‘One day, she shows up, filthy as the road, gasping that she had been wronged and throwing herself on his mercy. Her brother had gotten into a fight he could not win, and the family was ruined. Lord Sawfield, silly old fool, was infatuated and fell for her damsel in distress story. So he married her.’ Alice snapped her fingers. ‘Just like that.’
‘And then what?’
‘She was mean to him, that’s what.’ She leaned in, giving Peyton an eyeful of mounds of pale cleavage. ‘I think she refused to share his bed,’ she hissed.
‘Was the marriage not consummated?' said Peyton, feeling like the worst gossiping servant girl.
‘Oh, I think it was, for Lady Sawfield bore a miserable look on her face the day after the wedding, like she had a bad smell under her nose or something. She had to bind him to her, so I suppose she suffered it, just the once.’ Alice grimaced. ‘My Lord was as old as dirt and well past his prime, so it would not have been a pleasant duty to fulfil. Anyway, she never got with child. Some said she was barren. Some said she withheld her favours. And old Lord Sawfield, how he longed for an heir as he was facing his maker. But she would never give him one. And now the poor old soul has gone to God.’
‘How did he die?’ said Peyton slowly.
‘The bloody flux. Went on for days, it did. He had a filthy and torturous end, and she was so cold, refusing to sit with him for fear it was a plague of some kind.’
The hairs stood up on the back of Peyton’s neck.
‘That bitch wouldn’t even hold his hand when he said his final confession, though he begged for her to come to him,’ continued Alice, her voice thickening. ‘She was a cold-hearted she-devil, that one. She deserves a bad end.’ The woman sniffed and scraped the back of her hand across her face.
‘Do you know what became of her, Alice?’
‘She disappeared. Some say they saw her riding south. She always said she wanted to go to London and be at court. I suppose she went there. There was a rumour she had a lover, some grim-looking fellow.’ Alice shrugged. ‘But who knows, with that one? The bitch stole all the valuables she could lay her hands on, and that was that. And none of us missed her, for she had a cruel tongue and was generous with her slaps and pinches if we were slow to do her bidding.’ Alice held out her arm, which was marred by a shiny pink scar. ‘She put a hot poker on me once,’ she sniffed. ‘Truth is, I was always a little scared of her after that.’
That sounded like Elene. She had crawled under a rock, gathered her strength, and then squirmed her way back to wealth and power. Her hand was behind all the violence and strife. He should have known she would return.
Peyton cursed Caolan Bannerman for not squashing her like the cockroach she was. He never should have let her flee south and find sanctuary in marriage to Lord Sawfield. When he had outlived his usefulness, Elene had turned to Sir Henry Harclaw, the Warden of the Marches. Had she nursed her grievances and poured them into his ear? Had she burrowed in, like a tick, swelling with hatred, until she had the power to unleash hell on her enemies?
Elene had always been able to turn a man blind with desire, make him a slave to her bidding, and now the Warden was her latest conquest. Had Sir Henry earned his power and influence on his own merits, or had Elene pushed him to the top of the dung heap that was the English court?
She held him, Glendenning, and Bannerman responsible for her downfall, so they were targeted for the worst of the Warden’s cruelties. Peyton knew Elene and how she plotted, spied, and dug for information. What was she doing to bring down the Strachans? Was she watching his every move through one of her spies?
He had to get home. If Glendenning had fallen to Carstairs’ thugs, then Fellscarp would be next, and every one of his clansmen would be exposed to Elene’s wrath. ‘I must go,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘So soon. But we have just got acquainted. Stay the night here and press on home tomorrow,’ Alice cried, grabbing his arm.
‘I cannot, lass. I have a wife waiting at home.’
Alice smiled. ‘Well, I don’t mind if you don’t.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cecily paced back and forth across the yard. Peyton was talking to one of the stable lads. He caught her eye, smiled briefly, and then turned away. She felt sick. Worry ate her from the inside out because something was amiss with him.
Peyton had been preoccupied and distant for weeks now, ever since he had come back from England. He refused to speak of his business there. All he had said was, ‘I visited an old acquaintance,’ but the scowl on his face suggested the visit had not been a pleasant one. There was something gnawing at him. Peyton did not try to have her as often, even when she used all her charm and snuggled up to him on the colder nights. It was as if he had been unmanned somehow. But just this morning, he had woken her at dawn with his touch and kissed her so deeply and tenderly that she wanted to cry.
‘Something has changed between us. What is wrong?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘I have been a fool lately, but I have come to my senses now. Will you have me, Cecily?’ She nodded, and he eased his body over hers and took her gently. When it came, his release was almost pained, his expression tortured. Peyton held her in his arms afterwards, but Cecily was not content, even though he had made her feel beautiful.
Had he found another woman, a better one than her, someone strong on whom he could rely, not just an empty head and a bonnie face? She was unworthy, and perhaps he had begun to see that. Did Peyton just make love to her to compare his new love and his old? How could that be? She had been so sure of his growing affection.
A shout rang out. ‘Riders, Laird, coming across the causeway.’
‘Who is it?’ shouted Peyton.
The man frowned. ‘It’s Griffin Macaulay and his men. And, Laird, they have women with them.’
Peyton’s jaw clenched. ‘Damn the man.’ He rushed to her and said, ‘Cecily, you must go to our chamber at once. Do not come down to the hall.’
‘Why? What is going on?’
