Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties) (9 page)

“You’re certainly wet for me now, girl,” he quipped, and when Jane made to crawl into the centre of the mattress he added, “No, no. Stay where you are.”

She was unaccustomed with the methods by which a man and a woman could be intimate, and feared what his intentions were this time. Standing behind her, he hastened to undo the laces of his breeks, and then clumsily pressed himself, already fully erect, to her unprepared flesh. She whimpered pathetically as he thrust himself roughly inside.

Jane clenched her eyes shut, and pressing her face into the mattress, she tried to imagine she was elsewhere. She pictured home, pictured running down the vicarage lane with Hugg, her beloved Mastiff. She pictured the balls and dances in Sussex—the cool night air floating through the open windows of the manor houses, carrying music and laughter with it on the breeze.

But Lord Reginald’s grotesque grunting forced its way into her tentatively held illusions, shattering the images she desperately tried to conjure.

When his awkward thrusting was getting him nowhere in the position he had her, he urged Jane to turn over, gripping her thigh in indication of what he wanted her to do. Her injured leg knocked against his hip, and the ache, which had begun to subside, roared back to life, wrenching a choked sob from her chest.

“Oh, bollocks. Are you alright?” Lord Reginald inquired again, his eyes glassy.

She nodded, biting back a fit of snivelling and shut her eyes once more. Still standing over her, he lifted her legs and tossed them roughly one over each shoulder. Then, barely positioning himself properly, he re-entered her, grunting loudly as he thrust.

His pitiful attempt to satisfy himself carried on far beyond what was tolerable, and by the time he finally did reach his satisfaction, she felt as though she had been rubbed raw.

Relieved and exhausted, Lord Reginald removed himself from between her raised legs, tossing them aside carelessly, and collapsed onto the bed beside her. His arm, clammy with perspiration, he tossed over her midsection—whether it was a gesture of affection or that he’d simply forgotten she was there, Jane didn’t know.

She waited patiently for him to move, but soon there was the sound of soft snoring rising from his motionless form.

“Wonderful,” she muttered to herself, scrubbing the tears from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

Carefully so as not to wake him, she disentangled herself from under his arm and slid off the bed. The evidence of his release slid sickeningly from her cavity and down the inside of her thighs. She shuddered and crossed the room to the bath which, by now, had grown tepid. Stepping into the water, she scrubbed herself clean of Lord Reginald’s seed. Her womanhood stung from the chafing he’d given her, but she did not care; she scrubbed furiously—as if she could wash away the humiliation along with the physical evidence.

Sneaking about the room, she dressed herself and wove her hair into a simple plait. The hour was not too late; there was still time to visit the kitchens in order to gather some food to bring with her. The Scotsman would likely be hungry—if not tonight, then soon.

Robbie
—she corrected herself—the Scotsman’s name was Robbie.

Desperate to escape Lord Reginald’s offensive, ale-driven snores, Jane opened the door and shut it quietly behind herself. Ruth waited for her on the other side.

“Oh, Mistress,” she lamented. “I hope it was not too terrible.”

“I’ve endured it, as you can see,” she assured her maid, affecting a smile. “Now, I wonder if you might try and see if you can coerce his Lordship back to his own bedchamber, for he has fallen asleep in mine.”

“I will try, my Lady,” she said with a pat on Jane’s arm.

Jane turned and began to walk stiffly away, but as she did, Ruth let out a gasp. “My Lady, what has happened to your leg—are you injured? Why do you walk so?”

“It is nothing,” she lied. “I’ve only tripped over the side of the tub. It is my own clumsiness that is to blame.”

Ruth eyed her sceptically, but said nothing. Lowering her face to hide the telltale colouring of her cheeks, Jane hurried off down the hall as naturally as she could, trying for Ruth’s sake to hide her limp. She dared not look back over her shoulder to judge her maid’s reaction.

The cook and a handful of servants were still puttering about the kitchens when she entered.

“My Lady, how can I help ye?” the cook queried, stooping in a low curtsey.

Jane withheld a grimace of pity at the way the elderly woman lowered her withered frame.

“I wonder if I might have some bread, or perhaps some oatcakes to take back to my chamber,” she inquired pleasantly. “I found that I have not been very hungry at the evening meals, for the company in the great hall is so unfamiliar to me. But I have awakened these past few nights with a fierce hunger as a result.”

“Certainly, your Ladyship,” the cook nodded. “Mairi, will ye assemble a tray for the baroness?”

Mairi, a slip of a girl who had been scrubbing pots in a large, wooden basin, nodded. With a quick curtsey and downcast eyes, she swiftly collected an assortment of items—half a loaf of cheat, a handful of gingerbread squares and some oatcakes, with a bit of black crowdie in a small pot to go on top. When she reached for the manchet, the fine bread made only in limited quantities for the expensive white flour, Jane interjected.

“Please, may I have the bannock instead?” she said, afraid that its absence would be brought to Lord Reginald’s attention.

Mairi stared at her, surprised. “Ye want the bannock, my Lady? Ye being a noblewoman, surely ye want the manchet instead.”

“No, the bannock will be fine, thank you,” she responded.

Mairi nodded her acquiescence, and without further question, placed the items onto a silver tray and brought them to the head cook.

“I shall bring these to your chamber,” the cook said, taking the tray from Mairi—reverently, as though it carried a priceless treasure.

“Oh, please, let me help you with that,” Jane offered. “Or let one of the other servants carry it.”

The cook lifted her chin proudly. “No need, yer ladyship. I can do it gae fine.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can,” Jane agreed, regretting that she’d offended the woman. “Then I shall follow you up.”

“Very well, yer Ladyship.”

She followed, limping after the old cook who was herself hobbling along awkwardly. She laughed quietly to herself, thinking about the picture the two of them must make as they stumbled along the passageways of the castle together.

