“It matters not,” William insisted, going another route. “We’re paid stewards. Malcolm Grant pays me to keep this place impenetrable.”
“So ye would hand over yer sister to see yer duty to Grant done?”
“Nae.” He covered his slightly bearded face with his hands, then ran them down to his chin. Looking at her again, he sighed. “But you are the only thing Menzie wants more than Ravenglade, and he’s agreed to a trade.”
“Aye, because I said nae to his marriage offer last month and now he wants to show me that my will means nothing. He flaunts his power and he despises that I dinna’ fear him.” She stared into William’s eyes. As the only two of their immediate family left after their father died in the River Tay, they’d promised to look out for each other. How could her brother turn her over to a man who wanted her only so he could rule over her?
“’Tis our only hope,” he said, sounding as desperate as he looked. “Grant will answer my letter and come. He’ll be here before any marriage can take place and he will deal with Roddie Menzie.”
“And if he doesn’t come?” she asked him. “What will become of me, then, Will?”
“Then”—he paused and closed his eyes—“I’ll kill Roddie Menzie. I’ll kill him. But I won’t abandon Ravenglade to them.”
“’Tis not yers,” she reminded him again. How many more of their kin would they lose, rather than lose the castle? She knew their history with Ravenglade and she knew that her great-uncle James Buchanan’s obsession with the castle made him offer up the life of his childhood friend. Because of treachery alone, the Buchanans could never be worthy of Ravenglade. And now, her own brother seemed to be bewitched with want of these bricks, even unto betraying her.
“Grant allows us all to live here,” he continued on. “Instead of fighting us and bringing his kin, including the MacGregors, down on our heads fer all the years we fought him over this place, he pays us to keep it fer him while he’s away. And let’s be honest, he’s away often. He left last spring and hasn’t returned yet.
“All I ask ye to do is tell Roddie ye agree to the marriage but ye need time to arrange everything. We need time to regroup and recuperate from his last attack. He may bleat often, but his horns are sharp. He has power in the number of his kin.”
Janet smacked her hands against her thighs. “Then give him what he wants before anyone else is killed!”
“I won’t, Janet. I want to stay here. I won’t be driven out of the place that has become my home because someone else wants it.”
He’d said it. Ravenglade had become his home. He’d let it seduce him with its bright tapestries, rich wood tones, and warm carpets. Hell, it had seduced them all.
“Trust me, sister, please.”
Could she? She always had before. But the stakes had never been this high.
“I don’t mean fer ye to go through with it. I just need time for Malcolm to arrive and presently ye’re the only way I can get it. Please, sister, trust me.”
She glared into his pleading blue eyes and felt her mettle falter. Och, hell, she couldn’t fight him on this, not when he was right. She liked living here, too. Every Buchanan did. Why wouldn’t she prefer a castle, and one absent of drafts, over a cottage? She loved the home her late father had built for his family on the outskirts of Aberfeldy, but it was drafty and small and the roof leaked. It was why she’d agreed to wed John Wallace, Aberfeldy’s master carpenter, before Malcolm Grant and his small band of cousins killed her betrothed the night they had returned to Ravenglade almost seven months ago.
A blessing and a curse, for she hadn’t loved John Wallace. In fact, she hadn’t even liked him. He drank too much whisky and had a loud mouth.
She still hated the Grants for killing him though. Just as her kin were taught to hate the Stuarts for taking Ravenglade. To most, James Buchanan was a hero. Even though she believed differently, she still felt the desire to take back the castle.
“Verra’ well, Will.” She smiled slightly when he hauled her into his arms. “But ’tis only to gain us time. I will not marry him.”
“I’ll make certain of it!” he promised, then hurried off to see to the arrangements.
Left alone, Janet looked around the garden. She smiled, thinking about how much it had changed since she moved in. There had been much work to do, pulling dead, tangled roots and planting new shrubs and trees, but it was worth it. Next spring this garden would be glorious, and Janet intended on being here to see it.
She sat on the stone bench and gazed at the small fountain her cousin Henry had built. Her thoughts drifted to the lord of the castle, Malcolm… and to his cousin, Darach—the most insufferable, frustrating, arrogant man she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. If her kin had killed him like they said they were going to do when they attacked him on the road last spring, she wouldn’t have had to tend to him while her brother held him prisoner in their barn. She wouldn’t have relived those days with him bound and beat up and still more fascinating than every man in her holding. She wouldn’t have let him run rampant through her thoughts since they had set him free.
If the whole truth be known, the men she was surrounded by were so dull in comparison to him, there were days she wished him back. His sharp wit had attracted her. He was sure of himself, lacking no confidence in his skills on the field and in the bedchamber. He hadn’t needed to boast to convince her of the latter. He breathed virility, moved with the supple grace of a wolf. His smoky green eyes had invited her into a fire from which she might never escape. The challenging curl of his mouth heated her blood and burned behind her kneecaps, between her breasts, just below her navel.
She looked around the garden and lifted her hand to the blush that was sweeping across the bridge of her nose. Damnation, she’d thought she was rid of him. He’d let seven months pass without so much as a missive. She’d thought… No, it didn’t matter what she’d thought or hoped. She was finally beginning to conquer her memories of him and put them away. But now, all this talk of Malcolm Grant and marriage brought him glaringly, achingly back.
She thought about the last time she saw him, when they’d parted in Killiecrankie, after he’d found out that she would be living at Ravenglade while he was gone. She wondered what he would say if he knew she slept in his bed every night—just as he’d predicted she would.
“Dreamin’ of the man who countered yer blows and will someday return to conquer ye beneath him.”
Damn it all, she still remembered how she’d felt hearing his confident pronouncement. Bastard. He’d made her tremble in her skin.
Aye, she dreamed of him often. She wondered if it had to do with sleeping in his bed. She should leave it, but she never did. He’d said he would someday return. Why the hell had she waited?
She did her best not to think of him, but what was the alternative? Roddie Menzie? Good Lord, there was no way in hell she was marrying him.
