He knew right away that it was the wrong thing to say.
Her face went taut, and her voice grew thick with emotion. “I know exactly my worth.”
There was something significant about her words, but he didn’t have the energy to figure it out. He wouldn’t feel pity. She was a means to an end. He was finished with this conversation. Before she guessed what he intended, he lifted her in his arms and started to carry her up the stairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you to your room.”
“W-h-h-y?”
To shut her up so he could get some sleep. And it had seemed like the most effective method at first—until he was forcefully reminded of his injury.
“You shouldn’t be carrying me. You’ll reopen the wound.”
“Since you’re the one who put it there, I’m surprised you care.”
“I didn’t mean—” She stopped. “Well, I did, but…well…Forget it. You can bleed to death for all I care.”
“Your concern is touching.”
He swung open the door; it squeaked and rattled off its hinges a little. The years of famine had taken its toll. Drimnin Castle was old and in desperate need of repair. He looked around the sparse room, knowing that it was far different from what she was used to, but until he got his castle back, it would be her home.
He dropped her on the bed.
“You can’t mean for me to sleep here?”
Her horrified tone only fueled his anger. “Is there someplace you would rather sleep?” He leaned over her, and she tried scooting back away from him, but there was not much room to maneuver on the small bed.
He moved closer, looming over her. Only a few inches separated them. “My bed, perhaps?”
Her eyes widened. “Never.”
He didn’t move. Tension crackled between them thick and heavy. God, he could smell her. Could hear the furious beat of her heart. He could almost taste the warmth of her lips beneath his. Opening. So soft and sweet. His body ached with pent-up desire.
He should take her right now. It would be over, and she would be his. And God knows he wanted her. Many men in his position would.
But not him.
He jerked away, furious, his body drumming with anger and lust. He’d never used force to get what he wanted, and he wouldn’t start now. Now matter how tempted. He’d have her. And soon. Even if she didn’t know it yet.
Flora MacLeod would be his bride. The ransom demand to Hector would give him the time to convince the lass to marry him. Like it or not, he needed her. And it couldn’t be done with force. But pandering to the contrariness of a termagant left a bitter taste in his mouth. He cursed the need for her approval, but there was no doubt about it, she would be his.
And if she tried to stand in his way…
There would be no mercy.
Chapter 3
Three days later, Flora was ready to leap from her tower prison.
The first time she’d tried to leave, about five minutes after he’d left her, her path had been blocked by two imposing guardsmen. Two men were entirely unnecessary, as it took only one to completely fill the doorway. If there was a man in this keep under six feet tall, she’d yet to see him.
A pleasant-looking man of about forty years escorted her—gently but firmly—back into the room. “The laird wishes for you to enjoy his hospitality in your room for now, my lady.”
“So I’m to be a prisoner?” she asked, employing her most haughty voice.
“Aw, now, lass, don’t think of it that way.”
“How else do you suggest I think of it?”
“As a brief respite. When the laird is ready, he will send for you.”
She pursed her mouth. It galled her no end to be at his beck and call. “And when, pray tell, will that be?”
The guardsman’s face shadowed. “Soon, lass. The laird is a very busy man.”
“I’m sure he is,” she said sweetly. “Abducting any more helpless lassies this week?”
“Helpless?” He chuckled. “Ah, lass, you have a fine sense of humor,” he chortled, closing the door behind her.
Busy. More like he enjoyed torturing her. The Laird of Coll. She still couldn’t believe that the handsome kidnapper with enough raw masculinity to entice a nun was Lachlan Maclean. Why had she never seen him at court? She would have remembered him. He was a difficult man to forget.
Even days later, the memory of his presence filled the room. For a moment, with his body leaning over her and a glint in his hard blue gaze that made her feel warm and syrupy, she’d thought…
She’d thought he was going to kiss her.
And she’d frozen like a silly fool, caught up in the powerful magnetism that seemed to surround him. Irresistibly drawn to him like Icarus to the sun. For a moment, she’d wanted him to kiss her. To feel his mouth on hers. To melt against his heat. Her cheeks burned with the knowledge of how badly her body had betrayed her.
At least her initial fears had proved unfounded—he did not intend to force her into marriage. But discovering that he meant to use her as a bargaining chip against her brother to exchange her for his castle wasn’t much better. A man who made no bones about using her for his own ends was exactly the type of man she wished to avoid.
Up to a point.
For the next two days, she waited for his summons. Patiently. Or about as patiently as anyone could be expected to wait, when there was nothing to do but stare out the window for hours on end at the churning seas and the undulating dipping and soaring of the gulls.
Her sole sources of conversation were the hourly exchanges with the guardsmen every time she tried to leave her room, the occasional appearance of a very taciturn serving woman named Morag, and the two lads who’d brought up the wooden tub for her bath.
But on the morning of her third day in captivity, her patience was exhausted. The fir-planked walls of the room were closing in on her. She knew every inch of the small space.
