To Desire a Highlander (13 page)

He’d have thought Lady Gillian would’ve pounced on the keep’s best chamber.

By rights, he ought to be glad she’d taken a room so dismal, set in the perfect corner to catch the worst rains and fiercest gales.

She’d find no succor here.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, that irritated him.

A greater annoyance was that, despite her shapeless woolen cloak, and how she’d shielded her lustrous red tresses, something about her roused him unreasonably. Raw, raging need pounded through him, desire so fierce he’d almost swear he was once again a beardless youth—hot-blooded, overbold, and bursting with eagerness to plunge into the sleek female heat of his first lover.

Roag drew a tight breath, aware that if ever he touched Lady Gillian in such ways, she’d own his soul, possessing him as no other lass could ever have done.

Determined to resist the Hebridean spitfire, he crossed the room on silent feet and stepped up behind her, speaking above her ear. “Did you no’ tour the keep before I arrived?”

“Gah!” She jerked around, her eyes furious in the shadows of her hood. “Do you never announce yourself? How dare you sneak up behind me!”

“I dare much, lady.” He took her hand, bringing it to his lips.

“To be sure, you do.” She snatched her fingers from his grasp, glaring. “Be aware that I am just as bold.” She smoothed the folds of her cloak to reveal the unmistakable hilt of a dagger hidden at her waist. “We ladies of these parts do not look kindly upon men who would take us by surprise. Such cravens soon regret their folly.” She flicked a glance at a most unruly part of him. “Some even walk away leaving their best bits behind.”

“You were no’ so fast just now.” It was all Roag could do not to grin.

He did love a woman with spirit.

He couldn’t keep a corner of his mouth from easing up a bit. “I’m no’ missing any parts.”

She angled her chin defiantly. “I was distracted.”

“By what, my lady? The sumptuousness of this room?”

“I am not your lady. My mind was on matters that do not concern you.”

Roag stepped closer, shaking his head. “You err. You are now much more than ‘my lady,’ and I’ve an interest in everything you do. So tell me, did you no’ explore the tower before choosing this benighted room?”

“We went through the keep, my family and I.” She glared at him again. “We cleaned as best we could. You surely know it was necessary. Seabirds had nested in some of the rooms and their messes needed clearing. We lit the hearth fires, the torches and oil lamps, and also searched for vermin. Rats, mice, and any other—”

“You viewed each room?” Roag was sure she hadn’t.

“We did.” She gathered her cloak tighter, her annoyance tangible. “I told you—”

“I should’ve spoken more plainly.” Irritated himself now, he gripped her chin and tilted her face upward. “Why this chamber? There’s a much grander, more fitting one at the top of the tower.

“I’d have thought you’d wish more comfortable quarters.” Lowering his head, he brought his mouth toward hers. So near that his beard grazed her skin and their breath meshed, just as when they’d kissed in the hall. “A place more fitting for a fine lady’s deflowering? That is what you planned, is it not? So why this poor cell, with its lack of—”

“This room suited me.” She broke free, her face coloring. “If you weren’t such an onerous, unfeeling blackguard, you’d know why.”

“Well, I dinnae, so speak.” Roag ignored her insults, moved closer to the crates beneath the window. “Why would a chieftain’s daughter, accustomed to finery, choose a small, bitter cold—” He whirled, throwing open the lid of the first chest. “Enough of this nonsense, for here is the proof.” He scooped up an armful of gowns and undershifts, tossing them onto the room’s only chair, a small, three-legged stool. “Your men were seen hiding these crates up on the moors. They were later observed sneaking them in here.”

He opened the second chest, slamming it shut again as soon as he’d seen the damning contents. “For truth, you were so certain of victory that you brought along all your worldly possessions.”

“They are that, yes.” Rather than look guilty, her eyes blazed with anger such as he’d never seen. “Everything I own is in those two chests.”

