To Desire a Highlander (24 page)

Things that, she was sure, had more to do with the two of them than the welfare of her dog.

“I thank you,” she offered, watching him carefully. “For all that you are, I cannot fault you for not caring for animals.”
In truth, when I sought my chamber less than an hour ago to see to him myself, I turned back because I heard you in there, speaking to him comfortingly.

It was a scene she hadn’t cared to witness.

Taking sweetmeats from the hand of the devil was never wise.

Even so, she was grateful that Skog’s needs had been addressed.

Her own…

She returned her gaze to the sea, drank in chill, briny air; appreciated the whistling of the wind and the crash of waves on the rocks below. Drawing her cloak tighter, she closed her ears to all else, not wanting to hear his deep, richly burred voice, the sudden and unexpected pounding of her heart.

If she kept silent, perhaps he’d go away.

Of course, he didn’t.

“I ordered an extra basket of sea coal for your brazier,” he said, clearly ignoring her wish to pretend he wasn’t there. “The room is too cold for a dog as up in years as Skog.”

“It is good of you to think of him, but make no mistake—I’ll not be swayed to think kindly of you.” She rested her hands on the cold, damp stone of the walling, hoped he’d not dare to touch her. “I am not easily fooled, as you’ve seen.”

“I have nae wish to fool you, lass.” His voice was right behind her.

He’d moved, silently and without warning, as was the way with thieves and blackguards.

Gillian stiffened, splayed her fingers across the wall’s rough ledge. “If not to ply me with more falsehoods, or gloat over my plight, why are you here?”

“To tell you the truth,” he said, his voice deep and gruff.

“I see.” She didn’t.

She also didn’t turn around. “You have yet another name?”

“I have but one and you’ve heard it.”

“You’ve given me two,” she reminded him.

“I am Roag.” He stepped around beside her, set his own hands on the walling. “It is my true name.”

“So you say.” She looked out at the rolling gray vastness of the sea, too aware of his sidelong perusal to risk meeting his gaze. If she glared at him as she wished to do, he might pitch her into the water.

It wouldn’t surprise her.

But he sounded so sincere, even troubled. And that unsettled her even more.

He was clearly up to something. Another deception surely meant to get the better of her. Or perhaps he did have a truth to share with her? One that was so unpleasant even he felt guilty telling her. She could only think of one possibility.

She whirled on him. “You have more men than came with you. You’ve somehow signaled them to chase after my family, sinking their ship and—”

“I dinnae attack innocent men.” He scowled at her, his expression darker than ever. “Such cravens—”

“You are the craven!” She lifted her voice above the wind, clutched a hand to the side of her face to keep her hair from whipping across her eyes. “Isn’t that what you threatened to do this morn? Fall upon unwary men if I but spoke your name?”

“Aye, so I said.”

“You admit it?”

“For sure,” he owned. “But they were ne’er in danger. I just would’ve kept them here, as my guests, had you no’ heeded my warning.”

“Your guests?” Gillian bristled. “I would say prisoners.”

“Howe’er you see it, they’d have been treated well. Supping at my table, sleeping comfortably and warm, and enjoying all freedoms save leaving this isle. They could’ve sailed away, unscathed, when I leave here.”

“Then why keep them at all?”

“I didnae, so it scarce matters.”

“It does to me.” Gillian lifted her chin. “What you’re telling me makes nae sense. If you wouldn’t have harmed them, if what you’re saying is true—”

“It is, sure as I’m standing here.”

“Then why frighten me?” She glanced down at the rocks, the little crescent of the sand and shingle where his ship was now beached. Sea foam shone along the tide line, but it was hard to make out the
Valkyrie
, for the galley was nearly hidden by darkness and mist.

Gillian bit her lip, feeling equally fogged, for she didn’t understand his explanations.

“I believed you’d cut down my father and brothers.” She turned from the wall, lifting her gaze to his. “Why would you want me to think that?”

“Because you had to,” he said, making it sound perfectly reasonable to strike terror into someone’s heart.

