‘Go to hell, Eaden,’ spat Peyton.
‘All in good time. Now, do we have a truce, you and I?’
‘No, we do not.’
‘A shame. Curse your stubborn nature. You are reaching the end, cousin. More of your men will come over to my side. Make the most of your days, for I have powerful friends you do not.’ He narrowed his eyes and staggered back inside, shouting back, ‘Either way, you need to keep an eye on me. Keep me close. We will see each other soon, Peyton.’
Whatever that meant, the choice was clear. He could crawl in the muck with cutthroats and backstabbers like Griffin Macaulay and Black Eaden, men not fit to lick his boots, who would eventually betray him. The alternative was watching his men’s loyalty slowly seep away until he lost his grip on Clan Strachan. It would happen if they carried on losing livestock and being raided by their neighbours. After that, it was either death or banishment. And death would be preferable.
His men were depending on him to turn around his fortunes. Lowri needed his protection, as did all the other women of the clan. Though one of them – well, he didn’t know whether to protect her or strangle her.
Peyton took a deep breath of air, so cold that it made his lungs ache. It was time to banish self-doubt and fight like the savage he was for whatever he wanted. To hell with honour and loyalty.
With violent resolve pumping in his chest, he headed for home.
Chapter Fourteen
After a day of riding around trying to clear his head and calm his heart, Fellscarp’s walls had never looked so decayed as Peyton rode in over the causeway. The sky seethed with the promise of rain, and snow melted off the roof with a steady drip.
Peyton found a water barrel and washed off the stink of the tavern, along with the taint of shame and humiliation. The world swayed a little as he bent over it. Perhaps he was still drunk, or at least, he hoped he was, for he could not stand himself sober. He was a low-born, rough brute, and he always would be. He had convinced himself he was a leader of men and worthy of Lorna’s love, but he was not, and every time he rode in, he felt as if Fellscarp was trying to expel him.
With a sigh, Peyton mounted the stairs to his chamber to go and check on his prisoner. Cecily was seated at the hearth on a stool with a pile of linen in her hand. She wore a new dress, the pale grey of a pigeon’s breast, which made her look soft and gentle, though he knew she was not. When Peyton burst in, she stood up, knuckles tightening on the bundle.
‘You are back,’ she declared.
‘So it would seem,’ he said, going to the fire to warm his hands before it.
‘Where did you go?’
‘Wherever I wanted to go.’
Cecily smiled a little, which puzzled him. ‘I am glad you have returned,’ she said. ‘I feel safer when you are here, truly I do.’
‘Have you been fighting with Aila again?’
‘No, we avoid each other, and you told me not to.’ She smiled again, looking unutterably lovely, which annoyed him because it sent a thud of lust to his groin so strong that he almost fell over. Peyton stared into the fire and tried to ignore it.
‘I have been thinking about my situation while you were gone, Peyton,’ she said softly. ‘I know I cannot return home just yet.’
He tried to think of the harpy she had been, fighting with Aila, but it was as if her gentleness slithered into his heart and sparked cruelty. ‘Perhaps never,’ he snapped.
‘Aye, for there is great danger for you if I do, in case I spill our secret and everyone finds out that we murdered a man.’
‘We? I thought I was the one who drove a blade into Edmund Harclaw’s throat.’
‘Aye, but it was all my fault for trusting him, for being foolish.’
‘And wilfully naïve,’ he said into the flames.
‘If you like. I know that I have brought danger down on my family and your people, too. I hate myself for it.’ Her voice wavered. ‘What I mean to say is, I have reconciled myself to my punishment, the banishment from my family, my…my stay here with you.’
‘Have you now?
Peyton looked at her face to sniff out the lie. But all he saw was gentle beauty, a fearful expression in those stunning eyes, and her creamy cheeks reddening under his scrutiny. There was so much innocence on the surface, yet she was seething with schemes underneath. How could she not be? She was a woman, and they all despised him.
‘I mended your shirt,’ she said, holding it out to him with an appeasing smile. ‘Bertha set me to the task. So you see, I am not completely useless.’
The sight of Cecily’s bonnie face would have raised the spirits of a better man, but he only saw mockery and disdain. It multiplied his anger tenfold.
