To Desire a Highlander (22 page)

Gillian tried hard to keep her annoyance from showing.

How skillfully he twisted words, speaking the truth but meaning something else entirely.

He was indeed “guarding” her. And she didn’t doubt that his men in the hall had strictest orders to watch her carefully, now and always.

He’d said as much.

Yet her family was falling for his lies. It was beyond
comprehension, but also reassuring, because it meant they’d leave without suspecting him of foul doings. Were that so, they wouldn’t leave peaceably.

And as much as it pained her to admit, she knew which side would win in a fight.

“Make haste, for I cannot abide long farewells.” She took her father’s arm and guided him to the tower’s main door. She glanced back at her brothers when they didn’t immediately follow. “Come on, away with you all!”

“She speaks true.” Roag hurried them forward, his own men parting to free a path through the crowded hall. “A drawn-out leave-taking serves naught. Besides, the tides will be running hard now. You should catch them before they turn.”

“So we shall!” Her father flashed another look at her, the brightness of his eyes splitting her heart.

There is more you should catch,
she ached to say. But she held her tongue, hoping she’d someday have a better chance to speak the words in her heart.

Time had flown away from her, anyhow.

The morning’s fog was still dense, but to the east, a lighter shade of gray marked the horizon, warning that the sun would soon rise. Her family needed to go.

At the door now, Roag took Mungo’s hand with both of his own, gripping with obvious enthusiasm. “If we e’er have news that must reach you, be assured it will,” he promised, looking every inch the handsome and besotted good-son. “Word will be sent as swiftly as possible.”

To Gillian’s horror, her father grabbed Roag, hugging him. When he stepped back, his eyes glistened even more and his whiskery cheek was suspiciously damp.

“I’ll hold ye to that!” he boomed, regaining a bit of his
dignity by swelling his great, barrel chest. “I did aye look forward to having a grandbaby! The more, the better,” he added, turning to Gillian for a final embrace.

“Be quick about it, lassie,” he urged, pulling back to give her a broad smile. “Ye ken how much I love the wee ones.”

Oh, I do…

She did.

Weren’t she and her many brothers a testimony to Mungo MacGuire’s belief in having children? Likewise his fervent wish to sire more on his new young wife?

She started to say so, leaving out her feelings about Lady Lorna, but Roag was already ushering him through the tower’s great outer door. Her family disappeared down the cliff stair, vanishing one by one into the blowing mist. Then Roag closed the door and slid the heavy drawbar in place. In less than a blink, she was cut off from her departing kin. Locked in a cold, crumbling tower with a man who neither wanted nor needed her.

And for the love of all that was good, she didn’t know what to do about it.

About the same time, but in a cold and dark corner of the tower that no one had visited in centuries, another resident of Laddie’s Isle strutted to and fro, his thin shoulders straight and his wee chest puffed as never before.

It didn’t matter that no one shared his excitement.

Not that anyone could even if they wished.

To his knowledge, no one knew about the hidden place so deep beneath the tower. Half sea cave and half hewn by man, the small round chambers with their low ceilings and black-rocked walls had weathered the isle’s storms
long before the first stone of the present tower had ever been laid.

An act done to honor him, he knew—for he’d seen the many, many ships drop anchor off the isle’s rocky coast, looked on as they’d rowed ashore, each man leaving a stone in his memory. A cairn of caring that had grown into a tower.

How sad that no one kept up the tradition of caring for the structure.

Men are fickle and often fools, easily frightened by what they do not understand.

Fear of him had doomed the tower.

He’d been the cause of its demise, even when it’d been erected to uphold his too-short life.

The world wasn’t always fair, he knew.

It was a lesson he’d learned swiftly, simply by observing the folk who passed by, or took time to visit his isle. He didn’t think it fine, or just, that men feared him. Truth was that he’d borne much fear himself in the early years.

So he did what he could to spare them other worries.

Didn’t he aye warn of danger?

High seas and wicked storms, submerged rocks and wild tides? Those who’d seen him and bided his alerts sailed on to safe harbors, or so he hoped.

As for the others…

He liked to believe they also prevailed, even if they didn’t recognize why they might’ve felt an urge to change course or take extra care when passing the isle.

Even so, it saddened him to be so alone.

Now, this night…

Two new souls on the isle had seen him in the hall!

The old dog, Skog, had looked right at him, barking
happily and even wagging his tail. Seeing the dog’s gaze seek and find his had delighted him no end. When the beast had started toward him, his stiff gait only allowing him to come a few paces forward, Hamish’s heart had turned over. He’d been torn between great joy that the dog saw, and even liked him and sorrow that his presence might confuse Skog, used as he was to flesh-and-blood men.

Somehow, though, he believed Skog understood such things.

Dogs were much smarter than people, after all.

They ken that a soul is a soul, however solid it does or doesn’t appear.

Life goes on, as he now knew.

Skog’s acceptance of him set his heart to racing. He was proud to have won the dog’s affection.

There was only one disappointment, but even that wasn’t too bad.

The man, the leader of the warriors who’d arrived, the one called Roag the Bear, could also see him. That alone added to his excitement. It was rare for more than one person at a time to see him—and he did count Skog as a person.

It just hurt him a bit that the man chose to pretend he wasn’t there.

Some folk just didn’t want to believe.

Hamish stopped his pacing and sifted up to a narrow ledge carved into the rock wall. It was where he’d slept in the last days of his earth life and he still rested there when the need for a slumber overcame him.

Just now, he stood on the ledge, lifting on his toes to peer through a crack in the wall.

