Highlander Unchained (23 page)

He drew in his breath, unable to completely ignore the exquisite details of the naked beauty he’d revealed. Details that would be stored for later. Her honor would be preserved this night, but he wasn’t blind. He’d yearned to strip off her clothes and to see her naked in his bed for a long time. But not like this. Right now she needed his body not for pleasure, but for survival. And he would give it to her gladly. With no conditions.

But hell, she took his breath away.

The next time he took off her clothes, he swore he would savor every gorgeous inch of her.

With one last glance that warmed his blood more effectively than any fire, he forced his mind back on the task at hand. Realizing the damp had soaked through the bed linens, he slid one of the blankets Mary had brought underneath her. The rest he layered on top of her.

Standing up from beside the bed, he started to tear off his own wet clothing. First the plaid he’d worn as a cloak, and then the linen shirt, and finally his trews and boots.

Then, before he could think about what he was about to do, he slid into the bed beside her and pulled her gently into his arms, immediately shivering, shocked by the touch of her icy skin against his. Damn, she was freezing. Dangerously so. Bracing himself, he snuggled her firmly against him and felt a fierce wave of tenderness swell hard against his ribs.

Tenderness that spoke of just how much she meant to him.

The thought that he could lose her tore a gash across his chest. Right now, he’d give anything to have her fully clothed, eyes flashing, defying him as usual.

If only she would move.
Though he’d nestled her firmly against his body, she felt so rigid. And she was still so deathly cold.

The removal of his own wet clothing and the heat from the fire had rejuvenated him almost immediately, but even ensconced in the heated blanket of his body, she’d barely warmed. The chill had penetrated bone deep.

Warm, damn you,
he swore, as if he could command her temperature back to normal. He had enough determination for both of them, but Flora was a fighter—he knew she would not give up. It stunned him how long she’d managed to stay afloat in the leaky skiff. Yet perhaps it shouldn’t. Her tenacity and strength were two of the qualities he most admired about her.

Though right now she seemed anything but. She seemed fragile and vulnerable—as if with one false touch, he might break her. He couldn’t believe how small she was in his arms. Or how sweetly feminine. He’d lain with many women—done much more than lain, actually—but none had ever felt so significant. Simply holding her moved him more than any previous sexual liaison.

With her nestled up against him, her bottom tucked against his groin, he was acutely aware of everything about her. From the blond tendrils of hair that were springing into soft waves as they started to dry, to her narrow shoulders and slim hips, to the tips of her tiny frozen feet. To every incredible inch of her flawless naked skin.

She smelled of seawater and salt, and nothing had ever smelled so wonderful. Because she lived.

He could no longer pretend that she was just a means to an end. Not once when he’d discovered she’d gone had he thought about his devil’s bargain with Argyll. He’d thought only about her safety.

Her attempted escape and near drowning had forced him to realize that he wanted her not just for his plan, but for himself. It didn’t change what he had to do. If anything, his feelings only complicated matters. Damn it, his duty should be his only consideration. His brother needed him to be ruthless. But Flora had engaged his conscience. Doing what must be done was no longer a simple proposition. If it ever was.

He pulled her a little closer and held her a little tighter, reacting unconsciously to the sudden amorphous threat that seemed to have invaded the chamber.

For hours he lay like that. Holding her close, a ball of emotion lodged firmly in his throat as he waited for the danger to pass. Slowly, the harsh bite of cold faded as his body warmed her and she softened against him, breathing steady.

It was near dawn when she finally stirred. She turned to him in her sleep. Burrowing her head under his chin and placing her hand on his chest. A hand that was as searing as a brand. His chest hitched. Raw emotion surged inside him, ignited by the instinctive trusting movement. Trust that tore him apart. He wanted to deserve that trust.

But in doing his duty, he was manipulating her in a way that he knew would hurt her, yet he couldn’t risk telling her the truth. It wasn’t his life at stake, but his brother’s.

Two months ago, he’d gone to Argyll for help. Lachlan recalled standing inside the great hall of Inveraray Castle and staring with a mixture of admiration and loathing at one of the most powerful—and wily—men in Scotland, Archibald “the Grim” Campbell, Earl of Argyll.

