Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The world froze around Christopher, everything narrowing to the unyielding pressure of Morag's kiss. Her body was somehow both soft and hard against him, her lips both gentle and fierce, her entire being a burning flame of contradiction that bewitched and captured him.
Without thinking, his free arm slipped around the small of her back, his hand splaying there and pulling her closer, his other hand tightening around her wrist. At that moment, she was all there was in the world and the only thing his senses were aware of.
Morag pulled back, breaking the kiss, and a breath of air rushed into Christopher's lung.
His brain was still frozen, though his heart pounded so hard against his ribs that he could hear it beating a pattern almost like a bruise against his chest. Morag arched her eyebrow as she looked at him, then gave a dramatic gasp and spun around to face the door.
As if in a dream, Christopher focused on the doorway. The ice shattered as he saw Ian standing there, the heir's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and the reality of the situation came crashing down around Christopher's ears.
There was a tense moment, so thin that it was like stepping on the first ice of winter. Then Ian grinned, his eyebrows raised.
Morag blushed and stepped away, stammering in a way that was very unlike her. She tripped as she moved, and, though Christopher moved forward to help her, she waved him away.
"Forgive me for me… improper timin'."
Christopher noticed her sweep something from the floor into her inner cloak pocket before she straightened up.
"I… oh, may I be excused?"
"Ye may," Ian said.
Morag did not look back at Christopher as she murmured thanks and rushed out of the room. Once she was gone, Ian entered the library fully, closing the door behind him and folding his arms.
"Well?"
Christopher's mind was still reeling, the panic of being discovered, anger of being confronted, and exhilaration from the unexpected kiss all battling for dominance in his mind and heart.
His skin was covered in gooseflesh, his throat dry.
He reached for Murdoch, for his mask that had kept him safe all this time, but he could not find him.
"I…" he started. "Morag, she…"
Ian shook his head. "Ye ken I must scold ye. Keep yer dalliances out of the war room, Murdoch. If Father had discovered ye here, it would have gone much worse for ye."
All Christopher could manage was a stiff nod as the understanding of what Morag had just done for him truly hit. Why would she protect him? And to do it in such a way! He could not comprehend what had just happened. For the first time since he had arrived here, he felt truly out of his depth.
"Come. Walk with me. I'm sure ye want tae hear all about our trip?" Ian said.
He didn't wait for an answer, simply turning and leaving the room. Christopher followed without a word, his mind and heart and soul still reeling.
As they exited through the war room and out into the corridor, Ian talked about their meeting with the Barclays.
It seemed the Laird had folded and sworn his allegiance the moment they saw the Campbell banners raised against them.
Christopher thought of Greg Barclay with his wife and small child and could not hold anger toward him for his capitulation.
"A weak ally, but an ally nonetheless," Ian concluded. "His wife is bonnier than he deserves, is she nae? I assume ye met her in yer time with the Kincaids. Nae wonder he'd do anythin' tae keep her safe."
"I did meet her," Christopher agreed quietly. "She is bonny indeed."
Ian gave him a look. "Ye're distracted," he said. "By another bonny face, perhaps?"
The two of them reached a staircase and they walked up together. Christopher could barely pay attention to where they were going, but he supposed it didn't matter.
"I didnae ken ye had yer eye on Morag Caindach."
Christopher swallowed and said nothing.
Chuckling, Ian went on, "Laird Caindach offered her tae me shortly after they arrived here beggin', nae long after Rolland Murray spurned her. I'll admit, she's lovely, but have nae fear—ye're more than welcome tae her."
They reached the top of a tower, and as Ian led the way to the window, Christopher frowned at the dismissiveness in his tone.
"What do ye mean?"
Ian turned to look at him. "Are ye serious?
It doesnae matter how attractive she might be.
What would I want with somethin' tainted by a Murray?
Father encouraged me tae take her tae warm me bed while I search for a suitable wife, and I ken Laird Caindach would be thrilled even by that much.
I considered it, but if ye want her, ye can have her if ye like. "
Heat burst inside Christopher's stomach in a flash of fury at the casual cruelty of Ian's words. Something, he'd said, not someone, and then, immediately, he'd mentioned his intent to use Morag as a mistress or worse.
