Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5)

by Cynthia Wright

  But instead he closed his eyes. The journey to the Isle of Mull would not be an easy one, and he needed to sleep. The last thing he thought of before drifting off was the way Nora had gazed up at him just before he’d kissed her sweet mouth.

  Minutes passed. Chaucer made a snuffling sound in his sleep. There was a soft rustling sound in the woods, followed by the quick cry of an animal that had become prey.

  Nora cautiously opened her eyes. How long had she lain awake? All night, it seemed. Yet, even when she’d sensed that Lennox was awake, Nora had pretended to sleep. Thoughts raced in her mind. The familiar feeling of shame was back, but this time for the way she had behaved with Lennox. In the moment, it had all felt right, but now she saw the entire episode in a different light. Dear God, what must he think of her?

  Her head hurt as if she had drunk too much wine, yet Nora knew that was not the cause of this sick feeling. How handsome his face was in repose! She wanted to nestle against his broad chest, to drink in the arousing scent of him, to touch his wondrous body again.

  Yet she could not. It had been a terrible mistake. When Nora remembered the babe who grew deep inside her, she felt ill. Then a memory came: Grant telling her the story of his mother’s friend, with child by a lover who disappeared. The friend found a respectable man and, once they had lain together, told him the babe was his.

  Lennox and Nora had already exchanged vows. According to Highland tradition, they were wed. If she told him, at a later time, that she had conceived a child tonight, he would believe her. He would do the right thing, no matter what.

  Never! Nora scolded herself, ashamed for even having so wicked a thought. She would tell him the truth. All of it, no matter how painful!

  Tomorrow…

  * * *

  When Nora next opened her eyes, dawn was breaking. Warm, strong arms enfolded her, and she felt the hard curve of Lennox’s cheekbone against her temple.

  “Ah, she stirs,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “Ye made such a pretty sight, I didn’t have the heart to disturb ye.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Is it late?”

  “Nay, but Chaucer has gone off on his own to find some breakfast among the woodland grasses, and we have a long way to travel today. As much as I would like to stay right here with ye, we should rise.”

  Yet he gathered her closer still and she felt him sigh.

  “Nora, I need to tell ye I fear I took advantage of ye last night. If ye have regrets, we will never speak of it again.”

  She wanted to weep. “I do not have regrets.”

  “I took your innocence, a precious gift. I will remain your husband if that is your wish.”

  Guilt rushed over her. To have him make such an offer out of obligation made her feel smaller than ever. If he knew the truth…! Reaching up, she touched the side of his jaw and managed to smile. “You are a good man, but what we shared last night was freely given on both sides, was it not? We are wed by chance, not choice, and I would not alter our arrangement.”

  She thought she saw relief in his face as he pushed up on one elbow. “Ye must be hungry. Shall we dress and see what there is for breakfast?

  Watching as Lennox wrapped the length of tartan wool around his waist, fastening it with a belt as he rose to his feet, Nora resolved again to tell him everything.

  Soon. Perhaps tomorrow she would find the right moment…

  Chapter 13

  Contrary to Lennox’s determined plans, he and Nora did not reach the Isle of Mull for several days. They were plagued by setbacks, including more drenching rains, impassable roads, and a lost horseshoe for Chaucer. The journey had been an ordeal Nora could never have imagined, for Scotland truly was a different world from anywhere she had lived before.

  As they made camp at the end of the sixth exhausting day, Nora marveled aloud that England was far more civilized than Scotland.

  “Believe it or not,” she remarked under her breath, “in England it is not unusual to travel in a real coach, on real roads, suffering only minor discomfort before sleeping in a real bed in a real inn that serves—”

  “Real food?” Lennox broke in, pausing in the midst of building a fire. His tone was dry. “Perhaps ye have noticed we have that here as well.”

  It came to Nora that she had doubtless offended him. The days filled with an unending succession of obstacles had taken a toll on both of them. “I think you must know what I mean,” she replied evenly. “There is a difference between the sort of food we manage to scavenge in the woods or passing through a village and a hot venison pie or a roasted chicken, freshly cooked at an inn.”

