To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “Well, I dinnae, so speak.” Roag ignored her insults, moved closer to the crates beneath the window. “Why would a chieftain’s daughter, accustomed to finery, choose a small, bitter cold—” He whirled, throwing open the lid of the first chest. “Enough of this nonsense, for here is the proof.” He scooped up an armful of gowns and undershifts, tossing them onto the room’s only chair, a small, three-legged stool. “Your men were seen hiding these crates up on the moors. They were later observed sneaking them in here.”

  He opened the second chest, slamming it shut again as soon as he’d seen the damning contents. “For truth, you were so certain of victory that you brought along all your worldly possessions.”

  “They are that, yes.” Rather than look guilty, her eyes blazed with anger such as he’d never seen. “Everything I own is in those two chests.”

  Rather than admit her scheming, she placed a hand on the rough window ledge and leaned toward the opening, inhaling deeply as if she needed air. When she turned back to him, she appeared more composed, though disdain was etched all over her lovely face.

  “I had good reason to choose these lodgings.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I selected this room because it’s on the first landing.”

  Roag stared at her, sure she was daft.

  He also didn’t believe her. “That’s why you shouldn’t be here.” He glanced at the window. The dark, wet night, and the cold, wild sea, so near the waves might as well have been tossing inside the room’s dank walls. “In a gale, waves will surge right in here.”

  “That I know.” She didn’t blink.

  Roag felt his patience thinning. “Say you?”

  “I just did.” Her tone should’ve frosted the air.

  Roag blew out a breath, pulled a hand down over his beard. Rarely had he exchanged words with a more stiff-backed female. Nae, he’d never had the displeasure. Not once in all his days.

  To be bound to her by a handfast, however unjust and unbinding, was a punishment he wouldn’t wish on his most reviled enemies. She clearly felt the same, watching him from narrowed eyes, as if she plotted to slip her dirk between his ribs when he slept.

  Barely contained fury seethed inside her. He could feel its blaze scorching him.

  Had he truly believed she’d greet him naked? Baring her charms almost as soon as he’d crossed her threshold? Instead, she engaged him in barbed and ludicrous converse that made no sense; an unpleasant sparring of words that she appeared to be winning.

  Proving it, she moved to stand beside her sleeping dog. The beast slumbered deeply, not even snoring, and he was so heaped with old plaids and furs that Roag had completely forgotten the poor creature.

  He remembered now.

  And something about Lady Gillian’s icy glare would’ve made his liver quiver if he were a lesser man.

  “I only thought to sleep here once,” she said, her tone as chilly as her stare. “The weather signs didn’t indicate a too-fierce night and”—she glanced at the mound of plaids and furs covering her dog—“had a gale blown in, Skog and I would’ve sought shelter elsewhere. This room offered the easiest access for him.”

  Roag blinked. A terrible rushing noise rose in his ears and he was quite sure the floor dipped beneath his feet. Or perhaps it was his stomach dropping, the awful knowledge of what an arse he’d been.

  “You took this room because of your dog?” He saw the truth in her eyes.

  She looked at Skog again, her face softening. “His hips are weak, and his back legs. He has a hard enough time crossing a hall. It’s beyond his ability to climb a turnpike stair to its topmost room, however well-appointed such a chamber might be. Leaving him to sleep alone elsewhere wouldn’t work. He whines and howls if I am away too long.

  “I would also suffer.” She lifted her gaze. “Skog and I are inseparable.”

  “So I recall.” It was all he could think to say. “I ken what he means to you.”

  “You do? Somehow that surprises me. You paid him scant heed at Sway, the day you came to secure our betrothal.”

  “I saw enough.”

  “So have I.” She looked at him in a way that gave justice to her by-name. “More than enough, actually.”

  “Sheathe your claws, lass.” Roag spoke more harshly than he’d intended. “I didnae come here to spar with you.”

  “So you didn’t, I’m sure.”