Fortunately, the chamber wasn’t as horrible as she’d initially thought. Though rustic and sparse, it was clean. Upon first seeing the threadbare linens and rushes on the wooden floors, she’d feared fleas and mice. But the bed linens—although a far cry from the rich silk taffeta hangings she was used to—smelled of lavender; and the old-fashioned rushes were still green and strewn with fresh herbs. Her pillow was stuffed not with feathers, but with surprisingly comfortable bog cotton.
A small fireplace and wooden bench took up one wall, the bed another, and a rickety wooden table with a pitcher for washing occupied the place beneath the sole window opposite the door. Though small, the window was paned with glass and had a wooden shutter for added protection from the wind and cold. Other than the door, which was well guarded, it was her only means of escape. But even if she could manage to squeeze through the small opening, there was nowhere to go. Situated on a level summit overlooking the Sound of Mull, Drimnin keep was a simple rectangular tower house with a single external stair turret on the east side of the southern wall. The laird had placed her in the uppermost chamber of the tower in a small garret. To escape, she’d have to climb down about forty feet of sheer stone.
Too ambitious by half, even for her. Although if she was locked in here much longer, she might be willing to take her chances.
A trunk containing an extra plaid, a brush, and a small hand mirror had been placed at the foot of the bed. Not long after she’d arrived, a tub had been sent up along with a change of clothing to replace her mud-and blood-spattered dress. In quality, it was not much better than the gown it had replaced, but at least it was clean. She’d cleaned her satin slippers as best she could with a small brush, but for more reasons than one, she wished she’d worn her new leather boots.
She finished pulling the brush through her hair and headed for the door. The drawbar had been removed, preventing her from locking him—or anyone else, for that matter—out. Swinging it open, she was shocked to find empty space.
“Good morning, my lady.”
She turned to her jailer, who stood waiting to the side of the door. “Well, aren’t you going to block the doorway, Alasdair?” she asked, referring to the little dance they engaged in every time she tried to leave.
He smiled, revealing the crooked grin that despite his advanced years still managed quite a bit of roguish charm. “Nay, not today, my lady.”
She turned to the other guardsman. “Is it to be you today, then, Murdoch?”
He shook his head and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Murdoch couldn’t be much older than eight and ten, and despite his towering height, he seemed flustered by her presence. “Nay, my lady.”
“Then I am free to go?”
Alasdair’s grin deepened, a twinkle in his well-lined eyes. “Well now, lass, not go, exactly. The laird has requested you join him in the great hall to break your fast.”
She crossed her arms, her gaze shifting back and forth between the two men. “Oh, has he now?” She tapped her foot. Her summons had apparently come. She was tempted to ignore it but was too desperate to leave the room to allow stubbornness to interfere. “It’s about time.” And with her shoulders pushed back as regally as any queen, she alighted through the open doorway and proceeded down the winding stairs.
As in most tower houses, the great hall was on the first floor. Perhaps she should just call it a hall. There was nothing “great” about the room at all. Austere was an understatement. Wooden floors strewn with rushes, plastered walls, wooden-beamed ceiling, a fireplace, iron sconces to hold the candles, about four arrow slits sufficed for windows, half a dozen wooden tables and benches, and that was it. No dais, no tapestries, no oil lamps, no rugs, no decoration of any kind.
And standing before a window with his back toward her was the laird himself. The Chief of Maclean of Coll. How could she have not realized who he was right away? Even his stance was commanding. But also wary. Much like the man, she suspected.
He turned as she entered the room. The sun beamed down on his head, catching the occasional strand of gold in his dark brown hair. She resisted the urge to draw in her breath. She couldn’t, however, prevent the sudden spike in her pulse. It seemed from the first, this man had a strange effect on her that had not lessened in the intervening days. Her body felt blanketed with awareness. That the mere sight of him should affect her was troubling. But perhaps not surprising. He was an impressive man.
Strong and dangerously handsome. In the stark light, the hard lines of his face seemed carved from stone. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, he was a force to be reckoned with. Never had she met a man whose physical strength blended so seamlessly with his appearance. Or one who was so undeniably masculine, almost primitive in his appeal. He dominated his surroundings, radiating an unmistakable aura of authority and command that had been forged by generations of the proud warriors and leaders who had come before him.
He was everything she’d been taught by her mother to revile: a Highlander, a warrior, and a chief. Yet she didn’t revile him at all. It was disconcerting, appalling even, but she could not deny it. Lachlan Maclean wasn’t at all what she’d expected.
In the Lowlands, Highlanders were looked on as rough, uncouth brutes. The wild savages of the North. A sentiment perpetuated by King James, who referred to his Highland subjects as “barbarians.” Her mother had spoken of proud, cruel, warlike men incapable of emotion. Men who thought themselves kings over their own fiefdoms.
In some ways, the prejudice was warranted. Lachlan Maclean, like her brothers, was inalienably proud and more primitive—less refined—than Lowland courtiers. An authority unto himself. He’d abducted her, after all.
But he hadn’t ravished her. Nor could she forget that he’d seemed to purposefully avoid killing any of Lord Murray’s men. Hardly the bloodthirsty warmonger she’d come to expect. Indeed, even though she’d stabbed him, he’d treated her with surprising courtesy.
