To Desire a Highlander (7 page)

Gillian bristled. “I’d sooner lie with a drooling dotard than suffer more of your attentions!”

His eyes narrowed for a moment, his gaze searing. “Then, my beloved betrothed, mayhap you should’ve dissuaded your father from bringing you here. Seeing you now, what a beautiful woman you’ve become in the years I’ve been away, I cannot help but to desire you.”

He kept his gaze locked on hers and she could see the force of his will, his steely command. “For truth, I may tell your father to leave you here, that I’d forgo the formalities of proper nuptials and a lavish wedding feast.

“Why wait”—he took her chin in his hand, tilting her face to catch her earlobe between his teeth—“when the taste of you on my lips is already maddening me?”

“You were mad before you left this isle.” Gillian jerked her head free. “Now you’re even more crazed.”

“So some men say.” He straightened, something in his tone making her shiver. “Even so, I’m no’ so depraved that I’d stand by and see a foolish lassie plunge to her death. Truth be told, I’d kill the man who would.”

“Your chivalry is admirable.” Gillian kept her chin raised, hoped he wouldn’t notice the tremors rippling through her. “You are much changed.”

“No’ that much, sweetness.” He leaned in again and pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, first nipping her sensitive flesh, then licking her, slowly and leisurely as if savoring her. When he finally lifted his head, he fixed her with such a fierce intensity she was sure he must hear her heart knocking against her ribs.

She searched for something to say, anything to hide
how much he unsettled her. “I do not remember your scar,” she said, glancing at the thin, silvery line arcing across his left cheekbone. “Indeed, I scarce recognize you at all. You are so different from—”

A howl cut her off, keening and mournful, its distress rising above the wind.

“Skog!” She broke free, ducking under his arm and darting around the bend in the path. Her mind whirled with a thousand terrible images of her ancient dog, cold and confused in a strange hall, his cloudy eyes searching for her. She hiked up her skirts again, quickening her steps, the beloved beast’s panic her own.

Donell MacDonnell forgotten.

Until he pounded up behind her and caught her hand, whirling her around before she could charge up the last, most steep and treacherous bit of the track.

“I’ll no’ have you hurtling to a watery grave!” Once again, he hauled her right against him, clamping her to him with an iron-banded arm about her waist. He glared at her, the fury in his voice, terrifying. “No’ so long as you’re on my isle, in my care.” He started forward, keeping her clutched tight, guiding her past the great black rocks, as he pulled her up the path. “The day hasn’t dawned and ne’er will that I carry a woman’s blood on my hands.”

“So noble.” Gillian didn’t believe a word.

“No’ at all, sweetness.” His voice was hard, his tone cold. “I’ll no’ have you ruin my homecoming.”

“You bastard.” Gillian put all her loathing for him into the slur.

A glint of humor lit his dark eyes. “Sheathe your claws, vixen. You’ll need more than name calling to insult me.”

Gillian glared at him, outraged heat rushing to her cheeks. “Let go of me!” She tried to pull away from him, her efforts futile. “That was my dog howling, you fiend. He’s old and half blind. He’ll be—”

“He should be home at your Castle Sway.” He spoke in a casual tone, but she heard his reproach. “Old dogs have nae place on ships, especially in rough waters. They need a hearthside and quiet.”

“Skog needs me.” Gillian spoke as levelly as she could, not about to let him see her weaken. “You saw him at our betrothal. He was aged then. Now he’s frail and cannae be left to himself. Skog goes where I go.”

“Your devotion is admirable.” He urged her forward, helping her up and over the wet and glistening edge of the cliff, not letting her glance down at the vast sea beneath them. “Dare I hope you’ll develop such an attachment to me?”

“You may hope this farce finds a swift end.” Gillian didn’t care if he saw her irritation.

He wasn’t looking at her anyway, bent as he was on dragging her across the cliff-top toward his half-ruined home, so bleak and barren on its rocky, sea-lashed crag. But halfway there, he glanced at her, his determined stride underscoring his dark, almost predatory stare.