  “See here,” Roag tried not to growl, but she really was riling him. “Have you forgotten it was you who desired this meeting? I’d understand, as there was much excitement in the hall this e’en.” He stepped closer, swore beneath his breath. “A handfast, sealed by your own sire, should it have slipped your mind.”

  “My memory is excellent.” Her chin came up. “There is little I forget.”

  “I’ll no’ be forgetting your dog again.” Roag sought to lead her in another direction, not liking how she’d bristled at his mention of the handfasting ceremony, as if she held him responsible.

  Yet she and her wily father were to blame.

  So why did he feel like such a craven?

  Furious that he did, he slid another look at her dog. The aged beast had shifted beneath his heap of plaids and furs, freeing a tattered ear, floppy and bearing scars. Worst of all, one milky eye was now fixed on Roag. It was a stare more curious than agitated, the dog’s apparent trust only deepening Roag’s guilt.

  He loved animals.

  He, too, would’ve lodged the dog in secure quarters, easily reached.

  Leastways, he would’ve done if Skog’s prickly, high-strung mistress hadn’t scattered his wits. Regrettably, she did that and more. Just now she paced about the chamber, the hem of her silly woolen cloak trailing behind her, and something about her furrowed brow twisted his gut.

  He always trusted his instincts, and they were screaming alert.

  Hoping to regain control of this ill-begotten evening, he leaned against the rough stone wall, crossing one ankle over the other. He aimed to appear as at ease and at home as the black-hearted scoundrel, Donell MacDonnell, surely would’ve felt in this miserable room.

  Deliberately, he kept his gaze off Lady Gillian’s stiff-legged, half-blind pet.

  He gave Lady Gillian his fullest attention. “Your dog will be seen to, you have my word.”

  She tossed a look at him as she passed the window arch. “Your concern for him is most noble.”

  I am anything but that, he almost snarled.

  Instead he cleared his throat, preparing to give her a peace offering. “I will carry him up and down the stairs whene’er you seek or leave this room.”

  It was an easy enough boon.

  He’d help the dog whether it pleased her or nae.

  “If I am no’ about, my men will be ordered to do so.” He watched her carefully, not surprised to see nary a flicker of appreciation on her face. Far from it, she straightened her back and went to the window, where she stared out into the night’s darkness.

  She held herself so erect that if he hadn’t been watching her, he’d have sworn she’d swallowed a spear. Her stance, and the air of righteous disdain rolling off her, was the reason—one of many—that he’d always avoided entanglements with ladies of high birth.

  They were too icy when the world didn’t run their way, the cold water in their veins chilly enough to freeze a man at a hundred paces.

  Keeping her back to him, she placed a hand against the edge of the window, drew a visible breath. “Thank you for assuring me Skog’s needs will be addressed,” she said, the reproach in her voice belying her gratitude. “As I told you at Sway, I’ve had him since the day he was born. His mother died having him, his litter mates with her.

  “He is everything to me.” She turned to face him, her chin raised. “I appreciate any extra care shown him.”

  “He shall have it.” Roag nodded.

  “I should also appreciate knowing who you are.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. “You aren’t Donell MacDonnell.”

>   Roag didn’t blink, hoping he’d misheard.

  Unfortunately, the murderous look on her face said he hadn’t.

  “To be sure I’m Donell,” he bluffed, using all his Fenris skill to keep his tone convincing.

  She only lifted a brow. Then she crossed to him and plucked at his plaid, slid her fingertips across the shining steel links of his mail shirt. “Donell MacDonnell never wore a clean plaid in his life and his mail never saw a polishing rag.”

  She met his gaze, triumphant. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “Five years in a cell changes a man.” Roag chose the only excuse he could think to give her. “I’ve come to appreciate cleanliness.”

  “Hebridean women aren’t fools.” She spoke calmly, a victorious smile curving her lips. “Say me your true name.”

  Roag frowned, knowing doom was upon him. “I am Don—”

  “No, you are not.” She went to stand beside her dog, set her hands on her hips. “If you were, you’d know I lied when I said I’ve had Skog since his birth. He wasn’t even at Sway five years ago. He came to me a year after your visit, a full-grown dog already.

