To Desire a Highlander (14 page)

He brought his lips to her ear. “Have you forgotten?”

“You question me?” She nipped under his arm and
whirled about, setting her hands on her hips. “You cannot recall your name. Or can it be you do not have one?”

“Sure, and I do,” he said, his voice low and hard. “You’ve heard it and can use it.”

Gillian’s chin came up. “The name you’ve given me isn’t your own.”

“You’ll stop provoking me if you’re wise.” He didn’t deny her claim. “Have done.”

“I will not.”

“I’ve nae time for shrews, lass.”

“Liars have no place in my world.”

“ ’Sakes, but you’re prickly.” He looked her up and down, frowning. “Even a lass born and bred in the wilds of the Hebridean Sea should have some wits.” He came closer again, his tall, broad-shouldered menace towering over her. His dark eyes glinted in the dimness, as did his mane of black hair and his thick, full beard. Even the silver Thor’s hammer at his neck gleamed threateningly, catching the red glow cast by the brazier.

His long sword hung at his hip, and he wore two dirks, one at his waist, another tucked in his boot. Gillian let her gaze flick over him, sure he had at least two other unseen weapons on him. He looked rough and uncivilized enough to cut a man’s throat at his own high table, his good looks dark and savage.

The thin scar that arced across his left cheekbone added a hint of wickedness.

But it was his swagger that made him dangerous.

He could’ve been the Devil’s own man-at-arms.

She didn’t care.

Desperation was an instructive bedmate and she’d learned her lessons well.

So she kept her chin raised, her gaze locked on his. “I have sense enough to know your kind.”

“Then you’ll ken that nae good comes of poking your nose where it doesnae belong.”

Gillian squared her shoulders, prepared to challenge him. “I say you should know that those who dwell in wild, empty places, carved by rock, sea, and wind, view the world more clearly than men who walk on cobbled streets. Isolation sharpens our senses, the remoteness showing us things missed by folk like you.”

A corner of his mouth hitched up. “Folk like me?”

“Especially like you.”

Gillian held her ground, doing her best to ignore how powerfully the atmosphere had shifted in the little room. Even the air seemed charged since he’d strode up to her. Now he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, his dark gaze fixed on her. She felt her face heat, her attention caught by the Thor’s hammer at his neck. The amulet gleamed silver in the moonlight, marking him as a pagan.

She shivered. An ancient awareness rushed along her skin, warming her, even though the room was filled with the night’s cold.

She knew something of the old ways.

Her family even had ties to a great cailleach. A far-famed crone who, according to legend, gave a special boon to the clan after a long-ago chieftain aided her. Gillian looked more closely at the Thor’s hammer, noting the smooth edges, as if it’d been held and rubbed often. Something inside her responded, her blood racing.

She’d always admired those who honored the ancient gods, especially Norse ones.

She was drawn to their strength.

The man before her was also bold. He claimed the space around him, and being near him stirred sensations she’d never known, even making her breath feel almost locked inside her.

He was still watching her, his gaze intense. “So what am I?”

“You are not from hereabouts.” Gillian knew it in her bones. “I doubt you’ve ever been to the Hebrides before now. You’re a town man, perhaps from someplace even larger. Not Edinburgh…” She angled her head, studying him. “You have a raw edge I wouldn’t expect from there. Edinburgh is too grand, the folk there too fine. If I were to wager, I’d place you from Glasgow. To be sure, you speak with a hint of the Isles in your voice. But that is something you could’ve learned.”

“Say you?”

“I know it is possible.” She did.

“I’m thinking you know many things.” He was mocking her.

“Perhaps I do. When I was small, a wayfarer called at my home.” She remembered him well. “He traveled as he could, criss-crossing the land, even these fair isles. He claimed no clan, not even a wife, saying his feet aye itched, and so he roamed.”

“A wise man.”

“He was also greatly talented. Skilled in ways I never forgot, so impressed was I by his astonishing gift.”

“What might that have been?” He pushed away from the wall, his expression guarded.

“He had a way with tongues.”

For a beat, Gillian thought he was going to choke, but he caught himself at once.

“Indeed?” His gaze pierced her, his face revealing nothing.

