Summoned for Seduction

About the Author

Three time RITA-nominee JOANNE ROCK became fascinated with the Middle Ages during her undergraduate years when a dedicated history professor made the period come alive. Today, Joanne indulges her love of all things medieval through her books, and she continues to pen both sexy contemporary and historical romances. Her work has been reprinted in twenty-four countries and translated into nineteen languages. A former college teacher and public relations coordinator, Joanne has a Master’s in English from the University of Louisville where she adored all the works of Chaucer despite a tongue-twisting struggle to read the poems in Middle English.

Visit her at http://www.joannerock.com to enter monthly contests and learn more about her work.

Summoned for Seduction

Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Dean—Merry Christmas!

Chapter 1

Scottish Highlands Winter 1072

He was gaining on her.

Resisting the urge to peer over her shoulder, Helene MacKail quickened her pace toward Domhnaill Keep’s massive great hall where Twelfth Night festivities awaited guests hailing from all over the Highlands. If only she could reach the throngs of revelers before Léod mac Ruadhán caught her, she might slide into a seat beside her mother and avoid conversation with the brooding Scots laird.

The man sought more than her hand in marriage. He required her lands, her wealth and her body. And he wished to dominate them all absolutely.

“Lady Helene.” The deep tone of his voice would surely carry over a war-torn battlefield at the height of mayhem. It reverberated now down the long, narrow corridor of an old tower with ease.

If she pretended not to hear him, she would offend the most influential clan leader in all of Scotland. Word of it would surely reach her father’s ears. But to speak to the warrior here—alone in a remote part of the drafty old keep—made her heart race unsteadily. Léod mac Ruadhán had been known to turn on his own knights, keeping his men in a heightened state of readiness fueled by fear so they might fight for him at naught but a moment’s notice.

She’d heard enough tales of his cruelty. And not justtoward his own men. She also knew that his insatiable appetites had sent his last wife running to the furthermost outreaches of the Highlands until she perished from the inhospitable winter. Unfortunately, Helene’s father had been more concerned with Mac Ruadhán’s ability to protect the people of the clan MacKail than with his unsavory reputation with women.

Perhaps—knowing she could end up wed to the brute in the spring—she would do well not to earn even darker levels of animosity than his last bride.

For that reason, she slowed her step on the cool stone floor.

“My lord.” She faced him in the darkened corridor lit only by two sickly tapers sputtering at either end of the long expanse.

Was it possible he loomed even larger and more threatening than she recalled from previous meetings? He stood far closer than she’d realized when she’d been hurrying to increase the distance between them. The leather of his boots was heavy, yet his step had been surprisingly light. Agile. Stealthy, even. She could envision him prowling about the Highland forests at night, personally gutting any man or beast who dared to threaten his stock of fat sheep or his stables of coveted horseflesh.

It helped that his hair, black as a raven’s wing, would blend with the shadows. A strong jaw and prominent cheekbones made him appear as though he were carved in granite, an illusion upheld by the impossible breadth of his shoulders. A gray wool cloak drapeed him now, the fabric held by a heavy silver brooch at one shoulder, though most swept down his back like the folded wing of a great predatory bird.

Or perhaps she merely thought as much since she felt as nervous as a mouse about to be carried off in the grip of steely talons.

“I see you are in some haste to dine.” He offered her his arm.

To escort her? Or to squeeze the breath from her with one careless touch?

Memories of the more graphic tales she’d heard came to mind. A maid in her father’s hall had confided that the laird’s dead wife had rattled the rafters with her screams on their wedding night. One of the laird’s grooms had bragged to all her father’s men-at-arms that his lord’s… endowments… were the stuff of legend, as disproportionately large as the rest of him.

Helene had nightmares for many days hence.

“My lady?” Léod’s voice pierced her inappropriate thoughts. “Will you join me to sup?”

Her cheeks flushed with warmth as an expression of annoyance sent his dark brows swooping downward. A frown curled his lower lip. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of what he might do to women who displeased him.

She hadn’t heard that he would eat them for dessert, but that did not mean she couldn’t be the first.

“I am sorry.” Flustered, frightened and angry that her father would give her to such a man, Helene executed a ridiculous little curtsey that would better befit a kitchen maid or a wine server. “I have forgotten my knife in my chamber.”

Hoisting a handful of her skirt in one hand, she turned on her heel and sprinted away from him, her eating knife actually jostling her hip where it dangled from the chain at her waist. In a few moons’ time, she would not have the legal right to run from this man. But for now, she would follow her good sense and put as much distance between them as possible.

Behind her, she could have sworn she heard him snarl like the ravenous beast he was reputed to be. And, skiddingback into her chamber, she promised herself that no matter the cost, she would find a way to avoid a betrothal to the monstrous laird. Even if it meant openly appealing to another man in attendance at the holiday festivities. She could compromise herself, or at least create whispers of her unworthiness to wed, if she were to dally in dark corners with another man.