A light in the ale room caught her attention as they passed, and peering in she saw a solitary figure hunched over a battered wooden table.

“I’ll be along shortly,” she informed the cook.

The cook nodded over her shoulder and continued to hobble onward.

Jane backed up a few steps to the door of the ale room. The figure hunched over the table was Tearlach, and he was very clearly in his cups. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—there was an air about him that exuded even more sadness and defeat than usual. His head hung even lower between his drooping shoulders than usual, and she felt an especially strong twinge of pity just watching him.

“Tearlach?” she called from the doorway.

Except for a slight tensing of his shoulders, the man gave no indication that he’d heard her; she entered the room anyway. The musky scent of the mould-covered mortar and of ages old oak barrels wrapped her like a sheet, for the air within was still—so still that if Tearlach’s obvious despair had had a scent, it too would have enveloped her.

“Are you alright, Tearlach?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Tearlach raised his eyes, red and bleary, and regarded her oddly. He seemed confused, as if trying to place her. Then, recognition smoothed the crease in his forehead.

“Oh aye, yer Ladyship. Why shouldna I be? I’ve got a roof over my head, a belly full of ale, and a prestigious position as steward to his Lordship’s castle. I’ve nothing to be bothered over, have I?” Then, to himself, he mumbled, “And all I had to do for it was play the part of Judas.”

Jane frowned in sympathy. “You wished to spare your life. There is nothing wrong in that.”

Though she’d meant only to be friendly, her words angered Tearlach. He raised his head to her, meeting her eyes in a challenge.

“That isna why I did it, ye wee silly lass.” When Jane’s eyebrows flew up in shock at his outburst, he hung his head again. “I am sorry, my Lady. I didna mean to speak so to ye.”

“Why did you do it then?” Jane pressed when she’d regained her composure. “Swear your loyalty to the king, I mean, if it wasn’t what you wanted? You were not under threat of death.”

Tearlach scoffed and gazed at her incredulously. “Dinna ye ken anything, lass?”

Jane paused. “No,” she answered honestly. “I’m starting to realize that I do not.’

He held her eyes, as if to consider some great matter. She could see the muscles in his jaw working as he decided whether or not he would speak. She held perfectly still, not wanting to say or do anything that might deter him.

“Ye ken, yer lord husband could have me hanged as a traitor for what I’m about to tell ye. Ye might go scurrying off to him and repeat all that I’ve said. And ye ken, I dinna care a whit at this moment. Let him hang me. I did it; I betrayed my laird and my people to protect what’s theirs. To safeguard it in their absence.”

Jane gasped. “Do you mean to say that you expect them to reclaim it?”

Tearlach shook his head sadly. “I dinna expect that at all. Certainly no’ after ... no’ after what happened. I couldna have joined them in their banishment. Dinna get me wrong, if I could have fought wi’ their ranks, I would have. But I am too old to be fighting. These bones are no longer of any use in battle. Nay, I stayed—I swore loyalty to that beast of a man ye call king ... because it were the only thing I could do to help.”

“Help how?” she prompted when Tearlach fell silent.

“Dunloch will always belong to MacGillivray, even if it is in the hands of a
Sassenach
lord. That means that the gold and the riches of Dunloch belong to MacGillivray. Now I am no fool as to think they’ll ever come back. But if they do—one day—they will find the books in order. They will find that old Tearlach protected and maintained what was always theirs. It is all I can do now.”

Jane watched, heart stricken, as a tear slid from the corner of the Dunloch steward’s glassy eye. The man took another swallow of ale from the goblet he held clasped in his fist and said no more.

With a reassuring hand on his hunched shoulder as she passed by him, she left the room. Her thoughts were in turmoil. What had Lady D’Aubrey meant when she’d said Jane didn’t know anything about Scotland or its people? What was it that she needed to know? She was always aware that there was strife in this land, but it had always seemed to her the solutions was simple—if those heathen Scots wanted peace, then they had better stop warring with England and simply accept Edward as their king.

But the heartache in Tearlach’s voice shed a new light on a situation she had always considered simple. She realized then that there was so much she did not understand, much she had to learn.
Wanted
to learn.

And she knew just the person to ask—the one person in all of this strange and foreboding land who owed it to her to provide answers.

Chapter 7

By the time Jane reached the hut through the blackened wilderness, her ankle was throbbing. The rough terrain over which she’d travelled had not helped.

Robbie was sleeping soundly when she arrived, but the fire was still crackling away gently—he must have been awake at one point and added the kindling and wood she’d brought in. That was a good sign.

She set stones to heating. The thyme infusion was running low—he’d been at that too, she thought with satisfaction—so she would need to brew more of it. Gently, so as not to wake him, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. The fever still burned, but it was significantly reduced. She resisted the urge to stroke the length of his face as she had done before. With his fever declining, he might not be as oblivious to her touch as he had been then, and what on earth would she say if he woke up and caught her?

Her throbbing ankle was showing no signs of abating. With no work left to be done at the moment, she moved to her own blanket across from Robbie and gingerly lowered herself onto it. Her sore ankle made simple movements as that awkward, and the ache between her thighs made her flesh tender—not only had Lord Reginald rubbed her raw, but she thought he must also have bruised the flesh at her tailbone with his unbridled bucking and thrusting.

Adjusting herself into a comfortable sitting position, she unlaced her boot and removed it. Then pulling her skirt up to her thigh, she stripped off her stocking. Her ankle, she could easily see, would likely bear a bruise and was a trifle swollen; though that might be due in part to the aggravation the walking had done it.

Moving her knee to the side, she examined the inside of her ankle where she’d noticed a stinging sensation—the flesh above her ankle bone had received an awful scrape which she had not noticed before from the lip of the tub.