Seduced by the Laird (Conquered Brides Series Book 2) (9 page)

They’d had happiness once. And it would seem he wanted to find it again with her. If the basket full of apologies meant anything.

Kirstin rolled over onto her back, arm flung over her face and stared up at the darkened ceiling.

Donna’s soft snores filled the room, but Kirstin’s thoughts and worries were louder.

“What should I do?” she whispered to no one.

She was torn between what her heart yearned for and what her mind told her was a mistake. If she opened up to Gregor again, there was every possibility he would shun her when she least expected it. But that was a risk one took when in love, wasn’t it? Was it worth the risk? Again?

And then there was the backlash from her abbey, from the church. What would Aunt Aileen think? She could hear her aunt’s voice clearly in her mind:
There is a path ye must follow. This is your path.

Is this what her aunt had in mind? She doubted it. Aunt Aileen had once wanted Kirstin to study to become an abbess. By sending her off as emissary, wasn’t her aunt in fact saying that Kirstin had a powerful position at the abbey?

Why didn’t it feel like that was the path for her?

But, Kirstin had already followed her heart once.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to follow it again. Especially since she wasn’t certain she could come back from any pain that doing so might cause. The last time she’d been with Gregor, the disappointment and hurt had nearly broken her.

Her hands slipped to the small of her abdomen as they often did when she thought back. The slight swell of extra skin there the only evidence that she’d once carried a life. Phantom kicks of a child that had grown inside her. A child created in love. A child birthed in pain. A child whose heart stopped beating only a moment after he took his first breath.

Gregor’s child.

Hot tears streamed from her eyes, falling into her ears.

Kirstin wasn’t naïve enough to not to admit that now, after nearly a decade, if she had told him the truth, that their lovemaking had created a life inside her womb, maybe he wouldn’t have turned her away. That he would have changed his mind. But then where would she have been? Trapped in a marriage with a man who only wed her out of obligation? Would she have her child in her arms now?

She couldn’t go through that loss again. She had to be strong, no matter how hard her heart was shoving her toward Gregor. No matter if she dreamed of him every night.

That was a life she could never have back.

Chapter Ten

How low could a man sink?

Gregor stood in the center of the open cloister, the darkened sky twinkling with stars and a sliver of moon, when the bells rang for lauds at midnight just so he could catch a glimpse of Kirstin. He wasn’t ashamed, but Gregor was certain if his men knew the reason he stalked the abbey this night, they’d rib him until his skin chafed.

There was an easy solution to that dilemma—he just wouldn’t tell them.

He was their leader. Their chief. Their laird. Their general when at war.

But being in love with a woman, the heart-pounding, ache in the pit of his stomach, couldn’t get her out of his mind type of love, was not something a man of his stature or power succumbed to or admitted to. Was it?

Well, Samuel certainly loved Catriona that way, and if he were to really think on it, there were plenty of men with his same status that loved their wives. So he wasn’t completely alone in being in love.

But did any of them love a nun who may not love them back?

Did any of them love a woman who could never be theirs?

Gregor growled under his breath in frustration.

The fates were certainly putting him through a trial.

All was still quiet, no one had yet to appear since the bells had rung. Gregor leaned against a column, and crossed his arms over his chest. Would they ever come out? He didn’t know how much longer his patience would last. Maybe a few minutes more.

Earlier, he’d watched from the shadows, as she’d read his note, and then passed the apples—his apology—off to her companion. Would she not accept his apology? Or did she no longer like apples?

The lass made the best apple cakes he’d ever had in his life. There would not be a sudden change in her palette, accept for when it came to him.

Let me go… We must say goodbye, again… We dinna always get what we want.

The words she’d spoken earlier that evening haunted him. She was letting him go. Saying goodbye, and telling him to get over whatever feelings he might have. But he couldn’t pass off his feelings as easily as she’d passed off the apples.

Maybe he needed to get out of the abbey for the night. Take a visit to the town, find the local tavern, pick a light-skirt to spend the night with and then all thoughts of Kirstin would disappear. There was a chance that his feelings weren’t as strong for her as he thought they were. It could just be a trick of his mind, his memory wishing for the past to come back to him. They had good times. Great times. Magical times.

Anyone would want that back. Not just him.

