Chapter Ten
The relentless drum of his fingernail tapping the oak table pounded a tedious thump in Geoffrey’s head. For days, he’d sat in Penswyck’s dismal great hall, awaiting word of Arabella’s capture. And for days, there had been naught.
He stared across the distance at the enormous hearth, ensnared by the flames’ flicker. With each passing moment, more of his patience slipped away and the dull pain in his temple throbbed with an excruciating pulse. Closing his eyes, he lifted his hand to rub above his brow in a bid to quell the relentless ache.
Christ, everything he’d worked for, all the steps he’d taken, relied on recovering the vexing wench. How damned long must it take to capture one silly, simple-minded woman? Still, his men had yet to return with her.
Shifting in his seat, Geoffrey opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the fire once more. One thing was certain, when he got his hands on Arabella de Percy, she would repay him the trouble. Though he had no desire to break her—yet—she would have to learn obedience once they wed. The notion gave him pause.
Him, Geoffrey Longford…with a wife.
’Twas laughable really, but what choice did he have if he wished to lawfully gain lordship over Penswyck and its coffers? Not that wedding the girl would be a hardship. Arabella was pleasing on the eye, spirited, defiant—just how he preferred the women he took to his bed. And who’s to say she might not meet with an unfortunate accident when he tired of her. In the meantime, bedding the wench would prove interesting sport, indeed. For the first time in days, his lips stretched with a grin.
The clatter of the hall doors pulled his gaze to the entrance. Renard, one of the men he’d sent after Arabella, strode inside at a clipped pace. No doubt the grim set of the hired arm’s features boded ill. Renard paused feet away from the raised dais where Geoffrey sat and bestowed a stiff bow. Refusing to meet his unwavering stare, the soldier regarded the trestle table Geoffrey continued to tap.
Advisable, given his current mood.
When the man did not speak, Geoffrey ceased the drum of his finger. “Well?”
“I came as quick as I could, my lord.” Though Renard spoke in a steady, even tone, he shifted from foot to foot, belying his unease.
“And?” Geoffrey drawled. “Do you have Lady de Percy?”
Unease hung on the guard’s pockmarked face. “N-nay, my lord.”
Anger unfurled in his belly with a furious burn. He slapped his palm flat on the table, the sound hammering throughout the quiet hall. “Come again?”
“The rest of the men…” Fidgeting with the sheathed weapon at his side, Renard refused to glance upward. “Forgive me, my lord, but they’re dead.”
“What do you mean, dead?” He floundered between fury and disbelief. “She’s but one woman!”
“Lady de Percy was not traveling alone.” Renard shook his head. “She and a band of Scots camped near the border. The men snuck into their camp early in the morn, but the Scots awaited them. All the men were slain.”
A veil of crimson fell over his vision. “Yet, you stand before me now.”
Blanching, Renard swallowed hard. “James and I, my lord…we escaped with our lives to bring you word.”
“Rather, you and James ran away like a pair of dogs,” Geoffrey spat in disgust.
Every curse he knew sifted from his mouth.
Of course, she’d gotten word to her bastard Scots uncle and the cur sent men for her. What did he expect, placing his trust in hired mercenaries, many of whom lacked loyalty and discipline? Christ above, he should’ve taken Penswyck himself and to hell with the useless men in his employ. Arabella would’ve never stepped past the front gate.
Now what the devil was he to do?
He could not simply stroll across the border after her. Every blasted sheepherder and swine farmer in Scotland would chase after him. Not to mention, he’d lost a troop of men, useless or not. The king would offer little help. The imbecile avoided the cursed Northern land for fear of war.
As soon as a hint of defeat edged into his mind, he deflected the errant notion in a flash. He’d not come this damned far to abandon his hard work. Least of all because of one inferior woman. Nay, Penswyck would be his, by any means, foul or other.
The cogs in his brain spun in a new direction. He narrowed his eyes at the soldier. “If I’m not mistaken, there are two Scots amongst the men.”
“Aye, my lord. From the same clan, I believe. Mac—” Renard’s words died in his throat once his gaze met with Geoffrey’s.
“Send them to me, at once.”
The man bowed and beat a hasty retreat from the hall. When he disappeared from sight, Geoffrey waved forward one of the patrols posted near the entrance.
“Once Renard’s finished his chore, see that he’s taken care of.”
With a hand to his chest, the soldier bowed and backed away, leaving Geoffrey to his solitude.
