To Desire a Highlander (9 page)

“I am comfortable, thank you.” Gillian gave him a tight little smile.

“So be it.” He tucked the flask back beneath his plaid. But his gaze flicked again to her breasts, the exposed skin
above her gown’s low-cut edge. “I would’ve sworn you’re feeling the hall’s chill.”

“I’m fine, I assure you.”

“Hiding your feelings isnae one of your strong points, my lady.”

“I am not hiding anything.”

“Nae?” He lifted his ale and took a long drink, his dark gaze watching her over the cup.

“So I said.”

“Then admit you’re cold. You’re awash with gooseflesh.” Donell looked round at the other men, his gaze lighting on Gowan. “I wouldnae see your sister take ill. This is a drafty auld keep, no’ fit for weans or lasses.”

As if to agree, the wind racing past the tower quickened then, howling louder than ever, even banging a shutter somewhere above them. Donell cast a look at the largest hearth, the one where Skog sprawled before the fire. He narrowed his eyes at the hearth’s rough, blackened stones, as if he expected a gale to race down the chimney, blowing soot and smoke into the hall. Then his face cleared, and he turned back to Gowan.

“My years away haven’t been kind.” He threw another glance at the hearth, the shadows there. “The tower is scarce habitable.”

“Heigh-ho!” Gillian’s father slapped the table. “That’s your problem, laddie. This place needs a woman’s hand and a score o’ fine chubby bairns to warm its moldy old heart.”

Ignoring him, Gowan set down his eating knife. “Gillian is no ordinary lass.” He held Donell’s gaze. “She thrives in wild weather, loves the sea, and is cold-hardier than many men. She’s a great prize, my friend.”

“She is, indeed.” Donell glanced at her, his gaze intent.

Gillian tried to ignore how her heart beat a little faster, her pulse quickening. Whether it pleased her or not, he stirred a heightened awareness in her. She had to resist the urge to smooth her skirts or worry a fold of the table linen. Never had a man so unsettled her.

Worse, his mouth curved as if he knew.

Keeping her chin raised, she sought composure. Deep inside, she secretly wished that the wind would indeed rush into the hall, catching him up in its chill embrace and sweeping him away. Anywhere but here with his dark good looks and savage masculinity making her feel more vulnerable than she would ever have believed, as if her body responded to his maleness, even clamoring for his attention.

She inhaled deeply, half surprised she could even breathe in his overpowering presence.

She knew he was watching her. He’d hardly looked elsewhere since they’d taken their seats. She tried to ignore him, sipping her wine and forcing herself to eat. But at times, she suspected he was smiling at her. His lips slowly curving in a disturbingly knowing manner.

Yet each time she snapped her gaze to his, he only lifted a brow, his face expressionless.

It was quite maddening.

And all the while, everyone else ate, drank, and blethered on, unaware of her turmoil.

Andrew, her youngest brother, leaned around Gowan then, catching Donell’s eye. “Our Gillian is a better hand on a galley than any of us!” he boasted, pride in his voice. “No one beats a gong better. She keeps perfect rhythm, and can even take the steering oar in a pinch.”

“That is true,” Gowan confirmed. “She’s sailed afar with us, unafraid of rough journeys and no’ even blinking at the danger of places few men have seen and fewer know exist.” He leaned toward Donell, his face earnest. “Wild winds and rough, cold seas make her soul sing. She is a maid unlike any other. Her brothers and I, our whole clan, demand you treat her well.”

“So I shall.” Donell lifted his ale cup to Gowan, drinking only when Gowan returned the salute. “When I come for her, to make her my wife, she’ll lack for naught. You have my word, before your family, and my own good men who shall guard this keep with me.”

“We are glad to hear it.” Blackie, Gillian’s swarthiest, most good-looking brother, pointed his eating knife at Donell, then stabbed a choice piece of roasted venison as his brothers voiced agreement.

“She’s waited long for happiness,” Boyd, another brother, declared.

“So has our lord, dinnae doubt it.” A shaggy-maned, red-bearded man at the end of the table nodded, ignoring the dark look Donell tossed him. Conn of the Strong Arm, as Gillian knew he was called, turned to her. “Lady, I am the
Valkyrie
’s helmsman,” he told her. “Ne’er have I heard of a woman on a warship. By the gods, no’ manning the steering oar.