His strength, control, and blatant sensuality were difficult to ignore.
Paradoxically, the very things that should repel her were the very things she found appealing. On a base level, she was deeply attracted to this man who’d abducted her. The type of man she’d avoided most of her life. But acknowledging the truth only hardened her resolve to leave this wretched place. She would never let him know the effect he had on her.
He held her gaze as she approached. As she drew closer, she could see that something was different. He looked tired and slightly pale. As if he’d been ill.
The realization struck. He had been ill. He hadn’t been ignoring her; he’d been recovering from his wound. He was human, after all.
She halted a few feet away from him, plastering her hands to her side before she did something embarrassing like reach out and touch his arm. “You’ve been unwell.”
His already gruff expression hardened. “No. I’m sorry you were confined to your room, but I had other matters to attend to.”
He lied. He was not the type of man to explain his actions. Obviously, he was too proud to condescend to weakness of any kind.
The same sense of regret hit her as when she’d watched him with the hot blade. She hadn’t meant to…
But she had. She’d wanted to hurt him. She knew she shouldn’t feel guilt or regret, but the truth was that it bothered her to be the source of his pain.
“I’m…” It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize, but she couldn’t quite get the words out. Her cheeks flooded with heat.
“You defended yourself well, Flora,” he said, acknowledging her discomfort. “The fault was mine. I underestimated you. But only once. Never again.” His voice held the unmistakable ring of a warning. “Come, sit.” He indicated a seat at what must be the laird’s table, because it had carved wooden chairs instead of benches.
She considered refusing, but when platters of steaming bread and beef started appearing, she thought better of it. She’d hoped for an improvement from the meals brought to her room, but the fare wasn’t much better down here—bland and overcooked. At least it was hot.
They ate in silence, but she could feel his eyes on her. She tried to ignore it, but it made her self-conscious.
Finally he spoke. “You’ve been well treated?”
She finished chewing the bit of coarse brown bread that could use more salt and considered him over the rim of her ale. The combination of his dark, almost black hair and blue eyes was truly striking. She was glad to see that her nail marks across his cheek had nearly healed. “If you consider being locked in a small room for three days well treated. Actually, I’ve been bored out of my wits.”
Her response seemed to annoy him. “I’m afraid we do not have time for masques and revels at Drimnin.”
Clearly, he thought her just another spoiled courtier, and his barb was not without effect. The differences between their lifestyles could not be more divergent. But this time, she hadn’t been criticizing him. She ventured another glance and saw his frown. “That’s not what I meant. I hardly expect courtly entertainment, but I doubt even Highland women sit in their rooms for hours on end with nothing to do.”
He leaned back in his chair and paused thoughtfully. “No, you’re right, they don’t.”
The concession surprised her. Prompted by the apparent thaw in his temper, she decided to broach what had been on her mind for the past few days—leaving. “Have you written to my brother?”
He lifted a dark brow. “So anxious to go? But you’ve only just arrived.”
She ignored his attempt to defray the question. “Have you?”
“A messenger left for Coll not long after we arrived.”
“And has Hector acceded to your demands?”
“Not yet.”
“Nor will he.”
“We’ll see.”
He sounded so confident. But she wasn’t so sure. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to her. “What will you do with me if he does not agree?”
He held her gaze with piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through her. “He’ll agree.”
“Eventually. But I would wager that you’ve bought me quite a bit of time with your attempted elopement.”
“What do you mean?”
“I rather doubt that you left Holyrood in the middle of the night without explanation.”
Her face fell. She thought of the notes she’d written to both Rory and her cousin Argyll that she’d gone to see Hector. Notes that would prevent anyone from looking for her for some time.
But how had he guessed?
Hector would know soon enough, but he was on ill terms with both Argyll and Rory. Her only hope was that William would alert her cousin to what had happened. But then there would be some explaining to do. Would he risk it?
The laird was watching with an inscrutable expression on his face. “Why have you never married?” he asked suddenly. “You are certainly of age.”
Her body went rigid. “I hardly think that is any of your concern.”
His gaze swept over her face and down her breasts. “You are pleasing enough.”
She gasped. Did that suffice for a compliment? Blandishments were obviously not his forte. But it wasn’t the lack of gallantry that stung. He could have been inspecting her like a horse at market. The simple gesture summed up everything she despised about her position. She was flesh and blood, but no one would ever see her as such. All they saw was the wealth and connections she would bring them. And this man saw her only as a bargaining chip.
“You are too kind.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “But what has marriage to offer me that I don’t already have?”
There were many ways to answer that question, but having care for her innocence, Lachlan refrained from the blunt one. One glance at that beautiful face and lush body, and he need look no further for a reason why the lass should be wed: swiving. And lots of it.
It had been the foremost thing on his mind since she’d walked into the room. When he’d had to force himself not to blink to see if she was real—there was such an ethereal, almost fey quality to her beauty. The face that had haunted his dreams while he recovered from his wound was even more breathtaking in the flesh. There was no mud to obscure her features or horrible cap to hide her hair.
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