She was his. She’d belonged to him from the first moment he’d seen her. And not because of his devil’s bargain with her cousin Argyll that would ensure his brother’s safety and his clan’s future. No, the truth was far more elemental than that.
The fierce pounding in his chest did not lie. Gilly had been right. He did care for her. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t deny an emotional attachment to a woman—he’d thought himself dedicated to his family and clan alone. He was wrong.
Finally, he’d reached the top of the path and his horse. Beyond exhausted, he was moving mechanically, instinct, forged by years of pushing himself to the limit of endurance, taking over. He needed every last ounce of it right now. After laying her across his saddle, he mounted behind her and nestled her in his arms again, then rode hard for the keep.
He didn’t take the time to explain to the men he passed along the way but simply ordered them to spread the word that he’d found her and to return to the castle.
No longer able to feel her breath against his skin with the wind of his ride, he held his hand against her chest, needing the surety of her beating heart, but terrified by how soft and faint it was—and how dangerously slow.
He entered the gate to a flurry of activity. Activity that stopped as soon as he came galloping inside, soaking wet with his precious bundle limp against him.
Gilly and Mary must have been watching by the door, because they appeared beside him before his feet hit the ground. Some of his men, appraising his condition, moved to help him, but he held them back, his whole body shaking with effort. No one else would touch her. She was his.
“You found her, thank God,” Gilly said. Drawing nearer, she gasped and voiced the fear that had made the courtyard as quiet as a tomb from the moment he entered. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?” Her voice broke into a sob. “Is she dead?”
“No!” he said savagely. “She still breathes. But I need to get her inside and warm.” He plowed up the forestairs, savoring the blast of heat as he entered the keep. Not hesitating, he headed straight for the stairs.
“Where are you taking her?” Mary asked, hustling along beside him.
His face was grim as he gave his sister a fierce stare. “To my bed.”
Chapter 10
Lachlan didn’t think about the symbolism or the propriety of having Flora in his bed. All he knew was that it was warmer in his chamber. The fire would still be burning. And he knew exactly what had to be done.
Mary’s eyes widened, but she didn’t argue, though clearly it worried her. Not because she feared that he would do something untoward—she knew him better than that—but because she knew what it said. Taking Flora to his room, rather than any other, amounted to a public declaration of his intentions. She was his, and he was saying as much.
Lachlan didn’t give a damn what anyone thought, he wanted her with him. It was as simple as that.
Though in the back of his mind, he realized that when it came to Flora, nothing was simple. It hadn’t been since the first day he’d laid eyes on her.
Taking two steps at a time, he quickly reached the second floor. Since the moment he’d entered the castle, he’d been focused on one thing: getting her warm and dry as soon as possible. Moving from the stairwell into the corridor outside his chamber, he turned back to his sister. “Bring me blankets, fresh clothes, anything to make her warm.”
Mary nodded, keeping step with him. “Oh, Lachlan, why did she do this? Was she so unhappy here?”
He felt a sharp pang in his chest. Yes. But seeing the guilt on his sister’s face, he said, “I don’t know, lass.”
“I thought she liked us.”
“She does.” He glanced down at Flora’s face, cold realization shuddering through him. “It has nothing to do with you or Gilly,” he said firmly. “She left because of me.”
Mary gave him a long, tormented look before hurrying to do his bidding.
It seemed half the castle had followed him up the stairs, including Gilly and Morag. Shifting Flora’s weight to one arm, he opened the door with the other, immediately feeling the welcome blast of heat.
Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how cold he was himself. So attuned was he to Flora’s needs, he hadn’t noticed his own shivering. Dread engulfed him, knowing that he hadn’t been in the frigid water nearly as long as Flora.
He had to move fast.
Forcing himself to relinquish her, if only momentarily, he carefully laid her down on his bed. And for the first time, he examined her in the light.
