To Desire a Highlander (2 page)

That they even favored her, looking on her kindly and guiding her in times of trouble.

Now she knew differently.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, Donell MacDonnell was making his way home.

Gillian didn’t blink as a wave broke over the rocks, the icy water sluicing her feet. She had other concerns of much greater importance.

She was the MacDonnell’s bespoken bride.

Yet wedding him was the last thing she wanted.

While not quite an ogre, he was many summers her elder. She doubted he’d ever washed his great black beard, which was bushy enough to house at least three nests of mice. His arms and legs were thicker than trees, his girth immeasurable. Worse, he suffered onion breath.

His meaty hands bore scars, something she’d admire and honor in most warrior chieftains.

After all, a leader unwilling to fight beside his men wasn’t worthy of his status as a commander. Regrettably, Donell’s hands weren’t just marked by battle. The skin around and beneath his fingernails was black with grime. If his breath smelled of onions, his flesh reeked of things she didn’t want to name.

She shuddered, a chill sweeping her despite her determination to remain calm.

A passing galley had dropped anchor at her father’s island home, Castle Sway. The ship’s crew begged, and received, hospitality for the night. Plied with generous viands and free-flowing ale, and warmed by the hearth fire, the seamen spoke freely, sharing news from afar.

These tidings included their meeting with Donell at a well-visited seafarers’ tavern on the mainland coast.

Unaware that their words chilled Gillian’s blood, even upending her world, they claimed he was journeying back to his isle. That he’d vowed he was eager to resume his duties as chieftain of his watery domain.

His arrival was imminent. Or so Castle Sway’s friendly and loose-tongued guests had asserted.

Gillian fisted her hands, clutching the folds of her skirts. She welcomed the chill numbness of her fingers. Focusing on the bone-deep cold and the sharp needle pricks racing up her wrists and along her arms kept her from thinking how opportune it would be if Donell’s galley were to spring a leak, sinking into the sea.

She might not want to marry him, but she didn’t wish the man ill.

Even so…

She bit her lip, remembering how his big, dirty-nailed hand had gripped hers on the day of their betrothal. He’d lifted her fingers to his lips, his greasy beard tickling her skin as he’d kissed her knuckles.

The hunger in his eyes as he’d done so, the way his gaze had swept her head to toe, was a memory she wished she didn’t have.

His slow smile, which revealed the yellowish stain of his teeth…

“Mother of all the gods.” Gillian lifted a hand to her brow, peering out across the sea. To her relief, there was no sign of Donell’s galley.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t coming.

The mist was thicker near the horizon, spoiling her view. He could be out there now, his ship slicing through the waves, his crew’s well-plied oars speeding him toward the steep-sided spit of rock known as Laddie’s Isle.

Tamping down her ill ease, Gillian reached inside her cloak and slipped her hand through a slit in her skirts. She curled her fingers around the small leather pouch that hung from a narrow belt slung about her hips. She took comfort in her secret treasure’s solid weight and bulk, the hope its presence gave her. Perhaps she could still buy her way to freedom.

“Eager for his arrival, are you?”

Gillian jumped, whipped her hand from within her cloak, and spun about to face her oldest brother, Gowan.

He stood less than a sword length away, towering over her. He’d crossed his arms over his chest and planted one booted foot firmly on a seaweed-draped rock. His deep russet hair, the same rich red as her own, blew about his
shoulders, and he was eyeing her intently, peering at her as if she’d grown two heads.

“You startled me.” Gillian lifted her chin, ignoring his question.

“And you surprise me.” He flicked a glance at the sea. “I wouldnae have thought you were so keen to greet the man.”

“You think I’m here to welcome him?” She tossed her head, knew her cheeks were flaming. “Could be I’m hoping his galley doesn’t appear.”

“You ken it will, lass.” He stepped closer, set his hands on her shoulders. “That’s as sure as the morrow’s dawn. No’ liking it will change naught.”

Gillian drew a tight breath, saying nothing.

She kept her chin high, hoping Gowan—her favorite among her eight brothers—wouldn’t hear the racing of her heart, the dread churning in her belly. He might sympathize with her, to a degree. But as a man, born and bred of the Isles and with their ways and traditions carved into his bones, he wouldn’t understand her displeasure.