Argyll sat on a raised dais near the fireplace in a gilded chair with a large scarlet velvet cushion. It looked remarkably like a throne, which probably wasn’t a coincidence.

Argyll peered down the length of his long nose with dark eyes, the sharp angles of his features lending credence to the clan’s claim of Norman ancestry. “So the king has seized your brother. What do you expect me to do about it?”

Lachlan fought to control his temper. “I thought our bond of manrent included protection in return for the
calp
duties I’ve paid to you.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I do not need to be reminded of our agreement, or my duty thereby. But what do you suggest I do? Storm the king’s castle to free your brother?”

“You have influence with the king and the Privy Council. The king’s actions were unjust. Hector has raided my lands and illegally stolen my castle, he has no legal claim to Coll.”

“Duart claims otherwise, since you refused your duty to him as chief.”

Lachlan held his anger in check. “He is not my chief. And Hector is hardly a friend to you,” he reminded him. Argyll and Hector had been feuding since Hector married without the earl’s consent.

Argyll gave him a hard stare, surprised no doubt by Lachlan’s refusal to play toady to his despot. Lachlan pandered to no man, powerful or not.

Argyll turned his attention to a man who entered the hall and handed him a missive. Annoyed by the interruption, Lachlan attempted to wait patiently as Argyll scanned the letter. The earl’s face darkened with fury. He let out a long string of expletives, displaying a temper completely incongruous with the stoic unflappability that had earned him his epithet—the Grim. He stood up, crumpled the letter into his fist, and tossed it into the fire.

“That chit will be the death of me.”

“My lord?” Lachlan asked.

Argyll turned back to him as if he’d forgotten he was still there. He studied him hard, giving him a long, calculating look. Some of the anger left him, and he sat back down on the chair. Lachlan thought he detected a hard glint in Argyll’s black eyes, so he was surprised when Argyll said, “I believe I might be able to help you.”

He nearly sighed with relief. He needed Argyll’s influence to get his brother freed, and he hadn’t allowed himself to think about the possibility of failure.

“But…”

Lachlan tensed, not liking the sound of that.

“In return, I need you to handle a little problem for me,” Argyll finished, reaching for a large crystal glass of claret. He took a long drink, sat back in his throne, and propped his fingers together in a triangle before him.

Lachlan’s instincts flared. “What kind of problem?”

“My young cousin Flora MacLeod. It seems she’s decided to run off with Lord Murray.”

Lachlan arched his brow. Lord Murray, though young, was a fierce political rival of Argyll’s. No wonder he’d been furious. Lachlan vaguely recalled Rory MacLeod’s youngest sister, Flora. She was a renowned heiress, he remembered that much.

“You want me to stop her?”

Argyll’s mouth curved in what was supposed to be a smile, but it actually looked more like a grimace. “In a matter of speaking.” He paused. “I want you to marry her.”

Lachlan froze. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. Having caught the gleam of calculation in Argyll’s eyes, he thought at first to refuse. But though he had no intention of taking a wife for some time, an alliance with Flora MacLeod could not be summarily dismissed. In marrying her, he’d ally himself not just with Argyll, but also with Rory MacLeod. And with Hector, he supposed, though that weighed in the negative.

Lachlan’s expression gave no hint of his thoughts. “Why? What’s wrong with the lass? Is she addled?”

A bark escaped from Argyll, nearly causing him to spew his claret. The sound was so out of character, it took Lachlan a minute to realize it was laughter. “No. She’s quite beautiful. And very rich. Her tocher is two thousand merks—in addition to the lands she brings.”

His heart stopped. It was a bloody fortune. Money like that could restore his clan’s fortunes in one fell swoop. She was a prize indeed. His gaze sharpened. “Then why me?” Lachlan might be an unmarried Highland chief, but with a tocher like that, Argyll could have his pick of Lowland toadies.

Argyll tapped his fingers together in his lap. “Because you might have a chance. You seem to be the sort of man that would make an impression on a young girl.”

