Chapter Three
Aw, hell. She’d fainted.
Ewan glared at the girl, a limp mass, her head lolling to one side.
For a moment he hated himself. He should have known the water would still terrify her.
Perhaps in his heart of hearts, he had. Maybe that was why he’d decided to bring her to the Cloud.
To assure she wouldn’t escape his clutches, certainly, but he had wanted to torment her as well.
And torment her, he had.
So much, she’d fainted. The short ride from the shore to the island had frightened her to the extent that she’d succumbed to the vapors.
He felt like a worm.
But at least she was no longer rocking the boat.
He reached the dock and tied up as quickly as he could, hoping to get her to the keep and start a fire before she roused.
Balancing against the sway of the dinghy, he lifted her into his arms. Then, splashing through the lapping waves, he carried her along the shore and up the stone stairs to his castle.
She looked so frail in his arms. So pale and wan.
He hardened his heart.
This was Violet.
The girl who’d had his mother dismissed without references.
The girl who had, on a whim, unhinged his life.
They had very nearly starved to death that first winter.
And if Ewan hadn’t turned to the streets to make a living, they would have.
Still, his mother hadn’t survived their desperation long.
She’d succumbed to the ague within a year, leaving Ewan without a farthing to his name, and a sickly babe to raise.
He’d been thirteen.
Oh, how he had plotted and dreamed of revenge.
For years, he’d dreamed of something like this.
That he now held Violet prisoner here in the Cloud—the keep that had been his very first victory—was sublime.
Though if she expired on him, that would probably ruin the delicious irony. And she was terribly cold. And shivering. And her lips were blue. He hurried his pace.
He used the brass key around his neck to open the door to the castle, carried Violet inside and laid her on a divan in the great hall.
Because her arms were bound behind her back she couldn’t lie flat, so he untied them.
And then he removed her gag. He was annoyed to discover another rag jammed into her mouth.
Damn Callum. Had Ewan known, he would have removed it sooner.
Her cheeks were still pale, and cool. He allowed his caress to drift over them, reveling in the velvet softness. And then her lips...
He curled his fingers into a fist and stormed to the hearth. The fire was laid but the tinder was damp. He realized, even if he could start the fire, it would take hours to warm the cavernous room.
So he carried Violet, still terribly still, up the curling stairs to the tower, to the lord’s solar, and set her gently on the bed.
He lit the fire and threw on a few more logs for good measure.
Then he went back down to the kitchen and raided the pantry, collecting a small cask of ale, a wheel of cheese and some crackers.
They would likely be stale but they would do for the night.
He grabbed a couple apples and a knife as well.
By the time he got back to his room, the sharp chill had waned. He set their dinner on the table and went back to the bed. Violet lay in the same position, not having moved at all. Concern niggled him.
How long did a woman remain unconscious when she fainted? He didn’t know. He’d never made a woman faint before.
The fragile beauty of her face haunted him. God, she was gorgeous. Like an alabaster statue. Cold and unmoving.
He frowned and picked up her hand. It was like ice.
He noticed the damp stain her slippers had made on the coverlet.
Damn. Of course they were wet. She’d leapt into the water, for Christ’s sake.
He slipped them off, and then her stockings, draping them over the chair by the fire.
Her hem was damp and cold as well, so he removed her dress, but he left her petticoats on because frankly he didn’t need the temptation.
He wrapped several stones from the hearth in a cloth and tucked them around her feet and covered her with a quilt. Then he stood back and watched her. The slight rise and fall of her chest relieved him. Still, he added another blanket. And threw a few more logs on the blaze.
He sat in a chair by the table, poured himself a cup of ale and cut off a slice of cheese. And he ate. And drank. And stared at the woman in his bed. Wondering if the vengeance would be worth the price.
God, he hoped so.
Violet awoke in a cozy, toasty nest. A heavy weight held her down but she liked it. She nuzzled deeper into the pillows as the trails of a sweet dream danced just out of reach.
A deep snore rumbled in her ear, along with a hot huff of air.
Her eyes flew open.
She was in a bed in a strange room, a stony chamber kissed by the light of the dawning sun. And someone was sleeping beside her.
The events of the previous day came flooding back and her heart plunged.
That man. That horrible, beastly man was sleeping beside her.
She held her breath. Tried to stay as still as she could while she planned her escape.