“I’ve nae room in my world for foolery or prickly females,” he warned, quickening his pace as they approached the tower’s torchlit door. “I do enjoy a challenge.

“And you, Lady Gillian”—he flashed a wicked smile—“are proving a most delectable one.”

Chapter Six

R
oag held the tower door wide for his unwanted betrothed, his first glimpse of his new home proving as much as the lass herself that he’d lost control of his world. Instead of the great empty hall he’d expected, a place likely filled with birds’ nests and vermin, men bustled everywhere. Some were aligning trestle tables and benches, others hurried about lighting the iron-bracketed torches that illuminated the huge, cavernous space.

No one was idle.

Someone had even swept the stone-flagged floor, though no new rushes were spread as yet. MacGuire’s and Roag’s own men pitched in, Gillian’s sire standing in their midst, shouting orders and looking benevolent in a way that curdled Roag’s liver. He wanted naught to do with beaming fathers of brides, most especially when the maid in question was apparently promised to him.

He wasn’t the marrying sort.

And he had no intention of joining such blighters.

He crossed his arms and surveyed the scene before him. A man needed to know the lay of the land lest he step into a rabbit hole and find himself sprawled facedown in the mire. Things were mucky enough already.

Some of the men were now settling in at the tables, looking eager to dig into generous helpings of bread, cheese, and jugs of ale. One or two walked about with lit tapers, touching them to the wicks of oil lamps hung from the ceiling rafters on iron chains. The hall boasted two hearths, and a haunch of venison cooked on a spit over one, its fat dripping into the flames. The delicious smell made Roag’s mouth water. At the hall’s far end, someone had thrown a white tablecloth across one of the long, rough tables; the many heaped platters of roasted meats and other feast goods, along with ewers of mead and wine, marked it as the tower’s high table.

As did Lady Gillian, who stood a few feet away, her stiff posture in no way detracting from her startling beauty.

Roag frowned at her, wishing she truly was the mythical sea siren he’d first thought her to be.

She was certainly seductive enough.

Unbidden, he felt a strong tug at his loins, his body’s reaction to her only fueling his annoyance. She was more than a wench to keep a man’s bed warm. She’d claim a man’s soul if he let her, branding his heart, ruining him for all others, and bleeding him dry before he could say his name, if he even remembered it.

Such females were dangerous.

And Lady Gillian, with her gleaming mass of flame-colored hair, emerald eyes, and luscious curves, would be the death of any fool she opened her legs to, an image that sent another bolt of desire straight to Roag’s most
susceptible, already tightening male parts. He could well imagine the pleasure of her, the glossy deep-red curls that guarded her sleek, female heat.

Her spirit also made her memorable, the high color on her face leaving no doubt that she wasn’t a woman to trifle with, and that she possessed a temper.

Roag appreciated hot-blooded bed partners.

A shame she wasn’t a tavern wench.

And hadn’t he treated her like a saucy light-skirt? By Odin’s bleeding elbow, he’d dealt with her more ignobly than any woman to ever cross his path, high-or lowborn. It scarce mattered that his words and actions were justified. That he was on a secret mission for the King and not come here to take a wife. His coarseness was meant to frighten her away, send her fleeing with her sire back to her own Hebridean fastness, never to darken his door again.

Yet something about her called to him. Her voice, soft as a spring breeze; the fresh, clean scent of her, so feminine, with a hint of lavender; the sparkle of her deep green eyes and the thickness of her lashes. Even the slight crease between her brows fascinated him; the rapid beat of the pulse at her throat, showing her irritation, proving her strength and backbone.

She deserved better than a life tied to an oaf like Donell MacDonnell. Nor did she need someone pretending to be the long-dead lout.

However just his reasons; regardless of how high a hand commanded him to commit such a folly. In his duties as a Fenris Guard, disguises were often necessary. It was why he’d perfected a variety of dialects. There were times when life or death, the very weal of Scotland, depended on his ability to appear as someone he wasn’t.

