‘Forgive me, but is she staying?
Eaden’s words flooded back. ‘You never had the ruthless streak, did you, Peyton?’
‘What is she to you, Laird?’ pressed Selby, nosy to a fault.
‘She is whatever I want her to be. Now, I have suffered the loss of Liddesdale long enough. It is time to make war on the Glendennings.’
***
Cecily peered out of the window at the melee below – lots of shouting and running. Peyton had mounted his horse and was rallying his men - for a fight, most likely. They were strapping on enough swords and muskets.
Her heart pounded, and not from the impending violence below. She should never have allowed herself to get too close to Peyton Strachan. His breath on her face, his smell – that strange manly mix of sweat and earthiness – made her nervous. His size was intimidating, too, and when he had taken her hand, his own had burned her flesh with its heat. Heavens, the way he looked at her with those fierce brown eyes – all hunger and anger mingled with admiration. That look had been the same as Edmund’s, and she didn’t want men to look at her now that she knew the consequences. She wanted to be invisible.
And how different he had looked, shorn of his beard and the hair cropped out of his face. He was younger than she first thought, and his features were pleasing. His expression had softened to kindness when he had taken her hand. But his snarl of anger had banished the softness. He had been in a towering temper as he had stormed off without a word.
The men rode out, and the silence in their wake invited loneliness in. Cecily’s eyes welled. She sniffed her tears back. If she was trapped and alone, it was all her own doing.
How could she ever have thought of abandoning Rowenna for a virtual stranger? A sob burst from her. Her poor sister – ever toiling, long-suffering. The burden of Fallstairs had fallen squarely on her shoulders. Rowenna was so bonnie when she made the effort, with her fine eyes and red-gold, lustrous hair. And she often chastised Cecily for her vanity in wanting a new dress or a few little luxuries to brighten her grim world.
But Rowenna had been right all along. Look where vanity and selfishness had taken her – imprisoned in this foul place. She was nought but a selfish, useless fool of a lass. Had not Peyton Strachan said so? Cecily had once been proud of her beauty and believed it would carry her to a better life than she was born into. But beauty was not a gift. It was a dangerous burden. And wielding it against Peyton had not worked. He despised her. And he should, for he had saved her life at risk of his own, and she could not have been less grateful.
In that, she had made a grave mistake. He had locked her up, was about to shame her by saying she was his mistress, and had started to look at her in a way that made her knees weaken. And he had kissed her.
Cecily shook off the smell, taste and feel of Peyton Strachan. She may be a fool, but there was still some fight in her. She would find a way out of Fellscarp or die trying.
Chapter Twelve
The green, sweeping glens of Liddesdale spread out before Peyton. He drank in its beauty from a vantage point where he and his men lurked silently in the cover of the woods like footpads. Aye, like criminals on his own land. Before Laird Hew had gone to his maker, before his son Robert had thrown everything away to feed his ambition and greed, these lands had been the pride of Clan Strachan. ‘Liddesdale is as ripe and fertile as a young virgin, lad,’ Hew had once said to Peyton in his usual bawdy way of speaking.
Now, it was in the grip of Jasper Glendenning.
‘Not a sign of those sheep,’ said Selby.
Peyton spat his contempt onto the grass. ‘Aye, those sheep are well gone, and the money they would have brought at market, too.’
‘Are we for home then? We’ve been out a good while, and the men won’t welcome another night shivering on the cold ground.’
Home, where he would face the muttering of his clansmen. This loss would further weaken his hold on Clan Strachan. They did not want him any more than Cecily MacCreadie.
When he returned to Fellscarp, he would have to endure her shuddering revulsion when he forced her to share his chamber each night. She may be a beauty, but she had a way of shrivelling his manhood with one glare or lash of her sharp tongue. But why did she haunt his thoughts and loins if that was so? Peyton rose in his saddle in discomfort. Even now, he stiffened at the thought of all that luscious blonde delicacy.
Night was drawing in, and the weather was turning nasty. He was about to turn back to Fellscarp when a huge stag broke cover nearby. Peyton smiled at Selby.
‘I’ll be damned if I go home empty-handed,’ he said.
***
Hours later, Peyton sat in a murky tavern in a small village on the outskirts of Liddesdale. He cradled a foamy ale and let the fire warm his backside. Outside, a deer carcass dripped blood into the snow. It had fallen steadily since he had felled the beast. It would be dawn soon, and at least he was not going home with nothing to show for his efforts. Delaying the ride with drink and debauchery for his men had been appreciated, even if it did empty his pockets of coin.
A voluptuous woman approached him and sat on his lap. She had been eyeing him for a while. She was his senior by ten years, but still comely enough, though her profession had worn her down a little. ‘Fancy a tumble, Peyton Strachan,’ she said with a wink.
‘It is Laird Strachan now, lass,’ he replied with a smile.
She patted his knee. ‘You will always be that nervous little bastard, Peyton, to me, no matter how high you rise. You may have grown big and strong,’ she said, squeezing his biceps. ‘But I could still teach you a thing or two, I’d wager.’
As he was a little drunk, Peyton considered it for a moment. Greer had taken his virginity briskly and roughly when he was sixteen. Old Laird Hew had paid. ‘Go and make a man of him,’ he had said to Greer, in a rare hint that maybe Peyton was his son. He never extended similar favours to the other lusty young men running around Fellscarp. Or perhaps that was just the wishful thinking of a motherless bastard with not a penny to his name.
‘Well, what is it to be,’ said Greer, leaning in, all heaving cleavage and sour ale breath.
