To Desire a Highlander (12 page)

And who’d packed them.

“Oh, Skog…” She glanced at her sleeping dog, her heart clutching to see how the light from the brazier and the room’s one oil lamp picked out the sparse patches in his once thick and shining coat.

Praise the gods she’d brought him with her.

Poor, sweet Skog wouldn’t have lasted a sennight in her stepmother’s thoughtless, unwilling care. Lady Lorna wasn’t fond of animals. Except beastly ones on two feet who desired only to keep her on her back, ravishing her all the day and night, or so the Castle Sway tongue-waggers swore when the lady wasn’t within hearing. That was often, as Gillian’s father was just as hot-blooded as
his young, high-spirited wife, a lust-driven she-vixen who had no interest in old dogs or her new husband’s similarly aged daughter.

Lady Lorna desired only to lie abed, though certainly not for sleeping.

Gillian’s father worshipped her, his duties and family largely neglected as he strove to keep his new young bride happy and satisfied.

Gillian was as welcome at Castle Sway as a pebble in a princess’s shoe.

Her only hope was persuading her newly handfasted husband to accept her treasure in exchange for safe passage for herself and Skog to the port of Glasgow. Once there, she’d appeal to her late mother’s uncle, a shoemaker who’d made a good living and name for himself by once repairing the late King Robert II’s boots after he’d damaged them in a fall on the slick cobbles outside Glasgow Cathedral. Impressed by the young shoemaker’s work, the King had sent him trade, his royal endorsement sealing the cobbler’s fortune.

If he yet lived, he’d help Gillian.

If he’d died, he’d have family remaining who’d surely aid her. No Scot would turn away blood kin.

Gillian just needed to reach Glasgow.

Hoping she could, she went to where a low, rough-hewn table had stood earlier. Centered beneath the room’s only window, the table had held a plate of oatcakes and cheese, along with a jug of wine.

Someone had shoved the table into a corner.

In its place, the two Castle Sway crates loomed beneath the tall, narrow window. Ignoring the view beyond—wild, empty desolations, especially watery ones, were her
favorite places—she worked the first crate’s bindings and lifted its lid, her heart sinking as she looked down into the large, well-filled chest.

Her dread confirmed, she stared at what was surely half of her worldly goods.

She didn’t bother to open the second chest.

A fool would know it contained the rest.

Her departure from Castle Sway and her life as she’d known it had been more rigorously planned than she’d have ever imagined.

Until now, she’d wanted to hold on to the hope that her father hadn’t brought along the Horn of Bliss to maneuver Donell into a handfast. She’d told herself that her boisterous, proud, and attention-seeking father only sought to impress her much-traveled betrothed.

Now she knew the truth.

Including why two of Lady Lorna’s hard-faced guards had joined them on the sail to Laddie’s Isle. Something they’d never done.

They’d been tasked to secrete the crates onboard and bring them to her quarters.

Except…

Gillian looked again at her much-loved dog, this time frowning. Not that her scowl had anything to do with poor, hinky-hipped Skog. Far from it, he was again proving her salvation, helping her in ways even faithful, obedient Skog didn’t realize.

She was about to prove to Donell what he should’ve known before hoisting his sail and setting forth into the great Sea of the Hebrides.

The carved-in-stone truth that Hebridean women weren’t fools.

In his own corner of the room, wee Hamish Martin hovered near the iron stand that held the chamber’s only true illumination, a brightly burning oil lamp. He might be young as mortal men reckoned years, but he’d been about for so long that he was surely as wise as any earthly ancient. Leastways, he hoped that was so. Either way, he was quite certain the oil lamp would help him stay hidden from the lovely lady he already admired greatly.

He’d learned over the centuries that some people did see him.

Most didn’t, which suited him fine.

Those who did glimpse him swore he glowed.

So he hoped the lamp’s light would outshine him. He wanted to know why the lady was upset. He also liked dogs. No, he loved them. Before he and his father had set forth on the ill-fated journey that brought him to this state and this place, Hamish’s father had promised him a pet. After the voyage, Hamish was to have his choice from a litter of puppies born to the bitch of a neighboring laird. Hamish had loved the mother dog and looked forward to claiming his new puppy once they’d returned home.