  “And you, sir…” Her emerald gaze pierced him. “You are a liar.”

  Chapter Ten

  Have done with this nonsense, whoever you are.” Gillian stood in her dank, half-crumbling bedchamber and fixed the man before her with all the righteous indignation she could summon. “Your claims about remembering Skog prove you are not Donell MacDonnell.” She drew herself up.

  “And I, good sir, do not suffer falsehoods.”

  “Nor do I,” he had the gall to state.

  “Somehow I have trouble believing you.” She held his gaze, not caring if he saw her displeasure. Indeed, she hoped he did. “I’ll hear your real name and your purpose.”

  “Was it no’ you who bid me here?” He braced his hands on the stone wall, either side of her shoulders. “You wished to show me something of great value,” he said, leaning in. “A treasure you couldn’t reveal except behind the closed door of your privy quarters.”

  He brought his lips to her ear. “Have you forgotten?”

  “You question me?” She nipped under his arm and whirled about, setting her hands on her hips. “You cannot recall your name. Or can it be you do not have one?”

  “Sure, and I do,” he said, his voice low and hard. “You’ve heard it and can use it.”

  Gillian’s chin came up. “The name you’ve given me isn’t your own.”

  “You’ll stop provoking me if you’re wise.” He didn’t deny her claim. “Have done.”

  “I will not.”

  “I’ve nae time for shrews, lass.”

  “Liars have no place in my world.”

  “ ’Sakes, but you’re prickly.” He looked her up and down, frowning. “Even a lass born and bred in the wilds of the Hebridean Sea should have some wits.” He came closer again, his tall, broad-shouldered menace towering over her. His dark eyes glinted in the dimness, as did his mane of black hair and his thick, full beard. Even the silver Thor’s hammer at his neck gleamed threateningly, catching the red glow cast by the brazier.

  His long sword hung at his hip, and he wore two dirks, one at his waist, another tucked in his boot. Gillian let her gaze flick over him, sure he had at least two other unseen weapons on him. He looked rough and uncivilized enough to cut a man’s throat at his own high table, his good looks dark and savage.

  The thin scar that arced across his left cheekbone added a hint of wickedness.

  But it was his swagger that made him dangerous.

  He could’ve been the Devil’s own man-at-arms.

  She didn’t care.

  Desperation was an instructive bedmate and she’d learned her lessons well.

  So she kept her chin raised, her gaze locked on his. “I have sense enough to know your kind.”

  “Then you’ll ken that nae good comes of poking your nose where it doesnae belong.”

  Gillian squared her shoulders, prepared to challenge him. “I say you should know that those who dwell in wild, empty places, carved by rock, sea, and wind, view the world more clearly than men who walk on cobbled streets. Isolation sharpens our senses, the remoteness showing us things missed by folk like you.”

  A corner of his mouth hitched up. “Folk like me?”

  “Especially like you.”

  Gillian held her ground, doing her best to ignore how powerfully the atmosphere had shifted in the little room. Even the air seemed charged since he’d strode up to her. Now he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, his dark gaze fixed on her. She felt her face heat, her attention caught by the Thor’s hammer at his neck. The amulet gleamed silver in the moonlight, marking him as a pagan.

  She shivered. An ancient awareness rushed along her skin, warming her, even though the room was filled with the night’s cold.

  She knew something of the old ways.

  Her family even had ties to a great cailleach. A far-famed crone who, according to legend, gave a special boon to the clan after a long-ago chieftain aided her. Gillian looked more closely at the Thor’s hammer, noting the smooth edges, as if it’d been held and rubbed often. Something inside her responded, her blood racing.

  She’d always admired those who honored the ancient gods, especially Norse ones.

  She was drawn to their strength.

  The man before her was also bold. He claimed the space around him, and being near him stirred sensations she’d never known, even making her breath feel almost locked inside her.

  He was still watching her, his gaze intense. “So what am I?”

