Highlander Unchained (14 page)

It shouldn’t surprise her. Many Highlanders had lemans, and Lachlan Maclean was a strong, virile man. His raw sensuality was one of the first things she’d noticed about him. What she didn’t expect was how it made her feel. Hurt. Disappointed…She bit her lip. Maybe even jealous.

Ridiculous.

“Flora, it’s not—”

She held up her hand. “You don’t need to say anything, Gilly.” Drawing up her shoulders, she ignored the unaccountable burning in her throat. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

But it didn’t make the disappointment any easier to swallow.

She hurried for the doorway, her steps falling into almost a run. “I’m going to check on Mary,” she called over her shoulder, not wanting Gilly to see her face.

Once safe in the darkness of the stairwell, Flora took refuge in the solitude. She rested her back against the cool stones, closed her eyes, and took deep, even breaths. Her pulse raced, her chest ached, and her eyes prickled with heat. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was close to bursting into tears.

She was being a fool. Lachlan Maclean was nothing to her. He was her captor. Her brother’s enemy.

But she’d thought…

What had she thought?

That he wanted me.

He’d kissed her with such tenderness, touched her body as no man ever had before, and charmed her with his brusque honesty and lack of false flattery. And, she was forced to admit, it had been effective. Somehow, he’d managed to sneak beneath her defenses.

She must be mad. He was everything her mother had warned her against.

Or was he?

The fierce beating of her heart returned to normal. She was overreacting. Flora had no claim on him. She was only an unwilling guest, nothing more.

Putting the Laird of Coll out of her mind, she pulled herself together and started up the stairs in search of Mary.

On the second floor, she came to the door of the chamber that Mary shared with Gilly and knocked. She could barely make out the soft voice that answered. The door creaked as she opened it, but Mary didn’t turn. She sat in a small chair, her gaze fixed out the window. The food that had been sent up sat uneaten on a small table beside her. Her pale cheeks were streaked white with the salty remnants of her tears.

Mary looked impossibly forlorn. There was something so hopeless in her gaze, it touched a part of Flora still tender from her mother’s death. She knew such sadness. Knew what it was like to feel lost. Had she been the cause of this poor girl’s grief?

She moved across the room and knelt beside her.

“Mary,” Flora said gently, not wanting to startle her. “What is it, child? What is wrong?”

Mary flinched. She turned, her eyes red and stark. “I’m not a child.”

Realizing that she’d unwittingly hit on a tender subject, Flora hastened to correct the error. “Of course you’re not. Forgive me. But what has happened to make you so sad? Is it your brother?”

Mary nodded, and Flora felt a sharp stab of guilt. It
was
her fault. “I’m sorry, I never should have involved you. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. I’ll tell him it was all my fault.”

Mary looked at her, obviously confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Why, the swords, of course.” Flora blushed. “I assume your brother was angry with you for my wee jest with the fulmar oil. But, truly, I do not think he is mad any longer.”

Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. Mary shook her head. “I wish it were the swords—” She sank her face into her hands. “If only it were the swords.”

Flora was at a loss to see Mary like this. She didn’t know what to do, having had little practical experience with sisters. She hesitated only a moment before gathering the poor weeping girl in her arms. Stroking her silky head, Flora whispered soothing words until her shoulders no longer shook and the tears had at last run dry.

When Mary had calmed down enough to speak, Flora said, “Tell me what he has said to make you so upset.”

She watched as Mary struggled with the words, trying not to dissolve into tears again. “It’s Allan.”

Flora cursed, realizing at once what had happened. Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one to notice Mary’s tender feelings for her brother’s captain. “Let me guess. Your brother has discouraged your feelings for his captain.”

Mary’s face crumpled. “It’s worse than that. He’s forbidden Allan from speaking with me in private. Making it clear that he would not permit a match between us.”

“But why? Allan is the captain of his castle, one of his guardsmen, and a chieftain in his own right.”

Mary lowered her gaze. “My brother has other plans for me.”

