Chapter Six
Aleck trudged toward Mary’s cottage, a trek he’d made many times before. He’d done a good job of keeping his affair with Mary a secret up until Helen gave birth to a bloody bitch. Christ, he’d waited so goddamned long for Campbell’s sister to bear his son, the birth of a daughter pushed him over the edge of his tolerance. Any reasonable man would feel the same.
If only Mary had been the daughter of a knight, he would have been able to marry the widow. He’d been in love with her even before her husband passed. But she was the daughter of a common crofter. An alliance with her would bring no riches. Lady Helen Campbell had come with an impressive bloodline as well as a healthy dowry, not to mention the alliance with her family served him well at court.
The problem was the lady herself. How on earth Colin Campbell, the great Black Knight of Rome could have sired a mouse like Lady Helen was beyond Aleck’s comprehension. He’d expected and preferred a robust woman who brazenly spoke her mind and presided over the keep with a firm hand. Helen was too bloody nice for a noblewoman. Aleck couldn’t imagine Lord Campbell ever allowing servants to be friendly. They were provided by God to serve the gentry and perform a duty for their maintenance.
Aye, bringing Helen to Mingary had been a mistake. She was so demure—hadn’t a backbone in her body. Aleck stopped and scratched his chin. Her behavior in the solar this morn had been quite out of character for her. She’d never confronted him with such passion. He’d wanted to take his dagger and slit that slender neck of hers. Seek an annulment? Take Maggie away? The bitch finally gives me a bairn and she’s suddenly found her grit? Well, she will not leave me until I’ve interred her rotting corpse into the family crypt.
He pulled out his dirk and ran his thumb over the flat edge as he continued along the path. The thought of Helen meeting her end tempted him. But that wouldn’t solve his problems in the short term. He needed an heir from Helen first. After she birthed a son, Aleck would be free to dispose of her as he saw fit.
But he must visit her bed again soon. The very idea repulsed him. He’d never enjoyed swivving with his wife. She provided him no sport whatsoever. Worse, with small breasts and a tight arse, she looked more like a lad than a lass. But Mary? Aleck could bury himself in her mountainous breasts along with his cock in her...
He moaned and rubbed his crotch. Christ, just thinking about that woman made his seed dribble in his breeks.
He rapped on Mary’s door and entered the small cottage. It smelled of tallow candles—a scent to which he’d grown fond. It reminded him of Mary’s practicality and made him hungry for her.
Seated at her loom, the woman glanced over her shoulder and stood with a smile. “I’m surprised to see you m’laird.”
“Oh?” He crossed the floor and pulled her into his arms. “And why wouldn’t I visit my leman in the middle of the day, as well as after dark, or any time that suits my fancy?”
“Leman,” she grumbled. “I hate that word.”
“But you are.” He nuzzled into her hair. “And so much more.”
She pushed away and strolled toward the hearth. “Tell me, why is Sir Eoin MacGregor here?”
Aleck unfastened his sword belt and tossed his weapons on the table. “King’s orders—his royal highness thinks the bastard can help us quell the MacDonalds to the north.”
“Aye?” Mary faced him. “I do not like the way he looks at me—or you for that matter.”
Aleck’s gut clenched. “You don’t say? I’ve always thought that man always sported a disagreeable scowl.”
“Mayhap, but he’s got dagger-eyes for you, m’laird.”
Aleck was well aware Eoin was close to Helen’s brother, Duncan. He didn’t give a rat’s arse if the knight disapproved of his behavior. But Eoin could cause a stir with the Lord of Glenorchy. Not that Aleck thought anything would come of it…still, it was always better to avoid tempting potential dragons. “Perhaps it would be best if we kept our rendezvous secret whilst he’s here.”
“But I’ve been ever so happy now it is no longer necessary to sneak around that woman’s back.” Mary groaned. “Why can you not push the wench out an upper window and marry me?”
Chuckling, he reached for her, but she snatched her hand away. Aleck wouldn’t let her little outburst dissuade him. “We’ve been over that many times. I need Helen to produce an heir. After that...” He dipped his chin and waggled his dark eyebrows—a look that always made Mary damp between the legs. “Any matter of ills could befall her.”
Mary took a step back, appearing more distraught than usual. “I should be your lady. You love me, not her—I cannot bear the thought of your visiting her bed to produce your heir.”
“Och, Mary.” He grasped her hand firmly and this time she didn’t pull away. “I do not like the idea any better than you.”
She stepped into him and twirled his shirt laces around his finger. She rubbed her mons across his crotch. “Get me with child. I’ll give you a son, I’m certain of it.”
With Mary so close, Aleck couldn’t think straight. For years he’d fought his urge to see Mary birth his bairn. The thought tempted him. Would the king allow him to legitimize a bastard? Perhaps if Helen had an unfortunate end. Eventually. And he’d need to ensure he received credit for any battles they won against Clan MacDonald and not that sniveling maggot, Eoin MacGregor.
Mary opened his shirt and slid her hand over his chest. “Stay away from that woman’s bed and have faith in my ability to produce an heir.”
A sennight had passed since Eoin had comforted Lady Helen in the stone cavern. Since then, he’d hardly seen her. Even at meals, she’d rarely made an appearance. He suspected her absence was because of the bruising on her face. Even with a wimple, the purple surrounding her eye was noticeable.
He’d tried to push thoughts of Helen from his mind and focus on the task at hand—after all, he was there on the king’s orders and quashing the MacDonald uprising was a task not to be taken lightly.
Today he strode down a line of men, all sparring with various weapons. Each warrior was paired according to skill. Eoin stopped to watch Fergus and Grant—MacGregor’s finest against MacIain’s best, just as they’d been paired on the first day. He wouldn’t have believed it a sennight ago, but Grant looked as if he’d make a fine knight one day…until Fergus darted in with an upward strike of his battleax and the sword flew from Grant’s hand.
The soldier groaned and grimaced, appearing as if he could slam his fist into the stone wall.
Eoin stepped forward. “You were looking good right up until you took your eyes off Fergus’s weapon.”
Grant opened his mouth as if he were about to deny his error, but Eoin held up his hand. “I saw you, lad.”
Grant’s expression softened and he nodded.
Eoin stooped to retrieve the sword. “When your opponent is coming over the top with an ax, spin away and counter with a backward thrust like this.” He demonstrated how to swivel his grip and maneuver the weapon backward while securing it with both hands rotating at his left hip to ensure a kill straight to the gut. Eoin would have stepped in and sparred with the guard, but he’d opted against wearing his hauberk this day—no sense in chancing an injury when Fergus is outfitted for a fight.