Lachlan frowned. “I don’t understand.” Why would her impression matter? It was her duty to marry where her guardian demanded. “Don’t you control her marriage?”

He shrugged. “Technically, the right belongs to her brother—though he would not marry her to anyone without my approval.” The MacLeod and Argyll also shared a bond of manrent. “The MacLeod has refused to force the gel to marry, so he would not agree to a match if she is not willing. You and he are friends. He will not object to your suit. You must convince her to marry you. But be forewarned, it is not a simple matter. The lass is trouble. Her mother spoiled her and gave her some rather unusual notions of duty.”

Trouble
. Vague recollections of conversations with Rory suddenly came back to him. Of his headstrong young sister who was always getting into some sort of mischief or another. The last thing Lachlan wanted was a spoiled brat for a wife. But he also knew that this marriage was more than he could hope for. Not only was there the money to consider, but it would also cement the ties with both Argyll and Rory with blood. He’d made his decision, although with his brother and clan suffering, he’d never really had one.

“Convincing her won’t be a problem.”

“You haven’t met her yet. Contrary doesn’t begin to describe the gel.”

Lachlan wasn’t worried. He could handle one willful lass. But he also knew Argyll well enough to know that he would not be granted such largesse without something in return. “What else?” he asked, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

The earl smiled, not at all offended by Lachlan’s obvious distrust, especially since it was warranted. “Your cooperation.”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Argyll wanted to bring him in line with the king. He asked much, after what the king had done by imprisoning his brother. But Lachlan was pragmatic enough to realize that he was in better standing with Argyll than without. He would never trust King James again, but perhaps he shouldn’t have in the first place.

“My dispute was never with the king, only with Hector. It is the king who has broken faith with me. I will need your support not only for my brother, but also in my dispute with Hector over the return of my castle. If the king intercedes on my behalf, I will have no cause to disagree with him.”

Argyll’s brows shot up. “You bargain with your brother’s life at stake?”

“As much as you do with your wee cousin racing to the altar with Lord Murray.” Lachlan knew how to bluff. He would have married anyone to release his brother. But he would not bargain from a position of weakness.

The earl studied him thoughtfully. Lachlan held himself perfectly still, to all appearances calm despite the unrest churning inside him.

Finally, Argyll nodded. “Done. But remember, don’t think about forcing the lass. As she angers me, Flora is a bewitching little minx, and I would not see her harmed. You’ll not get my support if you do.”

“And the release of my brother?”

“Once I am assured of Flora’s agreement, on your wedding day I will see to his release.”

And thus the devil’s bargain had been struck.

Marrying Argyll’s cousin had seemed a small price to pay for the release of his brother and the return of his castle. He hadn’t realized the heavy toll it would exact.

Unconsciously, he pulled her closer. A soft, contented sound escaped from between her lips. She opened her eyes. He stilled, heart pounding in his chest, looking into those fathomless blue depths. She was only half-conscious, but the look in her eyes was so soft and yielding—without pretense of wariness—that it cut him to the quick. It gave him a glimpse of a future that he’d never dreamed of. Of a connection so powerful and strong, it didn’t seem possible.

But it was nothing compared with the effect of the wide smile that turned her lips when she looked at him. His chest squeezed painfully with longing. Longing for something that wasn’t his. But what would it be like to hold her in his arms like this for real? To make love to her and have her smile at him with such boundless happiness?

It would be perfect.

He watched confusion traverse her face.

“I must be dreaming,” she murmured, her voice cracking from the rawness of her throat. She closed her eyes, giving way to unconsciousness once again, and snuggled against him. Her fingers gripped him tightly, and her soft cheek rested over his aching heart.

He couldn’t move. Every inch of his body was taut with desire. Desire for something that he’d never wanted before, but that now hovered just out of his reach.

While she was deathly cold, it hadn’t been hard to dissociate himself from the sensation of her naked body molded to his. But as she warmed, so had he. All that soft, pliant skin plastered against his became impossible to ignore. He slid his hand down her spine from her nape to the small of her back, savoring the velvet under his fingertips, and the soft curve of her bottom. Wanting desperately to bring her against him. To slide deep inside her with long, slow strokes and make her his.