She had until Twelfth Night before her father packed her up and sent her back to the isolated mountains Léod called home. Less than a fortnight to make sure Léod mac Ruadhán viewed her as the last woman on earth he would choose for his bride.

It would be the last time Helene MacKail walked away from him.

Léod promised himself as much as the Highland beauty hid from him in her chamber. He needed to solidify a marriage contract before he returned home. He’d been away for too long after the debacle with his first wife, allowing his dark reputation to grow since it had the benefit of protecting his lands and people even more than his formidable skills with a sword.

But word had reached him that the reputation had begun to attract unsavory characters to his Highland keep—the kind of men who killed for sport and relished the notion of rule by brute force. The time had come to end the gossip and nothing would quiet the storm of suspicion as efficiently as a new wife. While he’d hoped to wed the only heir to the profitable MacKail lands, he would not force himself on an unwilling bride, especially after what had happened with Margaret.

Still, that did not mean he would stand by idly while the gently bred Helene snubbed him by skittering off into corners to hide from him. He’d treated her with deference.

Well, if not deference exactly, he certainly hadn’t bared his teeth at her. He’d taken her riding one morn, and one of her lady companions had fainted when he’d brought down a boar. Later, he’d followed her onto the ramparts one day to speak to her privately, not realizing until she’d turned frighteningly pale that she assumed her life was in danger. Had she assumed he would toss her over the wall? He’d attempted to reassure her, but his soothing remarks had soured a bit when he’d thrown in a biting reminder that he’d never risk her life before he’d secured her dowry. But curse the Fates, he’d been in a foul mood by then.

He did not appreciate her looks of wide-eyed horror. Today’s scrambling exit to escape with the bold lie of the eating knife was the last straw. As long as he celebrated the holiday at Domhnaill Keep when it overflowed with visitors from all over the Highlands, he would use the time to seek another wife to fatten his coffers and fill his bed.

But first, he would open Helene’s eyes to what she missed in running from him. Indeed, he would take great pleasure in such a diversion. It was the holiday season after all. Enticing a delectable maid to forget her reservations would be a gift beyond measure.

He just needed to find a way to seek her out alone. Preferably under cover of night so he could whisper to her in the darkness. That way, she would not know she spoke to the fearsome Highland lord who had unwittingly caused the death of his first wife. Helene would think she merely conversed with another suitor, a circumstance which she might greet with eagerness given her obvious aversion to him.

Nay, she would not run from him again. Tonight, he would ensure she came to him instead. Once he had her—alone and unprotected—he would soothe his wounded pride with the taste of her lips. Her first flush of passion.

Only then, when she panted sweetly beneath him wouldhe consider today’s slight assuaged. It was a fitting retribution. Considering his reputation for slaying his brides, stealing a feel of Lady Helene’s sweet treasures was hardly a high price for the hardhearted maid to pay.

Chapter 2

A woman could starve to death for the sake of her pride.

Helene paced in her chamber later that evening while the rest of the keep danced and played games for the Twelfth Night festivities. Every now and then, when she dared to move the tapestry away from the room’s lone window, she could hear the sweet strings of the clàrsach harp drifting on the icy breeze of a coming snowstorm. She could also smell the roasted fowl and boar meat that made her mouth water and her belly angry that she had been too much of a coward to walk to the great hall with Léod.

A knock at her door distracted her from her disgruntled musings.

“Yes?” She tucked the tapestry back over the casement and hurried to her chamber door, hopeful her mother had brought her a trencher left over from the meal.

Her father had sent a servant to check on her earlier when she’d not appeared at the table, but Helene had sent a message back saying she did not feel well. She walked a fine line with Léod when she made excuses not to speak with him or spend time with him. Helene feared returning to the great hall after her abrupt leave-taking tonight in the event he—or her father—would upbraid her for her behavior.

They did not understand what it was like to lose their freedom—possibly their life—to a mad Highland laird.

Wrenching open the door to the tower hallway beyond, Helene found no one. Yet a tray sat at her feet, carefully arranged with three sugared figs and a small parchment scroll.

Curious.

She strained her eyes in the flickering shadows cast by the weak tapers on the far ends of the corridor and failed to find any hint of who had left the small pewter tray or the treats within. Bending to retrieve the gift, she gobbled a fig and moved deeper into her chamber to unroll the parchment. Someone had cut the piece to size and it lacked a wax seal. She simply needed to press the curling edges apart to read the missive within.

I missed seeing you at sup. There is a full tray keeping warm in the mead house if you would like a meal. I only want to speak with you before you are wed and I have lost the chance forever. If you fear for your safety, bring one of the hounds from the hall.

No signature followed.

