The Chieftain's Feud (4 page)

Betrayal hurt.

He had ridden away, wishing he’d had the nerve to kill Brodwyn for her part in Lhilidh’s death. The passage of the years should have helped erode his memory of her, but nae; for years his gut had lurched, bile burning his insides knowing she would be playing off her erotic wiles on some other man. Hadn’t he done the same with the women he met at Malcolm Canmore’s court, punishing himself for falling for the wiles of a devious witch who had cast her spell over him?

Although there were many who would doubt the truth from a man whose honour was tainted, that was why he had resisted Eve—for a while at least.

Yet it had shocked him today when he realised how something simple like a plaid-wrapped body could bring all sorts of painful emotions rushing back. What could he do to rid himself of feelings for Eve that after six months sat hard and immovable like a lump of granite in his belly?

“Are ye not a wee bit curious?” Iseabel demanded, as if her six-year seniority gave her the right to know his every thought. Pulling at his elbow, she interrupted his deep contemplation of the past while he stared unseeing at the folk in the hall—folk who had become family and allies against a common foe, if not actually members of the same clan.

His sister Iseabel had ne’er been the kind of lass to hold back, not if there was something she wanted. Though still a lad of tender years, to Jamie it had been obvious frae the first that she had set her sights on Graeme McArthur. He remembered yon days well. It was the self-same year that Euan McArthur had taken him on at Cragenlaw, promising his father to foster him and train him alongside Rob and Alexander Comlyn.

He shrugged off his lassitude, muttering, “Curious about what?”

Aye, his indifference showed. It was the thought of listening to another story about her bairns, tales of Meg’s amazing aptitude at sewing or wee Dougie’s riding skills. His sister’s world revolved around her two bairns, a son and daughter. Iseabel had quickly settled into smug domesticity. His sister had been transformed frae the moment she and Graeme McArthur were wed. It was easy seen how much the McArthur respected Graeme. Why else had he provided the roof o’er Graeme and Iseabel’s heads—a fine stone round tower built on the nor’west boundary of Cragenlaw lands where Graeme McArthur had formed a new McArthur sept, an inland branch of Euan’s clan.

Jamie blinked as if suddenly coming awake, while Iseabel’s eyes widened, showing her surprise that he needed the matter explained to him.

“I meant curious about the bonnie lass that the three of ye found lying in the snow,” she teased. She fluttered her eyelashes knowingly. Did she actually believe that another lass in the castle was all that was needed to send him chasing after her skirts, half dead or not? He bit the inside of his cheek and turned away. Who would have believed his damn reputation would spread the length and breadth of Scotland?

Iseabel hadn’t the slightest notion of the torment he’d suffered, the blame. Truth to tell, he was well aware he had Rob and Nhaimeth to thank for that. Good friends who had kept a still tongue in their heads where many another would have enjoyed a fine jest at his foolhardiness. He looked his sister straight in the eye. “A woman, ye say? I hadnae noticed,” he finished and earned a lift of her brows.

“Had ye not? A pity for she’s as bonnie as Kathryn, but with brighter red hair.” She grinned up at him wickedly. “I heard tell that’s the kind of lass ye fancy.”

“I suppose ye got that information frae Ruthven? The auld de’il thought it served me a good lesson when the Buchan lassie left me with nary a backward glance. But ye ken him, if her name had been anything else he would have sent me chasing after her, all in the name of producing another generation of Ruthven heirs. The man is so obvious. However, I can tell you what I told him, it was naught but a wee song and dance. Out of sight, out of mind.”

He lied through his teeth.

The quirk of Iseabel’s short nose said more than words, but she let it go and instead told him, “Well there’s not a soul here who recognises her, so-o-o… Morag wondered if she could be someone ye might have come across at court. Her clothes are of the finest quality ye ken, tiny wee stitches as if sewn by the nuns. And under her plaid, my certes,” she exclaimed. “She wore layers of worsted and silk and a silver fox jerkin.”

She paused, but he soon discovered her wee hitch of indrawn breath was for naught but effect. “Morag has lit a fire in the chamber she’s put the lass in, and Kathryn has mixed a herbal tisane for her, but naught so far has made any difference. The wee lassie is as cold as meat in the icehouse. It would be a pity if she left this world without her family discovering she had gone.”

“What’s that? Ye mean that our, that is Rob’s, efforts were wasted?” His breath caught in his throat, squeezing out the words. “This lass, she’s dying?”