He felt a stab of fear so acute, it gave him a vicious jolt. If he hadn’t just felt her heart beating against his hand, he would have thought she no longer lived. Not a touch of color warmed her pale skin. Her long, thick lashes lay in tiny icy spikes against her pallid cheeks, her normally red lips were a deathly shade of blue, and her golden hair seemed frozen, plastered in long sheets to her head.
He gazed at her with his heart in his throat. She looked so small and fragile. And so horribly still. Like a wax doll he’d once seen.
To leave him, she’d risked her life. That she would take such a risk to be rid of him hit like a lead ball in his chest.
He checked her still, damp cheek with his hand. God, she was cold. If he didn’t do something drastic, she was going to die.
After unfastening the wool cloak from around her neck, he quickly started working the ties and hooks of her gown.
Hearing a noise behind him, he turned to see Morag adding another block of peat to the fire. But a roaring fire wouldn’t be enough. He needed a way to bring her body temperature up fast. Very fast.
Lachlan exchanged a meaningful look with his old nursemaid. Morag moved to help him, but he shook her off. They both knew what had to be done, but he would do it himself.
“Is there anything I can do?” Gilly asked.
His gaze flicked to his sister standing hesitantly in the doorway, a few of his men—including Alasdair and Allan—behind her.
He shook his head, forcing himself to stay calm, though panic welled in his chest. “Not right now, lass.”
Mary bustled in, setting down the extra plaids and clothing at the foot of the bed. Seeing what he was about to do, she blushed with understanding.
“Come,” Morag said to Gilly and Mary, “there is nothing we can do for her now. The laird will do what needs to be done.”
“But what—” Gilly broke off as Morag shuffled her out of the room, her question and Morag’s response lost behind the firmly shut door. Though bold and adventuresome, in many ways his youngest sister was still an utter innocent.
Cursing his large, cumbersome fingers and the intricacy of even a simple gown, he started tearing off her clothes, doing his best to preserve her modesty. Though he knew there was no other choice, he also realized she would be embarrassed at best and furious at worst. Perhaps he should have let Morag help, but he couldn’t stand aside. She was his.
He paused, catching sight of the amulet hidden under the layers of clothing. Though part of him wished it had fallen to the bottom of the sea—taking the curse with it—the other part of him was happy for Flora because he knew how much she treasured it. He removed it from her neck, attributing the tingling in his fingers to the cold. He made quick work of the rest of her wet garments, removing them piece by piece until she wore only her shift. And then he took that off, too.
He drew in his breath, unable to completely ignore the exquisite details of the naked beauty he’d revealed. Details that would be stored for later. Her honor would be preserved this night, but he wasn’t blind. He’d yearned to strip off her clothes and to see her naked in his bed for a long time. But not like this. Right now she needed his body not for pleasure, but for survival. And he would give it to her gladly. With no conditions.
But hell, she took his breath away.
The next time he took off her clothes, he swore he would savor every gorgeous inch of her.
With one last glance that warmed his blood mo
re effectively than any fire, he forced his mind back on the task at hand. Realizing the damp had soaked through the bed linens, he slid one of the blankets Mary had brought underneath her. The rest he layered on top of her.
Standing up from beside the bed, he started to tear off his own wet clothing. First the plaid he’d worn as a cloak, and then the linen shirt, and finally his trews and boots.
Then, before he could think about what he was about to do, he slid into the bed beside her and pulled her gently into his arms, immediately shivering, shocked by the touch of her icy skin against his. Damn, she was freezing. Dangerously so. Bracing himself, he snuggled her firmly against him and felt a fierce wave of tenderness swell hard against his ribs.
Tenderness that spoke of just how much she meant to him.
The thought that he could lose her tore a gash across his chest. Right now, he’d give anything to have her fully clothed, eyes flashing, defying him as usual.
If only she would move. Though he’d nestled her firmly against his body, she felt so rigid. And she was still so deathly cold.
The removal of his own wet clothing and the heat from the fire had rejuvenated him almost immediately, but even ensconced in the heated blanket of his body, she’d barely warmed. The chill had penetrated bone deep.