Helene dropped the parchment and tugged open the doorway to look out into the corridor once more, but the hall remained as silent as ever save the far-off sounds of the clàrsach. The sweet wail of the instrument echoed the swirl of unnamed emotions in her breast. Bereft at the thought of disappointing her father and—more so—her mother, who did not deserve a disobedient maid for a daughter. Indignant at the thought of being betrothed to a murderous lord who demanded utter submission from his people. But more than anything else, she felt the quick race of daring in her blood to defy them all. With a dirk in her garter and a hound at her side, why should she not venture to the mead house for a meal provided by an admiring stranger? Lady Cristiana of Domhnaill had not invited ruffians to her Twelfth Night festivities save one Léod mac Ruadhán. So who would dare accost Helene on the lands of their wealthy and generous hostess?

Helene slid a dagger into the band about her hose and fluffed the train of her gown to ensure it remained hidden. She peered into a small looking glass to find her cheeks flushed with high color and her eyes bright with hopefulness. Ah, she had forgotten the rush of blood through the veins at the thought of a stolen kiss by a handsome man. There had been a time she had looked forward to betrothal and the kind of union that brought other women pleasure. But that had been before she’d learned what awaited her in the marriage bed was not the bliss

Tossing a woolen cloak about her shoulders for the short walk beyond the main keep, Helene scurried out the door of her chamber and down the drafty halls, careful to remain in the shadows even though all of the guests appeared to be within the great hall. The sounds of laughter and music grew louder as she reached the main floor, then quieted again when she hastened toward an exit out into the courtyard. She peered about for a likely hound to accompany her—the scroll’s suggestion had been a good one—but the cagey beasts must all have found refuge in the great hall where bones would be plentiful after the feast.

Undaunted, Helene shoved open a wooden door guarded by two of Domhnaill’s men-at-arms. Engaged in a dice game, neither man spoke to her since both appeared as deep in their cups as any holiday reveler. She drew her hood farther over her head and braved a gently falling snow to cross the smooth stones near the entrance to the keep. Bonfires dotted the landscape as other men-at-arms kept their vigils and celebrated the season at the same time. The scent of burning pine and oak mingled, both sweet and pungent, in the crisp, cold air. Her heart eased at the sight of so many sentries about. Despite the lack of a hound to protect her, she would be safe.

Besides, if anything seemed amiss, she would simply take the tray and depart. She was starving, after all.

Arriving at the mead house, she could smell the fragrant honey and clover in the air from the brewing vessels within. The Domhnaill clan made the best mead in all of Scotland and the hope of receiving the sought-after libation brought guests from far and wide for Lady Cristiana’s winter revel. Now, Helene stepped inside the darkened structure lit only by an untended blaze at the back of the room where a cauldron hung low over banked heat. The dull glow of hot ashes and a few short blue flames was not enough to reveal much of her surroundings and Helen kept the outer door open to the moonlight for a moment while her eyes adjusted.

“You came.” A soft masculine whisper drifted over her though the voice emanated from a place far off.

The sound felt unearthly and very real at the same time, sending a shiver along her spine.

“Who’s here?” she demanded, tensing. She was grateful to be standing so close to the door in case she needed to run.

“The bearer of your dinner,” was the reply. The voice seemed calm and steady, as if the man behind it reclined in a distant chair and made no move toward her. “I left it by the fire so it would stay warm.”

Was it her hunger, or could she suddenly smell roast duck and a rich glaze? Her grip on the door loosened, her gaze sweeping over the room’s dark corners in the hope of finding her mysterious host.

“I would prefer to eat here in case I do not like your company, sir.” Although, truth be told, she rather liked his voice. Warmth and confidence lurked in his tone. A vital man rather than a boy.

“Then you shall remain hungry, for you must retrieve it yourself from the middle of the room. For my part, I have promised myself I will not move from my perch unless you wish it. I think you’ll feel safest if you know where I am at all times.”

“Perch?” Her gaze moved upward. “Do you hang from the rafters then?”

She opened the door wider to admit an extra sliver of moonlight and a blast of wintry cold pelted her cheek with crystalline flakes of snow.

“I am not of a mind to be seen yet,” he barked in that oddly commanding whisper. The brew house’s round shape must help the sound to carry and surround her. “I pray you, be at ease and shut out the cold. I sit on a bag of milled grains and will not stir unless you wish it. You have my word.”

“If I asked you to come out into the light, would you do so?” She could not begin to imagine who had invited her here. Who sought her company and promised to remain at her command.

The scroll he’d given her suggested he wanted to speak to her before her marriage, hinting at an interest of the most intimate kind. Another shiver lit up her spine as she waited for a stirring.

“That I will not do.” The brew house remained silent save for his voice. “At least not yet.”

Another chilly gust blew through the door, sealing her gown to her legs. Unwilling to suffer the cold any longer, she allowed the door to close, blanketing them in the dark. Alone.

“Why?” she asked, lifting her skirts slightly and slipping out of her shoes so she might steal silently across the floor toward where the tray of food awaited her.

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