Which it wasn’t and never would be.

Gillian set her hands on her hips. “There can be no reason for what you did.”

“Aye, there was.” He towered over her, something in his expression making her feel like the guilty one, which was ridiculous. “It was necessary because the alternative was keeping your family here, as I just told you. That needed to be avoided.”

Gillian released a deep breath. “Now I understand.”
It’s as clear as the mist blowing over these battlements.

“Nae, you dinnae, and that’s because it’s hard for me to explain.” He reached for her hand, tightening his fingers around hers. “I am no’ a man of words. I am a fighter, no’ a poet. But by all that is holy, I swear it isnae my wont to frighten women and threaten hapless old men who only wish to see a daughter wed.”

“Then why did you?”

“Sakes, did I no’ just tell you?”

“Not that I heard.”

“And you shouldnae.” He released her and shoved a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. I risk my death by telling you what I’m about to, but my heart will be lighter. ’Tis a risk I’ll take, for I cannae abide deception. Still, there are times when honor demands its use. Especially when doing so serves the greater good.”

“Which you do?” She lifted a brow.

“If I do my work well, aye.”

She blinked. “Your work?”

“Indeed.”

“Is that why you came here, pretending to be Donell?”

He didn’t answer at once, his gaze again on the night-darkened sea as if some scaly denizen of the deep would rise and answer her questions for him.

Or perhaps he hoped such a beastie would spirit her away, out of his sight and bother?

That seemed more likely, given the fierce look on his face.

“Aye, that is why I came here as MacDonnell. I did so on highest command and no’ to seize the poor dead sod’s home.” He waited as a gust of stronger wind raced past them. “I shouldnae be telling you any of this.”

“Yet you are.” She could see his jaw tightening, his struggle to reveal the things he was.

He
was
different now.

She’d been right, and the change was disturbing.

But it wasn’t the relief it should have been. Her heart hammered and her mind whirled. She tried to make sense of his explanation, casting aside one thought as soon as it came to her, finding none better.

“Aye, so I am, telling you true. I hope ne’er to regret it.” Turning aside, he made a sweeping gesture to encompass the tower and the sea beyond. “There have been attacks on the King’s ships and they’ve increased to an alarming level. Some hold that the English are responsible. Others look to these isles. Such men claim that the Hebridean chieftains are too fond of power and that there’s a plot amongst them to regain control of the islands.”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Gillian felt a need to defend her fellow Islesmen—even if she’d never heard of any such plot.

“I’ve no’ grievance with your chiefly houses”—he leaned in, his eyes narrowing—“so long as they respect
the crown’s right to sail these waters. Nae man should sink a King’s ship. Truth is, nae ship should meet the sea’s bottom, no’ without due cause.”

“I have heard of one such attack.” Gillian shivered, remembering. “It was near the wee Isle of Colonsay. Not far from Iona.” She rubbed her arms, the night’s cold, and the conjured images, chilling her. “But I know nothing of any rebellions. There would be talk, yet there hasn’t been.”

“Whoe’er is behind the attacks must be stopped.” He looked at her, his voice hard now, his eyes glinting in the darkness. “Laddie’s Isle is positioned strategically, allowing an excellent viewing field of these waters and the ships plying them. It is in the interest of the realm to have someone here.”

Gillian’s eyes rounded. “Are you saying the King sent you?”

“I came to observe and, I hope, put an end to the sinking of royal ships.” He gave her as direct an answer as she figured he was willing, or able, to do. “To that end, it was necessary to assume the role of this isle’s most recent keeper. Once my duties are fulfilled, my men and I will leave. It was ne’er my intent to seize a dead man’s holding.” He gripped her chin, lifting her face. “For sure, I didnae plan to claim his bride.”

“My father gave you no choice.” She understood at last.

“So it could be said.” He didn’t deny it.

Gillian nodded, embarrassment, shame, and annoyance flooding her all at once. The last emotion directed not at Roag, but at her father, however well-meaning his intent.