Slumping in his chair, he returned his gaze to the hearth and lifted a hand to rub at the ache in his head as he devised his next move. So much to do, and such little time to do so. To his good fortune, all his toiling and frustration would be worth the trouble when he was the irrefutable Lord of Penswyck.
He chuckled, nodding to himself. Not bad for a lowly bastard son. Not bad in the least.
*
A chill darted over Arabella’s bare shoulders and she shuddered. The hot bath had long since cooled into a tepid tub of water. She heaved herself up on the rim and reached for the linens she’d placed on the stool beside the bath. Drying herself off, she stepped out of the water and wrapped in the linens. She crossed the chamber to her bag in the corner and dug out her last remaining gown, then hurriedly dressed.
’Twas a mercy Maggie had the foresight to stash a comb in her satchel as well. The clever woman had not forgotten a thing, Arabella thought with a faint smile. She passed her thumb over the teeth, wondering if Maggie and Dougal had fled Penswyck without difficulty. With a sad sigh, Arabella pushed her concern aside. ’Twas senseless to dwell on matters she could not change. She grabbed the comb and settled on a stool in front of the hearth to brush out her hair before it curled into a tangled mess.
As heat from the fire dried her damp tresses, she considered Mairi’s odd behavior. The whole affair puzzled Arabella. Most assuredly, something was amiss and she intended to find out what. A rap at the door pulled her from her thoughts before she delved deeper into the mystery.
She glanced at the door where a small blonde with dimpled cheeks peeked inside. Once their gazes met, the woman beamed a bright grin and burst into the chamber without hesitation.
“I’m Florie, my lady. Lady Mairi sent me to help you dress for the evening meal.” The servant stepped forward and snatched the comb from Arabella’s hand. “Here, let me take care of that for you.”
Her brows rose at the woman’s forthright manner. “Um, thank you, Florie. Please just call me Arabella.”
“Oh no, my lady. The laird would have my ars—” The maid choked out a cough. “What I mean to say is, ’tis not fitting for me to do so.”
Arabella smothered a grin and decided to seize upon an opportunity to ply information from the maid. She opened her mouth to question the woman about her mistress’ behavior, but Florie cut her off.
“How’d you enjoy the bath?”
Before she could answer, Florie snagged the comb on a tangle and Arabella bit her lip to keep from crying out. Heedless, the maid carried on.
“Lady Mairi suspected you’d be wanting one after such a long journey. As soon as Anthony rode through the front gate, we rushed to get the bath ready for you. Thank the stars we’d tidied the laird’s chamber days ago for your arrival. Not to say the laird is filthy, mind you. Truth be told, he’s a rather tidy fellow.” Florie snorted. “Ha! Wish his cleanliness would rub off on my Robbie. The blasted man just does not under—”
“Wait, Florie?” She peered over her shoulder. “Did you say this is your laird’s chamber?”
“Well, aye.” Florie’s hand paused mid-stroke, the comb halfway through Arabella’s hair. “Lady Mairi thought it would be fitting. I mean, after all…”
“After all?” Frowning, Arabella swore the little woman mumbled a curse. When Florie did not respond, she pressed. “After all, what?”
The maid’s raised brows nearly disappeared in her hairline. “After all…’tis a very fine chamber.” She flashed a toothy grin.
Arabella narrowed her eyes. “How did you know I was to arrive with Calum?”
Color rushed to Florie’s cheeks and she blinked thrice before blurting, “Anthony. I’m sure I said that. He passed through the gates not an hour before you rode in with the laird.”
“But you said the chamber was cleaned days before.” She shifted around on the stool, her direct gaze pinned on Florie. “How did you and Lady Mairi know I was to arrive with Calum then?”
The maid’s eyes widened and her mouth flapped open and closed repeatedly, resembling a fish out of water. Stifling the impulse to laugh, Arabella affixed a stony stare and waited for an answer.
Naught but a stream of garbled stammers left Florie’s mouth, none of which Arabella comprehended. A heavy-handed knock pounded against the chamber door, startling them both, and the comb slipped from Florie’s hand to clatter on the floor.
The maid recovered first and spun on her heel to run across the room as if the hounds of hell chased after her. She swung open the heavy door wide enough for Arabella to see Calum standing on the other side of the threshold, his hand hovering in midair and his features drawn in surprise.
“Sweet Jesu!” Florie sagged against the door.
His brows lowered into a frown and he dropped his arm. He remarked wryly, “’Tis good to see you, too, Florie.”
“Oh, go on with you, Laird,” the maid cackled and slapped his arm as she forcefully tugging him inside the chamber.