Rather than admit her scheming, she placed a hand on the rough window ledge and leaned toward the opening, inhaling deeply as if she needed air. When she turned back to him, she appeared more composed, though disdain was etched all over her lovely face.

“I had good reason to choose these lodgings.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I selected this room because it’s on the first landing.”

Roag stared at her, sure she was daft.

He also didn’t believe her. “That’s why you shouldn’t be here.” He glanced at the window. The dark, wet night, and the cold, wild sea, so near the waves might as well
have been tossing inside the room’s dank walls. “In a gale, waves will surge right in here.”

“That I know.” She didn’t blink.

Roag felt his patience thinning. “Say you?”

“I just did.” Her tone should’ve frosted the air.

Roag blew out a breath, pulled a hand down over his beard. Rarely had he exchanged words with a more stiff-backed female. Nae, he’d never had the displeasure. Not once in all his days.

To be bound to her by a handfast, however unjust and unbinding, was a punishment he wouldn’t wish on his most reviled enemies. She clearly felt the same, watching him from narrowed eyes, as if she plotted to slip her dirk between his ribs when he slept.

Barely contained fury seethed inside her. He could feel its blaze scorching him.

Had he truly believed she’d greet him naked? Baring her charms almost as soon as he’d crossed her threshold? Instead, she engaged him in barbed and ludicrous converse that made no sense; an unpleasant sparring of words that she appeared to be winning.

Proving it, she moved to stand beside her sleeping dog. The beast slumbered deeply, not even snoring, and he was so heaped with old plaids and furs that Roag had completely forgotten the poor creature.

He remembered now.

And something about Lady Gillian’s icy glare would’ve made his liver quiver if he were a lesser man.

“I only thought to sleep here once,” she said, her tone as chilly as her stare. “The weather signs didn’t indicate a too-fierce night and”—she glanced at the mound of plaids and furs covering her dog—“had a gale blown in,
Skog and I would’ve sought shelter elsewhere. This room offered the easiest access for him.”

Roag blinked. A terrible rushing noise rose in his ears and he was quite sure the floor dipped beneath his feet. Or perhaps it was his stomach dropping, the awful knowledge of what an arse he’d been.

“You took this room because of your dog?” He saw the truth in her eyes.

She looked at Skog again, her face softening. “His hips are weak, and his back legs. He has a hard enough time crossing a hall. It’s beyond his ability to climb a turnpike stair to its topmost room, however well-appointed such a chamber might be. Leaving him to sleep alone elsewhere wouldn’t work. He whines and howls if I am away too long.

“I would also suffer.” She lifted her gaze. “Skog and I are inseparable.”

“So I recall.” It was all he could think to say. “I ken what he means to you.”

“You do? Somehow that surprises me. You paid him scant heed at Sway, the day you came to secure our betrothal.”

“I saw enough.”

“So have I.” She looked at him in a way that gave justice to her by-name. “More than enough, actually.”

“Sheathe your claws, lass.” Roag spoke more harshly than he’d intended. “I didnae come here to spar with you.”

“So you didn’t, I’m sure.”

“See here,” Roag tried not to growl, but she really was riling him. “Have you forgotten it was you who desired this meeting? I’d understand, as there was much excitement in the hall this e’en.” He stepped closer, swore
beneath his breath. “A handfast, sealed by your own sire, should it have slipped your mind.”

“My memory is excellent.” Her chin came up. “There is little I forget.”

“I’ll no’ be forgetting your dog again.” Roag sought to lead her in another direction, not liking how she’d bristled at his mention of the handfasting ceremony, as if she held him responsible.

Yet she and her wily father were to blame.

So why did he feel like such a craven?

Furious that he did, he slid another look at her dog. The aged beast had shifted beneath his heap of plaids and furs, freeing a tattered ear, floppy and bearing scars. Worst of all, one milky eye was now fixed on Roag. It was a stare more curious than agitated, the dog’s apparent trust only deepening Roag’s guilt.

He loved animals.

He, too, would’ve lodged the dog in secure quarters, easily reached.