“I am sorry.” She was.

“So am I, lass.” He smoothed back her hair, tucking the strands behind her ear. “Most especially because I must keep you here until I leave this isle. Be assured that you shall be treated with all courtesy and that when our work is done, my men and I will see you safely away. Nae harm will come to you. I ask only that you speak to nae one about what I’ve told you. On that I must have your promise.”

“Of course.” She nodded as a rather unpleasant feeling took hold of her. She suspected that it sprang from his vow to see her away when he left.

Yet that made no sense.

She’d be glad to see the last of him.

Even if he wasn’t the fork-tailed, double-horned devil she’d believed him to be.

In truth, she wished he were.

It was much easier not to fall for a blackguard than a hero.

Sadly, it was too late either way.

Chapter Nineteen

A
fortnight later, in Inverness, an ancient royal burgh many miles from Laddie’s Isle, two dark-cloaked men made their way along the narrow, rain-slicked alleys that converged on the town’s bustling harbor. Shops and alehouses lined the wharves, weathered structures of stone and timber that crouched side by side, vying for trade. Smoke rose from their roofs, its scent blending with the reek of fish, brine, and seaweed. Some of the buildings sagged, as if their great age caused them to fall in on themselves. Their sheer number rivaled the docked ships and even the countless vessels anchored farther from shore in the dark, heaving waters of the Moray Firth.

Alex Stewart, the older of the two, set a hand on his sword as he eyed the traders, seamen, and foreigners who thronged in such plentiful number that the River Ness could hardly be seen behind them.

He flashed a smile, looking round as if the town—rumored the erstwhile seat of Pictish kings—belonged to him.

In truth, many might say that it did.

For sure, those who appreciated breathing would not argue with Alexander Stewart.

Handsome in a fierce, imposing way, he had a shoulder-length mane of auburn hair and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Unusually tall and powerfully built, he moved with a sure, purposeful stride that made him stand out against the rabble. And well he should, for he was King Robert III’s brother, Lord of Badenoch and Earl of Buchan. Better known as the Wolf, he wore bold Highland raiment and heavy Celtic jewelry of finest make. The silvered flash of his sword, mail, and arm rings warned that he was also a warlord no wise man would dare to counter.

If anyone did, he welcomed such challenges.

Nor did he have qualms about tossing miscreants into the sea after a thrashing. Alex Stewart made his own rules. Any upstart foolish enough to break the King’s peace deserved to end as crab fodder.

For good measure, and as a nod to his royal blood, a dozen or more hard-faced, brutish men followed in his wake. Silent and watchful, they deliberately blended into the mass of folk teeming through the harbor alleys. These men were of bullish strength and unforgiving loyalty. For nothing would they disturb the Wolf’s course. Should anyone else do so, they’d move in after Alex was done, making certain such fools never bothered the King’s brother again, and that their decidedly grizzly end served as a warning to others.

To those he loved, Alex was the best-ever friend.

As an enemy, he was terrifying.

“I love this town,” he declared, flashing a broad smile at his companion, a younger man of dark good looks and equally confident stride. “Every time I chance to come here and breathe in the reek of brine, shore mud, and dead fish, I swear I appreciate the peaty moors and pine woods of my wild Highland home all the more! And”—he nudged the younger man with a plaid-draped elbow—“I vow to ne’er again leave my fine, bonnie hills!

“Alas…” He stopped in the road, his gaze on a well-lit, timber-fronted alehouse, still a good distance ahead of them. “Duty demands that we visit the One-Eyed Mermaid. Naught save the need to watch my brother’s back would draw me from the warmth and comfort of my own hearth.”

“ ’Tis an odd name.” The younger man paused as well, his own eye on the large wooden sign that hung above the inn’s door, swinging and creaking in the wind. He was Sorley MacNab, though more often called the Hawk, and one of the Wolf’s most trusted men, for he served as a Fenris Guard, a privilege granted to few.