‘We don’t know for certain. But if it’s not the Warden helping himself, it is those other bastards – Macaulays, Bannermans, Gunns.’
‘Aye, Glendenning too,’ whined Magnus. ‘That scoundrel is always picking at us over some slight or other.’
Peyton was almost at the end of his tolerance. His tenants were frightened, and the Warden, or men allied to him, frequently rode over his land with impunity. He was being hunted like a hare to hounds by that English scum.
The Macaulays pressed him relentlessly, unaware of his uneasy alliance with Caolan Bannerman and Jasper Glendenning. He had to keep it that way because if his clansmen found out he had climbed into bed with old enemies, they would string him from the highest tree and let Black Eaden pick his bones clean.
Was the risk worth the blow to his honour? Time would tell, but the burden of secrets was getting heavier, and Peyton could share it with no one, least of all his beautiful secret bride, who now came sweeping into the hall in a glorious dress of amber silk. The past flashed before him for a moment, clouded in bitterness. Elene Strachan had worn that dress when she had humiliated him with a kiss.
With some effort, Peyton banished his memories. Cecily smiled at his visitors and, at first, drew lustful glances, but they quickly soured to resentment. Were Magnus and Fergus thinking,‘Look how high Peyton Strachan lives when we are barely hanging on.’
By now, everyone revelled in the scandal of Peyton’s mistress. The servant girls positively feasted on it. Were these men jealous or justly offended that he had a beautiful distraction while their backs were to the wall?
‘What are you going to do, Laird?’ said Magnus. Peyton did not like the sarcasm infused into his title of laird.
‘Aye,’ said Fergus. ‘We pay rent so we can have protection, and instead, you sit on your….’
‘Enough.’ Peyton stood with a scrape of his chair and silenced the man with a glower. ‘Those villains may raid day and night, but I ride out day and night to stem this thievery.’
‘Aye, it’s said you ride, alright,’ muttered Magnus, with a sideways glance at Cecily.
Peyton was about to relieve the man of some teeth at the slight when Cecily went up to Magnus and laid a hand on his arm. ‘I feel your trepidation, good sir. But our Laird is doing all he can to put down this violence and thuggery, and he will succeed. I know it. He is a man of honour, and you will have an answer to your grievances. Why, this very morning, he has returned from three days away patrolling our borders, and even though Laird Strachan is tired, he still finds time for his tenants.’
‘I suppose so,’ muttered Magnus.
‘Now, he must rest, and you stout fellows must go back to your villages, for surely your womenfolk are anxious when you are gone. I know I would be.’
They shuffled off with a nod in his direction. Cecily’s beauty seemed to calm their grievances better than Peyton’s glowering.
‘Can you not dress a little more humbly when my clansmen come calling?’ he said as she approached and planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘I didn’t know they were here, and don’t you like it?’ she said, twirling around for him in a mesmerising swirl of silk and blonde hair. ‘There are trunks bursting with such garments, and they are so fine. It would be such a shame to waste them.’
‘If you knew their previous owner, you would rip it from your back.’
‘Well, I would rather you did that,’ said Cecily with a smile, her eyes hot with desire. Peyton’s breath caught, and his cock sprang to attention. At least if his blood rushed downwards, it might ease the pounding in his head.
With Cecily, he could never tell if she wanted him or if she twisted his lust to her purpose. His lingering mistrust of her motives was like a flea nipping at him. Yet the lass had taken to lovemaking with a passion that made him ignore his misgivings. Cecily showed no reluctance to his touch, and she often sought him out to make love to her, a fact that had contributed more to his current exhaustion than all the days and nights spent riding around the West March hunting villains.
Several weeks had passed in a haze of lovemaking since that passionate consummation of his marriage in the wood store. Cecily seemed to enjoy Peyton throwing her around his bed, and he could hardly bear to leave her warm, soft body in the mornings to ride out and be a laird. But he could not act like some green youth, drunk on love. He had to turn the tide on the Strachans’ fortunes, and soon, before he lost his grip.
That grip slipped further when Cecily pulled his face to hers and kissed him, her tongue darting into his mouth. ‘Come upstairs with me, and I will make you forget your troubles,’ she breathed.
When last he had taken her, that very morning, warm from sleep and her hair tangled, she had cried his name and begged him not to stop. Their coupling had been fierce and passionate. She had hot blood in her veins, his MacCreadie lass, and when his body joined with hers, it was as if they had been made for each other.
‘I have urgent business with Selby. I have to ride out again,’ said Peyton, pushing her off with some effort.
She pouted. ‘You are hardly ever here. I get lonely.’
‘It must be done. I have people depending on me, and our situation is dire.’
‘I want to help.’
‘You do help by turning my mind from my troubles every time I see your bonnie face.’
The pout deepened. ‘Is that all I am, Peyton, just a bonnie face and a willing body? You tell me nothing.’
‘If I share my troubles, I only bring you closer to danger.’ The pounding in his head resumed.