She certainly didn’t want to wake him. He had removed her gag—thank God—but her mouth was dry and filled with an acrid taste.
And her wrists were free. That was a blessing.
If only she could ease out from under him.
She tried to make herself as small as she could and slip from his grasp, but he muttered and tightened his hold. Blast! She shifted again, slowly this time, and nudged herself to the left, picking up his arm and carefully moving it off her. He grumbled a bit but allowed her to do so.
Cautiously, she slid from the bed.
And gasped out loud. She clapped her hands over her mouth, too late to keep the sound in, but for mercy sake, he had stripped her down to her petticoats.
She spun on the bed to glare at him—and found his gray eyes open and trained on her. The light in them was unmistakable.
“Good morning.” He smiled—a sleepy, sultry offering—and his face was transformed. Mercy. A man like him had no right being so handsome. Heat sliced through her. A hot tide rose on her cheeks.
Had she really thought him horrifying yesterday? He was much more menacing now.
One thought rode high in her mind. Escape.
She whirled and ran for the door.
––––––––
The hell she would run from him.
That she tried got Ewan’s dander up. His lust was already riding pretty high. It had been exquisite waking up to find Violet Wyeth nestled up against him with the weight of her buttocks pressing into his cock. He’d been lying there talking himself out of seducing her when she’d awoken.
And escaped.
She couldn’t go far—they were on an island after all—but he didn’t want her to get hurt in her headlong flight. Besides, he rather fancied the idea of giving chase.
And she had run from him.
So he flung back the covers and took off after her.
The keep dated from medieval times, though it had been updated over the years, but the Laird’s solar was in the high tower, accessible by a curling staircase. That slowed her down. By the time she reached the main hallway on the second floor, he was only a few feet behind her.
She threw a glance over her shoulder, saw him coming, let out a little screech, and increased her pace.
She flew down the hall, rounded the banister and pattered down the grand staircase with Ewan hard on her heels.
He caught her when she reached the bottom and swept her up in his arms—snarling and snapping and howling as she was.
It was glorious to catch her. The resounding cheers and claps echoing in the hall didn’t hurt.
Violet stilled. Ewan turned. The great hall teemed with his men, and all of them with their attention trained on him...and his captive. Who was wearing only petticoats.
He could only imagine the sight they made.
He gave a courtly bow—the best he could manage with a woman in his arms—and headed back up the stairs.
For once, Violet didn’t protest.
––––––––
“You’d better get dressed.” The McCloud tossed her dress at her, the brute.
Violet glared at him.
“Go on. You don’t want my men to get ideas.”
“They already have ideas,” she muttered under her breath but she shook out her dress.
Oh. Her pretty frock was ruined. Somewhere along the way it had become stained and torn. The neckline was ripped and the lace was in tatters. “Come along. Don’t dally. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
She glared at him again. “Go to hell.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest and grinned.
“Ach. Such language. And from a lady.” The way he said the word made his opinion of ladies quite clear.
She tipped up her chin and favored him with the haughtiest glare she could manage.
A muscle in his cheek bunched. “Go on,” he snapped.
“Get dressed. I wasn’t joking when I said the Cloud could use a maid.
I fancy seeing you on your knees scrubbing the floor. ”
“I will not.”
His smirk was chilling. “Then you won’t eat.”
“You’re an animal. No wonder Kaitlin ran from you.” This, she spat. She shivered as his expression changed.
His eyes narrowed. His voice dropped an octave. “Have a care what insults you hurl at my head, Violet Wyeth. Never forget I hold your fate in my hands.”
“You are a brigand and a beast. A common criminal.”
“Hardly common. And again, have a care. I have no compunction about turning you over my knee.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Oh heavens. The realization sank in. He would. He would indeed.
“I promise you this. If I don’t like what I hear coming out of your mouth, I will gag you again.”
She shuddered. She’d hated that gag.
“So, be a good girl and put on that dress. Go downstairs and help Morna and Pippin prepare my breakfast. You will do whatever you are told. You will work from dawn to dusk. And you’d better hope your friend Kaitlin cares enough about you to return home soon or you’ll spend your life in my scullery. Do you understand?”
Violet didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat was clogged with tears.
The McCloud didn’t care. He nodded in her direction, a dark frown on his face. “Come along, my lady. Get dressed or I may assume you’d rather serve me in some other fashion. A service that doesn’t require clothing...”
She was dressed in a trice.