Chapter Five

She was his? What did that mean? Rachel mulled over the three simple words that seemed more binding than the iron bars of Alec’s dungeon. Now bathed and dressed in a blue gown, Rachel waited with Isabelle for an escort to the evening meal. She and her sister were now guests. Their father was housed in one of the cramped servants’ quarters, but he probably deserved worse. Rachel sighed. Her father’s morals had turned dark ever since their mother had died. His whole life now revolved around material wealth and finding a higher placement in the hierarchical ladder at court.

“So he’s the chief,” Isabelle commented, her raised eyebrows adding unspoken questions. The edges of her mouth turned up subtly.

Rachel nodded with a meek shrug.

“And he captured you outside the Macbain’s castle.” Since Isabelle had already interrogated her earlier, Rachel didn’t feel the need to respond. “And you spent…a whole night together in a cave wearing only your shift.”

Rachel ran her fingertip along the beaded pattern embellishing her snug velvet bodice. A long pause stretched.

“Did you kiss him?” Isabelle whispered.

Rachel’s gaze snapped to her sister.

Isabelle laid her hand on Rachel’s wrist, where the bruise remained from her rescue. A faint light gave Rachel’s skin a bluish tint as Isabelle dissolved the pools of blood beneath her skin.

“Thank you,” she whispered as Isabelle smoothed the now healthy-looking skin. Rachel was certain her sister could also detect her deep blush and the way her heart raced.

Isabelle smiled broadly. “He’s quite handsome in a robust, wild type of way.”

“It wasn’t like that, Isabelle,” Rachel defended.

“How was it?”

“He’d just pulled me up out of the hole. I was panicky, grateful, overwhelmed.”

“Hmm…overwhelmed,” Isabelle said as if understanding, even though Rachel knew her sister had never been overwhelmed in that way before.

A sharp rapping on the door made them both jump off the bed. A smiling face peeked around the door. “Time to sup.” A little gray-haired lady with more wrinkles than last year’s apples beckoned them.

Rachel and Isabelle grasped hands as they followed the maid down the winding steps. They walked on silent slippers under an archway into the great hall. A churning tide of deep, guttural voices ebbed, slowly fading to silence as all eyes turned toward them. Isabelle nearly squeezed the blood from Rachel’s hand. The only women in the room whisked around with platters of meat and baskets of bread. Two long tables with short benches held tankards and bread trenchers along their polished surfaces. Their father was absent.

Rachel spotted Alec easily by the hearth—his height and breadth set him apart. Even with the loose linen shirt covering his chest, the broad strength of his form could not be concealed. She swallowed, recalling the smooth, hot skin of his stomach, the soft sprinkling of hair across his chest, the thin lines of scars giving evidence of his continued survival in this harsh land. Her inhalation cut off when she met his smoldering gaze. She couldn’t look away. It was as if an invisible tether tied her. Isabelle tugged her toward a table and Rachel broke the stare, lest she trip over her own skirts.

Dinner dragged as Rachel endeavored to make pleasant talk in broken Gaelic. Only a few of the Munros spoke English. Rachel had expected hostility, from the facts that she and her sister were English and that their father was imprisoned above stairs. But the Munros smiled and patiently corrected her pronunciation.

Alec remained on the far side of the room throughout the meal. Toward the end, he walked over.

“Chief Munro,” Rachel began formally, and lowered her eyes.

“Alec,” he corrected with the hint of a grin in his voice. He waited until she looked up. “Aye?”

“We would know what you have planned for our father,” she said.

His grin turned to a wry frown. “He’s admitted his guilt.” He looked only at Rachel. “He’s willing to trade one of ye for his freedom.”

She swallowed hard and felt Isabelle grasp at her arm, but she nodded, not surprised. She was certain which one he’d likely give up.

Alec looked away as he spoke. “I told him that I doona take slaves as payment, and a person given away without their consent is a slave.”

Rachel wet her dry lips. Her heart beat hard, the edge of alarm making it difficult to speak. “If,” she squeaked, “you have my consent, will you release my sister and father?”

Alec’s gaze swung back. Anger muted the shock cut into his features. “Ye would surrender yerself to save that man?”

