To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “If I do?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Then you will be as without family as I am.”

  “So you truly are a bastard.” She was still standing near the brazier and its glow flickered around her, edging her with a bright golden sheen.

  She looked like an angel.

  He felt like the devil.

  “A true bastard,” she said again, her disdain piercing his heart.

  “I have ne’er denied it.” He wished he could tell her that all the stars would fall from the sky before he’d harm her or her family, even her rascally sire.

  Had Conn’s suspicions about her two chests proved true, the man would now be in the tower’s dungeon. But for once, the big Irishman had erred.

  And so…

  Roag only flicked a speck of nothingness from his plaid. “You should ne’er have come here.”

  “I had no choice.” She clasped her hands before her. Then she gave him a look that made something funny happen inside his chest.

  He hoped to the gods he only imagined the glitter of tears in her eyes.

  If she cried…

  He drew a deep breath, steeling himself to remain unmoved if she did.

  The truth was, he’d never seen such a courageous woman. Much as he’d rather their paths hadn’t crossed, he was drawn to her, powerfully. She could so easily make him forget everything outside these stone-cold walls, narrowing his world so that it held only her.

  There was something about her, something that attracted him so strongly, he’d swear he wasn’t here to do a King’s bidding, but at her behest.

  Perhaps the witch-woman she’d mentioned had charmed her as well?

  As if she’d somehow called to him, and he needed her, nothing else mattering. And that was the most foolhardy notion he’d ever had.

  It was crazed.

  So he stayed at the window, glad for the sea wind that blew his hair, the moon’s silvery light falling across his mail shirt, the steel hung all about him. She needed to see him as ruthless. To that purpose, he touched his sword hilt, letting the gesture say words he couldn’t because they sat like soured ash on his tongue.

  Lady Gillian didn’t appear daunted.

  Roag knew he looked formidable. His face was deliberately grim, his gaze as cold as only years of Fenris work could hone it. His sword, Havoc, was a well-blooded blade, his casual grasp of her hilt enough to warn anyone that he wielded her well, and with deadly accuracy.

  He raised her now, just a few inches to reveal the sheen of her steel. “Lady, if you care for your kin, you’ll do everything I say you.”

  Lady Gillian’s brows lifted, her face chilling. “So we come to the pass I expected.”

  Roag lowered Havoc back into her sheath, waiting till another gust of wind rushed by before speaking.

  “Lady, you sailed here prepared to stay on this isle, by whatever means.” He didn’t want to believe she was part of a nefarious scheme, but he couldn’t deny the proof before him. He glanced again at her coffers, each one bursting with her clothes and worldly goods. “You cannae deny that. You laid your own trap.”

  “I knew nothing of those crates, or that my chamber at Sway was emptied.” She met his gaze, anger in her great green eyes. Her hood fell back, revealing her glossy, flame-bright hair. “I do know that you came to my room expecting to have your way with me.” She stood straighter, pushed back the hair that was sliding across her cheek. “Why do you think I wore this cloak? Did you truly believe I freeze so easily?”

  Any other time, Roag would’ve laughed. “You thought to make yourself unattractive?”

  He should’ve guessed.

  “You shouldn’t have made the effort.” He strolled over to her, tugged on the heavy woolen edges of her cloak so that it slipped from her shoulders, falling down her back. He caught the mantle with one hand, whipping it off her and tossing it onto her narrow, lumpy-looking bed. “Trying to hide your loveliness is as effective as forbidding the moon to shine. It cannae be done.”

  “Nor can you sway me with honeyed words.”

  “That, sweetness, is the last thing I’d wish to do.”

  She inclined her head, her lustrous hair tumbling to her hips. “We agree about something.”

  And I shouldn’t have disrobed you. Rarely had he made a greater mistake. Even in the dim light, her close-fitting gown drew attention to her full breasts, the slimness of her waist, the pleasing curves of her hips, and the shapely thighs he’d felt pressed against his own when he’d kissed her. She was lovely enough to have been promised to a lord, a man of high rank and standing. To think she might’ve been shackled to a scoundrel like MacDonnell made his gut tighten and sent bile to his throat.