It was his favorite viewing point, sheltered as the chamber was from high winds and lashing seas.

Unfortunately, what he saw troubled him more than ship-sinking weather.

As was the way with bogles, he could do things that no mortal soul could manage. Seeing for great distances and through thick fog was one such feat.

It was how he managed to help as many seamen as he could.

So he wasn’t surprised to spot the dark ship racing the tide along the horizon. Rarely had he seen a galley travel at such speed in fog as thick as this morn’s. Sadly, his ability to peer into the hearts of men told him that they were evil men. And the wickedness they were about this morn wasn’t the first time they’d taken to the seas to spread terror.

A shame he didn’t know what that evil was.

He just knew they were bad men.

And, of course, that he needed to alert the new laird of his isle to the danger.

Something told him a lot depended on whether Roag the Bear would believe him.

Worst of all, he suspected the trouble would have something to do with Lady Gillian.

Chapter Seventeen

R
oag’s fury knew no bounds as he turned away from the closed tower door. He refrained from leaning back against it and heaving a great sigh as he was truly tempted to do. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and satisfied himself with a single tight breath. And still he wanted to rage and roar.

Seldom had he been so angry.

But he reined in his temper, schooling his features when Gillian went toe to toe with him before he could move away from the just-closed door.

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “My brothers are excellent seamen. They will be away, far from your reach, before you or any of your henchmen could descend the cliff stair.”

“To be sure.”
I am more glad to see them go than you, fair lady.

“I would ask the same courtesy of you—I wish to be alone now,” Lady Gillian announced. “To recover from
saying them farewell. And”—her chin came up—“to have at least a few moments free of your menace.

“If you come after me, I shall forget I am a lady.” With a wave of her hand surely meant to stave off any protest, she whirled about and strode away, her head high.

Roag watched her go, her anger only worsening his mood.

His own fury was now seething.

Only he wasn’t wroth with her.

His temper was aimed solely at himself. He burned to release it and there was only one way, as he’d already decided. She needed to hear the truth, oaths, consequences, and all else be damned. He’d gladly suffer whatever came at him.

To that end, he’d even risk riling her further by following her up the battlement stairs, for that was where she’d gone. Like as not to try to peer through the morn’s fog, catching a last glimpse of the family she clearly loved so much.

He couldn’t imagine such a bond.

Though he did have Fenris brothers he’d walk through fire for, even facing death for them, if need be. Truth be told, he’d done the like more than a few times.

And he’d do it again, gladly.

He couldn’t stomach her low opinion of him another bluidy moment.

But when he turned to head after her, two fiercely frowning friends blocked his path. They were his Erse helmsman, Conn of the Strong Arm, and Big Hughie Aleson, one of his most tireless oarsmen and a man who, despite his great size, fair danced on his feet in a sword fight, even making his sword sing. These men were the most trusted of his men, and he loved them like brothers.

Just now they looked ready to kill him.

He knew better than to step around them. If it came to a fight, he’d win.

That wasn’t his concern.

It was the knowledge that they were such stubborn loons that, afterward, they’d still follow him wherever he went, even if he’d bloodied them to a pulp.

So he folded his arms and returned their glares, letting them know he wasn’t of a mood to be provoked.

Conn didn’t care, flicking his gaze over him, shaking his head, disapprovingly. “Run full mad this time, haven’t you?”

“Ne’er thought we’d see the day you’d do anything so foolish.” Big Hughie stepped aside as another man, one who’d agreed to work the kitchens, hurried by with a large platter of cold venison and two jugs of morning ale.

Roag scowled, ignoring how the tempting aroma of the roasted meat, even sliced cold, wafted behind the man with the tray.

He was ravenous—and not just for the day’s first meal.

It was a pitiful state and made it easier to meet his friends’ glares with a glower of his own.

He leaned toward them, the back of his neck on fire with annoyance. “What else could I do?”

To their credit, Conn and Big Hughie exchanged glances, their angry faces now looking a bit sheepish.

“I’m no’ sure,” Conn spoke first, pulling his beard. “I’d have to ponder it.”

“Think you I had a chance to do so?” Roag had him there.

“Nae, but—”

“It wasnae right for us to scare the lass.” Big Hughie
glanced at several spears propped in the shadows near the door. “Did you see her face when she came in here, saw some of our men bearing hidden arms, enough steel to fight an army of England’s heaviest horsemen?

“She believed we’d cut down her kin, she did.” Big Hughie’s distaste for their deception stood all over him.

None of Roag’s men grieved women gladly.

Not at all, if they could help it.

Roag felt the same.

Even so…

“It was necessary,” he said, the excuse sounding weak even to his own ears.

But his words weren’t hollow.

Much as he regretted the morning’s charade, the weal of every man, woman, and child in the realm depended on their mission. Their success at ratting out the cravens who were sinking the King’s ships, drowning good men, and damaging Scotland’s chances of ever again gaining a firm hand on their own crown.

Their work here demanded addressing.

They’d sworn solemn vows.

His anger rising again, this time almost choking him, Roag turned to a crumbling arrow slit and let the cold morning air cool his heated face. He drew a deep breath, wishing that his three favorite Fenris brothers—Sorley the Hawk, Caelan the Fox, and Andrew the Adder—had accompanied him on this foul and benighted mission. Raised court bastards at Stirling Castle, the same as him, growing up in the castle kitchens and stables, they understood him as few other men could, and he loved them fiercely.

Not that he’d ever admit the like.

The truth was the four of them ended up in each other’s beards more often than they ever agreed on anything.