A Promise of Love (5 page)

Alisdair cautioned himself to think nothing of the fine tremor which skated along her skin, to ignore the flinch she thought to hide. He released his grip on her arm, intrigued despite himself by the way the texture of her skin changed, the bumps mottling her flesh as if she’d been chilled by a gust of icy wind.

He extended one finger, tilted up her chin. She didn’t want to acquiesce to such an inspection, but he was resolute, the pressure under her chin more forceful than it appeared, less tender. But this was not a tender moment between them, reluctant bride and unwilling groom.

Finally, she looked at him, surrendering to his stubbornness. If it was submission he wanted, she gave it to him then, her long lashes drooping over an impassive glance. The only thing lacking was a sweeping curtsey, a kow tow of homage. Her lips closed, they breathed no words, neither censure nor conciliation. Her face paled, but a tinge of color, a faint shadow of pink appeared above the collar of her ugly dress.

What emotion drove her to grant herself so easily to him? Or did she do so at all? Did this woman hide with the alacrity of a winter traveling rabbit, in plain sight? Who was she, that she could disappear so quickly even as he held her within his grasp?

Alisdair considered himself a rational man, an educated man, yet he was still a Scot. And his ancestors, long gone and buried in the earth which surrounded his burnt out home bequeathed him a thousand years of belief in omens, signs and that feeling which now trickled from the back of his neck in an icy stream down his spine.

This woman stood silent and still, a sentinel announcing danger at the same time she declared herself a mystery imploring to be solved. Alisdair knew he would be better off forgetting he’d ever touched her, knowing in that uncanny way given to a Scot that she posed more problems than he had time to solve.

He could almost hear the warning in the wind.

CHAPTER 4

Bennett wiped the blood off himself, carefully, deliberately. He was disappointed, but then, he had been thwarted often in the last two years.

Pity the sport had ended so quickly, but he’d grown tired of her witless pleading, had ended up stuffing her mouth with her own petticoat. Such tactics only spoiled the rest of the sport.

He finished tying his ascot, blessing the fact that his valet had left his employ three years ago over the paltry inconvenience of being unpaid. Bennett had learned to fend for himself since then. Doing so in such circumstances as he found himself in now only simplified things.

He kicked at the stiffening body at his feet, wondering if he should bury this one, then shrugged. What was one more carrion in this land of walking skeletons? He’d thought the slut was going to give him a good game. True, her backside was a little too bony, her tits too small. Still, she’d had a hot little cavern and a scream that had made him as hard as the rocks surrounding this godforsaken trysting place.

He donned his waistcoat, straightened it by the simple expedient of pulling on the front, jerking it into place, riffled a long fingered hand through his bright blonde hair. Her golden boy, she’d called him. He chuckled. It was both a pity and a necessity that his victims be so idiotic and devoid of sense. They must be romantics these Highland whores, the better to believe him.

How many did that make now? Six? Seven? No, eight, counting this one.

The first one had been Moira, barely seventeen, with the palest milky skin and the faintest of freckles. Her hair was the color of a dawn sky - or at least that’s what he had told her - softly auburn, nearly red. Her fingers were long boned and fine, and had performed the most exquisite of functions, trailing over his skin with eagerness, willing to learn all that he’d taught her. She had been so pathetically grateful for his attention that she would have done anything he asked. Looking back, Bennett believed she might have been the best of all of them.

He’d met her on the moors, where she’d been filling her apron with odd shaped purple flowers - for heather ale, she told him later.

"If it's gathering of the flowers you're doing, lass, you've missed a few."

She whirled and stood, facing him. Wordlessly, she stared at him. shook her and then smiled brightly at the picture he’d presented.

He was not such an idiot to seek out his victims dressed in his regimentals. It pleased him, however, to pretend to be a fool, to solicit humor and even pathos. In this disguise, he was a wool factor from Inverness. He wore brightly colored green trousers, a dun colored shirt, the outfit topped by a long ankle length outer coat of a mud color. His boots were coated with muck, his hat was a floppy thing a cavalier would have worn in another century.

"It's the weather," Bennett said, almost apologetically, to the girl who stood looking at him with wonder in her eyes and a small smile around her mouth. "Never can get warm enough, even in summer, especially traipsing over these hills." He studied the ground carefully as he slowly approached her. "Tripped a while ago, I did," he explained, with a grin, glancing up at her. "Rabbits, or some such."

"You're English," she said, her amusement replaced by Scots caution.

"Half. Only half. Father English, Mother a good Scots lass from Inverness."

"You don't sound Scots."

"The English say I don’t sound English. What is a man to do?" His mobile lips turned up into a comical quirk.

He extended one gloved hand to her, grasped her fingers, and kissed the air above her hand. With a flourish, he lifted off his hat and swept it into a low arc, causing the poor feather to sweep the ground. She smiled and her smile was answered by his.

Ah, Moira, how much fun they’d had. She even believed he was going to marry her, enough to gather her small parcel of possessions and meet him on the outskirts of her village. She did not know that he would never allow a child of his to be the get of a whore. She’d cried the day he’d taken her virginity, but then, she’d been easily placated by empty words and a hint of a bright, loving future.

Perhaps he’d gone a bit far too soon with dear Moira. Yet, she’d lived two whole days, for all her delicacy. Of all the women who followed her, he remembered her with the most fondness.