Calum darted a questioning look at Arabella and she shrugged. To be honest, she wondered if the entire lot of them was not a bit touched in the head. She bent forward to grab the comb from the floor.
“Have you come to escort your lady to the hall for the meal?”
Arabella glanced up in time to catch Calum flash a scowl at Florie. The small woman gasped and flushed a bright pink.
“Well, bless me, I forgot Glenda needs my help in the kitchens. I’ll just be on my way.” Backing away, Florie bobbed a quick curtsy and hastened from the chamber, leaving Arabella alone with Calum.
For a moment, she simply gawked at the open doorway and attempted to digest the maid’s words. She shifted her gaze to Calum, who stood in the middle of the chamber with his arms crossed. His fresh tunic clung to his broad shoulders and the beard he’d worn during the journey was absent, revealing the full range of the old wound marring his visage. When he noticed her stare, the muscles in his jaw tightened and he turned the left side of his face away as though he wished to hide the sight from her. His evident insecurity tugged at her heart.
“I should not have…” He shook his head and started for the door. “I’ll leave you to your privacy.”
“Calum,” Arabella called after him.
He paused in the entrance with his back to her.
“It does not bother me, you know.” Several moments passed and she thought he might leave, but then he turned toward her. Despite the blank face he donned, doubt lingered in his cool eyes.
“I’m not so vain, Calum. The wounds you bear are the mark of a courageous man. Wear them with pride.” She pushed an errant curl behind her ear. “Will you not take a seat? ’Tis your chamber after all.”
His features relaxed and he crossed the room to sit in a high-backed chair near the hearth. They held each other’s stares until she forced herself to glance away while fiddling with the comb in her hand. ’Twas so easy—almost too easy—to lose herself in his intense, blue gaze.
“It does not bother me either, you know.” A faint smile curved his lips. “You in my chamber.”
“I did not know until Florie told me.” Her cheeks heated. “I can move to another.”
He waved away her words. “Nay. Please, stay.”
Nodding, she peered at the fire and returned to combing her hair out. Sitting before the hearth, a short distance from a man in his bedchamber—alone—should have unsettled her. But in truth, she felt at ease in Calum’s company and the silence between them was comforting.
However, a few matters did trouble her.
She lowered the comb to her lap. “What did Florie mean?”
“Who knows?” He snorted. “The woman’s daft as far as I can tell.”
“Well, how did she and Mairi know I was to arrive with you days ago?”
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Fraser, I wager.”
She narrowed her eyes. “But how would he know you decided to bring me here?”
“I know not. I must’ve mentioned so before I left for England.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “Honestly, does it matter, Arabella? We’re here and we’re safe. At the moment, ’tis all that concerns me.”
How was she to argue with his logic?
Heaving a sigh of her own, she plucked at the comb in her lap. Why must the man always be right?
Granted, she was more than grateful for Calum and his men’s protection, especially after the attack on their camp. She might’ve never reached her uncle, much less the Scots border without them. Her fate would hang in the balance, were it not for Calum. Aye, safe was a much more agreeable fate.
Yet, another matter entirely lingered in her mind.
She set the comb aside and shifted on the stool to face him. He reclined in the chair with his elbows resting on the arms and his legs stretched out. His full attention was trained on her. Under such close scrutiny, her courage wavered but the need to know the truth overshadowed her cowardice.
“Do you regret kissing me?”
Seemingly surprised, he straightened in his seat while a slight frown played about his mouth. Her heart picked up pace as she waited in anticipation for his response.
“Nay.” He cleared his throat. “Why would you think so?”
“You’ve hardly spoken a handful of words to me in days. When you embraced Mairi, I thought…” Despite her embarrassment, she admitted, “I thought she was your wife.”
She failed to mention how much the false assumption stung. Just the thought of him with another woman provoked a feeling she scarcely experienced—jealousy.
“I can assure you, had I a wife, I would’ve never touched you, Arabella. I’d never dishonor my wife or myself in such a manner. When I speak my vows, they’ll be spoken in earnest. As will my bride’s.”
The solemn words, coupled with the intensity of his gaze, sent a shiver down her spine. He spoke as if he meant…
An odd flutter unfurled in her stomach, as if hundreds of butterflies flapped their wings.
Unable to glance away, she wet her lips. “Then why did you avoid me?”
*
A thousand excuses sifted through his mind, yet Calum remained silent. The perfect opportunity presented itself. He should tell her of his decision to take her as his bride, but the words stalled on his tongue. Instead, he sat there like a fool, his gaze fastened on the plump, bottom lip Arabella continued to worry.