Jamie’s mind flew back to the nightmare of watching Lhilidh die in his friend’s arms. Rob would take it hard to see this lass die as well. It would make nae difference that his friend had taken his revenge on Lhilidh’s killer by slaughtering him. Rob had been in love with Lhilidh and had hardly looked at another lass since. Therein lay the disparity betwixt them.

To Jamie’s imagination, this visit to Cragenlaw had begun to take on all the terrors of a bad dream.

He told himself he gave in for the sake of peace, naught else; and he refused to admit that Iseabel’s curiosity could be catching. “Very well, I’ll take a quick look and see if her face is familiar. Ye just never ken,” he conceded, his words lacking conviction. Blue plaid aside, Scotland was full of bonnie lassies with red hair.

Iseabel led the way up the stairs, instinctively taking the wider side of the granite steps that wound round the curved wall, each tread bevelled in the same place, worn frae years of feet tramping up and down, his included. It seemed only a wee while since he and the others had run frae top to bottom and vice-versa, with Morag chasing after them for making a row.

Tonight, if his steps lacked enthusiasm compared to Iseabel’s, blame his reluctance to discover which lassie was lying tucked up in bed and most probably at death’s door. Whereas Iseabel took the stairs with her back straight and shoulders squared, his gaze examined every mark in the treads as if his future were written there in the stone.

The chamber that housed the lass was situated in the west side of the Keep—an apartment not so far distant frae the one he still shared with Rob and Nhaimeth during his visits to Cragenlaw. It was as if they were still lads and learning their craft—battle-craft lessons for future chieftains. Euan had always spoken wisely on the ways to get the best frae their men, warriors and clansmen who would fight on their side.

Being back here, yon days didn’t feel that that long ago, yet Alexander Comlyn was dead, and though both Rob and Nhaimeth were as tight-knit as ever, he … aye, he felt as if he had lived several lifetimes, was now auld in experience if not in years.

His sister swung open the door and stood aside to let him pass.

He was in nae rush. Instinct like the hair rising at the back of his neck told him he would be better to run. Instead he stood filling the doorway, contemplating the scene afore him, one hand resting on the granite stonework arching over the chamber’s entrance. Although a fire burned bright in the hearth, the granite wall struck cold against his palm, impervious to the warmth of the flames. Candles had been lit. They chased the shadows frae the corners of the chamber, yet in the centre it seemed as though a dull pool of grey floated o’er the bed, undiminished by the curls of red hair spilling onto the wolfskin cover.

As in a dream he moved toward the bed, drawn by his weakness for hair of a colour that would more than likely be his downfall. Some lessons were never learned—lessons like plunging his hands into those flames aware that, aye, he would be burned
.

A mass of springy curls with a life of their own hid the lass’s face where the clinging dampness darkening the tips had begun to dry. Kneeling on the far side of the bed, he reached out, his fingers tangling in curls of living fire as he combed them away from her face and tucked them behind her ear, his hand trembling as denial was nae longer possible.

For the first time in his life he knew the true meaning of gut-foundered.

Thank God he had already knelt by the bed, still stubborn enough to abhor the thought of his sister observing his knees giving way. He cut a glance in Iseabel’s direction. Cursing silently at the tightness in his throat that transformed the words he uttered into a harsh whisper, “As it happens, I do recognise the lass. This is Eve Buchan, my hand-fasted wife—at least for another six months if the promises we made each other still count, considering she broke them on that last day at Dunfermline … the day she turned her back on me and left to bide with her father.”

“Buchan’s daughter… and you hand-fasted. Ach,” she snorted.” There will be ructions. Father will not be pleased about that. What if she should die? It will be yet another cause for affront added to yon never-ending heap.”

Jamie’s sigh deepened into a groan.

He had imagined Eve in many guises, none of them death. He trailed the tip of a finger down her cold cheek. Her lashes quivered as if echoing his sigh, or sensing his warmth, his closeness, and made him shudder to remember how it had been betwixt them but a few short hours before the sun rose and she left him behind. That, however, didnae explain what she was doing here at Cragenlaw. And if Eve was here, where was Buchan?

The thought dragged his mouth down. “You mean my actions have merely added insult to injury. And yer wondering what are the odds of it starting a war betwixt them and me, the instigator.”

