Chapter Fifteen

Jasper woke at dawn from a fitful slumber to find the fire burned down to its embers, the room frigid, with a sharp wind rattling the shutters. He had spent all night battling the urge to climb back into bed with Rowenna and say to hell with his good intentions. He’d never had any before, so why succumb to them now?

He rose and walked quietly over to the bed. The sight of Rowenna made his breath catch. She lay on her back, hair fanned out on the pillow, one arm slung out. The blankets were around her waist. Evidence of a fitful night for her, too? In the half-light, he could just make out one rosy bud of a nipple through the thin fabric of her shift, giving rise to lust so strong, it was almost violent.

She had the most exquisite breasts – creamy, uptilted, full, and they had been so sweet under his tongue. They aroused him beyond measure, and now they belonged to him. He would pay a king’s ransom to touch them and never stop touching them, to lay his head between them after he’d made long, lazy love to Rowenna, to fall asleep cradled in their warmth.

Stifling a curse, Jasper lifted the blanket over Rowenna, gathered his fine wedding kilt off the floor and crept out. He hurried to his own chamber, donned braies and a jacket, and slung his fur about his shoulders.

Kransmuir Fell was only just stirring as he made his way to the stables and saddled his horse, which snorted out clouds of white through its nostrils, eager to be off. Jasper’s fingers turned numb in the frosty air, but it did little to cool his ardour. He rode out of the castle and pounded across fields of white-tipped grass until he reached the high ground at the Fell. From its peak, he could survey his birthright, and he usually took great pride in it. But this day, all Jasper could think about was his folly. Owning things did not bring happiness, be it land, cattle or riches, and marriage to Isobel had brought all those things.

Whilst he had fulfilled his husbandly duty with vigour, he had never anticipated Isobel’s bed with any real yearning. It was a duty done, a release of lust – and on her part, not much of that. She had come to him a widow, not some blushing virgin who did not know her way around a man. Isobel knew what to expect from the marriage bed, and yet he had tried to be kind and gentle, to see to her pleasure in the hope that there might develop between them a mutual affection. But from their first night together, Isobel had lain stiffly beneath him, opened her thighs and offered up her body as if she were a human sacrifice to pagan gods. And to Isobel, he was a pagan, godless thing. When they coupled, she did not move, and she made no sound as he entered her, nor any indication of release on her part. Jasper had wondered if she had to swallow down her revulsion. Once that thought had occurred to him, their coupling had always been abrupt, silent, and wholly mortifying.

He did not want Rowenna to lie like a corpse. He wanted her hands all over him, fingernails digging into his back, pulling him deeper inside. He did not want silence. He wanted soft gasps and moans, for her to crave his touch, his kiss, his body. He wanted Rowenna to find him as beautiful as he found her. But it would never happen.

He had tried to be kind, to follow his conscience. His kiss was meant to distract her from the moment he took her virginity, and she had been innocent. Her body’s resistance was clear, and he’d seen the blood on the linens. Why had she cried? He had been as gentle as possible but clearly not gentle enough. His pride winced at how she must have hated his clumsy attempts at tenderness. He was too brutish, angry and hurried to make a woman truly want him.

The whores he took with coin and a smile were probably just the same – enduring rather than enjoying, using him for money or advantage. In his youth, he had rolled in the hay with many a sturdy farm lass or merchant’s daughter with loose skirts, driven by an overwhelming, adolescent lust. He recalled those couplings fondly, for there had been mutual pleasure and merriment, smiling, laughing, hanging together belly to belly in abject sin. But since he had risen in power, people feared him. Did women who coupled with him now do so for fear of retribution if they did not?

Jasper sighed. There was nothing for it but to be kind in the hope he could arouse Rowenna and stir in her some kind of feeling for him. He had to gather the shreds of his pride and attempt to be a better man than he had been.

Movement along the trees below had him tensing until Randel emerged and galloped towards him, sending clods of earth up behind his horse’s hooves. Damn. He was in no mood for company. Jasper affected indifference as Randel skidded to a halt.