“And my sister,” Rachel added.

“No, Rachel,” Isabelle whispered.

“Yer sister is not in jeopardy,” Alec said.

“She will be if you send her back to England without a protector, a father to see her supported and married well.” Determination straightened Rachel’s spine. “And regardless of his crimes, I am loyal to my family.”

Alec’s silence was uncomfortable. Surely he must understand clan loyalty.

Her gaze trailed one woman carrying two tankards to the far table. “I could stay on as a servant.”

“Ye are no servant, slave, or prisoner. Ye are free to do as would make ye happy,” Alec said. “This I promise.”

Rachel’s pulse fluttered and her stomach tightened. Before she could respond with more than wide-eyed surprise, the door banged open and a man strode across the rushes toward Alec.

“A message from The Macbain.” He handed over a sealed missive. Phillip flanked Alec as he broke the seal. The room hushed, waiting. Alec thumped his fist down on the table, making the wooden bowls wobble and Rachel and Isabelle jump.

Alec looked up with a mischievous grin. “It seems that the great Macbain has misplaced the daughter of a wool merchant visiting our Highlands.”

Rachel felt the room turn from Alec to her. She straightened, her shoulders as rigid as the castle walls she’d escaped.

“Seems he’s willing to give over quite a reward for her safe return to Druim.” Phillip translated in Gaelic and soon the whole room was laughing.

Rachel and Isabelle looked at one another. Rachel turned to Alec as he read the rest of the missive.

His smile turned stony. He eyed the messenger. “Tell The Macbain and this Angus Riley that Rachel Brindle is a guest of Munro Keep and will soon be a permanent member of Clan Munro. I doona trade women for cattle.” He snorted as if offended.

Rachel’s fingers curled in her lap at the word “permanent.” Hadn’t Alec just sworn that she could do anything that made her happy?

Happy as long as she remained with the Munros.

Isabelle placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She leaned her head against Rachel’s neck. “I will stay with you,” she whispered.

Rachel just shook her head. She rose from her bench, and Isabelle rose with her. Linked arm-in-arm, they turned to the steps.

“Where are ye going?” Alec’s question boomed across the murmurs.

The room quieted.

Rachel paused but didn’t turn around. “It would make me happy to retire to my corral.” She glanced back at Alec, her eyes piercing. “It’s on Munro land so I assume it’s within my allowed territory.”

He looked confused for a moment, but then his face hardened. Rachel didn’t wait for a nod but walked out of the room with Isabelle.

…

Rachel curled on her side next to a soundly slumbering Isabelle. Sleep. Sleep. She had to dam the swirl of thoughts flooding her mind. But they tumbled over. It was even difficult to close her eyes, because every time she did she felt his hard, warm chest under her cheek, his hips clenched between her thighs, his strong hands holding her face as he kissed her in the black cave. Sleep! She squeezed her eyes shut, replacing the carnal picture with one of the fluffy sheep roaming the green fields before Munro Castle.

Rachel caught the thud of footsteps up the narrow stairway. The tread slowed, grew softer as it neared her door. It stopped. She pushed up in the bedcovers, glaring. “He posts a guard on us,” she whispered. So she wasn’t a slave, wasn’t a prisoner anymore? Ha! Anger, fueled by irritation at her own rampant musings, propelled her from bed. She yanked a blanket around her shoulders and threw the door open. Her lips parted to insist that she wasn’t going anywhere in the middle of the night. She froze.

Alec stood in the low light of the oil sconce along the stone wall. His gaze slid from her bare toes, and up her form to her bewildered expression.

“Alec?”

“Ye left before the final course.” His finger strayed to the scar by his ear. “I’m also partial to sweets.”

Rachel realized he held a wooden bowl.

He placed it in her hand. “Raspberries? Sugared.” His voice was soft in the dark. “I saved ye some.” He indicated the door. “I thought to bring ye some if ye were still awake.”