Bigger plans. Flora wondered what he intended. A match between Mary and Allan, although not a good one, was not a bad one, either. From the look of this place, she’d wager that the girl didn’t have much of a tocher. “Well, surely he will take your feelings into account. Perhaps he can be persuaded to change his mind?”

Mary shook her head. “You don’t know my brother. He’s determined. Once he’s made a decision, nothing could turn him from his course. He’s been like that since he was a lad. He’ll never change his mind.”

Flora could barely contain the sudden eruption of anger. This was precisely the situation she’d fought against her whole life. “Are you saying he would force you into a marriage you do not want?” She didn’t want to believe that the man she’d unwittingly grown to admire could be so callous.

He’s a Highlander.

“It’s not like that. He’s only doing what he thinks is best for the clan. He wouldn’t need to force me. I could not refuse him my duty. I just wish—” Her voice hitched, and a solitary tear slid down her cheek. “I just wish circumstances could be different.”

Flora couldn’t believe Mary would defend him. Of course, this sweet, good-natured child would do his bidding. Her “duty,” as she called it. Mary would never think to defy her brother. But Flora would. In a heartbeat. She’d seen the alternative. Doing your “duty” for a woman all too often meant a future of suffering and sadness. If Mary had a chance at happiness, she needed to take it.

“Could your brother John help?”

With her arm still slung around Mary’s shoulder, Flora could feel her stiffen. “No.” She gazed at Flora with something akin to guilt in her eyes. “You’ve been so kind.”

“It’s not your fault your brother abducted me.”

“Don’t blame him too harshly. Lachlan had no choice.”

Flora’s expression hardened. “There is always a choice.” She took Mary’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Do not despair, Mary. I will speak to him. I’m sure I can knock some sense into him.”

Her words were prophetic, but not in the manner she intended. Instead, it was she who was knocked senseless.

After making sure that Mary had eaten some food, Flora set about fulfilling her promise. She knew from the time of day that the laird would be seeing to his men’s battle skills on the practice yard. She’d seen the swirl of dust and heard the clatter of swords often enough in the past week but had purposely stayed clear of the half-naked men wielding their weapons of death—perhaps subconsciously trying to avoid a visual affirmation of her mother’s warnings.

They’re primitive, brutal men who are happy only when they are at war.

But as she left the shadow of the castle behind her and approached the raucous sounds of swordplay, the sight that met her eyes shook her to the core.

My God, he was magnificent, blazing in the sun like a tawny lion.

She might have made a mistake in avoiding the practice yard. The laird wasn’t just supervising his warriors, his skills were on display today. But skills weren’t all that was on display.

She let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. With only a pair of leather trews that stretched over his powerful thighs, the smooth, tanned skin of his bare chest gleamed like polished granite in the sunlight. Every inch of his powerful torso had been chipped from stone, the heavy slabs of muscle cut and built by years of battle. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick, and his waist narrow. Tight bands of well-defined muscle layered across his flat stomach. A smattering of small scars had left their warrior’s mark, but it was the one long slash across his side that drew her gaze. The one that had yet to heal. She felt a stab of regret. Her mark.

But the scars did not detract from his rugged perfection. Not an ounce of spare flesh padded his form; he was rippled and strong and impossibly masculine, every inch a powerful Highland warrior. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over his hot skin. The urge was so strong, it frightened her. Her mother had been wrong. There was some appeal to the Highlander’s warrior way of life. Now that she had seen a man such as this, a man of such physicality, of such raw power, how could a delicate courtier possibly compare?

They couldn’t. Lachlan Maclean was a man built for protection. And there was something almost intoxicating about watching him demonstrate his skills and strength.

Her senses flared. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, though she knew she was treading dangerously. No longer could she deny it, even to herself. She wanted him. And seeing him like this would only make him that much harder to resist. What would it be like to be held in his strong arms, cradled against that muscular chest and kissed passionately? Would she dissolve in heat again? Would she ever want to leave the shelter of that protective embrace?

