Bertha’s kind face twisted with suspicion. She was a loyal servant of Fellscarp and a friend to him, but she had her limits. ‘Whatever has befallen that lass, I hope it was not at your hand, Peyton Strachan,’ she said.
‘Do you think me capable of that?’ he said.
‘No, but the state of the poor lass.’
He took Bertha by the arm and led her away from the door. Best, the MacCreadie lass did not hear them talking. ‘Listen. I would have you take a look at her. I fear she might be hurt in places I cannot see. I came upon her when an Englishman was trying to have his way with her, and she was putting up a fight.’
‘Oh, heavens,’ cried Bertha, crossing herself. ‘Devils, all of them.’
‘Aye, and this one promised marriage to the lass, that they would run away together. But he’ll not harm any other lasses. He fell to my knife, and our safety depends on you keeping that to yourself. Now the lass needs tending to. I do not know how far it went with that bastard, and if she was…you know…dishonoured.’
‘Oh, the poor wee lass.’
‘This English fiend was an important man linked to powerful people. I can’t have her blabbing to the servant girls or anyone in Fellscarp about what occurred. She knows something that could send me to the gallows and bring ruin on Clan Strachan, on all of us.’
‘What is it?’
‘The less you know, the better, Bertha, for your own safety. I swear I did no harm to that lass, and the man I killed deserved it. Go and light a fire and get her warm and fed. Tell her nothing and don’t listen to anything she says. Trust me on this.’
‘I would trust you with my life, Peyton. You know that.’
‘As I am now trusting you with mine,’ he said.
Bertha went on tip-toe and kissed his cheek.
‘You mustn’t do that now that I am Laird,’ he said, wiping it off.
‘I have known you as a wee nipper and kissed you all your life, so I can kiss you when no one is looking, laird or not. You will always be my saviour,’ she said.
Peyton smiled lest she worry too much. ‘Go quickly. I will stay here until you come back and see that she is safe.’
Bertha hurried away to fetch what she needed, and Peyton leaned against the wall, waiting for her return. Bertha was wise and capable, and she owed him a debt, so he could count on her discretion. Hauling the lass back to Fellscarp and locking her up was no kindness, but he had many souls under his care besides a golden-haired nuisance.
A spurt of humiliation stung him at Cecily MacCreadie’s words. ‘Stay away from me, you brute,’ she had said. ‘Ruffian’ she had called him. Is that how he appeared to all women, including Lorna?
Cecily’s words hurt more because she was bonnie and had stirred desire in him. Peyton pushed off the wall and was about to go in search of food and warmer clothes when a rattling at the door made him turn back.
‘Let me out,’ screamed Cecily MacCreadie.
‘No,’ he shouted back, and she fell silent.
In the darkness, ghosts crept from the past. He could almost hear her giggling as he chased her to this chamber, catching her in just this spot.
Ten years fell away, and Peyton was a green lad of sixteen again, bursting with his own importance, eager to make his mark on his clan and the lasses. All he thought about, night and day, was sinking his cock into someone. She was beautiful even then, when she was scrawny and gangly-limbed, her breasts not yet fully come in, her green eyes wide and lively. How he wanted her after a week of longing glances, the slightest touch on his arm when he passed, the way she opened her mouth just a little and bit her lip whenever their eyes met. She never paid him any mind before, but he had filled out, grown into his frame of late, and other lasses around Fellscarp had begun to bat their eyelashes at him.
Even now, he could feel her mouth, hot, wet and exciting in his first kiss, her budding breasts pressed against his chest, her waist so tiny, the slide of the amber silk dress under his hands. Laird Hew Strachan’s daughter was forbidden fruit. Was that why she tasted so delicious? He returned her kisses feverishly, clumsily, full of spittle, confused by her sudden interest in him. He flinched inside as he recalled the pain as she bit him on the lip, hard enough to draw blood.
‘What was that for?’ he had cried.
‘Punishment for being too forward. As a bastard, you should know your place, Peyton Strachan.’ She was still smiling – that sweet, winning smile that could fell a man from twenty paces, wrap him in chains of lust. But now her smile was tinged with cruelty.
‘I thought you liked me,’ he said, feeling a fool. ‘And I am no bastard.’
‘Oh, I like you well enough, and as to bastard, it is about time, you know. It is rumoured that my father sired you, and incest is a little beneath me, don’t you think?’
‘I…I am no bastard, and Laird Hew did not...’
‘Go ask your mother,’ she spat.
