To Desire a Highlander (17 page)

Gillian stiffened, relief sluicing her when he lowered his hand.

She refused to acknowledge his small triumph.

Above all, she hoped he couldn’t tell how much he unsettled her. He was undoubtedly her enemy, that stood clear. Yet his touch, even spurred by irritation, sent sensation racing all through her, even warming her from within.

Blessedly, his boldness brought him so near that her gaze snagged on the pagan pendant he wore so proudly, the silver Thor’s hammer amulet. She’d seen him reach for it a time or two since his arrival on the isle. Once, she’d heard him mutter what sounded like an ancient Norse prayer as he’d rubbed his thumb across the piece, hinting he viewed it as a talisman.

That meant she’d found his weakness.

His price.

Sure of it, she took a deep, steeling breath and straightened, not caring that doing so made her breasts brush against his broad, mail-covered chest. It couldn’t be helped. He stepped away from her, moving swiftly as if her touch had burned him.

Good, she was gaining ground.

If she made him uncomfortable, she’d have a better chance of his wanting her gone. Encouraged, she drew a breath, silently asking the gods for guidance.

“The silver hammer of Thor hangs at your neck.” She flicked her gaze to the pendant. “It is a handsome piece. Can it be that you honor the old ways? That you look in awe to the Northmen who once ruled these waters?” She saw at once that she’d chosen the wrong words, for his eyes narrowed slightly, wariness stealing across his features.

“The Vikings were marauders.” He touched his Thor’s hammer again, lightly, as if it meant nothing. “I wear this amulet because it was the first silver I could afford. It
reminds me that hard work and perseverance taste better than bread crumbs and poor man’s ale.”

“You speak like a Hebridean.” Gillian didn’t believe a word.

She was sure he trusted in the amulet’s power.

Either way, she was now certain she’d soon be off this wee islet and sailing for Glasgow. Hoping so, she went to her bed and reached under its mattress for her small leather pouch of Viking hoard goods.

“This is what I wanted to show you.” She lifted the bag, jiggling it so he could hear the clink of the silver. “There are enough Thor’s hammers in here for the necks of all your men. Also armlets, rings, and cut-up brooches, ample coin to purchase a much grander isle than this one, even to build a great castle.”

To her surprise, he said nothing.

So she undid the strings and opened the pouch, upending it so the contents spilled across her bed. “It is a wealth beyond measure,” she said, lifting a handful of coins and letting them spill through her fingers. “Surely a fair exchange to rid yourself of a bride you don’t desire.”

He glanced at her, his eyes glinting darkly in the torchlight. “I said I wouldnae ravish you, no’ that I dinnae desire you.”

Gillian chose not to answer him.

Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel as if her skin caught fire, a slow-burning warmth that spread all through her.

He smiled a little, as if he knew.

Then he strolled across the room, joining her at the bed. “This is your treasure?”

She nodded. “It is mine, aye.”

He picked up a coin and held it to the torchlight, turning it this way and that before tossing it back onto the pile. His second choice was a heavy, intricately twisted silver-and-gold arm ring, a prize that had surely once belonged to a great Viking warlord.

“I’ve ne’er seen so much plunder.” He returned the armlet to the pile, his gaze roaming over the silver pieces. “Where did you find such goods?”

She smiled. “I didn’t. My great-great-grandfather discovered a hoard of Viking treasure buried in a riverbank. The riches were well preserved in a large lead-lined chest. He was very young at the time, but even then a far-thinker.

“He told nae one of the find except his father and clan elders, men wise enough to safeguard the treasure to be used for the weal of Sway, and our people.” She trailed her fingers over the pile of silver, slid a glance at Roag. “Although he was just a lad, my great-great-grandfather requested one boon of the elders. Clan legend is that he’d seen his favorite sister wed a not-so-fortunate man and then witnessed the hard times they endured, the husband too stubborn to ask for help from either family.