’Twas far too simple to imagine capturing that supple, pink flesh between his teeth. The sweet sound she’d make…
At the thought, a fervent wave of lust swept through his body. He clenched his jaw as his shaft hardened against his thigh. Gripping the chair arms, he shifted in his seat to ease his discomfort. He resisted tugging at his tunic, which had grown taut round his neck. Moisture clung to his brow. Either from the stifling heat in the chamber, or mayhap her, he was uncertain.
Saints, what the devil was he to say? He knew naught of wooing women. Naught of the flowery words or amorous deeds females desired from men. Horses, weapons, running a keep—’twas what he knew.
“Why, Calum?” The bare whisper brushed over his skin like the faint caress of a lover.
Why had he avoided her? Why?
Because when she flashed a shy smile at him, an odd twinge settled in his heart. Because in her company, his self-control deserted him. By God, because he wanted her more than his next breath.
“I was not avoiding you,” he lied. “’Twas merely that we were pressed for time, and there was little time to talk.”
She raised an incredulous brow. “I do not believe that for one instant.”
“I know,” he muttered. “’Twas foolish of me to think you would.”
“Then why?” Her gaze searched his. “’Tis important to me, Calum.”
“Why does it matter so?” He could dance around the truth as long as she could.
“Because…” A comely blush stained her cheeks before she glanced at her hands in her lap. “Because, ’twas my first kiss. I just…I’d hoped it might’ve meant as much to you as it did me.”
His heart leaped in his chest, robbing him of breath. First kiss? By God, he would be her last if he had his way.
When he did not respond quickly enough, she lifted her gaze and the uncertainty in her eyes hit like a punch to his gut.
“I should not have spoken—”
“Aye, you should have.” He swallowed his bout of nerves. “I would rather show you how much it meant.”
With a false sense of calm, he rose from the chair and managed the few steps until he stood over her. He extended his hand, offering her a choice—one last chance to escape him.
She lifted her hand to accept, but he stopped her.
“Be sure this is what you want, Arabella.” She needed to understand, once he began his pursuit, retreat was not an option.
That tempting pink tongue darted out again to wet her lips. She settled her small hand in his palm, sealing her fate.
He helped her to her feet, then tugged her forward, into his arms. She landed against him with a gasp, her hands resting on his chest. Firelight danced on her red-gold tresses, and he threaded his fingers through the lush curls. Her soft form molded to his, the feel sheer perfection, as if she’d been made solely to fit him. As soon as Arabella parted her lips to speak, he struck, seizing her mouth with the same ardent vehemence throbbing through his heated body.
Far beyond the point of gentleness, he kissed her with fervor, his tongue sliding into the warmth of her mouth. He caught her muffled whimper and drank in her sweet flavor. He slipped a hand down to the curve of her backside and pressed her firmly against the aching length in his braies. When her nails sank into his leine, digging into his skin, ’twas his turn to bite back a whimper.
Christ, this woman…the things she made him feel.
Shaken to his core, he claimed her the only way he knew. He poured every drop of passion she roused in him into their kiss—longing, desire, his hopes and dreams, even his fears, the dark places inside he buried from the light of day. With this one amorous exchange, he asked for her acceptance of him as a man. Not the wounded warrior others saw on the surface, not the laird burdened with responsibilities, or the patriarch of his family, but merely a man. Naught more.
Thank the sun and moon, his common sense soon put in an appearance. He fumbled for the reins of his control before he did something foolish, such as guide her to the edge of his bed across the chamber. He pulled away, releasing her mouth. Her swollen lips and rosy cheeks were enough to tempt a saint. He rested his forehead against hers, and their panting breaths mingled.
“Do you see? I had to keep my distance from you or I would’ve demanded more than you are willing to give.”
Almost absently, her fingers traced over the old wound on his cheek and down his neck. The innocent touch raised gooseflesh along his arms. He forced his gaze to remain fixed on her, though he yearned to lean into the touch.
She murmured, “You might’ve simply said as much rather than avoiding me. I did not know what to think.”
“Aye, I should’ve spoken to you. I’m sorry to have caused you senseless worry for naught.”
A pretty smile curved her lips while a mischievous twinkle sparked in her shining eyes, which caused his heart to kick in a swift thump. “Even though a demonstration was not necessary, I found it quite enlightening.”
Calum barked out a laugh. With a quick kiss to her forehead, he stepped away from her tempting form, but clasped her hand as he led her from the chamber.
“Come, Sweetness. We’ve tarried here long enough. Let us go below for the evening meal. My clan is eager to meet you.”