  Lennox, whose even temper she had come to rely on, now gave her a sharp glance. “In case ye have forgotten the reason ye must endure this terrible ordeal, I would offer a reminder that it was your idea, not mine.”

  She felt like crying, but that was out of the question. Their entire situation was fraught with confusion, from the handfasting ceremony in front of her beloved father to the night they had mated under the stars. And most confusing of all was the fact that she carried the tiny baby of another man, a man she despised and had known for only one day.

  Nora went to join Lennox, who crouched beside the kindling. “I beg your pardon,” she said sincerely. “I must sound ungrateful, but nothing could be farther from the truth. I am tired and craving a bit of comfort, I suppose.” Pausing, she swallowed. “Also, I had forgotten that, in spite of everything, you must still be loyal to Scotland.”

  There was turmoil in his green eyes. “In truth, I do not know where my loyalties lie any longer. I once would have sworn I was a Scot to the last drop of my blood, but now it’s all a mystery.” Turning away, Lennox muttered, “I’m going to find a rabbit or quail for us to eat. Tomorrow we’ll reach Duart Castle on the Isle of Mull, where you’ll doubtless find at least some of the comforts ye long for.”

  That night, Nora lay inches away from Lennox and listened to his deep, even breathing. She thought of the way it had been that first night in the woods, when he had held her, kissed her, touched her bare skin, caused her to feel sensations that were beyond anything she had ever imagined. Since then, Nora had doubtless done more to stay at arm’s length than he had, for despite her resolution to tell him the truth, it seemed impossible. She felt ashamed for him to know about Slater and that she’d kept it from him. It came to her that perhaps he never needed to know. If their paths should diverge, they might part before he ever learned her true situation.

  Lying there in the dark, Nora’s heart ached. She could feel the warmth of his strong body, even though they weren’t touching. A part of her longed desperately to be close to him, as they had been before. Perhaps if she touched his arm, he would not notice. Tentatively, she lay her fingers on the rough fabric of his tunic, feeling the iron-hard contour of his bicep, inhaling the masculine tang of his skin.

  “Nora.”

  His whisper sent a thrill of panic through her. She began to remove her hand from his arm, but his fingers reached out to catch hers, stopping her. His hand was so warm, so strong.

  “I’m sorry,” she heard herself say.

  “Let me hold ye, lass,” came his soft reply. “’Twill do us both good.”

  Gratefully, Nora went into his strong arms. She could feel the power of his heartbeat against her cheek. When he put a hand up to smooth back her unruly curls, she ached for more. Memories returned of the night when Lennox’s fingers and tongue had trailed fire over the most sensitive, secret places on her body, and just thinking of it spread heat to the part of her that longed for him most.

  “Sleep,” he whispered, as if reading her mind.

  Soon, Nora heard his own breathing change, and she relaxed into his strength, closing her eyes.

  * * *

  The ancient MacLean stronghold of Duart Castle was built on a misty, emerald-green point of land extending into the waters of the Sound of Mull. As they sailed near in a small galley hired in the fishing village of Oban, Lennox heard Nora
give a sigh of appreciation.

  “It is magnificent,” she pronounced. “When I was a child, Father spun tales for me at bedtime, of the Scots castles he visited while growing up, yet I could not have imagined this. It is so much more…rugged than what I knew in France and England.”

  Lennox wondered if she meant to launch into another unfavorable comparison between the Highlands and Europe, but he said nothing, concentrating instead on catching a wave to bring the boat onto a landing beach. After he’d swung down to push the galley completely out of the water, Lennox paused, his gaze drawn toward the massive bulk of Duart Castle.

  He reckoned that he had been eighteen the last time he’d visited the Isle of Mull. Magnus gave him a small, fast galley to mark his birthday, and Ciaran suggested they test its seaworthiness by sailing to Oban. Even then, Lennox reflected, he had felt an urge to wander away from the Isle of Skye.

  “Do you know these people?” asked Nora, her eyes scanning the guards who lined the castle walls. “Will they welcome us?”

