In the distance, Peyton spotted Douglas Gilpin riding towards the farm with another man he did not recognise.
Lorna tried to go inside, but Peyton held onto her hand. ‘Lorna, stop. We do not need his leave to be together. Tell me that I can count on your affection and your promise.’
She gave him a smile of utter sweetness, enough to keep his heart on a hook. But she did not answer his question.
‘I must go, Peyton,’ she said. Tearing her hand free, Lorna swept inside and slammed the door behind her.
Peyton did not bother to hang around and exchange the usual sarcasm with Lorna’s father. Douglas Gilpin had made it clear that he was not good enough for his daughter. Instead, Peyton rode away with unease clawing at his chest.
***
Father Luggan wisely held his tongue until they were a long way from the Gilpin’s farm, crossing Crichton Moor, a windswept place as bleak as Peyton’s mood.
‘I can see that your visit was less than satisfactory, Peyton,’ said Father Luggan. ‘I will not prod that wound by asking questions, but if you require counsel, I am here.’
‘Why are women so bloody changeable? Answer me that,’ snapped Peyton.
Father Luggan sighed. ‘I will not seek to advise any man on matters of the heart or the nature of the fairer sex. But I will say that patience is a virtue.’
‘Well, I’ve none of that, nor any other virtue, it seems. I’ve wooed that lass for two years now with no satisfaction nor promise to wed. I’ve scarcely laid a finger on her in all that time.’
‘Scarcely?’ said the priest, with a sharp look at him.
‘What I mean is, I expected her to warm to me by now, yet she thinks me low and unworthy. I have tried to do right by Lorna, waiting until I had enough money to afford a wife and give her a good living.’
‘One cannot force these matters, Peyton, and women must be honoured and treated gently, for they are soft, delicate creatures and prone to indecision. Now, can we stop for a moment? I need to relieve myself of that rather large meal I had at Fellscarp last night.’
‘Indeed, you eat enough for two men, Father. Off you go, but well downwind, if you please.’
Peyton sat quietly, awaiting Father Luggan’s return and reliving his conversation with Lorna. How could she be so cold after all his devotion? She couldn’t close the door fast enough. And in last summer’s heat, she had lain down with him and let his hands under her clothes and moaned under his touch. Even now, he could recall the softness of her skin, her pale legs, the heady smell of the grass, her little moans and caresses. It had been a struggle to master his baser urges and not take her innocence, for she would have let him. He was sure of it. But that all seemed a distant dream now, as a bitter wind stung his face and the icy hand of rejection withered his balls.
Peyton’s horse whinnied and pinned back its ears. The wind gusted, carrying with it a strident curse. ‘Unhand me, you whoreson, you midden filth, you scum-sucking bastard.’
Moments later, a lass burst from the undergrowth and ran straight out in front of him. She was a terrible sight – blood-smeared, filthy, clothes torn, eyes wide in terror. His horse reared in a panic, and he struggled to keep his seat as the beast aimed razor-sharp hooves at her head.
Chapter Four
Peyton pulled hard on his reins to twist the horse’s head around. Its hooves crashed into the ground, missing the lass’s head by mere inches. She flinched and curled into herself. He was about to leap off his horse to check on her when a man rushed onto the path. With a scowl in Peyton’s direction, he grabbed the lass by the hair, tearing back her head. She fell to the ground at his feet, clutching at his hand and whimpering in pain.
‘Be quiet, bitch,’ he yelled.
He was English. Why would he be out on Crichton Moor alone? His kind usually travelled in packs. The man was young and well-built. His cheek was oozing blood onto his fine jacket.
‘Help me, please,’ cried the lass, pleading at Peyton. It was clear she was terrified.
‘Hush your mouth,’ shouted the man again, tugging at her hair and making her howl.
‘No. Let me go. Stop. I beg you,’ cried the lass.
Peyton rode his horse right up to them. ‘You need to let her go,’ he said quietly.
‘Be on your way,’ said the young man, his voice dripping with malice. ‘Nothing to see here, my friend.’
‘I am no friend to you or any Englishman. Let the lass go,’ said Peyton, slipping off his horse and putting his hand on his belt near his knife. He tried not to be distracted by the lass’s sobbing as he locked eyes with the man.
His gaze was vicious and held no fear. ‘I have no quarrel with you, Scot,’ he said.
‘Aye, you do, for you are hurting that lass,’ said Peyton.