“And so”—she looked at him, her smile brightening—“in return for finding such a prize, he asked that, so long as the treasure lasted, each daughter of our chiefly line be given a portion against ill times.”

“And this is yours?” He glanced at the treasure.

“It is.”

Confidence swelled in her breast. Pride and the surety that she’d won.

“Sorry, lass—”

She held up her hand. “Say no more—yet.” She didn’t like the set of his mouth, the hardness in his eyes. “You
don’t understand, see? These riches can be yours. I am offering them to you. A simple exchange—”

“I dinnae want your treasure.” He folded his arms. “I willnae be bribed, my lady.”

“That wasn’t my intent,” she argued, gripping his arm before he could turn away.

He looked at her. “What was?”

“A trade.” She released his arm, annoyed by the spark of contact. “You render me a certain service and the hoard goods shall be your payment.”

“For what?”

“Passage to Glasgow.” She met his gaze, her voice steady. “I want you to take me there, then escort me to the home of my mother’s uncle.”

He arched a brow. “That is all?”

“It is enough.” She pushed back her hair. “You do not need or want me here. I have no desire to remain. My great-uncle is a shoemaker, high in the King’s favor. He will have a place for me at his hearth. We would both be well served.”

She held his gaze, willing her words to make it true. “I would have a new home.”

“You already do, my lady.” He flicked a glance about the small room. “My sorrow if it doesnae please you.”

“There is more.” She wasn’t finished. “On thon bed are great riches. Enough coin to fund your adventures for all your days.”

“Perhaps I am weary of adventure.”

“So you won’t take me to Glasgow?” Gillian could hardly hear her own voice for the rushing sound in her ears, the blood beginning to drum at her temples.

“Nae.” He shook his head and light from the wall torch fell across his face, illuminating the hard set of his jaw,
his stony expression. The other half of him was in shadow, the darkness making him look cold, even dangerous.

She was sure that he was.

But she was determined to be strong, unafraid. Cowering before adversity had never been her nature. She owed it to the generations of brave women before her not to give in to despair. Hebridean females were not hollow reeds, bending in the wind.

They stood tall, always.

And so would she.

“I made you a good offer,” she said, pleased by the steadiness of her voice. She glanced at the hoard goods, then back to him. “You are not interested?”

“So I said, aye.” He picked up her leather pouch, began filling it with her treasure.

“I see.” She drew a tight breath, struggled hard to keep from pressing a hand to her brow.

She couldn’t remember her head ever pounding so fiercely. “You would keep me here against my will?”

“Call it what you wish.” He turned to her, held out the bag of silver. “By your own sire’s deed, you are the handfasted bride of Donell MacDonnell. This was his home, where you now belong. Excepting my own warriors, the men below believe I am MacDonnell. I’ve told you what will happen if you claim otherwise.”

“And if I do?”

He angled his head, considering her. “The morrow would see a Viking ship burial. Your father’s galley put to flame, his and your brothers’ bodies burning inside it.”

Gillian’s eyes rounded. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He stepped up to her, pressed the treasure pouch into her hands. “You’d be wise no’ to find out.”

Chapter Thirteen

S
o you would keep me here forever?”

Lady Gillian’s words made Roag’s entire body tighten, and not in a good way. Guilt and annoyance swept him, and he felt a muscle jump in his jaw. So easily, he could smash his fist into the little room’s wall. Instead, he watched through narrowed eyes as she shoved her treasure pouch beneath the bed and then straightened, her eyes ablaze, high color on her cheeks.

It mattered not.

There was only one answer he could give her.

“You will remain on the island for as long as is necessary, aye.” The words spoken, he went to the window, his future now seeming as impenetrable as the night’s cold swirling mist. How had he landed in such a disaster? And what did he intend to do about the sparks between them?

Nothing, he knew.

A grievance that annoyed him more than it should.

Worst of all, he suspected he would have to cause her more pain than he’d already done.