  “I’ve been here before,” he replied distantly. “The guards should not view the mere pair of us as a threat, and once we are inside, Hector Mór, the MacLean, will remember me. I hope.”

  With that, Lennox lifted Nora down from the galley and, carrying her satchel, they walked up the green slope toward Castle Duart. Damp winds swirled up from the island’s moors, promising rain. As they drew closer, one of the guards waved, and Lennox raised his own hand in greeting. In the next moment, he saw that several other guards held drawn bows to their shoulders, arrows at the ready, and his heart skipped a beat.

  “Hold your arrows,” he shouted. “I am Lennox MacLeod, grandson of the MacLeod of Dunvegan.”

  So many thoughts and feelings were swirling inside Lennox as they neared the meters-thick castle walls that he nearly forgot about Nora. It seemed he must have been a different person during that long-ago visit with his brother, Ciaran, so much had changed in his world.

  Even as the gates were opened by a half dozen of MacLean’s fierce, burly guards, the heavens opened, and rain poured down.

  “Halt,” commanded a hulking, raven-haired man who appeared to be the Captain of the Guard, one hand on the hilt of his great claymore. “Ye will come no further!”

  Lennox had started to reach toward his own weapon when he felt Nora grip his arm. She turned her wet face up to him, a flash of alarm in her eyes. It was the first time he’d ever seen her exhibit fear, and suddenly he realized that he might have put her in danger. There was nothing in her past to prepare her for this scene.

  “Worry not,” Lennox whispered to her with more assurance than he truly felt. Straightening he turned back to the guards. The others had formed a half-circle, flanking their leader, weapons at the ready.

  Lennox arched a brow at the Captain of the Guard and inquired lightly, “Do ye imagine that this lass and I are a threat to this castle?”

  The giant man had taken a step toward them, brows lowered, when a deep voice spoke from the arched doorway to the keep.

  “Hugh, ye and your men must be at ease. I recognize the grandson of my old comrade, Alasdair Crotach.” The older man who spoke was tall and dignified in his tunic and belted plaid, his long auburn hair partially covered by a tartan cap. Turning toward Lennox and Nora, he flashed a sudden smile. “I am Hector Mór, the MacLean. I remember your visit some years ago, young MacLeod.” As more sheets of rain lashed them, Hector hastened to add, “Ye are welcome here, ye and your…” He paused, sweeping an appreciative look over Nora. “Ah…lady?”

  Lennox felt a twinge of jealousy, and he instantly corrected, “Mistress Brodie is my wife.” He sensed Nora’s surprised glance, but kept his own eyes on Hector Mór.

  “Ah then, is she indeed? Then ye and your lovely bride must come inside, young MacLeod, out of the weather!”

  As they followed the older man back into the dark, forbidding keep, Lennox knew he should be grateful for this welcome, but suspicion tightened in his chest.

  * * *

  “I didn’t realize we would be staying here,” Nora whispered as she and Lennox were seated alone at the high table in the exceedingly damp and chilly great hall. Near her feet, a huge wolfhound gnawed at a smelly bone. “The housekeeper has taken my things to one of the bedchambers.”

  “I know I hoped we might speak to the MacLean and sail back to Oban by sunset, but ’twould be rude to refuse his invitation.” Lennox, who had washed with real soap and combed his wild golden locks back from his face, gave her the briefest of glances. The MacLean was standing across the hall, near the doorway, speaking to a younger man, but he seemed to watch them with one eye. “Besides, it is storming outside,” Lennox continued. “Chaucer will be just fine in the Oban stable, and we will have a hot meal and enjoy sleeping on clean, dry sheets.” After taking a long drink from a goblet of wine, he added in a kinder tone, “Be grateful you brought your satchel, lass.”

  “I couldn’t leave it at that stable. Everything that is precious to me is in it.” She paused, willing her voice to be steady. “Every worldly thing, that is.”