Gregor straightened as a line of nuns emerged from a covered passage, their lanterns held out to light their path. He sank into the shadows so as not to be seen. The sisters’ robes swished in the night, their slippered feet whispering over the flagstone. From across the way, he spied another line, the visiting monks and abbot, the tops of their shaved heads shiny in the moonlight. Still more came as the Warriors of God who’d been camping outside the walls reentered to attend. They were a fearsome group, and he wasn’t yet sure if he could trust them. John, despite having taken vows, seemed a little too interested in Kirstin.

And then hurried footsteps came from yet another passage—the guest quarters where Kirstin and her companion stayed. Gregor strained to see her beautiful, angelic face.

But, disappointingly, the steps were single. And not Kirstin’s. ’Twas her companion, looking flustered as she hurried to join the others.

Disappointment pinched his insides, and Gregor knew it was time for a reprieve. Time to give his other plan a chance. The plan where he forgot about Kirstin. And lay all his memories to rest. She didn’t want to be his. Couldn’t be. She was different. Damaged. And he knew he was probably the cause of it, but he didn’t know how to make it better, other than to leave her alone. As much as it pained him, and as much as his heart warred for him to change his min, he knew what he had to do.

Her companion met his gaze as she passed, and a subtle shake of her head told him Kirstin wasn’t coming. He resisted the urge to grab Donna’s arm to pelt her with questions. Resisted the urge to traverse that corridor and knock on Kirstin’s door.

And so what if she did happen to change her mind and come strolling toward the nave? What was he going to do, beg her to abandon the service so she could stay out in the cloister, at midnight, alone, to talk to him?

Lord, he was an idiot.

Gregor grunted and turned, heading toward the stable where his charger was housed. To the village, then.

He saddled his horse, and roused the stable boy to shut the gates behind him.

Gregor flipped the lad a coin, who caught it, eyes gleaming, then quickly stuffed it into small pouch at his hip. “Only tell Sir Samuel that I’ve gone.”

Nodding his head emphatically, the lad said, “Aye, my laird.”

As soon as the gates closed behind him, Gregor’s men surged toward him to find out what he was up to.

“I need to think,” he said. “I’m going to search the perimeter.”

None of them questioned their laird, as it was not unusual for him to do just that. He urged his mount into a gallop toward the village, where a few lights still shone—the taverns most likely.

The short wooden wall, more like a fence, that surrounded the village was manned by a young lad, not yet twenty years, but close. He was asleep, a flagon of something clutched against his chest, his snores loud enough to let any outlaw within a mile know the place was not under guard. Gregor shook his head, and still sitting atop his mount, nudged the boy’s shoulder with his boot.

“Wake, ye lazy maggot.”

The lad startled. “Aye, sir, sorry sir.”

“If the town is attacked, then any life lost would be on your head for not warning anyone.”

The lad leapt to his feet, clutching his mug like a sword until he realized what he was doing. “Are ye here to attack the town?”

Gregor rolled his eyes. “If I was the one attacking, think I’d wake ye and tell ye to do your job?”

He shook his head, eyes bleary. “Nay, sir.”

“Sober up, else I am compelled to tell your master to relieve ye of your position.” Gregor rode through the gate and up the main road, past dark houses, shops and toward the lights of the tavern.

Another young lad, half-asleep, sat outside the tavern.

“Shall I take your horse to the stables, sir?” he asked.

“Aye. Feed him the best oats if they are available.” Another coin flipped and caught, the same gleam of eyes. Did no one reward the lads of late? They’d both seemed surprised.

Gregor entered the tavern. Drunken men sat around tables, slurping ale and shooting whisky, tearing into roasted birds and crumbling bread on their chins as they stuffed it into their mouths. The talk was bawdy, the laughter grating. ’Haps this was a bad idea after all. He’d likely start a fight with one of the bastards before he had a chance to find a wench.

Gregor took a deep breath, summoning the strength to step further into the tavern. He had to do this. His mind—and body—burned for Kirstin. If he didn’t expel some of it now, he was likely to go mad.

There were a few wenches serving ale, and one of them would have to do, so he nodded to the proprietor and found a table in the corner. Gregor watched as the lassies leaned over the men, giving them, and him, an unobscured view of all their assets before giggling and plopping down in their laps. One of the wenches, a pretty lass, if not a bit used looking, with chestnut hair and squinty brown eyes, caught his gaze and sidled over.