“Anything is possible if the will is there.” She stood straighter, forcing herself to believe her words. “The highest mountain can be torn down if you take away one rock at a time.”

“Aye, and by the time you’re done, you’ll be so auld and addled, you’ll nae longer remember why you started such a fool’s errand.”

“It’s no’ foolish to me.”

Her brother frowned, shook his head slowly. “You dinnae ken what you’re saying.”

“I do.” She did.

She’d empty the sea with a thimble if doing so would keep her from becoming Donell’s bride.

“All lasses must wed, as well you know.” Gowan lifted a hand, tucked her hair behind her ear. “That is just the way of it, how life here has e’er been and aye will be. You could do worse than the MacDonnell. He has his own isle, small though it is. His tower will be sound enough, once repaired. The prospects are grand.” He swept out an arm, taking in the endless stretch of the sea, the shimmering mist. “Magnificent enough to swell the heart of any Hebridean.”

“I’ve nothing against Laddie’s Isle.” Gillian spoke true. “It’s Donell I cannot abide. You weren’t at Sway when he came for the betrothal ceremony. None of you were there,” she reminded him, sure that if her brothers hadn’t been away at sea, and had been home, in their father’s hall, they’d have argued against the match.

“He is a toad.” She raised a hand when he started to protest. “He’s also ancient, a graybeard.”

“Lass…” Her brother took her hand between both of his own, his grip warm and firm. “Donell MacDonnell is no more than ten summers older than you. That much I know. The last five years have fogged your memory.”

“I wish that were so.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Did Father send you to find me?” She slipped her hand from his grasp, suspicious.

Wasn’t it in their sire’s best interest to be rid of her? A good enough natured man, but much too lusty for his age, Mungo MacGuire had a new young wife. Lady Lorna wasn’t even as old as Gillian. If the clan tongue-waggers were to be believed, she was just as hot-blooded as her
adoring husband. It was whispered that she’d vowed to give him more sons than the eight he already had.

Lady Lorna also didn’t much care for sharing her new home with her husband’s daughter.

Gillian frowned, her blood heating even more.

Gowan angled his head, watching her with eyes that missed nothing. “Da is too busy ordering our brothers about, making them ready the keep for MacDonnell’s arrival. He didnae send me to look for you.”

“If he did, he needn’t have bothered. I’d almost rather stay here.” She glanced toward the cliffs, the nameless tower that claimed the promontory’s best vantage point. “What awaits me at Sway, but Lady Lorna’s peevish glares and taunts? I’m hard-pressed to say which ill is worse. Sharing a hall with a shrew or being shackled to an ogre.”

To his credit, Gowan looked embarrassed.

But he held his tongue, still not siding with her.

“You should’ve stayed in the tower, enjoyed a few ales with our brothers.” Gillian held his gaze, seeing no reason for anything but the truth. Perhaps she should have also remained at the keep. She could be sitting by the fire with her beloved hound, Skog, stroking his scraggly fur, rubbing his bony shoulders, wishing them anywhere but this bleak isle, dreading Donell’s arrival.

Instead, she’d picked her way down to the rocks, drawn here as if by an unseen power.

Even now, she felt the fine hairs on her nape lifting, stirred by a tingling sensation that also rippled down her back and along her arms. She shivered, hoped Gowan wouldn’t notice.

She took a breath, attempted her most level voice.
“I know you have my best interests at heart. But there’s nothing you can say or do to make this day a good one.”

“Aye, well.” Gowan glanced again at the sea, then to her. “Could be you’ll find Donell to your liking.” He sounded hopeful. “The ship’s crew spoke highly of him. They said he wore a fine mail shirt and more arm rings than the Viking warlords of old.”

“Indeed?” Gillian was sure they were mistaken.

Gowan nodded. “They sang his praises after you retired for the night. Had you still been in the hall, you’d have heard them.”

“They must’ve been in their cups when they met him.” She could think of no other explanation.

Her onion-breathed, great-bellied betrothed could never be likened to a Viking warlord.

Gowan frowned. “Will you no’ give him a chance?”

Gillian flicked at her sleeve. “Do I have a choice?”

“In truth, nae.” Gowan gave her a long look, somehow managing to appear both sympathetic and annoyed. “You’re duly promised to him, oath-bound. Such a pact is binding, cannae be easily undone.”