  Lennox was watching her, and she knew he was trying to discern the secrets she held so closely. Not for the first time, Nora wished she had the freedom of a man and could have ridden away alone from Stirling, to make her own way in the world. But that was not an option for her, especially given her condition. It might not be obvious yet that she was with child, but certainly her belly would begin to swell soon enough.

  “Are ye worried for your safety here?” He spoke in a low voice, all the while holding her captive with his intense green eyes. “I will not let ye come to any harm, Nora Brodie.”

  Before she could reply, Hector Mór strode to the table and took his seat across from them. A servant quickly appeared and poured ale into his cup while an old woman carried in a heavy, steaming pot and set it in the center of the boards.

  Hector nodded to Lennox, but his attention was clearly on Nora, and soon enough he spoke to her. “Ye are not from the Highlands.” It was a statement, not a question.

  She nodded. “It is true, laird. I was born in Flanders. My father is a master tapestry weaver, and when I was ten, he brought me with him to the Tudor court in London. We lived there until this year, when King James V bade Father come to Stirling.”

  The MacLean’s eyes widened in his weathered face. “And ye are educated?”

  “My mother insisted upon it. She taught me to read and instilled a love of books and knowledge in me.” Nora could feel Lennox’s warm, strong body touching hers on the bench as he leaned closer, listening.

  “Aye,” Hector pronounced. “I could see it in your face and bearing. Ye are that rare beauty blessed also with a fine mind.”

  Nora bit back an urge to protest that beauty and intelligence were by no means mutually exclusive, but remembered that this was their host. Instead, she put on a smile. “You are kind to say so, laird.”

  Hector continued to watch her intently. “With so many gifts, what possessed ye to run off with young MacLeod?”

  Before Nora could reply, Lennox interjected, “Have ye never heard of love?”

  The older man paused in the midst of his first bite of mutton stew. “Aye, but love is fleeting, is it not? Ye will need something even deeper to make a lasting marriage.”

  “Speaking of marriage,” Lennox parried, “Did I not meet your wife when I last visited Duart? Where is she today?”

  His question hung in the air as more rain-soaked MacLean clansmen filed into the hall, taking their seats on the benches and helping themselves to the communal pot of stew.

  “My wife, Mary,” MacLean replied at length, “is in the ground.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Lennox put an arm around her waist before adding, “No doubt ye must miss her very much.”

  “Aye. This lass resembles my Mary,” murmured Hector. “And how fares your own clan chief, young MacLeod? Alasdair Crotach must be a very great age by now.”

  “He
is more than ninety years old,” Lennox said tightly. “Irascible as ever.”

  “Did he send ye to Duart for a reason?” The older man used an oatcake to sop up some gravy then stuffed it into his mouth and chewed.

  “In truth, I came for a reason of my own.” He glanced around at the countless MacLean clansmen who were eating around them. “Perhaps we might discuss it when the meal is ended.”

  “None of these men have any interest in your affairs,” Hector assured him. “And I cannot linger to converse after supper. There are preparations to be made for the return of my other guests, the Earl and Countess of Fairhaven, on the morrow. They were here at Duart recently with Ellen, the dowager countess, before sailing around Mull to the village of Torbermory.”

  “Have you known the earl and countess very long?” asked Nora.

  “The earl’s mother, Ellen MacLean, is my cousin, and I have known her all my life. Now that she is widowed, she longed to return to Mull to visit her kin. While she reunites with them, the new earl and his bride, Cicely, will return here.” He paused to finish a second cup of wine. “I suggest you tell me now what you have come to say, young MacLeod.”

  Nora tried to eat, but she felt slightly nauseous and realized it must be because of the baby. She tried again to turn her thoughts away from the terrible problem she had, telling herself that somehow she would find a way forward, one step at a time.

  Next to her, Lennox was making his case to Hector Mór, explaining the story of his mother’s visit to Duart Castle nearly three decades earlier. Nora turned slightly to watch him. Even in the dim, smoky hall, she found him captivating. His tawny-golden hair and bronzed skin seemed to shimmer slightly, and his body was taut with emotion.

  After explaining the circumstances of his mother’s visit to Duart Castle, he asked, “Do ye have a memory of that visit?”