Rowenna was smaller than her sister - she would come up to his chin if he stood close to her - but she was tall enough so that he would not have to bend much to kiss her luscious mouth. He could not account for that thought entering his head.
She boasted a softly rounded figure, bountiful breasts and thick wavy hair, which he longed to run his fingers through. Curse her. She was like Brenna, yet not like her at all. There was no cowering softness about the lass. Rowenna MacCreadie’s eyes were a soft brown, not amber, and when she looked at him again, Jasper saw strength in her - a determined chin, the way she unflinchingly met his gaze. She was Marches bred and hard-hearted, no doubt. She was also the spawn of Rufus MacCreadie, who was a conniving, snivelling cur of a man. The fruit of his loins would be no better.
Jasper gulped down his ale and held out his cup. ‘Another,’ he commanded, taking a closer look at the lass. Freckles spattered across her nose gave her an innocent vulnerability. It sent his loins and heart into turmoil. Her hands trembled as she served him so she was not as hard as she pretended to be. Or maybe the ghost of his infatuation with Brenna still stalked his soul and made him see softness where there was none.
Jasper took a deep breath. ‘How did you manage to produce such bonnie daughters in this ugly old place, MacCreadie?’ he said, staring at Cecily, trying to find a fault in her, anything not to look at other one.
‘Ah, my wife was a great beauty, and God knows how I managed to catch her. But the Lord has seen fit to take her from me these two years since, and I rely on my daughters to see to my comfort. A man needs a woman at his hearth, does he not?’
Jasper gave him a sharp look, and his daughters did too. Ah, the plot was clear now, and he would not fall for it. Rufus could serve his daughters on a platter, but he would not be so easily led.
‘Of course, they will soon be wed, as it should be, so young, ripe, and fertile, and I will be left alone.’ Rufus put his hand around Cecily’s shoulders, showing her off.
‘You have suitors in mind?’ said Jasper as casually as he could. Cecily MacCreadie glared at her father.
‘Many come calling. Aye. We get no peace from them. But I cannot give my eldest away too easily, for Cecily is my treasure, my finest jewel.’
Jasper wanted to say, ‘And your youngest? What is she – a piece of coal? What price for her?’ But he held his tongue. He had to fight the madness encroaching on his loins and good sense.
Finest jewel, Cecily might be, but the longer Jasper looked her over, the colder and more haughty she seemed. The sisters were like fire and ice. They were so different. He wondered if Rufus’ praise hurt Rowenna, but Jasper could not bear to look at her to find out. Damn the lass. He would not have noticed her save for her red-blonde hair. Now, his anger had grown tenfold. It hammered in his breast and was seasoned by lust. He had to get away.
‘I will give you a boon this day and take my leave, for I’ve no desire to linger here,’ said Jasper. ‘But heed this warning. Fetch your son to me, or my wrath will fall on your head. If the debt is not paid to my satisfaction, I will return and exact vengeance for your son’s treachery. I will take everything you have and throw you off this land.’
Jasper slammed his ale cup down on the table, making the lasses jump. ‘I will return soon in search of Bran, and he will answer to me.’ He walked out as quickly as he could but noticed that Rowenna bobbed a quick curtsey and gave him a smile - both fearful and appeasing. Curse her to hell for being bonnie.
As Jasper rode from Fallstairs, Randel began to prod at him.
‘She was a fine-looking lass, that golden one, Jasper,’ he cried. I cannot believe she is of Rufus MacCreadie’s blood.’
‘Aye ‘tis a mystery how such loveliness could grow in such squalor.’
‘Ah, but the prettiest flowers grow in dung, do they not?’ came Randel’s coarse reply. ‘And the other lass was comely, too? Either one would do me or both at once. Hah! The old rat is full of surprises, eh? ‘Tis a wonder they are not wed already.’
‘They have nothing to offer beyond looks,’ said Jasper.
‘What matter? Any man would fight to get inside that Cecily, dowry or not.’
‘I’ll thank you not to talk of my future wife in that way, Randel,’ said Jasper, laughing off his teasing, trying to deflect.
Randel laughed back. ‘So, ‘tis done then. Rufus’ cunning plan has worked on you. Everyone will think you are a lucky man indeed. They will be green with envy.’
‘He has the cunning of a sheep. I saw his plan, and I am not falling for it. You make him an offer for Cecily’s hand if you are so besotted.’
‘She’ll not have me, and I’ve no coin to spare for a wife. ‘Tis a fool I’d be to compete with you, my friend, for I know I’d lose. Even with that scar, lasses fall over themselves to bed you.’
Aye, they did. But did they desire him or need his coin? If he took Cecily MacCreadie as his wife, she would be nothing more than a trophy - another callous arrangement to provide him with a son. And Cecily would not want him any more than Isobel had. So, the thought of sharing his bed with Cecily left him cold.
Now, the other one, she would make a man lose his senses with her ripe body and fiery brown eyes. He would never have noticed Rowenna had that remarkable hair not tugged at his memories. Was she pure or had she given herself away to some rough-fingered farm lad, in a barn or out on the moors under the stars? It would be a waste if she had, for Rowenna MacCreadie was ripe, and she should be taken slowly with skilled hands and a gentle mouth. How delicious it would be to make her cry his name in ecstasy.
One of his men came thundering along the path towards him, mercifully snapping him out of his lustful thoughts.
‘There’s news, Laird. We found the cattle stolen from Dungarnon,’ he cried, pulling his horse to a halt.
‘Then let us go and get them back,’ said Jasper.
‘There’s nought to get back. We found them in some thick woodland, each one slaughtered. Arrows to the head, throats slit, carcasses burned. ‘Twas an ugly sight.’
‘Dead?’ said Randel, and the man nodded, his face grave. ‘What fell business is this? It cannot be true. Here in the Marches, we reive for gain, not to slaughter, not to waste good livestock.’