“That I know.” Gillian turned to the sea, another truth giving her strength.

She took a deep breath, pretended to smooth the folds of her cloak so she could touch the small, heavy pouch hidden beneath her skirts.

“I will greet Donell MacDonnell as is expected of me.” She forced the words, her hand resting on her secret treasure. “I shall take his measure then, and no’ before.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Gowan sounded relieved.

Gillian didn’t say that she already knew how the dice would fall.

She’d seen the hunger in Donell’s eyes the day of their betrothal ceremony.

To be sure, he’d looked at her in lust. Even young and innocent as she was, she’d recognized the male need burning in his gaze.

More than that, she’d seen the blaze of greed.

However much she might have pleased him, her father’s riches, so proudly displayed in Castle Sway’s great hall, had impressed him more.

Donell MacDonnell desired coin above all else.

The knowledge helped her summon a smile. “All will be well.” She reached to squeeze her brother’s arm, hoping to reassure him. “But I would like to be alone now. I need the fresh air and sea wind to prepare myself to meet my future husband. You surely understand?”

Gowan looked at her sharply, perhaps not so easily fooled as she’d thought. Then he stepped back and flashed a grin, once again seeming relieved.

“As you wish.” He glanced off into the distance, toward the still-empty horizon. When he turned back to her, he leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Dinnae think you’ll e’er be alone, lass. Your brothers and I sail past here often enough. We’ll look in on you, make certain the MacDonnell is treating you right.”

“I know you will.” Gillian didn’t doubt him.

She just wished she’d be sailing with them, as she’d done so often in years past. They even praised her, claiming no one beat the ship’s gong better, that her rhythm surpassed that of any seaman in these waters.

When need arose, she’d even taken the great steering oar.

Sailing the seas with her brothers let her spirit soar, was an exhilarating freedom she loved and needed. Never had she dreamed she wouldn’t accompany them, but would only see them plying the waves, flashing across the shining waters to watch over her, ensuring her well-being.

In her new life as bride to a man she found repulsive.

But she loved her brothers, especially Gowan. So she sought to ease his concern. “I know you’d never fail me, none of you.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Gowan nodded once, then reached to pat her shoulder comfortingly before he turned and started back up the steep cliff path.

Gillian watched him go, her hand still on her hidden treasure. She rubbed the lumpy pouch, grateful for its bulk and weight. The silver coins and cut-up brooches it held. The armlets and rings she’d gathered with care, ancient bits and pieces of a Viking hoard her great-great-grandfather had discovered buried in a riverbank, in his youth. Riches well preserved in a lead-lined chest.

The portion in her leather pouch was all that she could claim.

Her share was enough, she was sure.

Wealth untold, which she hoped would buy her freedom.

She wouldn’t be given to a man she abhorred, whatever tradition and duty demanded of her.

Resolve cloaked her like a shield and she could feel her pulse slowing. The racing of her heart returned to a strong, steady beat as she pushed her worries away. Her breath came easier and the cold began to leave her bones. She was strong and brave, courageous. She wasn’t called the Spitfire of the Isles for nothing.

She’d stand against Donell MacDonnell.

She’d walk away the victor. The silver in her secret pouch would pave the way for her escape.

But then, as if the gods resented her boldness, the wind quickened, blowing harder. The gusts shrieked, whipping her hair and tugging at her cloak. Not to be outdone, the sea rose, turning angry, as white-capped waves hissed past the rocks, flinging icy spray onto her. Salt stung her eyes and she blinked, rubbed her fists against the burning. It was then, as she struggled to see, that chills raced through her, prickling her skin. A terrible cold swept her, worse than a dark winter night before the onslaught of a blizzard.

“By all the gods…” She shivered, still blinking furiously.

In truth, she didn’t want to clear her vision.

She knew what would greet her when she turned her gaze on the sea.

Even so, the shock slammed into her, her eyes widening at the sleek galley racing toward Laddie’s Isle. The ship cleaved mist and waves alike, seeming to fly across the water. A fierce dragon’s head glowered from the prow, minding her of Viking ships. Despite the distance, she could see that the twin banks of oars were lined with big, powerfully muscled men. Their mastery of the oar-blades sent up plumes of white water so that the serpent-headed ship didn’t just appear to bear down on her, but to froth in hunger.