  “You are not from hereabouts.” Gillian knew it in her bones. “I doubt you’ve ever been to the Hebrides before now. You’re a town man, perhaps from someplace even larger. Not Edinburgh…” She angled her head, studying him. “You have a raw edge I wouldn’t expect from there. Edinburgh is too grand, the folk there too fine. If I were to wager, I’d place you from Glasgow. To be sure, you speak with a hint of the Isles in your voice. But that is something you could’ve learned.”

  “Say you?”

  “I know it is possible.” She did.

  “I’m thinking you know many things.” He was mocking her.

  “Perhaps I do. When I was small, a wayfarer called at my home.” She remembered him well. “He traveled as he could, criss-crossing the land, even these fair isles. He claimed no clan, not even a wife, saying his feet aye itched, and so he roamed.”

  “A wise man.”

  “He was also greatly talented. Skilled in ways I never forgot, so impressed was I by his astonishing gift.”

  “What might that have been?” He pushed away from the wall, his expression guarded.

  “He had a way with tongues.”

  For a beat, Gillian thought he was going to choke, but he caught himself at once.

  “Indeed?” His gaze pierced her, his face revealing nothing.

  She watched him as closely. “He could cast his voice to sound as if he came from anywhere in Scotland, even Ireland, England, or Wales. If he had a bit too much ale, he could be a Frenchman. He entertained us for days, telling us tales from afar, always rendered in the local dialect.”

  “A great gift, aye.” He strode away then, crossing the room to the table with her evening repast of oatcakes, cheese, and wine. He took the jug and poured two measures of wine, offering her one.

  Shaking her head, she declined. “I do not believe the traveler was unique, though he was the first with the skill to call at Sway.”

  “I have ne’er heard of such a talent.” Her handfasted husband lifted the cup to his lips, draining it as swiftly as if the costly Rhenish wine had been home-brewed ale.

  Gillian watched him reach for the second cup, not missing the slight jerking of a muscle in his jaw, barely visible beneath his beard.

  She went to stand beside him, sensing victory.

  She waited as he drank, slowly this time. “I believe, sir, that you have the same skil
l as the wayfarer.”

  He finished his wine, returned the cup to the table.

  “I should enjoy such a gift.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Alas, I am no’ so blessed.”

  Gillian didn’t bother to argue.

  There was no need.

  She’d maneuvered him into a corner with Skog. She was sure even without his admission that she’d guessed rightly.

  “I have known all along that you couldn’t be my betrothed.” There, she’d said it. “No man changes so greatly in five years.”

  “You know so much of men?” Again he avoided a direct answer.

  “I have many brothers. Sway is also home to my uncles and cousins, and”—she felt her body tighten with tension—“a sire who has forgotten to act his age. He—”

  She broke off, heat blooming on her cheeks. She hadn’t intended so say that last bit, but her temper had the best of her. If he was angered by her father’s craftiness, she was furious.

  “My father is a good man.” She looked away, at the window arch again. Despite everything, she did love her father. For sure, he was wily. He could be thoughtless. But she cared for him deeply, and that only worsened her dilemma. “His head is easily turned by ladies.” That was probably more than she should say, but annoyance was riding her hard. “He’s had many wives. When he takes a new one, he becomes distracted.

  “His wits then fail him.” She went to the brazier to warm her hands.

  Images of Sway rushed across her mind, squeezing her heart, ripping her soul. After the death of her former stepmother, she’d acted as lady of the keep, enjoying her duties, even daring to hope her father wouldn’t wed again. Yet he had, and Lady Lorna didn’t suffer two females of high standing under one roof. There were other things she didn’t tolerate, or so Gillian suspected. And they were damning enough to make this nameless keep’s dank, crumbling walls seem as warm and welcoming as a fine summer’s breeze.

  She drew a breath, resenting the heat pricking her eyes, the sudden tightness in her chest.

  Sway had once been a pleasant place. Good cheer was ever found in its hall and there’d never been a need to cast furtive glances up and down corridors before choosing which path to take. No one in the household had merited such precautions.