  As if she saw his face darken and mistook the reason, she stiffened. “You have already kissed me, sirrah. You have thought nothing of seizing me, touching me in the most intimate—”

  “I had to kiss you.” Roag’s head felt nigh to exploding. He didn’t want to think about holding and kissing her, how soft and pliant she’d felt in his arms.

  If he did…

  Damnation, already, his best piece was twitching!

  Gods help him, but she wakened desires he didn’t even know he had.

  “Lady Gillian,” he began, a little more roughly than he’d intended, “if I’d have touched you as a man lays hands on a woman he desires, I’d still have the feel of you burning my palms, the taste of you on the back of my tongue.” He threw a glance at her cloak. “Were that so, nae ratty old mantle in all Scotland would keep me from wanting you.”

  “Then I am blessed that you do not.”

  “You have nae idea what I desire, or dinnae.”

  He hoped that would remain so.

  “I will tell you I’ve no wish to ravish you.” He turned again to the window, needing his back to her so she wouldn’t see the evidence of his lie. The proof of how very much he did want her. “I’ll no’ pounce on you, you have my oath. But”—he loathed this part—“if you break your word to me, I’ll hunt your kin to the ends of the world, leaving nary a one to—”

  “I haven’t given you my word.” She was on him in a beat, all wild, unbound hair and fury. She grabbed his arm, gripping tight. “If you harm my family, I will see you half-buried in the sand and let the tide drown you.”

  Roag looked at her, torn between admiration and annoyance. Unfortunately, she had to believe the worst of him. There was no way around that, much as he wished otherwise.

  So he eased his arm from her grasp, and carefully chose his words. “You dinnae want to pit your brothers against my men. You’re a fine, braw lassie, so you’ll tolerate me spending the night in this room. I’ll sleep on the floor, beside the coal burner.” He nodded at the brazier. “Then, when we bid farewell to your menfolk at the morrow’s dawn, you’ll play the happy bride.

  “Donell MacDonnell’s bride,” he reminded her, taking her face in one hand and forcing her to look into his eyes. “A single false move, the merest slip of tongue, and you ken what will happen.”

  She glared at him, anything but frightened. “I do not care where you lay your head this night, and you needn’t threaten me. I will not expose your deceit.” For a moment, she closed her eyes, as if composing herself.

  When she looked at him again, her voice was steady. “In exchange, I—”

  “A trade?” Roag’s brows snapped together.

  “Of sorts, aye.” Her gaze was direct. “I have a deal for you.”

  Roag took a step forward, everything suddenly clear. “That’s the reason you’re here, am I right? You seek to bargain with me?”

  She flipped back her hair, her gaze not leaving his. “What I have is worth more than any bargain. Indeed, it is a treasure, and one you can’t refuse.”

  “Then show me.” Roag folded his arms, waiting.

  He didn’t tell her he wouldn’t consider her trade.

  Not even if she pulled down the sun and turned its light into a bottomless hoard of golden coins. A shame for he
r there were men who could never be bought. Not many, to be sure. But they did exist.

  He was one of them.

  Whatever she meant to offer him, she was about to be disappointed.

  Chapter Twelve

  I am aware, Sir Roag, that there are men who value wealth above ravishing women.” Gillian looked at him through narrowed eyes, irritatingly annoyed because he’d claimed no interest in pouncing upon her.

  Not that she wished such attentions.

  Still, his assertion had stung. She’d caught his gaze settling on her often enough since his arrival on the isle. She’d been sure his eyes had held manly admiration, sometimes even lingering where they shouldn’t. Now she knew he’d feigned such interest, apparently finding her lacking.

  What a shame his darkly rugged looks drew her!

  A shame, and a great botheration.

  So she flipped back her hair, gave him what she hoped was a very cool smile. “Sir Roag—”

  “I am no knight, my lady.” He didn’t return her smile. “Simply Roag, as I told you,” he said, his face an unreadable mask. “I am also a man and the blood in my veins is just as red, just as desirous of women, as any other man’s.

