To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “He’s a Hebridean chieftain like them all.” Roag released Conn’s shoulder and stepped back. “Mungo MacGuire is boisterous and proud. He nae doubt sings and tells tales, fights and drinks, beds women, and has more children than even his well-filled coffers can feed.” Roag knew such men from Stirling’s court. Chieftains, lairds, and nobles were aye the same, no matter if they were Highlanders, Islesmen, or Lowlanders.

  Conn frowned. “He’s up to trouble, I say you. Truth tell”—he grasped Roag’s arm again, pitched his voice lower than before—“I think he means to attack us when we sleep. You ken he’ll no’ be sailing away till morn. There’s a reason—”

  “Aye, he wants his daughter wed,” Roag said. “I dinnae see him as a murderer.”

  “Then why did I see his two men hiding crates in the heather?” Conn slid a glance to where the MacGuire chieftain now sat at the high table with a few of his sons and his daughter. “It was up on the high moors, it was, and the men weren’t his sons, but hard-faced oarsmen. The crates”—he turned back to Roag—“were just the right size to hold a stash of swords and axes.”

  “Then we’ll have men scour the moors at the same time others have a look at the ship.”

  Roag glanced aside, his attention caught by a movement across the hall.

  There where the wee serving laddie crouched beside Lady Gillian’s ancient dog.

  Only the boy was no longer kneeling. He’d stopped stroking the beast’s bony shoulders.

  He’d stood.

  And his bare feet hovered several inches above the floor. The faint shimmering Roag had noted earlier was more pronounced, the boy’s entire slight form shining as if lit from within. The strange light showed the ragged tears in his plaid, the tiny dirk glowing at his belt.

  He was the ghost boy of Laddie’s Isle.

  Roag stared at him in disbelief, watching as he faded to nothingness.

  Glancing at Conn, he saw that his friend hadn’t seen aught. He was staring across the hall, a suspicious eye turned on Lady Gillian’s sire. For all Conn’s size and might, he feared bogles. If he’d seen the ghost lad, he’d already be halfway back to the Valkyrie.

  The pleasure had been all Roag’s.

  He frowned, not surprised.

  Somehow he seemed the only one this wee, dismal isle wished to torment. But he could give as good as he received, so he’d pretend he’d seen nothing. He suspected he hadn’t. The long, arduous sea journey and the annoyance of arriving to discover an unwanted bride-to-be were simply taking a toll.

  No more, no less.

  Conn edged closer, his gaze still on the MacGuire chieftain. “There’s little a man willnae do if enough coin crosses his palm. Could be MacGuire and his tribe o’ sons are lying about the betrothal. Belike he’s using his gel as a reason to come here. Then he and his lads will have done with us in the night, before we can expose their crimes against the crown, our good King’s ships and men.”

  Roag frowned. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Most times, I’m no’.” Conn’s chest swelled a bit.

  “MacGuire isnae our man.” Roag was almost sure of it.

  He couldn’t say why—Conn rarely erred—but this time… He flashed a look at MacGuire. Try as he might, he just didn’t see the laughing, big-bearded chieftain as anything but a gregarious windbag.

  He also knew when to trust his gut.

  Over the years, his instinct had saved his neck many a time.

  He also couldn’t ignore the chill swirling around him. He cast another glance at Lady Gillian’s dog, sleeping soundly, and alone, before the hearth fire. Of the wee bogle there was no sign. Even so, gooseflesh rose on his nape. An eerie silence filled the hall, a stillness he’d wager only he heard. Outside, a damp mist descended, likely causing the gloom. The day was just turning colder and darker.

  The hall—his now, he daren’t forget—was clean and warm, the murkiness chased by torchlight.

  Roag rubbed the back of his neck, relieved when his ill ease began to lessen. The bustle and din of the hall resumed; the odd stillness no more. Unfortunately, one sound stood out above the mutter of low voices, the scraping of benches, the clatter of ale cups and eating knives. It was the unmistakable lightness of a female’s footsteps, and there could be no question of her identity.

