Peyton gathered her into his arms even though she wriggled away, pushing her little fists into his chest. ‘I should not tease you. And I do care for you, Cecily. So you need not fear me or feel unsafe.’
He would secure her as his bride and then worry about the rest. Peyton kissed Cecily on the forehead and chuckled. ‘If I am going to have my throat slit at Truce Day, at least I can die a happy man knowing I had that one night in your arms.’
She ignored the compliment. ‘Why would you come to harm at a Truce Day? Don’t the clans meet under a peace at those gatherings?’
‘Aye, so do not fash. All will be well. It is just that I have a plan to protect you and everyone under this roof, but it is risky.’ He swept a strand of golden hair off her face. ‘Actually, I have you to thank for it, lass.’
‘What plan?’
‘I have been looking at my dilemma from the wrong side. All that matters is the survival and prosperity of Clan Strachan. I have to turn our fortunes around.’
‘Are they so dire?’
‘Aye. And there will be time enough for you to know those bitter truths. But now, it is time for me to swallow some pride and join the winning side.’
Peyton planted the briefest of kisses on her lips and hurried away before he was tempted to kiss his prickly bride-to-be everywhere else as well, whether she asked him to or not.
Chapter Eighteen
The wind was icy, as had been his welcome at the Truce Day in the Gunn stronghold, yet Peyton was pleased with his day’s work. It had taken every ounce of his pride, but he had done what was right for Clan Strachan. And what use was pride in a dog fight? He had something infinitely more precious, and it had blonde hair and was warming his bed at home.
Cecily MacCreadie was spirited and hard to handle, but she did not unman him as Lorna had. He delighted in looking at her, especially when she did not know he was doing it. She was graceful and golden, and when he returned to Fellscarp, he would take her in his arms and kiss the life out of her. Perhaps she would let him. Cecily had smiled at him more these last few days and blushed when she caught his eye. Did that mean she wanted him, or was he just blinded by the lust which made it a struggle to keep his hands off her?
‘Peyton!’
He turned in alarm, and then a smile spread over his face. Father Luggan rode towards him in a great hurry. Peyton tried to banish his lustful thoughts. ‘This is well met, as I am in need of a priest,’ he cried.
‘With your nature, you are ever in need of a priest, Peyton Strachan. What have you done to yourself? I hardly recognised you, for you are as clean as a lass.’
‘Cleaner than you, at least. You were riding hard. Is the Devil chasing you, Father?’ said Peyton, reaching over to clap the priest on the back.
‘Aye, but he’ll not catch me just yet,’ he replied. ‘But speaking of devils, I was travelling back from the East March when I heard rumours of a gathering of clans at the Gunns, hence my haste.’
‘Aye, and I have just come from there, so we are well met. Sir Walder Moffat is dead.’
‘May he rest in peace,’ said Father Luggan, crossing himself. ‘I hope his passing was gentle.’
‘I seriously doubt that. And we have a new Warden, none other than Sir Henry Harclaw.’
The priest frowned. ‘Ah, so it is as I suspected.’
‘Aye, and he’s a cold bastard, to be sure, and harder than his son, Edmund.’
Peyton had hated Sir Henry on sight. The man was dead-eyed, sneering, and arrogant—the usual English nobleman. But this one didn’t bother to hide his ruthlessness behind diplomatic smiles. The man had despised his company, his lip curling in disgust as he had surveyed the assembled clans. If Sir Henry promised to put his boot on the throat of the March lairds, Peyton had no doubt he would be true to his threat.
‘Peyton, this is bad,’ said Father Luggan.
‘Aye, I suppose it is.’ He brushed off thoughts of Sir Henry and thought of his new strategy instead.
Father Luggan narrowed his eyes. ‘If that is so, why is there a smile on your face?’
‘Because I am pleased to see you and because I have just climbed into bed with my enemies. I have reached out to Caolan Bannerman and Jasper Glendenning in the common cause of not being wiped out by Sir Henry Harclaw.’
‘You cannot.’
‘I’ve climbed into bed with worse, and they too have been stung by our new Warden’s ambitions – cattle stolen, farms pillaged, arson. There was a whole village put to the torch on Glendenning’s land, and he is seething and out for revenge. Bannerman does not give much away. He’s a cold bastard, but both of them are hurting, and so am I, so it seems we must band together.’
‘The enemies of my enemies are my friends?’ said the priest.
