than it appeared from the outside, and alive with activity. Many stopped what they were doing to watch them pass. To the right sat a chapel, to the left the great hall, an armory, buttery, and kitchen, and finally the stables. There were two towers, both large and formidable, and she knew even as she followed Brochan into one of them that this would be her prison. Though she told herself she shouldn’t be surprised he was throwing her in a cell after making love, it still hurt.

The spiral staircase was steep, and each room they passed she glanced into. There were several good-sized chambers, one extremely masculine. Even the bed was massive, made of dark wood and thick draperies.

She assumed it was Brochan’s chamber. Unfortunately they didn’t stop at that room, but climbed higher.

They came to the top of the stairs, and he pushed open a door. The small room had one window, but it was narrow…so narrow she couldn’t escape if she wanted to. Not that she’d ever consider scaling a wall that was four stories high. Then again, she’d never been locked in a solar before. Give her a few days and she might just try it.

“So, what will become of me, Brochan?”

He looked at her, his green eyes distant. Now that he had returned to his clan, she had become the enemy once again. The time they’d had together, just a pleasant memory. “Ye will be locked in.”

“What am I to do? Just spend the days looking at the walls?”

He winced. “Ye are a prisoner here, Annabelle. Yer fate has not yet been decided.”

In essence she had traded one cell for another. She didn’t know which would be better, the priory or Castle Kildare.

“I will see to it that ye are brought embroidery, and other things to keep yer mind occupied.”

“I have never embroidered. I wouldn’t know how.”

His brows furrowed. “All women embroider.”

“Well, I don’t, so there you have it.”

Irritated with him, and disappointed as well, she stepped away, toward the window, closing her eyes as the breeze cooled her flushed skin. She went up on her tiptoes and looked below her.

She could see part of the bailey from her vantage point,
and beyond a large loch, surrounded by purple hills, the heather abundant and fragrant. Any other time she might have enjoyed the view. But the enormity of her predicament hit her like a ton of bricks. What if this really was it for her? What if she couldn’t return to her own time and spent the rest of her life here locked away, forgotten?

That could well be her fate. Wasn’t that what the tour guide had said? Annabelle had never been seen or heard from again?

What if this was her fate? Dying in a cell, never to be heard from again.

Tears stung her eyes, but she brushed them away. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, and a second later she was pulled up against his length.

She closed her eyes, letting the tears slip down her cheeks and onto her borrowed cloak. His arms encircled her, pulling her close while he kissed the top of her head. “If I could change this, I would, Annabelle. I hope ye know that.”

“Why do I have to be locked in the solar? I won’t escape.”

“You are my prisoner, Annabelle. My people would never stand for ye to walk freely. They do not trust ye. Believe me when I say you are safer here in this room than anyplace else.”

“I don’t want to be locked up like some animal, Brochan. I can’t. I’ll go crazy with nothing but these four walls around me.”

He turned her in his arms, lifting her chin with gentle fingers, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “I will come visit ye every single day.”

She knew there was no use arguing. He wasn’t about to let her walk free. His clan wouldn’t stand for it. He lowered his head and kissed her, without any of the gentleness of the night before.

Rather, there was desperation in that kiss, his hands cupping her face as his tongue stroked hers.

Her stomach tightened as fire rushed through her veins, swooping low to her womanhood. His cock brushed against her, already rock hard, and she thrilled at the knowledge that she excited him in the same way he excited her.

She cupped his sex, her fingers smoothing over the fine material of his braies, molding it against his thick length. He lifted her, walking until her back met the brick wall. Her clit twitched, anticipating that hard cock buried deep inside her heat.

He held her pinned with his weight, while he pushed his braies down, his cock erect, rising against his belly.

He lifted her higher and she sighed when he thrust inside her wet heat. He cupped her ass, his fingers gripping her tight as his strokes increased.

She kissed his jaw, his ear, her tongue stroking the ridge before dipping inside.

His groan filled the room, and she clung to his shoulders as she started the ascent toward climax.

Her entire body trembled as she came, her channel gripping him tight. He nipped at her ear as he held her hips steady, his cock embedded deep inside her.

Nails biting into her tender skin, his strokes increased, harder, faster. Brochan groaned, his head falling back on his shoulders as he thrust and ground into her, not withdrawing this time.

With trembling hands, he set her back on her feet, and she stumbled, her knees weak. “Ye have bewitched me, sweet Annabelle,” he whispered, kissing her once more before he pulled his braies up and tied them.

