Dillon paced the floor of the sitting chamber. In the next room, his brothers could be beard arguing. The door to their sleeping chamber was suddenly yanked open, and Shaw entered carrying an armload of bed linens.
“What are you doing?” Dillon asked.
“Sutton has ordered me out of the chamber. I will sleep in here beside the fire.”
“Why?”
Shaw shrugged and stared pointedly at the floor. “You will have to ask him yourself.”
Storming into the room, Dillon said, “What foolishness is this? Why have you sent your own brother from this chamber?”
“The wench, Verda, has offered to warm my bed.” From a basin, Sutton splashed water on his face and chest, and dried himself with a square of linen.
Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “And you agreed?”
Sutton blushed. From the time he was a mere lad, women had been his greatest weakness. But, as he had often had to explain to Father Anselm whenever he’d arrived at the monastery late for vespers, it was not his fault that women young and old threw themselves at his feet. There was just something about him that caused such things to happen.
“She said she is quite taken with me. She personally saw that my tankard was never empty. And she fed me the finest cuts of meat from the platter.”
“The wench would do the same for a dog if he had a fine pallet that she could share.” Dillon stormed back into the sitting chamber and picked up the bed linens, flinging them through the open doorway.
“But she said she liked the way I look,” Sutton shouted.
Dillon stood in the doorway, legs far apart, hands on hips. “And for the sake of a little flattery, you would let an English servant endanger all our lives?”
Sutton looked astonished. “You think one small female could bring us harm?”
“One small dagger, perfectly aimed by the female’s hand, is all it would take to snuff out your life while you slept beside her, Sutton. Is the wench worth the risk?”
His brother ran a hand through his hair, then looked away. “I was not thinking. I... peered down her bodice and...”
“So did every man in that room,” Dillon said with a sigh. “’Twas as she planned it. The wench is well aware of her charms, and how to use them.” Dillon smiled. “But remember, brother, we are not here for pleasure. We represent our countrymen. Every Englishman we meet will judge all Scots by the way we behave.”
His brother began to relax. Though Dillon’s temper was legend, he had learned, after years of effort, to curb it in favor of humor.
“Forgive me.” Sutton shook his head. “I give you my word, Dillon. When the wench knocks this night, my door will be barred to her.” He held out his hand.
Dillon nodded his approval and crossed the room to accept his brother’s handshake.
“Now, Dillon, tell us what you think of the Englishmen,” Shaw said as he began to hastily remake his sleeping pallet. He was relieved that his older brother had intervened. His twin’s easy way with the women was often difficult for Shaw to take. Especially since he had chosen a life of celibacy for himself.
Dillon poured a goblet of ale from a flagon and took a seat by the fire. “Lord Alec Waltham seems an honorable man. The king has chosen wisely. Our host will set the tone of the meetings that begin on the morrow. George Godwin, the Duke of Essex, on the other hand, is obviously unhappy with this meeting. I think he will do all in his power to see that the peace council fails.”
“You will challenge him?”
“I will.”
“How?”
Dillon’s tone remained as easy as if they were discussing the weather. But his brothers heard the threat underlying the words. “It will all depend upon Essex and what he chooses to do.”
“What of the aged man who walks with a cane?”
“Lord John Forest, the king’s own counsel, is more difficult to discern. He seems a cautious man, and one who will decide only after all the terms have been agreed upon.”
“What of the Blakelys, father and son?” Shaw asked.
Dillon’s hand closed imperceptibly around the stem of the goblet. “Lord James Blakely is shrewd. And a soldier. Those two traits make him a dangerous opponent. He has learned to keep his true feelings hidden until he is upon the field of battle. But this much I know. As a soldier, he will gain nothing by a peace between our two countries.”
“His son, Alger, is also a soldier,” Shaw said.
“Aye. But he is too blinded by his heart, which shines from his eyes.”
Shaw smiled. “I saw the way he kept you and the lady Leonora in his line of vision throughout the evening. The poor dolt is in love.”
“But does he love the lady,” Sutton asked with a chuckle, “or the lady’s dowry? Judging by her father’s estates, ’twould be considerable.”
“It is of no concern to us.” Dillon gave a shrug of his shoulders. “It is enough to know that Alger Blakely will do whatever pleases the lady. And the lady is a dutiful daughter. Though she mistrusts us, she will do all in her power to bring about the success of her father’s mission for his king.”
“What of the bishop?” Sutton asked.