  “Some might say you’re a lucky man, Donell.” Conn’s expression lightened, the appreciation in his eyes confirming the lass’s approach.

  Steeling himself, Roag turned to face her. She was coming right toward him, her back as straight as if she’d swallowed a sword, her shoulders squared, primed for a fight. Her flame-bright hair glistened in the torchlight and a becoming flush stained her high cheekbones. Her great emerald eyes flashed, sparkling like jewels.

  Agitation became her.

  But her determined stride warned of another troublesome encounter.

  Just to bedevil her, Roag gave her his darkest, most wicked grin.

  “My lady, can it be you yearn for my nearness?” He took her hand when she reached him, pressed a kiss to her palm. “I am flattered. I didnae expect such devotion.”

  “You surprise me as well.” She snatched her hand from his grasp, her chin rising. “Your men”—she flashed a chilly look at Conn—“appear equally ill-mannered. I wouldn’t have believed it, but the years away have lessened your appeal. I dislike you now even more than before.”

  Conn turned aside, disguising his chuckle behind a cough.

  Roag kept grinning, silently cursing Donell MacDonnell for inadvertently tying him to such a spitfire. “Then I shall enjoy the pleasure of wooing you anew,” he promised, secretly admiring her nerve when she glared at him through narrowed eyes. “I’m right fond of challenges.”

  “He is that, fair lady.” Conn made her a gallant bow, not at all perturbed when she ignored him, her gaze remaining on Roag.

  “I know well what he is,” she returned, the color on her cheeks deepening.

  “And I thought you’d be enjoying your father’s fine fare about now.” Roag did his best not to notice the creamy skin displayed above the deep cut of her gown’s bodice. Much as he enjoying riling her, his duties here would be better served if he placated her, keeping her and her family unsuspicious until they sailed away on the morrow.

  Never, he hoped, to be seen again.

  To that end, he nodded appreciatively toward the high table. “Are you no’ hungry?”

  “No.” She angled her chin. “For some reason, my appetite has fled.”

  “A pity, that.” Roag assumed a look of sympathy, secretly amused when she matched it with a glare. “Your father has laid out quite a feast, but then he’s known for his openhandedness.”

  “My father has a reason for all he does.”

  “So does everyone.” Roag let his gaze roam over her, from head to toe and back again. Another quick smile came to his lips when she stood straighter. Her high-spiritedness fascinated him.

  He’d never cared for timid women.

  He could see this one writhing beneath him, her legs locked around him and her nails scoring his back. Her sweet, husky voice crying her pleasure…

  “Speak plain, lass.” He pushed the thought from his mind, not wanting to imagine her spent in his arms, her lush nakedness hot, smooth, and slicked by sweat.

  He failed miserably, a rush of intense heat roaring through him.

  “I just did,” she told him. “I wouldn’t have sought you out otherwise.”

  “My lady, I am wounded.” Roag clapped a hand to his chest, trying to look grieved. “I’d hoped you’d come to beg more of my kisses.”

  She stared at him. “You are mad.”

  “Aye, so I am.” He’d not deny it.

  He just wasn’t of a mind to say why. He never would’ve believed such a difficult lass could intrigue him. Indeed, he couldn’t think of any he knew who’d possess the boldness to challenge him—especially after he’d kissed her so soundly.

  Regrettably, she wore her ire well.
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br />   Her emerald eyes shone like jewels and high color stained her cheeks, while her wild dash up the cliff path had tangled her hair, letting the flame-bright tresses appear as they might if she’d just been bedded.

  And that was a direction he didn’t care for his thoughts to go. If they did, he’d be sorely tempted to seize her again, crushing her to him so he could plunder her lips once more, taste her sweetness.

  What had come over him?

  He didn’t know, or want to.

  So he stepped back from her and crossed his arms, annoyed that her lovely lavender scent wafted around him, worsening his desire.

  She narrowed her eyes, studying him as if she could see right into him. “Whether you are crazed or not, I would speak with you.”