It sickened him to hear Ian speak of Morag as though she was not even a person, worth less than the dogs in the kennels.
He wanted to challenge Ian on his words and tone and to jump to Morag's defense, but he held his tongue as best he could.
His skin prickled with fury and he wished that he was able to be Murdoch once more.
It seemed, though, that by kissing him, Morag had somehow banished the mask entirely.
He took a steadying breath, pushing his anger down as best he could.
Ian was only speaking as he'd been taught.
Who was to say that if Christopher had been raised by his birth father would have been any different?
No doubt he would have thought and said the exact same things, and without anybody to show him different, how could Ian have been expected to act any other way?
Something about that didn't ring fully true to him, but he kept telling himself over and over that it must be true.
Luckily, Ian didn't seem to want or expect an answer from him. He had already walked away, right to the tower window, and was staring out across the field.
"Come, see," he said.
Christopher approached and looked down to where Ian was pointing. His heart stopped in his throat as he took in the sight.
An army was visible on the horizon, its power amassed greatly since Christopher had last seen it gathered.
Closer to them, the banners of Campbell's allied clans flapped in the wind, hanging proudly from the walls.
The Barclay colors, bright green and blue, had joined them—but not alone.
Christopher's skin prickled as he saw the red and gold of the McNeals and the dark blue and bronze of the Grahams, neighboring clans of the Barclays, both hanging with the rest.
"It was a successful day," Ian said, pleased and proud.
"Barclay bent the knee in a moment, and his cowardly neighbors were swift tae follow.
They only maintained neutrality out of respect for their historic bonds with the Barclays, it seems, but now that we have persuaded them tae the right way of thinkin', they're all ours tae command.
Look at our army, Murdoch. The Murrays dinnae stand a chance. "
Christopher was looking. And the more he looked, the more he began to fear that Ian's words were very much true.
The Grand Hall was full to bursting, the stench of smoke and sweat and alcohol curling in the air.
Christopher sat quietly in his seat at the head table, wishing that he could draw Murdoch back to him again, but every time he tried, he felt the lasting memory of Morag's lips on his own.
Murdoch retreated from such a thing, but Christopher—Christopher could not get the feeling of her pressed up against him out of his head.
He shook his head and sipped from his water glass.
He'd only been pretending to drink from the wine goblet all evening, determined to keep his mind clear and sharp, though the heady aroma in the room was making it difficult anyway.
The celebration going on around him for Campbell's latest victory was raucous and loud, the wine flowing and the people cheering, but it did not hold the same comfort as a celebration back home.
His mind filled with Lachlan and Aila dancing around the room together while the children pretended to be embarrassed, or Elsie designing an elaborate game, or Arran blushing every time he saw Alexandra. He thought of little Cassie and how she used to beg him to twirl her around just one more time.
There was no delicate dancing here, nor any women to speak of, other than Morag and a few other men's daughters and wives.
The unwed men—and perhaps some wed, as well—claimed passing serving girls for caresses, often right there on the benches of the tables, and some even disappeared into the halls with their willing companions who saw the opportunity for a rise in station.
Christopher couldn't blame those girls. Anything would be better than acting as a maid under Campbell's hungry eye.
The women kept to one table in the corner of the room while the men played rowdy games and told boastful stories to roaring laughter.
Next to Christopher, Ian watched the events unfold with a smile on his face, though there was something behind his eyes that Christopher could not quite define.
"More wine, sir?" a voice asked, causing him to break out of his reverie and look up.
A lovely young serving woman stood before him, perhaps a year or two younger than he was, with wide blue eyes and deep red hair.
She was shapely and freckled in an exceptionally pleasant way, and the eyes of many men were following her around the room.
She leaned over to pour from the jug, then paused.
"Have ye just had it refilled?"
"Aye," Christopher lied.
"Never mind. Can I entertain ye in some other way instead?" she asked, smiling suggestively. Christopher felt rather than saw how Ian was watching him with an amused grin. "Me name is Deirdre, if it pleases ye, sir."