To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  A shame he didn’t know what that evil was.

  He just knew they were bad men.

  And, of course, that he needed to alert the new laird of his isle to the danger.

  Something told him a lot depended on whether Roag the Bear would believe him.

  Worst of all, he suspected the trouble would have something to do with Lady Gillian.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Roag’s fury knew no bounds as he turned away from the closed tower door. He refrained from leaning back against it and heaving a great sigh as he was truly tempted to do. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and satisfied himself with a single tight breath. And still he wanted to rage and roar.

  Seldom had he been so angry.

  But he reined in his temper, schooling his features when Gillian went toe to toe with him before he could move away from the just-closed door.

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “My brothers are excellent seamen. They will be away, far from your reach, before you or any of your henchmen could descend the cliff stair.”

  “To be sure.” I am more glad to see them go than you, fair lady.

  “I would ask the same courtesy of you—I wish to be alone now,” Lady Gillian announced. “To recover from saying them farewell. And”—her chin came up—“to have at least a few moments free of your menace.

  “If you come after me, I shall forget I am a lady.” With a wave of her hand surely meant to stave off any protest, she whirled about and strode away, her head high.

  Roag watched her go, her anger only worsening his mood.

  His own fury was now seething.

  Only he wasn’t wroth with her.

  His temper was aimed solely at himself. He burned to release it and there was only one way, as he’d already decided. She needed to hear the truth, oaths, consequences, and all else be damned. He’d gladly suffer whatever came at him.

  To that end, he’d even risk riling her further by following her up the battlement stairs, for that was where she’d gone. Like as not to try to peer through the morn’s fog, catching a last glimpse of the family she clearly loved so much.

  He couldn’t imagine such a bond.

  Though he did have Fenris brothers he’d walk through fire for, even facing death for them, if need be. Truth be told, he’d done the like more than a few times.

  And he’d do it again, gladly.

  He couldn’t stomach her low opinion of him another bluidy moment.

  But when he turned to head after her, two fiercely frowning friends blocked his path. They were his Erse helmsman, Conn of the Strong Arm, and Big Hughie Aleson, one of his most tireless oarsmen and a man who, despite his great size, fair danced on his feet in a sword fight, even making his sword sing. These men were the most trusted of his men, and he loved them like brothers.

  Just now they looked ready to kill him.

  He knew better than to step around them. If it came to a fight, he’d win.

  That wasn’t his concern.

  It was the knowledge that they were such stubborn loons that, afterward, they’d still follow him wherever he went, even if he’d bloodied them to a pulp.

  So he folded his arms and returned their glares, letting them know he wasn’t of a mood to be provoked.

  Conn didn’t care, flicking his gaze over him, shaking his head, disapprovingly. “Run full mad this time, haven’t you?”

  “Ne’er thought we’d see the day you’d do anything so foolish.” Big Hughie stepped aside as another man, one who’d agreed to work the kitchens, hurried by with a large platter of cold venison and two jugs of morning ale.

  Roag scowled, ignoring how the tempting aroma of the roasted meat, even sliced cold, wafted behind the man with the tray.

  He was ravenous—and not just for the day’s first meal.

  It was a pitiful state and made it easier to meet his friends’ glares with a glower of his own.

  He leaned toward them, the back of his neck on fire with annoyance. “What else could I do?”

  To their credit, Conn and Big Hughie exchanged glances, their angry faces now looking a bit sheepish.

  “I’m no’ sure,” Conn spoke first, pulling his beard. “I’d have to ponder it.”

  “Think you I had a chance to do so?” Roag had him there.

  “Nae, but—”

  “It wasnae right for us to scare the lass.” Big Hughie glanced at several spears propped in the shadows near the door. “Did you see her face when she came in here, saw some of our men bearing hidden arms, enough steel to fight an army of England’s heaviest horsemen?

  “She believed we’d cut down her kin, she did.” Big Hughie’s distaste for their deception stood all over him.

  None of Roag’s men grieved women gladly.

  Not at all, if they could help it.

  Roag felt the same.

  Even so…

  “It was necessary,” he said, the excuse sounding weak even to his own ears.

  But his words weren’t hollow.

  Much as he regretted the morning’s charade, the weal of every man, woman, and child in the realm depended on their mission. Their success at ratting out the cravens who were sinking the King’s ships, drowning good men, and damaging Scotland’s chances of ever again gaining a firm hand on their own crown.

  Their work here demanded addressing.

  They’d sworn solemn vows.

  His anger rising again, this time almost choking him, Roag turned to a crumbling arrow slit and let the cold morning air cool his heated face. He drew a deep breath, wishing that his three favorite Fenris brothers—Sorley the Hawk, Caelan the Fox, and Andrew the Adder—had accompanied him on this foul and benighted mission. Raised court bastards at Stirling Castle, the same as him, growing up in the castle kitchens and stables, they understood him as few other men could, and he loved them fiercely.

  Not that he’d ever admit the like.

  The truth was the four of them ended up in each other’s beards more often than they ever agreed on anything.

  But their Fenris work, so oft accomplished together, and always pitting them against great danger and death, had taught him who his true friends were. He valued Conn and Big Hughie almost as much, and he liked and respected the other men with him on this mission. But he missed Sorley, Caelan, and Andrew.