Sadly, they never did.

And he hadn’t seen a dog on this isle in all the long years he’d been here.

So he couldn’t help drifting close to this dog, even though the beast was anything but a wriggly whelp. He was very old, Hamish knew. He could also tell that the dog could see him. And that he was kind. That he loved and belonged to the pretty lady.

His brow furrowing, Hamish peered at her as she knelt before two large crates, one of them opened. She didn’t
look happy about the beautiful gowns and fine lengths of embroidered linens that seemed to fill the chest. Indeed, Hamish was sure her eyes were glistening wetly. And even he knew that a lady crying is never good.

He wished he could say something to help her.

A soothing word, or two, might be welcome.

If only she might hear him.

But he didn’t want to frighten her. That happened sometimes. He’d seen grown men faint because they chanced to catch a look at him. Not that their fear should surprise him. Wasn’t his plaid torn and stained? Sometimes seaweed clung to his legs and arms, sticking fast no matter how hard he tried to brush it away. Worst of all was his glow, especially when his dirk lit up, shining brighter than the stars. Blessedly, that was a rare occurrence.

He shouldn’t complain.

Those were times he knew to warn people about something.

The skerries that sank his father’s ship, the tides, when they ran so fast and furiously, and other dangers he often didn’t understand.

He’d just know folk needed to be wary.

Which was surely why his dagger was turning blue around the edges now, shimmering with a dazzling brilliance that increased the longer he peered across the dimly lit room at the lovely lady.

Something, or someone, was approaching her, bringing anger. Hamish could feel it rippling and darkening the air, and that worried him. Then he recognized the tread of the man coming up the steps.

It was the big, black-bearded man who’d seen him in the hall. The one with the scarred cheek and black hair as
shiny as a raven’s wing, he was the leader of the men in the second boat that had arrived that day.

He was the warrior who’d kissed the lady.

Hamish liked him.

He reminded him of a man who’d worked as a smithy at his father’s keep. He’d carried Hamish on his strong shoulders, telling him tales, and sometimes laughing so hard that Hamish was sure the trees in the wood shook. This man didn’t seem to laugh much, but Hamish liked him all the same. He knew he wouldn’t hurt the lady.

As for her…

Hamish’s heart squeezed and his eyes started to sting, his cheeks growing damp. The lady reminded him of his mother. Leastways, how he imagined she would have been at a younger age, before he’d been born.

He did miss his parents.

So who could blame him if he was curious about this pair who seemed to dislike each other so intensely, yet who kept seeking out each other like the breakers raced to shore?

Who would mind, anyway?

Scarce a soul took note of him.

He was aye aware of everything. He also knew to slip away now, leaving them to fight their battles alone.

So he threw one last longing glance at the dog and then sifted himself onto the landing, not surprised to see the big, black-bearded man striding purposefully for the lady’s bedchamber door.

Hoping good would come of their encounter, Hamish allowed himself a smile.

It was his first in centuries.

Determined to savor it, he stood a bit straighter and
pulled his ragged plaid closer about his shoulders. He also lifted his beardless chin. A shame, that, for he would’ve enjoyed growing a beard someday.

But he was feeling rather fine.

That was something.

Then, knowing the lady and the warrior wouldn’t appreciate his lingering, he slipped deep inside the tower’s wall, drifting down, down, down, to the hidden place where he’d sought shelter so many years before.

So long as he was able.

Roag stepped into the tower’s smallest, meanest room, not knowing whether he should be annoyed or pleased by Lady Gillian’s choice of quarters.

Any other time, he would’ve knocked. But she’d riled him beyond all restraint with her perfidy. She stood by the window, her back to him, the fog-shrouded night limning her. Gallantry demanded he clear his throat, give her a slight bow when she turned to face him. What a shame he wasn’t of a mind to be so chivalrous.

She didn’t deserve niceties.

Still, he had his honor.

And he’d not tarnish it just because she and her family were a band of conniving plotters, full of deceit.

