At The Laird's Command (Sword and Thistle 3)

That Ian could know my feelings so precisely shook me. “You were once that close to him?”

“We were the best of friends when we were lads. I was an only son, but John had older brothers before him. He was never meant to be the laird and neither was I. Neither of us ever thought we might be put in contention or competition. And so we were thick as thieves.”

“But then?”

Ian cleared his throat. “But then the old laird died, and his oldest sons, too. John’s mother was a second wife; the clan had never approved of her. The men of Clan Macrae thought perhaps young John had too much Donald blood in his line. My mother got it into her head that I should be chieftain. I s’pose there are still those who think so.”

“But not you?” I asked, because I couldn’t imagine that he had no ambition.

He clenched his jaw. “I’ve sworn fealty to John Macrae. Not that he ever took me at my word. He has looked askance at me ever since. He takes my advice on matters of the clan, and keeps me close in war. But he cast my friendship away and froze me out just as he’s done to you.”

Not the same, I thought. Not the same at all. If only because Ian could at least still speak to our chieftain if he wanted. But the pain I heard in Ian’s voice was such an echo of my own that it touched me somehow.

Ian held me a breath away, my hand upon his chest as I steadied myself. And that’s when my fingers felt the scar of the wound he’d once taken defending me. He was right, that it was evidence. He’d put his body—his very life—between me and the enemy. He would always bear a scar for it. For my sake. And for the laird. That knowledge made me suddenly and strangely glad that if the laird needed to be rid of me, that he had given me to Ian in reward for his loyalty.

It seemed somehow just and right.

That, in turn, made me want Ian again when I hadn’t thought it possible. I had, until that moment, considered desire in too narrow a definition. It could be found in gratitude and kinship, too, perhaps. I felt gratitude and kinship now. I felt it strongly. So strongly that I dared to lean forward and kiss the scar.

My lips upon it gave Ian a jolt. His hand tightened in my hair, and when he looked at me, his eyes were filled with confusion. “What are you doing, lass?”

That’s what I need from you. To bed down with him. To make him love you as you made me love you. To find love with him, if you can. That is my command.

“I—I want…to make love to you.”

“No you don’t,” Ian said, taking my fingers in his.

“I do,” I insisted, even over the protest of my own heart. Perhaps we could turn to one another to soothe the pain of the wounds the laird had dealt us both.

As if he read my heart, though, Ian said, “If you do want to make love to me, it is only because the laird is still somehow here in this room between us.”

That was true. The laird’s voice was still in my head. Perhaps some of my desire for Ian was to reach through him, back to that night, when the three of us had been together. “If he’s in this room with us, I don’t think you mind nearly so much…”

“No,” Ian admitted, still unable to meet my eyes.

“Then touch me, and let me touch you. Let me, because…” a little sob escaped me. “Because this is the last thing he asked of me, and it’s the only thing I can do to serve him now!”

I hadn’t meant to say it. But once the words escaped, Ian stiffened, caught me by the chin, and tilted my head up. “What the devil do you mean, the last thing he asked of you?”

Chapter Ten

THE LAIRD

“You bloody bastard,” Ian said, slamming the door behind him.

John had been in the tower—watching for reinforcements that were never going to come. Davy hadn’t made it or he’d have returned by now. Davy was assuredly dead, a thing John would have to tell the girl he’d left behind.

John had some treasure and holdings that he would sign over to Arabella for her upkeep, if his wishes could be honored after he died. That’s what he’d been working out in his head when Ian burst in.

“I wish you wouldn’t shout,” he told Ian. “I have a splitting ache in the head.”

Ian stomped the few paces it took to bring them face to face. “No doubt your head aches with all the scheming that goes on in that skull! Do you think your people are little pawns to be moved about on the squares of your chessboard? Is that what you think? Perhaps I’ve always known that of you, John Macrae, but I thought you’d know better than to treat me the same.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” the laird replied, wanting wine. Unwatered. But he couldn’t waste it on himself, no matter how badly he needed a drink. He was thirsty, but so was everyone else in the castle.

Yet Ian’s rage had nothing to do with that.

“You sent her to seduce me!” he roared.