‘I heard you had ridden out in great haste. What is amiss?’

‘Nothing. I needed the air.’

Randel shivered and frowned at that. ‘How was your wedding night, Jasper? Did it go well?’

‘Rowenna held a knife to my throat.’

‘Oh, so better than expected then,’ snorted Randel.

Jasper could not help but laugh.

‘The lass has courage. I’ll give her that,’ said Randel. ‘But you did your duty by her?’

‘Aye, as best I could, for she is not fond of me,’ he said smoothly.

‘Women are a mystery, are they not? Hard to please.’

‘Aye, they are.’

‘Is that why you not abed enjoying yourself now? Tis weather to shrink a man’s balls out here?’

‘I will not press the lass to lie with me again too soon. She is a little reluctant, so I must be patient until she warms to me.’

Randel raised his eyebrows. ‘And if that doesn’t happen? I mean, you did threaten to kill her brother.’

‘Then I must get used to riding at dawn.’

‘And not in a good way, eh?’ smirked Randel. ‘Do not vex yourself, Jasper. Wives are for breeding, and there are other women for your pleasure. No point in tasting only one dish at the feast, eh.’

Jasper’s temper soured further. Usually, he laughed at Randel’s coarseness, but not today.

‘And speaking of her brother, I come with news,’ said Randel.

‘What has he done this time?’

‘A man has come forward. One of the Gunns, name of Baird. He saw our cattle being slaughtered, and he says one of the men responsible is Bran MacCreadie.’

‘I already suspect this. And how can we trust anything a Gunn says?’ spat Jasper.

‘Well, on that score, you’d best judge the man yourself.’ Randel whirled his horse around. ‘He is at Kransmuir awaiting your pleasure, and we’d best hurry, for he’ll not tarry long in case he is found out in his treachery and gets his throat slit with a Gunn dirk.’

Randel thundered away, and Jasper could only follow him. ‘What fresh hell is this,’ he muttered.

***

Baird Gunn was a whip-thin weed of a man. He clutched his cap nervously, twirling it in his hands. Jasper stared him down.

‘This report of Bran MacCreadie. How can I be sure you are not mistaking him for some other fellow or lying to rile me?’

The man suddenly found his courage, along with a good deal of anger. ‘I would know that son of a whore anywhere. He has been tupping Alwyn these past three months.’

Randel leant over. ‘His daughter.’

‘Many’s a time, I found them in the barn or out in the fields.’

‘And you did not punish him for dishonouring your daughter?’ said Jasper.

The man looked sly. ‘Well, him being a laird’s son and all, I thought she’d done quite well for herself, and when I confronted him, he said he’d wed her. Swore it, he did. But now that she is with child, the bastard has abandoned her, left her cold, with a swollen belly and no coin for the bairn that is coming this summer. Gone off without so much as a by your leave.’

Jasper and Randel exchanged looks. Bran MacCreadie would have abandoned a common lass, sure enough.

Baird continued, warming to his theme. ‘I’m loyal to Murtuagh Gunn, and I have been for years, God knows. But when I went to my laird with my grievance, asking that he punish MacCreadie, Murtaugh Gunn had me whipped, and I was told to shut my mouth. So I have come here to tell you my troubles in the hope that you may help me, as I hear there is no love lost between you and Bran MacCreadie and my Laird.’

‘What would you have me do?’ said Jasper.

‘Kill Bran MacCreadie.’

‘No. I cannot do that.’

‘He slaughtered your cattle. A reiver does not do that. ‘Tis not proper. A dreadful sight, it was, for they burnt the beasts so that we could not even use them for meat.’

‘They?’

‘Bran MacCreadie and those others. It was an insult to you, Laird, and I saw MacCreadie with the crossbow firing into their heads.’

‘Not on his own, he wasn’t,’ said Randel. ‘He has not the spine for it.’