“War? What foul prank of fate landed me with a brother who’s a dunderhead? As far as Ruthven’s concerned that’s the least of yer worries. I’m sure that if Eve is truly yer handfasted wife, should she die, our father is bound to look upon it more as losing a Ruthven heir.”

All these years and he hadn’t figured out the daft direction her mind spun in. As always she made him so mad he almost sputtered, “Mayhap you’ve forgotten me? I
am
the Ruthven heir. What makes you believe I’ll let myself be killed by Buchan.”

“Hmph… that’s as may be; however, until now ye have been the only one. Another Ruthven male would make for continuity … and the lass is with child.”

The colour drained frae his face, made him dizzy.
A bairn?

Christ’s blood, this wasnae anything like the news Jamie had expected to hear. Shock made him burst out in anger. “Typical female, naught in yer head but bairns. It would seem they’re easily planted,” he said, thinking of the few instances when he and Eve had had a chance to make love. “We both ken our clan have been feuding with the Buchans for as long as I’ve been born … longer. What I cannae remember is anyone explaining the reason why the feud exists. Believe me, after I met Eve, I tried to get the story out of Father, but the whys and the wherefores of the whole sorry situation still remain a mystery. He becomes inflexible at any mention of Buchan. His opinion seems to be that it served me right for meddling with a Buchan and I cannae help but feel it suited him right well that Buchan left, taking his daughter with him. That said, think you that he’s likely to welcome a Buchan grandchild as his heir? He’d as soon poke himself in the eye with a stick.”

“Well let me put an end to yer curiosity.” There was a wry twist to Iseabel’s lips as she informed him, “I’ve been told our mother was betrothed to Buchan, and that Ruthven stole her frae him, married her, and got her with child—Fiona—before Buchan could catch up with them. That’s when the feud began, though I thought it had calmed down of late at the king’s instigation. This business of you and Eve and the bairn she’s carrying will bring the feud roaring back. How could it not?” She paused for breath. “What think ye, should we keep her name to ourselves, for a wee while anyway? Should she recover, it will be a different story.”

“You jest!” He growled at her. “
If
she recovers? That’s cauld even for a Ruthven. Yer talking about a lass I once hoped to marry as well as an innocent bairn.”

Isabel’s lip curled as she came out with the obvious, “Well for now she is still yer hand-fasted wife. If ye once loved her then ye’ll do yer best to see she doesnae die. She’s far too cauld. I’m sure I dinnae have to belabour the point by telling ye of the ways ye might use to warm her up.” So saying, Iseabel turned on her heel and left Jamie alone to consider his future and his past.

On consideration, now he was o’er the first flush of lust, he couldnae see any way the two parts of his life would ever fit together without causing a catastrophe of some form or another.

Nature didnae work that way. Not where he was concerned.

Getting to his feet, he stepped over to the fire and stripped off his warm sheepskin short-coat. Even so, he felt sweat trickle down his spine. Whether frae the flames or the realisation that he’d soon be holding Eve against him once more was debatable. Setting his arse down on the wooden stool to one side of the fire, he began to grapple with his long thigh-high boots, thinking it was fortunate the fur linings made it easier to slide their length onto the floor without anyone’s help. Finished, he rose again, fingers swiftly unfastening the belt holding up his plaid to toss them both the way of his short-coat and boots. As he worked, he kept glancing at Evie. If she lived, would it always be the same way betwixt the two of them, as it had to date?

There were many who said he had nae conscience—a care-for-naught. He had put that down to their jealousy of his easy way with the lasses.

Eve, though, had made him question his integrity, his morality—even considering how they had finally met. Unlike his sexual mentor, Brodwyn, he had drawn the line at innocent virgins. She had taken an inexperienced lad and turned him into a reprobate, ready to take his pleasure when and how he might. Though some had sniggered that he would tupp anything in skirts, they’d been wrong. He had tried to resist Eve, struggled, avoided her.

Aye, he could admit it now: he had been flattered by the way she had chased after him, persisted. It had taken him six months to realise that made nae odds; he had been the one without stamina. He had given in and had naught to be proud of. Look at the turmoil ahead of them all. It was a moment of self-knowledge that had felled him, struck a blow in much same the way it had the day he watched Rob kill Harald, the day Jamie had turned his back on Brodwyn—the realisation that he had nae claims to being a hero, just a man, when it came to the women he had loved.