“I…I…” She tripped over her words. “Thank you.” Rachel tipped her head to the side and studied the tall, brawny warrior. Did he remember her? He’d been demanding, booming, boastful down in the great hall, but then he brought her sugared raspberries. “Alec Munro,” she said softly in the small space between them as she met his eyes. “You are by far the most thoughtful barbarian I’ve ever met.” She allowed the grin she felt growing to relax along her face and popped one of the delectable berries between her lips.

Alec leaned forward, his gaze on her mouth as if following the path of the sweet fruit. He splayed his hands against the wall on either side of Rachel, trapping her close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. She inhaled and was assailed by his clean, masculine scent. His dark eyes watched her chew. She swallowed the sweet treat. His face moved closer and Rachel felt her heart beat a rapid song. She held her breath as the rough pad of his thumb traced her full bottom lip.

“Ye’re welcome,” he murmured. The silence stretched as if he waited, but all the clever quips flew from her head as she memorized the pressure of his thumb that moved against her cheek. “Good eve.” Alec pulled away and clipped down the hall, leaving Rachel inhaling deeply over the wooden bowl of sugared raspberries.

…

“Why the hell is he riding here?” Alec grumbled. The last thing he needed was the priest’s suspicions and hell-burning sermons.

“Father Daughtry rides with Colin Macleod of Lewis,” Phillip supplied with a shrug. “I think he was visiting the Macbains for a baptism.”

“Let him know we are without any bairns to bless,” Alec said as he watched the stairs. It was well past dawn and Rachel still hadn’t emerged from her chamber. Would the lass hide away from him all day? “Phillip, have Fiona check on our lady guests and encourage them to come break their fast.”

“Ask her yerself. I’ve a priest to thwart.” Phillip slapped Alec on his shoulder and trudged out the door.

“I’ll run up,” Fiona called from the corridor near the stairwell.

“Thank ye,” Alec said and drank some clear spring water as he contemplated exactly what to demand from William Brindle. The man had seemed more eager to leave behind a daughter than to pay the shillings he owed. Alec frowned over his tankard until the sound of slippers on the stairs pulled his gaze.

Rachel wore a pale blue dress that sculpted against her lush figure, displaying all those ripe curves, just perfect for a man’s hand. The dress stood in lovely contrast to the dark curls shrouding her slim shoulders. She was petite but her stance was strong, making her seem taller, sturdy. Her long lashes were as dark as her hair and lay against her moonlight pale skin. She smiled in greeting.

He stood, inhaling fully. “Good morn.” His gaze flicked to Isabelle and he bowed his head to her as well.

“And good morn to ye, old friend,” came a booming voice from the doorway. Alec’s smile tightened and froze. He pivoted on one heel to face Colin Macleod. Tall and considered handsome by the lasses of Lewis and beyond, the man exuded a gentle strength that he usually held in reserve. Father Daughtry stood beside him, glancing around the hall. The ordained man was not much more than a score and ten years but had already started to develop the paunch of a well-fed clergyman. He’d recently fled the manic climate in England.

Someone clomped from another corridor. “Good morning, Father,” Rachel called.

“And to you,” William Brindle replied as he sat down at the table and began to devour a small loaf of oat bread.

“And good morning to you, Father,” Isabelle called to the priest.

Two fathers, neither of them wanted. Alec’s mood soured. Phillip came in behind them and Alec whipped a glare his way. Phillip shrugged and indicated a letter that Colin held.

“Which one is Rachel?” Father Daughtry asked, his gaze perusing the rolls on the table.

Rachel stepped closer, but Alec held up his hand. She actually stopped. He almost smiled. “What do ye want with Rachel Brindle?”

Colin passed him the missive with the Macbain seal. “The Macbain is looking for her.”

Alec unfolded the paper. “I know that. He sent a man last night and I replied.”

The priest frowned. “Your reply is the problem.” His gaze fastened on Rachel. “You need to give her back.”

Back? Alec’s jaw ached and he rubbed it. His chest tightened. “And why would I do that?”

“Because,” Father Daughtry reprimanded, “she’s handfasted to Angus Riley.”

“What?” Rachel exploded.

Colin pulled his gaze from Isabelle to look at Rachel. “Ye’re married to Angus, lass, at least for a year and a day.”