  “I’ll also no’ walk away from good coin—if I earn it myself.” He closed the distance between them, clamped his hand around her chin. “I am more fond of other things, see you? Keeping my head on my neck, breathing, and living as I please.”

  Gillian didn’t like the way he was looking at her. His dark gaze burned into hers, the heat in them not a sensual fire but one that indicated he thought poorly of her.

  “That is clear, sir,” she used the title anyway. “No one would argue that you do as you wish.”

  “So I do.”

  “Then perhaps my bargain will offer you more ways to pursue—”

  “I will no’ be bought, lady.”

  She gripped his wrist, lowering his hand from her chin. “Then perhaps I can appeal to your charitable heart?”

  “I dinnae have one.” His face closed and he folded his arms, everything about his stance enforcing his claim.

  “I see.” She did, and her stomach was sinking.

  Her mind raced, seeking an alternative way to deal with him. He was clearly stubborn. Yet he also made no attempt to hide that he wasn’t pleased by her presence. That was something she could work to her advantage.

  So she drew a breath, studying him. Roag the Bear. By whatever name, he was tall, broad-shouldered, and as hard-muscled as, if not more so than, her strongest brothers. She found him exceedingly appealing, despite everything she now knew. He might not be Donell MacDonnell, but he looked more at home in this rough-walled, cold and dank tower than Donell could ever have done.

  He was also dangerous.

  Only a blackguard would abandon all niceties in the presence of a lady.

  In truth, she was sure he didn’t hold with such civilities in any circumstances.

  His stony heart wouldn’t allow such softening, no doubt seeing any kindness not as a virtue, but a weakness. Not for a moment would she believe hot, red blood coursed in his veins. He was a cold man, clear to the marrow.

  How infuriating that he wasn’t the real Donell. He would’ve scooped up her treasures with both hands, stuffing the hoard of goods into his belt pouch, his boots, maybe even his ears. He valued coin above all else, would have welcomed her offer.

  No doubt he’d have also insisted on lying with her—a distasteful stipulation that would’ve cost her much maneuvering to avoid. But to ensure safe passage to Glasgow, his agreement to leave her in peace, she’d have been more than willing to stretch her wits. He’d been known to drink himself into his cups. A downfall she could have used to her advantage, declaring he’d “done the deed,” and it was not her fault if he couldn’t remember.

  For the weight of her treasure, and perhaps the promise of more from her wealthy uncle in Glasgow, he’d have set sail with her faster than a full moon tide.

  She’d have won.

  With Roag, her chances didn’t look good.

  He was a very different man.

  Wishing he wasn’t so difficult, she moved to the fire, needing its warmth. She also wanted to put as much space between them as the tiny room allowed.

  He stood only a few paces away at the window, where light rain pattered against the wide, stone-cut ledge. Mist blew past the opening, the wild night suiting his dark good looks. Torchlight flickered across him, making his beard glisten, and his arm rings. He apparently possessed enough wealth to afford a swift well-made ship, fine weapons, loyal men, and the richest mail she’d ever seen. Most important, for her purposes, she knew he was as hard as all that gleaming armor.

  “So,” she began, deciding plain words would work best with him, “we are agreed that you are completely devoid of honor. You are a man not above threatening an innocent woman and her entire clan, to see your will done.”

  “If need be, aye.” He didn’t show a hint of remorse.

  “So I thought.”

  “Then why waste your breath stating what you knew?”

  “Because I still wish to make a deal with you.” Keeping her back straight and her shoulders squared, Gillian held his gaze. Her heart hammered and she hoped he couldn’t tell.

  “We have already done so.” As if dismissing her, he turned to the window, stared out at the rainy darkness. “Or have you forgotten what I’ve told you?”

  “I remember very well.” An uncomfortable blend of anger and dread weighed down on her. “The words are etched on my soul.”

  Her entire world had spiraled down to this cold, dank cell of a tower room. Everything that had happened to her before this moment no longer mattered.