But he’d never donned the role of an innocent maid’s betrothed.

He didn’t like it at all.

Bile rose in his throat and his gut twisted, his appetite of a moment before vanquished.

Across the hall, Lady Gillian shifted so she stood near one of the hanging oil lamps, its soft glow limning the shape of her, taunting him with her lush, ripe curves. The glossy sheen of her hair made him imagine those shining tresses spilling about her naked shoulders, her bared breasts, as he drew her under him; or perhaps as she sat astride him, riding him to their mutual release.

That she’d be a passionate, fiery lover stood without question.

He had an eye for such things.

Just now, he set his jaw and pulled a hand down over his chin. Even the glimmer of a thought to take her to his bed was madness.

What he needed was to be rid of her.

His mood worsening, he tore his gaze from her, turning instead to the hearth fire at the opposite end of the hall. Unfortunately, what he saw there, before the roaring fire of peat and driftwood, riled him as much as the temptation that was Lady Gillian MacGuire.

Her beloved dog, Skog, lay sprawled before the fire. Huge and shaggy, his thick gray coat couldn’t hide his bony haunches or the telltale whiteness of age that marred his great head. His cloudy eyes also made no secret of his ancientness, and Roag knew from long years of loving dogs that Skog surely only moved with stiffness and pain.

No such beast should have endured the rigors of a sea voyage.

And neither should the wee lad kneeling beside him, stroking the old dog’s shoulders. Clearly ailing, the boy’s color was unnaturally pale and his clothes were torn and ragged. Such neglect was a sad stain on Clan MacGuire for not looking after the sprite better, even if he was a kitchen laddie. Roag knew well how rough a road such boys traversed. Hadn’t he once turned roasting spits and hauled water, trudging up endless stairs with buckets larger and heavier than himself?

Those were days he didn’t care to remember.

No lad would suffer them under his roof.

Leastways not for as long as this crumbling pile of stone stood under his care. If he was to laird it here, he’d begin now.

He had started forward, making for the boy and the dog, when a firm grip to his elbow caught him back. Wheeling about, he nearly collided with Conn of the Strong Arm, the
Valkyrie
’s helmsman. A huge, great-bearded man with a shock of red hair, Conn wasn’t a man to cross, and little slipped by him. He also wasn’t a man of many words, speaking only when he had something to say, usually a matter of import.

“Aye?” Roag waited, doing his best to ignore the ill ease that plagued him on seeing his friend’s grim-set face. “Dinnae tell me more ships are landing,” he lowered his voice, careful that no one else heard, “this time bringing brides for each one of you.”

“Nae, nae, the seas are empty.” Conn’s tone was equally cautious. “But something’s no’ right. Two of MacGuire’s men were seen carrying goods up from the landing beach on the far side of the island.”

“That’s no’ surprising, seeing how they’ve readied this
hall. Still…” Roag considered. “We’ll set a few men to watch MacGuire’s ship. Better yet, to take a peek onboard, have a nosey at their cargo, if any.” He paused, pulled on his beard. “The man’s brought enough supplies to sustain us if we were under siege for a year. My gut says he’s just a deep-pursed chieftain, hoping to prove his strength with a show of generosity.”

Conn shook his head, looking troubled. “I dinnae think so.”

“I do. Though we’ll sure keep an eye on him. There are enough scoundrels who can lie with a smile, do worse once under a man’s roof.” Roag cast another glance at Lady Gillian’s dog and the wee lad. He didn’t care for the boy’s baleful expression, the way his pale skin almost shimmered in the glow of the hearth fire.

Turning back to Conn, he placed a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “If MacGuire proves false, our swords will make him regret it. I’ve already dealt with his daughter. She’ll be wanting nae part of me after they leave.” He leaned in, close to Conn’s ear. “I say she’ll beg her father to sail now, before we even sit down to the feast they’ve prepared for us. And if not”—he shrugged, not liking the twinge of guilt that jabbed him on recalling how crudely he’d treated her—“you can be sure we’ll be gone before any nuptials can take place.”