“What can I get ye, big fella?”

“Whisky.”

She leaned closer, showing off her ample breasts. “Is that… all?” A clear invitation.

Gregor grinned and winked. “Maybe I’ll have a bit of that bird.” He nodded toward what looked to be the kitchen, serving up capons like they were water.

She slid her finger along his shoulder toward the collar of his shirt and tugged. Not even an ounce of his blood stirred. “A tease, ye are. Name’s Molly, and I’m happy to give ye
whatever
ye want.”

Molly sauntered toward the kitchen, and Gregor sank back in his chair. This was going to be harder than he thought. Molly was willing—but was he?

For now, he settled down and listened in on the conversations around him. One in particular piqued his interest. Looked to be four locals, but their sizes and weapons indicated they were likely mercenaries, warriors for hire. None of their plaids matched in color, and their boots were worn. Scars on their arms and faces. Definitely mercenaries.

“But, where
is
he?” one of them was saying, a fist slammed onto the table.

“Rumor is he was taken by one of his own, to England.” The largest of the four, a man with ginger hair and a long braided beard to match, leaned forward, talking conspiratorially.

“And he’s probably dead,” the third man, a scar where his eyebrow should have been, said. “Killed off by the bloody
Sassenachs
.”

They had to be talking about William Wallace. Gregor sank further into the shadows, so as not to draw attention, though he intently listened to their conversation. ’Haps it was a good idea after all to get away from the abbey to assess what people knew about their current political situation. The Bruce would not be pleased to know how quickly the rumors were flying. They needed to get a handle on it soon, before it was too late for him to speak out on the matter publicly. One could only hope it would be before everyone made up their minds as to what they believed had happened.

“Aye, they’d not keep him alive,” Ginger-Beard said.

“They’d not keep him in one piece either. Fucking savages. They’ve torn our country, men and women apart. The devil’s spawn they are,” said Eyebrow.

“Ye think Longshanks and all the bloody Sassenachs fornicated with his remains, cavorting with the devil?” Ginger-Beard laughed.

Gregor gritted his teeth, restraining himself from getting up and pummeling the bastards into the ground for even suggesting such a thing. The man, their legendary guardian, should be revered. Respected. And remembered for who he was and what he did for the country, not for what the Sassenachs would do with his body. There had been no one like Wallace before and Gregor doubted there’d be anyone with as much conviction, fearlessness, and intelligence after.

Eyebrow punched the vile gossiper in the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up, ye disgusting arse. That’s Wallace ye’re talking about.”

At least one of the four seemed disturbed by their conversation. The fourth was silent, staring, and either listening intently or about to pass out from too much liquor.

A man from another table leaned back, the legs of his chair wobbling as he addressed the foursome. “What ye saying about Wallace?” he slurred.

“Nothing mate,” spoke the silent one, his voice scratchy.

“Bring another whisky for my friend!” Ginger-Beard shouted to a raven-haired wench, pointing to the table where the man leaned back in his chair.

Molly came back to Gregor with whisky, a mug of ale and a plate full of meat on her tray. She settled the items in front of him and smiled.

“Got what ye asked for. What else can I get for ye?” Her gaze roved over his body, settling on the spot where table covered his cock.

Gregor grinned, shot the whisky down his throat, then scooted his chair back and pulled her onto his lap. He knew what she wanted. What he should do to get Kirstin off his mind, but every look Molly gave him, even the feel of her too-bony arse on his thighs made him uneasy.

She stroked his face, pushed her breasts against his chest and leaned in close to kiss his neck. Her breath was fetid, her body odor not much better. She made him feel sick to his stomach.

Poor lass.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t have another woman. And it wasn’t just because she didn’t smell good.

’Twas because she wasn’t Kirstin.

Nobody could replace her. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine Kirstin as he wrapped his arm around Molly’s back and nuzzled her neck.

Dammit it to hell!

This wasn’t going to work.

He’d left the abbey intent on finding peace inside another woman. Intent on forgetting his past and his feelings for Kirstin, but all he’d succeeded in doing was thoroughly disgusting himself. Gregor lifted Molly and set her on her feet. He reached into his sporran and gave her a handful of coins—twice what he would have paid for her services.