For the last two years, he’d been assigned to this hellish spot, a boil on the arse of humanity.Routine patrols only took so much time, his companions diversions bored him more often than not. He amused himself by selecting his women with patience, with wooing them with words and a genteel cavalier approach. Such a painstakingly planned strategy was designed to occupy his free hours. All in all, it was not a difficult deception. To play the fool, a little food, a smile or two, a few tender kisses and each woman willingly met him in a deserted spot like this one, their final resting place spotted with gorse and blooming flowers. The lonely women of Scotland were like fish caught in a leaking pond, dying of their circumstances. He was their friend, their lover, and ultimately, their savior. He saved them from the drab existence of their own lives. It was not a role which displeased him.

This one - what was her name again, oh yes, Mary - had come eagerly to this deserted place, fed for weeks on scant kisses and tender touches. She’d fallen to the ground skirt up, bodice open, mouth hungry to feed off him. She loved him, she loved him, she loved him, she said, murmuring the words over and over like a benediction of the damned.

Her eager compliance was not what he’d wanted, but it was not until she’d seen the knife that she’d suspected anything was amiss. Even then, she’d not believed, not entirely. Not until a crimson line had appeared upon her chest, a bridge linking her two small breasts, had she comprehended that he was not gentle suitor as much as victor, that he wanted not her pleading nor her submission.

He wanted her terror.

His victims’ intense and unrelenting fear was the greatest aphrodisiac, filling Bennett with bloodlust, an almost mindless passion which made him dizzy when they died, mouths open and screaming to the four winds as if beseeching someone for help.

Of course, no one ever came.

Mary had finally fought him towards the end, not liking the pain. It had taken too much effort on his part to maintain her fear, the silly cow. She'd retained that befuddled look almost to the end. Her soft brown eyes had worn a look of surprise, shock and finally horror in their depths as if she could not quite believe what he was doing.

Bennett smiled again, and did up his trousers, patting the cloth over his now dwindled member in approbation. He stared down without interest at the body rapidly cooling on the harsh grasses of the moor. It no longer bled as copiously, but a hundred slivers colored first scarlet and then nearly black with congealed blood told the tale of these past hours. His talented knife was cleaned by the simple expedient of wiping it on the tall grass. He would sharpen it later; it was amazing how dull it became after one of these afternoons.

He wondered what his sister-in-law would have said about his newest penchant. His dear brother's wife, loaned on more than one occasion. God, he'd lusted after her, hadn't he? So silent, so still, until he came for her. All he had to do was smile at her and she would whimper. He had her tied at first, but later, even that gesture was unnecessary. He'd barely had to touch her before her screams began. But she'd had the stamina to take whatever he gave her, didn't she? He’d never used the knife on her, though. What would she have done? The thought of it engorged him again, and he cursed the dead and useless woman at his feet.

Too bad she was not nearby. Too bad.

He really missed Judith.

CHAPTER 5

"Aye, lass, it's a bonny sight ye are."

Judith wanted to tell Malcolm to save his compliments for someone who would believe him. Instead, she opted for silence.

She'd been left alone all afternoon and while idle hands might be the devil's tools, her equally unoccupied brain focused on the absurdity of her situation. She had not, however, found a way to end her enforced visit to Scotland. She had no friends, no funds and she dared not return to her family. What was she to do now?

Finally, having no outlet nor answer for her worrisome thoughts, she occupied herself with the basics of life. By the end of the day, Judith was certain that being clean was considered a luxury in Scotland. She had trudged up the steep, downward sloping stairs with three buckets of warm water, willing to endure any hardship in order to wash the scent of sheep from her skin. Only when her standing bath was complete did she use the last of the warm water to wash her hair. The meager contents of her valise yielded a boar bristle brush, which she used to brush it free of tangles while it dried.

Her ablutions were those she completed with thoughts of comfort, rather than beauty. There was no vanity in the fact that her hair fell at the mid-point of her back, or that it was thick, rife with red and gold highlights and curled on its own. There was no mirror to see if her dress fit well, or if the color flattered her complexion. She did not care if her lips appeared bloodless or her cheeks were too pale. She'd long since avoided mirrors, it being too painful to see the person reflected there. As long as her laces were tied tightly and her hair pinned back from her face, that was as much as Judith cared about, that was all the vanity she required.

If she wished, sometimes, to be different, then those were silly dreams. There was no point in pretending that things would ever be different. She was simply who she was, both outer plainness and inner soil. Dreaming and wishing wouldn’t make it better, wouldn’t change it.

The summons to dinner had come just as she was deciding whether or not she should venture from the room again. The fact that the MacLeod stood imperiously at the bottom of the stairs, glowering up at her, almost changed her mind about following Malcolm down the stairs. Only the hunger gnawing at her stomach convinced her to continue.

Judith thought later that she should have stayed in her room and demanded bread and water. It might have been edible.

She sat between Malcolm and Sophie and poked suspiciously at her dinner of translucent vegetables and a gruel that tasted of laundry water. They served themselves and she watched in wonder as Malcolm returned to the pot simmering above the fire time and time again. He must have a cast iron stomach, she mused, as she forced down a potato. Even the MacLeod, sitting on the other side of the broad oak table, picked at his dinner fastidiously, as if he, too, were concerned about its ingredients.

One of their clanswomen had prepared the meal, she was told at her tentative inquiry. Judith could begin to understand Malcolm's desperation in obtaining a wife for the MacLeod. Yet, she could have chopped, diced, pared, boiled, and stewed just as well in an unmarried state as she could being linked to the lord of this pile of bricks.

The lord in question ignored her presence as studiously as she would have liked to ignore his. Her eyes scanned the tall form seated across the table, noting his broad shoulders, the tanned arms, the large hands with their fingers blunted by calluses, marred by a hundred tiny scrapes and cuts. His head was bent upon his task of consuming his meal, but although he ate with diligence, his manners were better than Anthony’s or even Peter’s.

Nor was that the only way he differed from her two previous husbands.