Even so…

He was duty-bound to get to the bottom of their scheming, to protect his mission for the crown. He suspected her father simply wanted to unload his prickly, unmarriageable daughter. But he couldn’t discount that the ploy to leave her here might have deeper, more nefarious roots. After all, Conn was already suspicious of the man. The lass could be a spy for the English for all he knew, a
companion-in-evil to the men attacking and sinking King Robert’s ships.

He doubted it, but had to consider the possibility.

Men in the throes of lust were known to spill secrets along with their seed.

Such a trick was older than time.

So he remained near the door, closing it softly behind him. When necessary, Fenris moved with great stealth, an ability that benefited them well. It was also a talent that had saved his neck more than once. Just now, he wasn’t concerned with staying alive. He wanted to know the contents of the two crates beneath Lady Gillian’s window. They had to be the chests Conn mentioned; claiming he’d seen MacGuire’s men hide them up on the moors.

Duty demanded he observe her behavior regarding the chests.

So he stood quietly, letting the shadows cloak him. He also lowered his breath, even slowing the beat of his heart, so that he could blend into the gloom, becoming one with the murky chamber.

That accomplished, he studied his bride.

To his surprise, she didn’t appear scheming.

She simply peered down at the crates’ closed lids, her stance and everything about her warning that she wasn’t happy. Were the chests filled with treasure? The secret goods she wanted to show him? Valuables so precious she was loath to part with them?

Roag frowned.

He’d expected her to greet him in a loosely tied robe, nothing underneath. In the hall, he’d learned her by-name, Lady Spitfire. He’d wondered if she’d earned such a title not just by her peppery tongue and supposed daring, but
by a wild and abandoned thirst for passion. Desires of a decidedly earthy nature that—he couldn’t deny—he wouldn’t mind indulging for her.

However unwise.

The last thing he needed was to surrender to the baser urges she stirred in him. She was a lady of quality, more trouble than she was worth. She also held the power to ruin a King’s mission, perhaps endangering the whole kingdom.

That was a threat he couldn’t allow.

He fought back the urge to swear, his mind whirling with conflicting emotions. He was angry for lusting after her, yet he also felt a reckless desire to spend the night naked and sweaty in her arms. He’d enjoy sating himself on her charms, and giving her equal pleasure. He’d been so sure she’d fling off her wrapper, present herself in all her tantalizing glory, tempting him to do whatever he wished with her, however long it pleased him. On the condition, of course, that he’d break their vows afterward.

She’d challenge him with a trade—brazen, outrageous, and so wantonly irresistible—he wouldn’t be able to refuse.

That’s what he’d expected.

Instead, she wore a heavy woolen cloak, its hem dragging on the floor, the hood raised to hide her glorious hair and her lovely face that so easily stole his reason.

She wasn’t dressed for seduction.

She’d armed herself against the room’s bitter cold.

His scowl deepening, he took a soundless step forward, his eyes adjusting to the room’s dimness. Little more than a cell, it could have been a rude stone hovel, ancient and roofless, thrown together to shelter the hermit monks who once plied these cold, lonely seas.

He gazed about, not liking what he saw. The poor
lighting shaded everything in gray and black, from the rough-hewn bed to the equally crude table with the meager repast she hadn’t touched.

Only the small red flames of a coal brazier broke the gloom, their lurid glow more like a chink-sized glimpse into hell than any semblance of comfort.

No woman of breeding should spend even a moment in such grim quarters. No gently-born maid should know that such bleakness existed.

If he could shape the world, no lass would, regardless of station.

Chill air blew in through the window then and he caught the alluring scent of her perfume, fresh lavender, light and delicate. The fragrance reminded him of a spring meadow after a soft, cleansing rain.

The fine, surely costly scent underscored how out of place she was in a room without even a scattering of rushes on the floor, or wall tapestries to lessen the bite of the cold, wet night.

Again, he slid his gaze over her, puzzled.

A larger, more habitable room loomed at the top of the tower.

It was his laird’s chamber, or would be once he’d claimed it. The King’s spies at Stirling had described the room to him, insisting that its hearth held a good fire, and that the four well-made window embrasures offered sweeping views in all directions, a boon for his mission. He’d been warned not to expect the comfort of his quarters at Stirling Castle, but that he’d find the room tolerable enough for the brief duration of his mission.