She watched him as closely. “He could cast his voice to sound as if he came from anywhere in Scotland, even Ireland, England, or Wales. If he had a bit too much ale, he could be a Frenchman. He entertained us for days, telling us tales from afar, always rendered in the local dialect.”

“A great gift, aye.” He strode away then, crossing the room to the table with her evening repast of oatcakes, cheese, and wine. He took the jug and poured two measures of wine, offering her one.

Shaking her head, she declined. “I do not believe the traveler was unique, though he was the first with the skill to call at Sway.”

“I have ne’er heard of such a talent.” Her handfasted husband lifted the cup to his lips, draining it as swiftly as if the costly Rhenish wine had been home-brewed ale.

Gillian watched him reach for the second cup, not missing the slight jerking of a muscle in his jaw, barely visible beneath his beard.

She went to stand beside him, sensing victory.

She waited as he drank, slowly this time. “I believe, sir, that you have the same skill as the wayfarer.”

He finished his wine, returned the cup to the table.

“I should enjoy such a gift.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Alas, I am no’ so blessed.”

Gillian didn’t bother to argue.

There was no need.

She’d maneuvered him into a corner with Skog. She was sure even without his admission that she’d guessed rightly.

“I have known all along that you couldn’t be my betrothed.” There, she’d said it. “No man changes so greatly in five years.”

“You know so much of men?” Again he avoided a direct answer.

“I have many brothers. Sway is also home to my uncles and cousins, and”—she felt her body tighten with tension—“a sire who has forgotten to act his age. He—”

She broke off, heat blooming on her cheeks. She hadn’t intended so say that last bit, but her temper had the best of her. If he was angered by her father’s craftiness, she was furious.

“My father is a good man.” She looked away, at the window arch again. Despite everything, she did love her father. For sure, he was wily. He could be thoughtless. But she cared for him deeply, and that only worsened her dilemma. “His head is easily turned by ladies.” That was probably more than she should say, but annoyance was riding her hard. “He’s had many wives. When he takes a new one, he becomes distracted.

“His wits then fail him.” She went to the brazier to warm her hands.

Images of Sway rushed across her mind, squeezing her heart, ripping her soul. After the death of her former stepmother, she’d acted as lady of the keep, enjoying her duties, even daring to hope her father wouldn’t wed again. Yet he had, and Lady Lorna didn’t suffer two females of high standing under one roof. There were other things she didn’t tolerate, or so Gillian suspected. And they were damning enough to make this nameless keep’s dank, crumbling walls seem as warm and welcoming as a fine summer’s breeze.

She drew a breath, resenting the heat pricking her eyes, the sudden tightness in her chest.

Sway had once been a pleasant place. Good cheer was ever found in its hall and there’d never been a need to cast furtive glances up and down corridors before choosing which path to take. No one in the household had merited such precautions.

All was at peace.

Until the arrival of Lady Lorna.

Gillian dashed at her cheeks, as discreetly as she could.

“My father has much on his mind.” She turned back to the room, hoped the shadows would hide any telltale sheen in her eyes. “He does forget himself.”

“He was clever enough to bind us this night.”

“He has a way of turning things in his favor. Some say it’s the MacGuire charm. All our menfolk have it, a gift to make people do what they wouldn’t otherwise. Men and women fall over backward to please them, doing their will without even knowing.”

She waited as a gust of wind wailed past the tower. “They charm everyone.”

“They did no’ charm me.” He gave her a hard look. “For sure, no’ your father.”

“I do not believe he set out to win your esteem.” She didn’t say the aim was to be rid of her. “The MacGuire charm works in many ways. Some call it the MacGuire luck. How else would my father hold the affection of his new young wife? Lady Lorna is younger than I am, yet she stays abed with him for days, and—”

Gillian drew a sharp breath, heat again surging up her neck, onto her face. She couldn’t believe she’d voiced such
intimacies. Or that she’d allowed herself to be led so far off track. Perhaps Devorgilla of Doon, the half-mythic cailleach legended to have bestowed the MacGuire charm on the clan so many centuries ago, had also gifted the scoundrel before her with a magical allure?

An ability to fuddle female wits!

Many swore the great Devorgilla aye lived, so it wouldn’t surprise her.