He raised his arms, holding the two-handed claymore high above his head, wielding it with an ease and grace that belied its weight. Only when he met the powerful blows of his opponent did the long cords of muscles flex and ripple with exertion.

At first, she was mesmerized by the sheer power of the display before her. There was a beauty to the thrust and swing of each powerful stroke. Beauty in the way he moved to evade and then attack.

Then she realized something strange was going on. There was an intensity to his movements, a ferocity to his strokes, that seemed odd. It seemed…real.

About a score of his warriors had gathered around. She looked at their faces, so transfixed that no one had yet to become aware of her presence. It was more quiet than usual—barely a sound above the heavy clashing of the swords and the exertions of the two men exchanging blow after powerful blow. The ground seemed to shake with the force of each stroke. There was a subtle undercurrent that permeated the air, thick with tension and the sultry scent of sea tinged with sweat.

For the first time, she glanced at the laird’s opponent. Physically, they were well matched. The other man was perhaps an inch or two taller than Coll and also heavily muscled, albeit bulkier. His movements were a bit more ponderous. She paused. There was only one man with that build and white blond hair. Odin. Mary’s captain.

A chill of unease slid down her spine as understanding dawned. This
was
a battle.

Allan swung the mighty steel blade in a deadly arc, bringing it down with such force that Flora gasped and took a step forward as if she could protect him. She need not have worried. The laird blocked the fierce blow with barely a grimace. But he’d heard her. She felt the swift jolt when his eyes bored into her with piercing intensity. Marking her. A look that made it clear he didn’t want her here; that she was intruding. But how could she leave? She was rooted to the fierce drama unfolding before her.

Back and forth they went, exchanging blow after blow until Flora didn’t think she could take it anymore. Anxiety twisted in her stomach. She wanted them to stop. But it was clear they were almost evenly matched. This could go on forever. Or until they both collapsed from exhaustion.

Allan seemed to find a burst of strength. Her breath caught when he attacked with renewed vigor, driving the laird back until he neared the
barmkin
wall. She covered her mouth with her hand, muffling the cry that slipped out. She feared he was still weak from the stabbing.

Her heart pounded.
Dear God, he was going to be hurt.
Allan had homed in for the kill. He swung the blade down again with deadly force, and the laird managed to block it with his sword high over his head. But Allan had leverage. He used his formidable size to lower the sword, blade to blade, in a silvery cross, until it inched ever closer to the laird’s head.

“Yield, damn you,” Allan urged through clenched teeth.

Coll’s reply was too low for her to hear. But from Allan’s enraged expression, she could tell it hadn’t been pleasant.

The laird was straining under the weight. The muscles of his arms bulged and shook as he fought to prevent the blade from crashing down on him. She had to do something.

She made a move toward them. But in one smooth motion, the laird dropped to the side, laced his foot around Allan’s ankle, and brought the bigger man down to his knees. Before Flora could blink, Coll had his sword poised at Allan’s neck. She halted midstep, stunned by the quick turn of events.

“Yield,” he said raggedly. And in a voice she could just make out: “She’s not for you.”

Allan wasn’t going to surrender. She could see it in his eyes. Not defiance, but resolve. He would never outright challenge his chief in his decision, but neither would he yield. Not in this. Not for the woman he loved. Without thinking, Flora rushed forward, putting herself between the two men. The anger surging between them was palpable. Neither would look away as their eyes engaged in an interminable battle of wills.

She reached up, gently placing her palm on the laird’s naked chest. It shocked them both. His skin was hot to the touch, and her senses reeled from the heady masculine force of him. She was immediately conscious of the raw power surging under her fingertips, radiating from him like an invisible shield. She must be mad. What in the world was she doing? She felt as though she’d just placed herself in the mouth of a lion. How could she expect to harness such strength?

He hadn’t moved the sword from Allan’s neck, but his gaze had locked on hers.

He swore. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“Please, my laird.” Her voice trembled. “I need to speak with you.”