Dillon glanced at their brother Shaw, who was pledged to the Church. “I mean no disrespect, but the Bishop of York, though a man of God, seems no more than a puppet. A lifetime of ease and comfort, enjoying the friendship of the king, has blinded him to truth. I think he will put aside moral judgments and follow wherever the others lead.”
“Then what chance have we of succeeding?” Shaw asked as he climbed between the covers. “The only Englishman who is on our side is Lord Alec Waltham.”
“We are Highland warriors, sent by Robert the Bruce, at the invitation of the King of England.” Dillon stood, placed the empty goblet on a table, then strode to the door. Both his brothers were already in their pallets. Fueled by their arduous journey and the amount of food and ale consumed during the evening’s feast, their eyes were heavy with the need for sleep. “All our lives, we have been outnumbered. But we have always kept our goals clearly in our line of vision.” His tone lowered. “If King Edward’s emissaries are like-minded, we will return to Scotland with the fragile hope for peace between our countries still alive.”
“Aye.” Sutton stifled a yawn, while Shaw gave in to the need for sleep. “On the morrow, then, the tale will be told.”
Dillon smiled and closed the door, knowing that his brothers were already dreaming. Though the hour was late, he had no desire to sleep. Pausing before the fire, he thought again about the men with whom he would be dealing.
Throughout his life, he had nurtured a hatred for all things English. He touched a hand to the thin scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. That hatred had heated his blood through many a cold winter, and had driven him to become the fiercest warrior in all of Scotland.
Now the fates had decreed that he would be the one to talk of peace. At first, it had stuck in his throat like a stone. But now, slowly, rationally, though it was still bitter, he had begun to swallow it, and even to accept the taste. Peace. Though he still burned with the need to avenge the murders of his father and mother and his entire clan, he would try, for the sake of his younger brothers and sister, and the generations of the Clan Campbell not yet born, to put the hatred to rest.
The morrow would tell the tale. If these English were willing to deal fairly, he would do the same.
Feeling restless, he tossed his cloak over his shoulders and strode from the room. A walk in the garden was just what he needed to clear his head before attempting sleep.
~ ~ ~
Leonora sat on a stone bench, listening to the sounds of the night. Insects hummed and chirped. A night bird cried as it swooped past like a dark shadow.
Looking up at the stars, she felt a wave of loneliness. Always, in times of crises, she missed her mother. That good woman would have known just what to say to make these strangers feel welcome. She would have offered wise counsel to her husband, who could be heard pacing in his chambers before Leonora had stolen away into the garden. She chewed on her lip. Her mother would have known how to soothe the tensions between her own countrymen and these strangers in their midst. And most important of all, she would have known just how to ease her daughter’s fears.
Fear. Aye. Fear and—more. What was it about this savage, Dillon Campbell, that had her so unnerved? Even at Westminster, pitted against royals and noblemen, she had never felt so out of her element. There, at least, she could rely on propriety and good manners. But here, in the company of this man, she had no rules to guide her.
Hearing a footfall, she got to her feet, expecting to see one of her father’s soldiers. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had just been occupying so many of her thoughts.
She lifted a hand to her throat. “You... startled me.”
Dillon studied the figure in the hooded cloak, who blended in with the shadowed hedges and trees. “Forgive me, my lady. I had expected to be alone in the garden at such an hour.” He glanced around. “Is it safe for you to be here?”
She felt offended by such a question. “You ask if I am safe in my father’s own keep? I assure you, if someone wished me harm, they would face the wrath of a hundred soldiers who stand guard.”
“The soldiers have been fortified with wine, my lady. Even now, they lie asleep. If someone wished you harm, you would be helpless to defend yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you try to frighten me with talk of savagery? Is this the way of your people?”
He gave a sigh of impatience. This female was as unpleasant as the rest of her countrymen. “I do not wish to make you uneasy, my lady. It is just that, in my country, the women no longer feel safe even within the walls of a keep.”
“And why is that, sir? Have your men become so depraved that they would attack even helpless women?”
His tone deepened with anger. “It is not my men they fear. It is yours, my lady.”
He made a move to walk past her, but her hand shot out, catching the sleeve of his cloak. She would teach this savage manners while he was under the roof of civilized men.
“You would accuse noble Englishmen of attacking innocent women?”
Without a word, he stared down at the offending hand. Almost at once she removed it. The look in his eyes caused her to take a step back.
“Aye. And helpless children, as well.”
Had she not been so angry, she would have recognized, by the thickened burr, the deep well of anger in his words. But her own temper was propelling her to disregard common sense.
