Page 13 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

5

James

James Stewart hadn’t become head of the Stewart clan by being lazy. He didn’t have the brawn and dull muscle of someone like Malcolm McTavie, and that was just fine.

That was just the way he liked it. People always underestimated the small, unimpressive man. Being underestimated gave a man an advantage if he knew what to do with it. Men would form a rope of their own opinions and hang themselves with it. James had seen it before and looked forward to seeing it again.

No, James had to work twice—no, thrice—as harder as any other clan chief in the beginning. But his hard work had paid off. Nobody dared to cross James “the Fox” Stewart anymore. He was powerful, influential, rich, and ruthless. He had the most beautiful wife of any clan leader, and he had three times as much money as any of them.

James was a small man, barely taller than average, and had a lean and wiry build rather than the traditional bulky shape of a “proper leader.” He was not an imposing man, and he never would be. Both of James’s older brothers had towered over him, and their father had always looked with distaste and vague amusement at his odd and flimsy third son.

Nobody was laughing now. Both of James’s brothers and his ever-disappointed father lay in their graves. If they had gone to their graves a trifle earlier than they should have done, who could know? What mattered was that James was laird of Clan Stewart. He was laird, and nobody would take it away from him. Nobody.

James sat back in his chair, yawning. He’d spent hours poring over account books and papers concerning his lands and tenants. It was dull stuff but essential. Some of the other clan leaders seemed to think that brute force and conquering were all that was needed. There was a time and place for fine speeches, but there was also a time for clever maneuvering, simple business dealings, and sometimes methods that the self-proclaimed noble lairds would look down upon.

Fools. That’s what they were, moral fools who could make a fine speech.

No. That wasn’t what made men follow a leader. Rousing speeches and turning the enemy clan into a horde of monsters in the eyes of his warriors were all very well, but it was not enough. There was a delicate balance. Men too satisfied and settled in their cozy, happy homes would not want to fight, but malnourished, hopeless soldiers were worse than useless.

It was a balance that James was very used to finding. It was, as he liked to think, an art that he had perfected. The fire in his study had burnt down to embers. It was night, and James didn’t fancy standing over some servant while they revived the fire. This room was far too important to allow some illiterate peasant to poke around in here, unsupervised.

Stiff from his long hours of work, James made his way to the door, taking up one candle as he went. He pulled the heavy door closed behind him, making sure to lock it. He was the only person who had a key, and the two guards would keep watch all night.

James’s footsteps echoed in the empty stone halls. He did spot the occasional servant in the distance going about their late-night chores, but they always blanched and dived into a nook to allow James to pass by. He smiled to himself. That was good; a little healthy fear was very good. James Stewart was not a friendly, benevolent laird. He was a dangerous man and not one to be crossed.

He mounted the stairs toward his rooms, his candle the only spot of light along the pitch-black spiral staircase. There would be no valet or servant waiting for James to help him undress and prepare for bed, and that was just the way he liked it.

James was already looking forward to sinking into his expensive feather mattress. He didn’t allow himself many luxuries, and a comfortable bed was his favorite. He could see a beam of light shining out from underneath his bedroom door, no doubt from a roaring fire.

James pushed open his bedroom door and paused. There was already a candle burning in his room.

What was more, there was already someone in his bed.

The figure in the bed was a woman. The heavy furs and quilts piled over the bed, designed to keep out the harsh night’s chill, had been rolled back so that only one thin linen quilt covered the woman’s curvaceous body. She must be freezing cold, he thought. Clearly, she was expecting to be warmed up very soon.

Bless her eternal optimism.

“Hello, Wife,” James said, closing the door behind him. “This is a surprise.”

Sierra rolled over in bed, flashing him a coy smile full of promise. The linen sheet was practically see-through, and she’d carefully arranged it to barely hide her modesty and leave plentiful food for the imagination. She was quite clearly naked, with her black curls spiraling down over her bosom.

“It’s a surprise to find your wife in your bed? Really?”

James set the candle down on a small table and made his way toward the refreshments table. Another luxury he liked was the finest whiskey money could buy. After the day he’d had and now finding Sierra here, James certainly needed it.

“I’m surprised you have energy to spare for me,” he said, pouring out a generous dram. The highly-polished copper mirror in front of the refreshments table allowed James a perfect view of the bed behind him, with Sierra sprawled out. He saw her expression falter, but she managed to keep her composure.

“What do you mean? I’ve missed you, James. You and I hardly spend time together. You’re always shut up in that study.” She tilted her head to one side, fluttering long, black eyelashes at James’s back. “A wife needs her husband, you know. I need you, James.”

“Of course you do.” James let the statement hang in the air, enjoying Sierra’s confusion before turning to face her, whiskey glass in hand. “I sent Arran away. You must be lonely.”

He enjoyed Sierra’s expression of mingled horror, anger, and resentment.

“What? I…I don’t know what you mean, James. I came here to see my beloved husband, not to—”

“Oh, please spare me your lies. I think you know what I mean. So, you’ve decided to warm my bed now that your lover is gone? He didn’t leave you much time to find a replacement, did he?”

Color rushed into her face. Sierra rolled gracelessly off the bed, dragging the thin sheet with her and wrapping it around herself. She stormed over to James, bare feet slapping on the floor.