“ ’Tis a sight I’d like to see.” His blue eyes held interest at learning of her skills, softening Gillian’s heart, chipping at her defenses.

She could like this man.

And her betrothed clearly didn’t want him to admire her. He’d returned his attention to his roasted meat, his face set like stone.

Ignoring him, Gillian smiled at the big helmsman. “Perhaps you shall see such a wonder. In the morn, when we sail for my home, the Isle of Sway. I shall take the steering oar if my father and my brothers agree.” She glanced at them, her spirits lifting to see the love and warmth on their faces.

Only her father didn’t look pleased.

Indeed, he avoided her eye.

Donell MacDonnell appeared even more annoyed than before. No longer tearing into his venison, he now watched her over the rim of his ale cup, his gaze piercing. Gillian thought a muscle jerked in his jaw, but she couldn’t be sure because of his beard.

Either way, Conn of the Strong Arm’s congeniality vexed him.

Unable to resist rubbing salt into the wound, Gillian took a breath. “You see, Sir Donell,” she addressed him formally, her tone as strong and proud as she could make it, “we do things differently in the Hebrides.”

“That, I have ever known.” He took a long, slow sip of ale.

Something about the intensity of his perusal, the deep richness of his voice, caused a fluttering in her belly. A startling flurry of tingly warmth, surprisingly pleasant, but also troubling because the sensations rippled across places she wanted well guarded from Donell MacDonnell.

He smiled and inclined his head as if he knew.

Gillian hoped not.

She also didn’t flinch. She was a chieftain’s daughter, however rascally her sire. She carried the blood of many more leaders before him. Her spine was forged of steel, and fire ran in her veins. She’d been born to courage. No
one backed her into a corner, certainly not the huge, dark-eyed, hard-muscled man sitting across from her. If a thrill of excitement ran through her just looking at him, such feelings were surely caused by knowing she’d soon see the last of him.

She was certain of victory.

Hadn’t his eyes lit at her mention of treasure? A prize so precious, she could only show him behind closed doors. He’d looked at her in lust, revealing he’d misunderstood. He’d suspected she’d strip before him, using feminine wiles to see her will done. He’d expect to bed her in exchange for breaking their betrothal.

Gillian glanced at the hall’s high-set windows. The sky was gray and slightly luminous, swirly mist drifting past the narrow openings.

Soon, evening would be upon them.

Her rendezvous with the man who thought to put his hands on her naked flesh, possessing and ravishing her, taking her innocence as his due.

He thought to breed with her.

Gillian could feel a flush heating her face. She knew he wanted her. She’d seen the same look on her brothers’ faces when they were out sailing and they’d dropped anchor near a shore-side tavern. The kind known for lusty, eager-to-please serving wenches, always ready to air their skirts. Donell clearly planned to get beneath hers.

She’d also heard scraps of gossip about him over the years. Shocking tales, whispered in Sway’s kitchens when no one knew she was about. Rumor was he had an unhealthy interest in bosoms. Hadn’t he devoured hers with his gaze, just moments ago? Gillian felt loathing unfurl inside her. She wasn’t about to bare her breasts
for him, perform the spectacles Sway’s serving wenches swore he craved so hungrily.

A shame her breasts were full, firm, and round. The sort she knew men appreciated. How she wished they were better covered now, hidden behind a shawl or shapeless gown.

Above all, she hoped Viking silver and gold would prove of greater value.

Not liking the cold knot sitting so heavily in her stomach, she clasped her hands on the crisp white table linen and did her best to appear calm. She straightened her back a bit more, hoping her cool mien and stiff posture would dampen Donell’s amorous ambitions.

His slow, lazy smile said that wasn’t so.

“Are you no’ hungry?” He arched a brow, a hint of amusement in his peat-brown eyes. A dimple flashed above his beard, making him dangerously attractive in a bold, roguish way. He reached to tap the tip of his eating knife to her plate, his hand brushing her forearm. “You havenae touched your venison.”

“I have now.” She snared a piece of the perfectly roasted meat, popping it into her mouth, chewing carefully. She also tried to ignore how his warm skin lighting against hers sent an unexpected swirl of hot tingles across her female parts. How could such a known beast stir such a reaction? Furious, she forced herself to swallow the meat.

It tasted like muck.

She knew the venison was delicious. Her father’s cook had preroasted the haunch at Castle Sway, seasoning it with secret spices. Then he’d prepared the meat for the sea journey so that her brothers needed only to place the haunch on a spit and stoke the fire.