The man, Baird, shuffled his feet and clutched his cap tighter. He suddenly looked shifty and fearful.

‘Who else was with him? If you spill your secrets, there is a reward in it for you and a sword through the guts, if you do not,’ growled Jasper.

‘Steady, Laird,’ said Randel.

The man crumbled easily enough. ‘I saw the Gunns, aye. They did not hide their crime. But there were some there who were not Gunns, nor Scots, even. They were English.’

‘English?’

‘Aye. And one of them, I recognised. He is allied to a powerful man in these parts, and you must not give me away to him, for it would cost my life.’

‘Who?’

‘It was an Englishman leading the savagery. At first, I didn’t know who he was, but then I saw him with his father a few days later in Threave.’

‘Whose was it, damn you?’

‘Edmund Harclaw, son of Sir Henry Harclaw, our new Lord Warden of the Marches and so-called keeper of the peace.’

Randel and Jasper exchanged glances.

‘This cannot be true,’ said Jasper. ‘I was at the truce day when he pledged to treat all fairly.’

‘He promised many things, I’m sure, but he is in league with your enemies, the Gunns, and they’ve some foul scheme afoot. Why else would his son be there attacking a village on your land? And he wasn’t an onlooker. He was in command.’

‘Then I will get the truth of it from this Edmund Harclaw, even if I have to tie the whoreson to a spit and roast him like he roasted my cattle. Where can I find this English bastard?’

‘You can’t,’ said Baird Gunn. ‘He has disappeared off the face of the earth. And that has raised the ire of Sir Henry. The bands of riders you might have seen on your lands, they have been sent out searching for him. I reckon they’ll find a corpse once the winter snows melt.’

***

Jasper paced the ramparts of Kransmuir, seething. Bran MacCreadie raiding his cattle was bad enough. That worm should not dare to look at him sideways, let alone rob him. But to be in league with those English bastards was a step too far. Now he had two cursed MacCreadies driving him mad – one with anger, the other with desire.

What was to be done about Rowenna? He had married a woman whose brother was in league with his enemies and, worse, the English. There had to be retribution. Any sane man would have banished her and strung up her brother from the nearest tree by now. He had not consummated his marriage fully, so he could still send her packing.

But he was not a sane man. It was not enough to have Rowenna as his wife, in his bed, under his power. The only cure for the heat coursing through his veins was for Rowenna to want him. And handfasting with her was a hollow victory. It did nothing to ease the sickness in his soul. The law said she belonged to him, body and soul, but how could he ever know her heart? Her little gasps had encouraged him, and she had pressed that lovely body against him at one point, but was that through fear or desire? By Christ, he’d lain with enough women to know the difference, so why could he not know Rowenna when she was nought but an innocent lass dragged up by a ruffian of a father?

Jasper’s loins ached with unspent lust, and he stiffened as he thought of her naked. Rowenna had a spectacular body, long-legged but curvaceous, soft yet firm. He could have taken that body over and over on his wedding night, as was his right. But he would never truly possess Rowenna unless she wanted him in return. And now he was in a prison of his own making, flayed by desire and not able to do anything about it. He had made a terrible mistake marrying Rowenna MacCreadie.

There was only one thing for it. Gathering the shreds of his pride, Jasper resolved never to touch her again until she asked him to. He would not lower himself to beg for the favour of a woman whose brother was stabbing him in the back. And what if she knew about Bran’s treachery all along?

‘What is to be done, Jasper?’ said Randel, who had been watching his pacing with a worried frown. ‘If anyone has harmed the Warden’s son, there will be hell to pay. Could it be Bannerman or Strachan?’

‘No, they are not so foolish, especially Caolan. He likes his clever schemes. There is a blunter mind at work here.’

‘And what of Bran MacCreadie? He cannot go unpunished. I could wring his neck, and there’d be no one the wiser.’

‘No, not yet. Grab that MacCreadie whoreson, bring him to me and tell no one. As for the Warden, we will poke a knife in the ribs of his allies and see who squeals first.’