“Who is your mother’s uncle?” He braced his hands on the cold, wet stone of the window ledge, hoping her answer would not be the one he suspected. “The shoemaker in Glasgow?”

“Thomas MacCulloch.” She spoke the name he’d dreaded. “Many years ago, he had the good fortune to repair the late King Robert II’s ruined boots after he’d damaged them in a fall near Glasgow Cathedral. In gratitude, the King sent him trade. His endorsement made my mother’s uncle a rich man. He—”

“He is dead, my lady.” Roag turned from the window, hating that he had to tell her. “Your uncle’s skill as a shoemaker was well known in Stirling. Many nobles visited his shop whene’er they journeyed to Glasgow. So his passing is known to me, Stirling man that I am. Thomas MacCulloch and his poor lady wife succumbed to a fever some years ago.

“If they had children, I’m no’ aware.” Roag forced himself to tell her true. “Their home and the wee shop now belong to another man. A tailor, last I heard. If MacCulloch was your only family in Glasgow, there would’ve been nae reason for you to go there.”

“I didn’t know.” Her brow furrowed.

“So I gathered.” Roag tried not to scowl. He already felt more like an arse than ever before in his life. Having to dash her last hope of refuge made him feel even worse.

What he’d like to do was gather her in his arms and comfort her, protecting her from whatever it was that had her wishing to go elsewhere than her home.

It was none of his concern why she didn’t want to return to Castle Sway.

For sure, he wasn’t the man to soothe her cares.

He required her silence, no more.

“I am sorry, lass,” he said, gripping her hands before he realized what he was doing.

She didn’t flinch, seeming not even to notice—a truth that indicated only, he felt, their powerful attraction. His overwhelming urge to not just band his arms tightly around her, but hold her hard against him and kiss her long and deep, plundering her lips until the last trace of anguish was gone from her face.

“So am I.” She drew a long breath, pulled her hands from his. “By all telling, he was a good man, his wife a kind-hearted soul.” She paced a few steps and then knelt beside her dog, stroking his rough-coated back. “I shall have to think of somewhere else for Skog and me to go. There is surely—”

“You are no’ leaving Laddie’s Isle.” Roag’s tone was gruff, deliberately so.

When his work here was done, he’d find a good home for her—if she still didn’t desire to return to Sway.

It was all he could do for her.

“Dinnae trouble yourself making plans, sweet.” He took a bit of cheese from the table, leaned down to let her ancient pet take the treat from his hand—a gesture he regretted at once, because she needed to think he was entirely heartless.

Sure she’d cast some spell on him, fuddling his wits, he straightened and brushed his hands.

He also ignored Skog, trying not to see the appreciation in the beast’s milky eyes. How he’d started thumping his tail on the room’s stone-flagged floor.

“What you must do,” he said, knowing his words would make him the greatest gutter-dredge in all Scotland, “is strip naked and climb into your bed. I will do the same—for a while.”

She jolted, pushing to her feet. “I will not!” Her voice rose, her face paling. “You said you’d not—”

“And nor shall I.” Roag felt his own face heating, anger at himself almost scalding him. He ignored how her dog was struggling to rise, the confusion on Skog’s age-whitened face. “No’ climb into bed with you, I mean.”

He turned aside, pulled a hand down over his beard. “I said I wouldnae ravish you, lady, and I willnae.”
Howe’er much I’d like to.
“I will remove my clothes, as will you. You have my assurance I’ll no’ watch as you do so, nor as you slip beneath the covers. But we will spend the night naked.”

“I don’t see why.” She came round to stand before him, the color returning to her face. “What difference—”

“I arranged for one of my men to bring a small party abovestairs,” he told her true. “They willnae stay long, nor even enter the room. But they will peek inside. When they do, they’ll see you in the bed. You’ll hide your breasts, but I’d ask you to bare your shoulders so there’s nae doubt to your nakedness.

“And”—he reached to touch her hair, unable to help himself—“you’ll muss your hair, making it look tousled from—”