Warm, damn you, he swore, as if he could command her temperature back to normal. He had enough determination for both of them, but Flora was a fighter—he knew she would not give up. It stunned him how long she’d managed to stay afloat in the leaky skiff. Yet perhaps it shouldn’t. Her tenacity and strength were two of the qualities he most admired about her.
Though right now she seemed anything but. She seemed fragile and vulnerable—as if with one false touch, he might break her. He couldn’t believe how small she was in his arms. Or how sweetly feminine. He’d lain with many women—done much more than lain, actually—but none had ever felt so significant. Simply holding her moved him more than any previous sexual liaison.
With her nestled up against him, her bottom tucked against his groin, he was acutely aware of everything about her. From the blond tendrils of hair that were springing into soft waves as they started to dry, to her narrow shoulders and slim hips, to the tips of her tiny frozen feet. To every incredible inch of her flawless naked skin.
She smelled of seawater and salt, and nothing had ever smelled so wonderful. Because she lived.
He could no longer pretend that she was just a means to an end. Not once when he’d discovered she’d gone had he thought about his devil’s bargain with Argyll. He’d thought only about her safety.
Her attempted escape and near drowning had forced him to realize that he wanted her not just for his plan, but for himself. It didn’t change what he had to do. If anything, his feelings only complicated matters. Damn it, his duty should be his only consideration. His brother needed him to be ruthless. But Flora had engaged his conscience. Doing what must be done was no longer a simple proposition. If it ever was.
He pulled her a little closer and held her a little tighter, reacting unconsciously to the sudden amorphous threat that seemed to have invaded the chamber.
For hours he lay like that. Holding her close, a ball of emotion lodged firmly in his throat as he waited for the danger to pass. Slowly, the harsh bite of cold faded as his body warmed her and she softened against him, breathing steady.
It was near dawn when she finally stirred. She turned to him in her sleep. Burrowing her head under his chin and placing her hand on his chest. A hand that was as searing as a brand. His chest hitched. Raw emotion surged inside him, ignited by the instinctive trusting movement. Trust that tore him apart. He wanted to deserve that trust.
But in doing his duty, he was manipulating her in a way that he knew would hurt her, yet he couldn’t risk telling her the truth. It wasn’t his life at stake, but his brother’s.
Two months ago, he’d gone to Argyll for help. Lachlan recalled standing inside the great hall of Inveraray Castle and staring with a mixture of admiration and loathing at one of the most powerful—and wily—men in Scotland, Archibald “the Grim” Campbell, Earl of Argyll.
Argyll sat on a raised dais near the fireplace in a gilded chair with a large scarlet velvet cushion. It looked remarkably like a throne, which probably wasn’t a coincidence.
Argyll peered down the length of his long nose with dark eyes, the sharp angles of his features lending credence to the clan’s claim of Norman ancestry. “So the king has seized your brother. What do you expect me to do about it?”
Lachlan fought to control his temper. “I thought our bond of manrent included protection in return for the calp duties I’ve paid to you.”
The earl’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I do not need to be reminded of our agreement, or my duty thereby. But what do you suggest I do? Storm the king’s castle to free your brother?”
“You have influence with the king and the Privy Council. The king’s actions were unjust. Hector has raided my lands and illegally stolen my castle, he has no legal claim to Coll.”
“Duart claims otherwise, since you refused your duty to him as chief.”
Lachlan held his anger in check. “He is not my chief. And Hector is hardly a friend to you,” he reminded him. Argyll and Hector had been feuding since Hector married without the earl’s consent.
Argyll gave him a hard stare, surprised no doubt by Lachlan’s refusal to play toady to his despot. Lachlan pandered to no man, powerful or not.
Argyll turned his attention to a man who entered the hall and handed him a missive. Annoyed by the interruption, Lachlan attempted to wait patiently as Argyll scanned the letter. The earl’s face darkened with fury. He let out a long string of expletives, displaying a temper completely incongruous with the stoic unflappability that had earned him his epithet—the Grim. He stood up, crumpled the letter into his fist, and tossed it into the fire.