“You go too far, sir.”
Leonora’s reaction was so spontaneous, even she was stunned by it. She slapped him as hard as she could, her hand swinging out in a wide arc and landing with a resounding crack against his cheek.
Reflexively, his arm snaked out. For a moment, she could only stare at him as his hand closed around her wrist. Strength. She had never felt such controlled strength in any man. She could feel anger pulsing through him as his fingers bit into her flesh. Though his anger was a terrible thing to behold, she refused to apologize or back down, now that she had made such a dangerous miscalculation.
“You are hurting me.”
He tightened his grip and drew her closer until she could feel the sting of his breath against her temple. “You do not know what it is to be hurt, my lady.” He nodded toward the torches that burned on either side of the castle door. “All your life, you have taken such safety and comfort for granted, while my people have had to live in fear of the next raid by your hated English soldiers.”
Lifting her chin in a gesture of defiance, she said, “If you raise your hand against me, you are no better than those you accuse.”
“I do not raise my hand against women. That is the way of the English.” He released her as though the very touch of her offended him.
Rubbing her bruised wrist, she turned away, eager to flee to the safety of the castle. “Never before have I been so brutalized in my own father’s garden.”
“Brutalized?” His voice was a strangled whisper of fury.
He caught her roughly by the arm and twisted her to face him. With his hands gripping her upper arms, he held her fast when she tried to free herself. “My lady, if it were my intention to harm you, you would be already lying dead at my feet.”
Fear and anger made her careless with her words. “The Duke of Essex was right. You are nothing more than a ragged, dirty savage, who does not belong among civilized men.”
She saw something dark and dangerous flicker in his eyes. His fingers tightened on the soft flesh of her upper arms until she cried out, but he was beyond hearing.
“A savage, am I?” Drawing her close, he whispered, “Let this be a lesson to you, my lady.”
She knew that she had pushed him beyond the limit of his control. Fear skittered along her spine as he dragged her against him.
She stiffened. Sweet heaven, he was going to violate her. Her heart slammed in her chest. Her pulse accelerated. She felt light-headed. Her breathing stilled.
He bent his head. “Never invite a snake into your garden, my lady.”
His lips brushed the hair at her temple, then moved lower to graze her cheek. He experienced a sudden shock. Her skin was the softest he had ever touched.
“Aye, a snake is what you are. But I did not invite you, sir. You are here unbidden.” She stiffened in his arms. His mouth hovered mere inches from hers, teasing her, taunting her. Her heart lodged in her throat, threatening to choke her. She felt afraid, yet strangely exhilarated. She felt as if she were standing on a precipice. One step, one tiny movement, and she would find herself hurtling through space.
Dillon moved his hands along her shoulders. Staring down into her eyes, he could read fear and innocence there. And something more. Defiance. Though the female was terrified of him, she stood her ground. He found himself responding to that underlying strength in her. Despite her youth and innocence, here was a woman who would be a match for any man. He could sense an almost simmering sensuality in this Englishwoman. A sensuality of which she seemed completely unaware.
Common sense told him to walk away and leave her as he had found her. But he saw the way she lifted her head defiantly, determined to fight him. His gaze fastened on her mouth. It would take only the slightest movement to taste those lips.
He hesitated, and thought briefly about fighting the desire. Then swearing under his breath he bent to her. That haughty lift of her chin, those pouty lips, were too great a temptation.
His mouth covered hers, sending shock waves crashing through her. One moment she was cold from the night air. The next moment she was on fire.
At first, the kiss was harsh, bruising. But the moment his lips found hers, he forgot that his intention had been to punish her.
God in heaven. Her lips were soft, and warm, and... trembling. He knew at once that this was the first time she had ever been kissed so brazenly.
He lifted his head and held her a little away. “My lady.” His tone was gruff. He was amazed at how difficult it was to speak.
She opened her eyes and looked up in surprise.
“How is it that you have never kissed a man before?”
She blinked, humiliated that he would dare to ask such a question. “You are not a man. You are a savage—”
A smile touched his lips. “And you are even more beautiful when you are angry.” He dragged her against him and covered her mouth with his. She smelled of crushed roses and some vaguely remembered scent from his childhood that evoked a rush of tenderness that left him shaken. Despite his anger, the kiss softened, until his lips moved over hers with gentle persuasion.
Leonora had been prepared for the worst. Her eyes were scrunched tightly shut. Her hands were balled into fists, which she held as a barrier between their two chests.