Leastways, he would’ve done if Skog’s prickly, high-strung mistress hadn’t scattered his wits. Regrettably, she did that and more. Just now she paced about the chamber, the hem of her silly woolen cloak trailing behind her, and something about her furrowed brow twisted his gut.

He always trusted his instincts, and they were screaming alert.

Hoping to regain control of this ill-begotten evening, he leaned against the rough stone wall, crossing one ankle over the other. He aimed to appear as at ease and at home as the black-hearted scoundrel, Donell MacDonnell, surely would’ve felt in this miserable room.

Deliberately, he kept his gaze off Lady Gillian’s stiff-legged, half-blind pet.

He gave Lady Gillian his fullest attention. “Your dog will be seen to, you have my word.”

She tossed a look at him as she passed the window arch. “Your concern for him is most noble.”

I am anything but that
, he almost snarled.

Instead he cleared his throat, preparing to give her a peace offering. “I will carry him up and down the stairs whene’er you seek or leave this room.”

It was an easy enough boon.

He’d help the dog whether it pleased her or nae.

“If I am no’ about, my men will be ordered to do so.” He watched her carefully, not surprised to see nary a flicker of appreciation on her face. Far from it, she straightened her back and went to the window, where she stared out into the night’s darkness.

She held herself so erect that if he hadn’t been watching her, he’d have sworn she’d swallowed a spear. Her stance, and the air of righteous disdain rolling off her, was the reason—one of many—that he’d always avoided entanglements with ladies of high birth.

They were too icy when the world didn’t run their way, the cold water in their veins chilly enough to freeze a man at a hundred paces.

Keeping her back to him, she placed a hand against the edge of the window, drew a visible breath. “Thank you for assuring me Skog’s needs will be addressed,” she said, the reproach in her voice belying her gratitude. “As I told you at Sway, I’ve had him since the day he was born. His mother died having him, his litter mates with her.

“He is everything to me.” She turned to face him, her chin raised. “I appreciate any extra care shown him.”

“He shall have it.” Roag nodded.

“I should also appreciate knowing who you are.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. “You aren’t Donell MacDonnell.”

Roag didn’t blink, hoping he’d misheard.

Unfortunately, the murderous look on her face said he hadn’t.

“To be sure I’m Donell,” he bluffed, using all his Fenris skill to keep his tone convincing.

She only lifted a brow. Then she crossed to him and plucked at his plaid, slid her fingertips across the shining steel links of his mail shirt. “Donell MacDonnell never wore a clean plaid in his life and his mail never saw a polishing rag.”

She met his gaze, triumphant. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“Five years in a cell changes a man.” Roag chose the only excuse he could think to give her. “I’ve come to appreciate cleanliness.”

“Hebridean women aren’t fools.” She spoke calmly, a victorious smile curving her lips. “Say me your true name.”

Roag frowned, knowing doom was upon him. “I am Don—”

“No, you are not.” She went to stand beside her dog, set her hands on her hips. “If you were, you’d know I lied when I said I’ve had Skog since his birth. He wasn’t even at Sway five years ago. He came to me a year after your visit, a full-grown dog already.

“And you, sir…” Her emerald gaze pierced him. “You are a liar.”

Chapter Ten

H
ave done with this nonsense, whoever you are.” Gillian stood in her dank, half-crumbling bedchamber and fixed the man before her with all the righteous indignation she could summon. “Your claims about remembering Skog prove you are not Donell MacDonnell.” She drew herself up.

“And I, good sir, do not suffer falsehoods.”

“Nor do I,” he had the gall to state.

“Somehow I have trouble believing you.” She held his gaze, not caring if he saw her displeasure. Indeed, she hoped he did. “I’ll hear your real name and your purpose.”

“Was it no’ you who bid me here?” He braced his hands on the stone wall, either side of her shoulders. “You wished to show me something of great value,” he said, leaning in. “A treasure you couldn’t reveal except behind the closed door of your privy quarters.”