Feeling his absence already, she let her gown fall back into place, glancing at the door to see a guard standing there.

She blushed to the roots of her hair. Had he seen them make love? Chances were good that he had.

“When will you return?” she asked, desperation in her voice. She glanced past his shoulder, to the sparse furnishings in the cell. The bed shoved into the corner, the desk and chair, a large trunk, which hopefully contained a good book or two.

“I will return after dinner.”

Was this how she would spend the rest of her life? Waiting for him to come to her? To make love to her? Maybe she should have tried to escape after all?

She should have headed back to the priory to see if she could return to her own time now that Brochan had kidnapped her.

Back to Elliott.

To her horror she tried to conjure up her fiancé’s image but failed. All she could think of was the man before her. His green eyes watched her, his jaw clenched tight. Despite their intense attraction the fact remained he didn’t trust her…or perhaps he didn’t trust himself.

She could tell in that look that he didn’t want to imprison her any more than she wanted to be locked in this solar.

“I shall see you soon, Annabelle,” he said, a soft smile on his face, before he walked out the door, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Brochan watched his men from his vantage point beside the roaring fire.

The winds had come, and blew with a force that sent embers flying from the giant hearth.

“Even the weather celebrates the capture of MacLellan’s daughter,” his uncle said, taking a long drink from his leather
trencher. Ale fell onto his shirtfront, and he pressed a palm against it. Brochan looked away, disgusted. His uncle had never been known for his manners. His father’s younger brother, Hamish had always resented Brochan and even Tristan, his late younger brother. Since Hamish had never married, or had any children, Brochan had hoped his uncle would embrace him as his own child, particularly since Brochan had lost his father early on.

But it would never be. Too much jealousy made it impossible.

“Stories are circulating about you and the girl,” Hamish said, a slow smiling spreading across his weathered face. “You’ve bedded the wench, haven’t you?”

Brochan felt a blush rush up his neck. He knew his behavior was uncalled-for. He had not expected to have this attraction toward Annabelle, or for it to be reciprocated. Already he had ravished her a handful of times in one day…and still it was not enough. He wondered if he would ever get her out of his blood.

“They are merely stories, uncle.”

Hamish snorted. “I do not blame you, nephew. She is a tempting piece, to be sure. I’d not mind giving her a tumble meself.”

Brochan cracked his knuckles, right tempted to knock his uncle flat. “The girl will not be touched, uncle.” He tried to keep the anger from his voice but failed.

The door opened, and Brochan looked up to find Fergus walking toward him. His friend could always make him smile, and he was in need of a good laugh right now.

“Brochan, the girl is requesting a carafe of wine.”

His uncle’s laughter burned in his ears. “She is a spitfire, that one. Mayhap Eva can befriend her.”

Brochan tried hard to contain his growing temper. Eva, a
seamstress who lived in the village, and who had been Brochan’s lover for the past few months since her husband’s death, would not take the news that he had found a new lover well.

Though comely, Eva had a temper that had shocked him on occasion. He had visited her hut once a week, and she had satisfied his desires, his physical need, but that was before Annabelle had come into his life. With Annabelle it was more than just sex. They had a connection that went beyond the physical. “Mayhap ye can see that the wine is taken to the guards, uncle,” Brochan suggested, tired of his uncle’s smug expression.

His uncle came to his feet, and finished off the rest of his ale. “I shall take the wine to the guards then.”

Brochan rose, nearly upending his chair in his haste, and put a heavy hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “Ye will leave Annabelle be, uncle. Hear me and hear me well. Ye are not to enter the solar or engage in conversation. Speak to the guards only.”

The smile left his uncle’s face, and his brows furrowed. “Nephew, you mistake my meaning.”

“I have said my piece and I will say no more,” Brochan added, while watching Hamish walk away.

“You would be wise to send him away, Brochan,” Fergus said, brushing a hand through his hair. “He will cause you nothing but grief. In truth, he will probably go to Eva’s hut to tell her of Annabelle.”

“Eva will not be allowed to get close to Annabelle.”

“She will be furious, Brochan. You know that.” Fergus rested his elbows on his knees and reached out to the fire. “She is a comely wench, but I would warn you to be careful, Brochan. I say this only because I do not trust Annabelle or her people. ’Tis possible she is pretending, trying to save herself with her feminine wiles. She could be using you.”