“That chit will be the death of me.”
“My lord?” Lachlan asked.
Argyll turned back to him as if he’d forgotten he was still there. He studied him hard, giving him a long, calculating look. Some of the anger left him, and he sat back down on the chair. Lachlan thought he detected a hard glint in Argyll’s black eyes, so he was surprised when Argyll said, “I believe I might be able to help you.”
He nearly sighed with relief. He needed Argyll’s influence to get his brother freed, and he hadn’t allowed himself to think about the possibility of failure.
“But…”
Lachlan tensed, not liking the sound of that.
“In return, I need you to handle a little problem for me,” Argyll finished, reaching for a large crystal glass of claret. He took a long drink, sat back in his throne, and propped his fingers together in a triangle before him.
Lachlan’s instincts flared. “What kind of problem?”
“My young cousin Flora MacLeod. It seems she’s decided to run off with Lord Murray.”
Lachlan arched his brow. Lord Murray, though young, was a fierce political rival of Argyll’s. No wonder he’d been furious. Lachlan vaguely recalled Rory MacLeod’s youngest sister, Flora. She was a renowned heiress, he remembered that much.
“You want me to stop her?”
Argyll’s mouth curved in what was supposed to be a smile, but it actually looked more like a grimace. “In a matter of speaking.” He paused. “I want you to marry her.”
Lachlan froze. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear. Having caught the gleam of calculation in Argyll’s eyes, he thought at first to refuse. But though he had no intention of taking a wife for some time, an alliance with Flora MacLeod could not be summarily dismissed. In marrying her, he’d ally himself not just with Argyll, but also with Rory MacLeod. And with Hector, he supposed, though that weighed in the negative.
Lachlan’s expression gave no hint of his thoughts. “Why? What’s wrong with the lass? Is she addled?”
A bark escaped from Argyll, nearly causing him to spew his claret. The sound was so out
of character, it took Lachlan a minute to realize it was laughter. “No. She’s quite beautiful. And very rich. Her tocher is two thousand merks—in addition to the lands she brings.”
His heart stopped. It was a bloody fortune. Money like that could restore his clan’s fortunes in one fell swoop. She was a prize indeed. His gaze sharpened. “Then why me?” Lachlan might be an unmarried Highland chief, but with a tocher like that, Argyll could have his pick of Lowland toadies.
Argyll tapped his fingers together in his lap. “Because you might have a chance. You seem to be the sort of man that would make an impression on a young girl.”
Lachlan frowned. “I don’t understand.” Why would her impression matter? It was her duty to marry where her guardian demanded. “Don’t you control her marriage?”
He shrugged. “Technically, the right belongs to her brother—though he would not marry her to anyone without my approval.” The MacLeod and Argyll also shared a bond of manrent. “The MacLeod has refused to force the gel to marry, so he would not agree to a match if she is not willing. You and he are friends. He will not object to your suit. You must convince her to marry you. But be forewarned, it is not a simple matter. The lass is trouble. Her mother spoiled her and gave her some rather unusual notions of duty.”
Trouble. Vague recollections of conversations with Rory suddenly came back to him. Of his headstrong young sister who was always getting into some sort of mischief or another. The last thing Lachlan wanted was a spoiled brat for a wife. But he also knew that this marriage was more than he could hope for. Not only was there the money to consider, but it would also cement the ties with both Argyll and Rory with blood. He’d made his decision, although with his brother and clan suffering, he’d never really had one.
“Convincing her won’t be a problem.”
“You haven’t met her yet. Contrary doesn’t begin to describe the gel.”
Lachlan wasn’t worried. He could handle one willful lass. But he also knew Argyll well enough to know that he would not be granted such largesse without something in return. “What else?” he asked, not bothering to hide his suspicion.
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