“Such a delicacy is a rare delight.” Donell spoke low, provocative. His gaze was even more disconcerting, steady on hers. “Such a feast should be savored, each succulent taste celebrated to the fullest. Do you no’ agree?”

Gillian didn’t answer.

She knew he wasn’t referring to the venison.

“You are observant,” she owned, meeting his gaze. Then, summoning every ounce of steel she possessed, she took a long, slow sip of wine. “I truly have lost my appetite. It could be something here doesn’t agree with me.”

Donell smiled wickedly. “All the more reason for you to eat. A good meal will replenish you.” He took a large bite of venison, chewing appreciatively. “My hunger has increased since arriving here. Indeed, I am ravenous.” His eyes gleamed, his gaze roaming over her. “I doubt I can get enough.”

Gillian looked at him pointedly. “Then do not let me keep you from your meal, sir.”

“Donell.”

“As you wish, Sir Donell.”

To her annoyance, he laughed. “I am well-pleased with Lady Gillian’s spirit,” he declared, turning to her father. “In the Manx prison these last years, the only woman I saw was the toothless crone who brought me meals of moldy bread and soured ale.

“Your daughter, MacGuire, is a refreshing change.” He punched her father’s arm, good-naturedly, and then went back to his meal, cutting another generous piece of roasted meat. “Lady Gillian is as welcome as this venison after the sparse rot I endured in my lonely cell.”

Some of his men chuckled, but the red-bearded giant, Conn of the Strong Arm, frowned. “Enough, my friend,” he said, an odd note in his voice. “Have done, and let’s no’ speak of troubled times.”

“Indeed!” Donell raised his ale cup to his helmsman.

“You do not look as if you’ve subsisted on such a foul and meager diet.” Gillian smiled sweetly at him.

At the end of the table, her brother Gowan cleared his throat. “I’ve heard the lords of Mann work their captives hard,” he said, ever the peacemaker. “There are tales of men treated like slaves, forced to row ships without sleep, split trees and rock, and even fight bears for the nobles’ nightly entertainments. Nae doubt, Donell—”

“So it was, my friend.” Donell glanced at his own men, each one except the helmsman nodding agreement. “I ought to thank the bastards.” He leaned back, slapped his flat, mail-covered abdomen. “Ne’er in all my days have I been in such form!”

“That is certainly true.” Gillian took another sip of her wine, watching him carefully.

He didn’t look anything like the ogre she remembered.

If her father had better eyesight, he’d agree.

She kept her cup against her lips, no longer drinking. She did observe Donell across the rim, not trusting him farther than the cloth-covered width of the table. “Some might say you are a changed man.”

“So I am! Be that as it may, my wish to wed you is stronger than ever. By the gods, I’d hasten our nuptials!” He glanced at her father. “ ’Tis now spring. What say you we marry at Castle Sway by summer’s end? That will allow your family to plan the ceremony and a proper feasting. Guests from afar can make the journey.”

“That would please me.” Relief sluiced Gillian. If all went as she hoped, she’d be well rid of him long before then.

Turning to her father, she plied her most gracious tone. “Lady Lorna would welcome such a date.” Her stepmother would appreciate Gillian’s plans more. “She’d have ample time for preparations, and I’d be gone before the birth of her first child. My rooms are close enough to yours to make a fine nursery.

“Summer’s end it is.” She lifted her cup to Donell, her smile even genuine.

The slow upward curve of his own lips said he saw through her. “Your eagerness flatters me, my lady.” He reached across the table, knocking his cup to hers. “After all this time, I wouldnae want a greater delay.”

“I’ve a better proposal!” Her father stood, slapped a hand on the table. “I say this poor man has waited too long already. Seeing as he’s endured so much, I’m accepting his original offer!”

Gillian blinked. She didn’t have any idea what her father meant.

She did know his levity boded ill.

His face had split in the grin he wore whenever someone stumbled into a trap he’d laid for him. Cunning as he was, few then escaped.

Donell clearly recognized the danger, his smile no longer reaching his eyes. For a moment, he looked perplexed. On another day, in a different world, Gillian might have felt sorry for him. As things stood, she knew her father’s scheming would affect her in a worse way.

“You are a good man.” Donell’s face cleared as her father stooped to pull a worn leather sack from beneath
the table. “I wouldnae have thought you’d remember, or be so generous.”