“If you were no’ an innocent, you’d ken that even a man of age is capable of satisfying a woman.” He came toward her again, so much dark, masculine ruggedness rolling off him that her heart beat wildly.

He gave her a slow, roguish smile, as if he knew. “Truth is, the greater a man’s experience, the more pleasure will be enjoyed by his bedmates.”

“You, sir, are overbold.” Gillian was sure he knew all about satisfying women.

He had that look about him.

“Bold, and…”
Magnificent enough to set a girl’s heart aflame, to haunt her dreams forever.
She released an exasperated breath. “Too filled with swagger, too fond of drawing that sword at your hip.”

“That may be true.” An edge returned to his voice, his smile fading.

Yet even with such a hard mien, he stole her breath. His face was strong, his scar so appealing it was almost a secret weapon. Something about his dark eyes made her heart race. She’d felt the astonishing power of him when he’d crushed her to him, his hard-muscled chest like unyielding steel, so much caged restraint thrumming through him. When he’d whispered against her ear, she’d shivered. Just now, her fingers itched to stroke the
gleaming silk of his thick, black hair. Regardless of who he was, or wasn’t, everything about him quickened her pulse. Even his scent, so warm and rich, with hints of the sea, clean wool and leather, and the cold night air, stirred feelings that set her insides aflutter.

He was unlike any man she’d ever met.

And so like everything she desired.

What a shame he was so false, empty as a hollowed tree.

She lifted her chin, glad she’d seen through him.

“Why did you lie about remembering Skog at Sway?” She held his gaze, determined to have answers. “You haven’t denied it and can’t.”

“Did you ne’er think I had more on my mind than the dogs slinking about your father’s hall?” He stepped closer, slid his thumb down her cheek, over her lower lip. “Even so young, you tempted me.”

Gillian bristled, the lie a slap in her face.

She narrowed her eyes, not suspiciously, but accusingly. “Are you still saying you’re Donell MacDonell, Laird of Laddie’s Isle?”

“I am keeper of this place, aye.” He didn’t blink.

“Any marauder could drop anchor here and make such a claim.”

His expression hardened. “I am nae common thief, lady.”

“You could be worse.” Her tone was cool. “A broken man without a clan, an outlaw, even a murderer, a traitor to our land—”

“See here, lass.” He gripped her shoulders, made an irritated sound. “Even here in the Hebrides, sheltered from the rest of the realm, you surely ken things are no’ always as they seem?” He looked into her eyes, his gaze
fierce. “There are matters I cannae tell you. Nae, things I willnae tell you.”

“I only ask your name.” Gillian broke free and stepped back, holding out her arm to stop him when he again started toward her. “Why you are here, claiming—”

“I have every right to this isle.”

“Skog’s full name is Skogahverfi.” Gillian glanced at her pet, glad he still slept. It wouldn’t have been good for him to witness her agitation.

“Your dog has naught to do with this.”

“He does.” She turned back to him, annoyed that despite all she knew, she still felt so powerfully drawn to him. “Skog is why I know you’re lying. He is called after his home in Iceland, for he was the sole survivor of a shipwreck at Sway.

“He washed ashore with a seaman who only lived long enough to let us know that the downed ship hailed from Skogahverfi. I gave Skog that name and nursed him back to health, caring for him day and night. He was no whelp, yet you didn’t blink when I said I’d had him since he was weaned.

“That proves you are a liar.” She could feel her indignation rising, living outrage inside her. “You are not Donell MacDonnell.”

For a long moment he just looked at her, taking in her words.

“See here, lass. I ne’er set out to mislead you.” He pulled a hand down over his beard. He sounded grieved, but his tone quickly hardened. “There are matters—”

“Pretending to be my betrothed is not a ‘matter,’ it is willful deception.” She poked a finger into his broad, mail-covered chest. “Who, and what, are you?”

“I am myself.” He looked at her in a way that sent chills rippling through her. “You and your father schemed to see us paired, and so you stand under my care. All that you now do concerns me.”

“It needn’t. I had no part in this.”

“Everything I see says differently, including your too-large, moth-eaten cloak.” He flicked a glance over the mantle. “Had I known, I’d have given you a better cloak from my own supply stores.”