  What did was how she presented her trade.

  Every man had a price.

  Even bold, arrogant, heartless ones, though it might be necessary to dig deeper to find it.

  She would.

  So she went to the window table and refilled his discarded cup of Rhenish wine. She hoped the potent libation might loosen his tongue enough for him to reveal what would sway him.

  “Take some wine,” she said, trying to speak amicably.

  “I’ve had enough.” He turned, dashing her plan as he slid the cup back toward her. Worse, he stepped right up to her, bracing his hands on the table edge and leaning in, trapping her. “Though”—he had the nerve to smile—“I appreciate your intent. I’ve aye admired women who are no’ just beautiful, but clever and brave.”

  “I don’t care what you think of me.” Gillian lifted her chin, hoped her eyes were blazing.

  “I think you are as stubborn as I am.” He flicked a glance at the wine cup. When he returned his gaze to her, a corner of his mouth hitched up. “You thought to ply me with wine, fuddling my wits and gaining advantage. It willnae work, lass.” He leaned closer and stroked his thumb over her lips. “Nothing you say, or do, will make a difference. Spare yourself the effort.”

  “I was only being hospitable,” she insisted. “It is a great tradition in the Isles.”

  He arched a brow, seeing through her.

  “A bastard, my lady, especially one raised in the rough world of Stirling Castle’s kitchens, can smell a rat before he e’er leaves his hidey hole.” He set his knuckles beneath her chin and tipped back her head, capturing her gaze. “Be warned that I’ll no’ be tricked. No’ by you, or anyone.”

  Gillian stiffened, relief sluicing her when he lowered his hand.

  She refused to acknowledge his small triumph.

  Above all, she hoped he couldn’t tell how much he unsettled her. He was undoubtedly her enemy, that stood clear. Yet his touch, even spurred by irritation, sent sensation racing all through her, even warming her from within.

  Blessedly, his boldness brought him so near that her gaze snagged on the pagan pendant he wore so proudly, the silver Thor’s hammer amulet. She’d seen him reach for it a time or two since his arrival on the isle. Once, she’d heard him mutter what sounded like an anci
ent Norse prayer as he’d rubbed his thumb across the piece, hinting he viewed it as a talisman.

  That meant she’d found his weakness.

  His price.

  Sure of it, she took a deep, steeling breath and straightened, not caring that doing so made her breasts brush against his broad, mail-covered chest. It couldn’t be helped. He stepped away from her, moving swiftly as if her touch had burned him.

  Good, she was gaining ground.

  If she made him uncomfortable, she’d have a better chance of his wanting her gone. Encouraged, she drew a breath, silently asking the gods for guidance.

  “The silver hammer of Thor hangs at your neck.” She flicked her gaze to the pendant. “It is a handsome piece. Can it be that you honor the old ways? That you look in awe to the Northmen who once ruled these waters?” She saw at once that she’d chosen the wrong words, for his eyes narrowed slightly, wariness stealing across his features.

  “The Vikings were marauders.” He touched his Thor’s hammer again, lightly, as if it meant nothing. “I wear this amulet because it was the first silver I could afford. It reminds me that hard work and perseverance taste better than bread crumbs and poor man’s ale.”

  “You speak like a Hebridean.” Gillian didn’t believe a word.

  She was sure he trusted in the amulet’s power.

  Either way, she was now certain she’d soon be off this wee islet and sailing for Glasgow. Hoping so, she went to her bed and reached under its mattress for her small leather pouch of Viking hoard goods.

  “This is what I wanted to show you.” She lifted the bag, jiggling it so he could hear the clink of the silver. “There are enough Thor’s hammers in here for the necks of all your men. Also armlets, rings, and cut-up brooches, ample coin to purchase a much grander isle than this one, even to build a great castle.”

  To her surprise, he said nothing.

  So she undid the strings and opened the pouch, upending it so the contents spilled across her bed. “It is a wealth beyond measure,” she said, lifting a handful of coins and letting them spill through her fingers. “Surely a fair exchange to rid yourself of a bride you don’t desire.”