  “Can we no’ do so at the table?” He didn’t need to stand here with her, the play of torchlight and shadow only making her all the more beautiful. Conn lapping up every word, clearly amused.

  Roag shot him a glare, hoping he’d saunter off. But he only leaned back against a stone pillar, looking much too interested to leave.

  “See here, Lady Gillian,” Roag couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. “It was a hard journey and I’m hungry. That roasted venison—”

  “I’d have words with you now, before you join my father.” She held his gaze, her voice strong. “What I have to say ought not be heard by anyone else.”

  She turned a look on Conn, apparently having more power over him than Roag, for the big man pushed away from the pillar, shrugged, and then strode away, disappearing into the smoky murk of the hall.

  “So now we are alone, my lady.” Roag waited, watching her carefully. Everything about her warned he didn’t want to hear her pronouncement.

  He glanced out over the hall, made a sweeping gesture. “There is nae one near. Leastways no’ close enough to catch your words.”

  “Perhaps not, but there are too many eyes.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you sailed here with half your clan.”

  “You said everyone has reasons for what they do.” She returned his earlier words. “Perhaps I had my own for coming here.”

  “And they weren’t to welcome your long-lost betrothed?” Roag already knew the answer.

  “They were not, no.” She didn’t lie.

  “Then I am most eager to hear them.” He wasn’t at all.

  “I shall present them to you after the feasting.” She held his gaze, her tone cool and calm, confident. “You can come to me in the room off the stair’s first landing. It’s been readied as my sleeping quarters.”

  Roag almost choked. “I dinnae think that’s wise.”

  He wasn’t about to tell her why.

  “I disagree,” she said, not surprising him at all. “My bedchamber is the only place I can be sure my father or brothers won’t disturb us.”

  Roag shook his head. “I’m thinking you should tell me whate’er troubles you, here and now.”

  “That isn’t possible.” Annoyance flickered across her features. “You don’t understand my intent.”

  “Then explain yourself better.”

  “As you wish.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I wish to make you an offer. Doing so requires revealing treasures I can only show you behind closed doors.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mercy, had she lost her wits?

  Had she truly asked him to her sleeping quarters? Aye, she had, and she suspected she’d sorely regret it—necessary as it was to meet with him alone.

  The trouble was that just his presence in the vast, yawning great hall proved almost overwhelming. Facing him in the confines of her tiny bedchamber would cost her greatly. In truth, she didn’t know how she’d suffered through accepting his arm and letting him escort her across the crowded hall. She’d heard the thunder of her pulse in her ears every step of the way, knew her face had flamed.

  Now, having taken her place at Donell’s high table, she drew on all her strength to hold herself as tall and proud as was possible while seated. It wasn’t easy. Not just because of her betrothed’s huge, black-bearded self across from her. The way he’d locked his dark gaze on hers, so challengingly. She refused to flinch, and neither would she shiver. She’d sooner eat pebbles from the shore and fill her wine chalice with seawater, before she’d admit discomfort.

  But…

  She was freezing.

  The air was chill and raw, despite the hall’s fires and the many iron-bracketed torches and hanging oil lamps. Outside, a damp mist clung to the tower, saturating the stones and penetrating every crack in the ancient, crumbling walls, bringing the kind of cold that seeped into bones.

  Still, she wouldn’t fetch her cloak.

  Doing so felt like an insult. Not to Donell. She doubted he’d care. Glancing round the table, at his men and even her family, she imagined few men would understand what weighed on her heart, troubling her deeply.

  She pitied the tower, little more than a half-ruined pile of stone and sorrow, if one believed the tales of its tragic origin.

  She did, aware that all legends were spun of more than a grain of truth.

  So she held her peace, respecting the keep’s age and dignity, if not her unwanted betrothed.

  Faith, but he unnerved her!

  Just now his gaze was flicking over her bodice. “Will you no’ have some uisge beatha?” He reached beneath his plaid, producing a silvered flask that he offered to her. “Finest Highland spirits, this is. A good long draw will warm you well, chasing the cold.”

  “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 clamori
ng 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.