She could have withstood an assault; it would have fueled her hatred of this brute. But she was totally unprepared for this tender side of his nature.
Hadn’t she always wondered what it would be like to be kissed by a man? Not one of the groping peacocks at court, but a strong, virile man, who would make her blood heat and her knees tremble. Would her eyes be open or closed? Would their noses bump? Would she be able to breathe, or would she be forced to hold her breath until she suffocated?
Now she no longer had to wonder. His lips were gentle, coaxing hers with feather-light kisses. Heat spread from his hands on her shoulders, from his mouth on hers, to her blood, which coursed like liquid fire through her veins.
She breathed in the musky scent of him. At that moment, he changed the angle of the kiss. Their heads turned just enough so that their noses didn’t touch. She was surprised and pleased at the way the angles and planes of his body accentuated the softness of hers.
Against her will, her hands opened and her fingers curled into the front of his cloak. Though she was unaware of it, a sigh escaped her lips, and she gave herself up to the pure sensual pleasure of the moment.
His lips were warm and firm and practiced, and moved over hers with the skill of one who was accustomed to such sweet diversions.
She had no defenses against the sensations that pulsed through her. Sensations that were so new, so frightening, they left her trembling.
His grip on her shoulders tightened, drawing her firmly against him. She gave a little gasp of surprise when his tongue traced the outline of her lips, then darted inside her mouth. Her hands clutched at his back and she felt the heat of him all the way through his cloak.
Lifting his head, Dillon stared down at the young woman in his arms. She tasted sweet, alluring. Her eyes were wide, luminous, too big for her face. He could read confusion in those eyes, and something more; the first flush of desire. His arms came around her, until he felt the softness of her melting into him. His lips covered hers in a searing kiss that left her dazed and breathless.
Her breath caught in her throat. The heat became a fire, leaving her weak and clinging. Fear became excitement. Pleasure became need, a need she had never before experienced.
He was so strong, he could crush her. Yet he held her as carefully as if she were a fragile flower. She could feel the tightly controlled power, which only seemed to inflame her more.
He felt her fear fade into acquiescence. With her breasts flattened against his chest, he could feel her, warm and pliant in his arms.
Something deep inside him tightened, and he felt the rush of desire, swift, pulsing, before he banked the need. He had to end this now, quickly, before it got out of control. Had he not just lectured his brothers to be cautious of these Englishwomen? Fool, he berated himself. He was a guest in her father’s home, here in her country on a mission that would determine the fate of generations. What kind of fool would jeopardize everything for the sake of one small female?
Calling on all his willpower, he pushed her from him and took a step back.
She struggled to maintain her balance. Her eyes widened for one brief moment before she lowered her lashes and looked away in shame. She had not merely submitted; she had been a willing party to what had just transpired. Now she must find a way to ease her conscience.
Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she whispered, “You have just proven to me that the Duke of Essex was right. You are nothing more than a filthy savage.”
“Aye.” He bowed grandly and his eyes glittered as he reached out a hand and dragged her close.
Instantly they both felt the flare of heat. And both denied it.
“So, beware of savages and snakes, my lady.” He caught her chin and stared down at her. Her lips were still moist and swollen from his kiss. The sight of it brought a rush of desire that left him shaken.
Leonora felt a warmth spread through her limbs at even that brief contact.
“Next time, this snake may devour you.”
She twisted herself free of his grasp. “If you dare to touch me again, Highlander, you will face the wrath of my father’s soldiers.”
She saw the gleam of laughter in his eyes before he swung away. Over his shoulder, he taunted, “If I wanted you, my lady, there would not be enough soldiers in all of England to stop me.”
With trembling legs, Leonora sank upon the stone bench and dragged cold night air into her lungs to steady her nerves.
He had been right about one thing. She had never before been kissed like that. Even at court, where passions were boldly played out in front of all, her father had gone to great pains to shelter his only child. There had been men who, emboldened by wine and caught in the grip of power, had attempted to seduce her. But their clumsy attempts had always repelled her. This man, on the other hand, had elicited a response from her that had left her shaken to the core.
Oh, Mother, she whispered, pressing a hand to her trembling lips. What have I done? How will I ever face him on the morrow?
Refusing to give in to her fear, she lifted her skirts and stalked to the door of the castle. Damn the savage! she thought as she fled to the safety of her room. And damn the fates that had brought him to her father’s castle.
In the garden, the man who occupied her thoughts was pacing the darkened paths like a caged animal. And muttering a few rich ripe curses of his own.