  Above all, he hoped they were faring well on their own present assignments. He didn’t know where Alex Stewart had sent Caelan and Andrew, though he was sure Sorley had been granted a respite to enjoy a quiet life with his new lady wife, Mirabelle. And to spend time with his newly found father, Archibald MacNab of Duncreag Castle in the Highlands.

  Of the four of them, Sorley was the only court bastard to have done so well, winning the love of a beautiful and besotted wife, along with a Highland chieftain sire with a home where he was assured a warm and heartfelt welcome.

  Roag frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. He wouldn’t want Sorley’s fortune even if the gods offered suchlike on a silvered and jeweled platter.

  He enjoyed his freedom.

  The adventures that kept him journeying about the land, no bonds or ties hampering him as he served the crown, and—it must be said—did as he pleased.

  A home and a wife shackled a man.

  Already, his wife—better said, his pretend consort—had two of his most-loved men scowling at him.

  Worst of all, if he could, he’d glower at himself!

  He did close his eyes and press a hand to his brow in a futile attempt to ease his aching head.

  It didn’t help.

  When he looked again, Conn and Big Hughie hadn’t taken themselves elsewhere. They still crowded him, their arms crossed and their faces belligerent.

  “Bluidy hell!” Roag gave them an equally dark look. “Come in here,” he snarled, stepping into a small, round chamber cut into the thickness of the wall beside the door. “I’ll no’ speak of such matters in the open hall—lest the lass sneak back down the steps to listen from the shadows. She
’s a clever one.”

  “She’ll no’ be coming down anytime soon.” Big Hughie dipped his head to step through the low-cut doorway. “Broke her heart to see her family leave, it did.”

  “Aye,” Conn agreed, following him. “She’ll be up on the battlements a good while, hoping to catch a glimpse of their galley through the mist. She’ll stay at the wall until she’s sure their ship has slipped beneath the horizon.”

  “Is that so?” Roag braced his hands against the cold, rough-stoned wall and lowered his head. Then he raised it as swiftly, whipping about to glare at his sour-faced friends. “You ken women so well, the two of you?”

  “Better than you,” they answered as one.

  His patience gone, Roag hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and decided to remind them of what they’d clearly forgotten, their fool heads having been turned by a bonnie face and a full bosom, the swish and sway of shapely hips. The hint of beguiling lavender that wafted after her wherever she went.

  “See here, lads.” Roag thrust his own admiration of her charms to the darkest corner of his mind and focused only on the disaster she could so easily call down upon them.

  Or could have done had he not taken the measures he had.

  “Thon lassie kens my name,” he said, amazed his friends could’ve forgotten so quickly. “She doesnae ken our business, but she is aware that I am no’ MacDonnell. What do you think would’ve happened had she told her father?”

  Conn and Big Hughie looked at each other, some of the belligerence fading.

  But not so much that they answered him.

  So Roag used his most earnest Fenris tone. “If you dinnae ken, or have nae wish to say, take a look at thon sky,” he prompted, nodding toward the room’s lone arrow slit where nothing could be seen but the day’s thick, swirling mist. “When the fog clears, like as no’ we’ll have a sky of woolly clouds.”

  Looking back at his friends, he waited to see which one would respond to the coded words.

  “Woolly clouds, aye,” Conn returned meaningfully. “Today like sheep, tomorrow wolves.”

  “Humph.” Big Hughie gave him another sour look. “She has naught to do with our work here. The lass may be a bit spirited, but I’ll no’ believe she—”

  “I didnae use the code because I suspect she’s an English spy.” Roag felt frustration clawing at him. “If the Sassenachs are even responsible for sinking the King’s ships, much as I believe it is so. Truth is”—he drew a long breath, stunned that his friends couldn’t see the danger before them—“I ordered all of you to arm yourselves this morn because she needed to see you that way.”

  “Aye, and you only upset her,” Big Hughie argued.

  “The blood drained from her face when she saw us, it did.” Conn shook his head, looking miserable. “I’m no’ fond of frightening lassies.”

  Neither am I, you flat-footed, ring-tailed arse! Roag almost roared the reproof.

  Instead, he shoved both hands through his hair. “Only if she believed we’d fall upon her kin would she no’ shout my name to them,” he explained, sure his men had gone daft for not realizing it.

  “So what will you tell her?” Big Hughie posed the question he was dreading.

  “The truth.” There, he’d said it.

  His heart felt lighter and a great weight fell from his shoulders, his relief so boundless the blood rushed in his ears.

  “Are ye mad, then?” Conn’s eyes rounded, his brows arcing nearly to his hairline.

  “Nae, he isnae that.” Big Hughie sounded amused, a small smile even quirking his lips. “He’s smitten with her, he is.”

  “I am no’,” Roag denied, sure his feelings for her were lust and naught else.

  “She’s a risk.” Conn started pacing in the tiny chamber, once surely a guardroom. “Clever as she seems, it willnae take long for her to guess why we’re here, whate’er you tell her. We should have sent them all sailing the moment the Valkyrie rushed ashore. Now that she’s here, amongst us—”

  “I trust her,” Roag asserted, not sure where the words came from.

  A tightness in his chest, perhaps. The warmth that wrapped round his heart when she tended her ancient dog or spoke of her family and home. He’d never known such love and caring from anyone, but he’d once desired it. Long ago when he’d been a wee lad, aye trying to hide his resentment and envy of the boys who did have families. In those days, he, too, had yearned for kith and kin, and a home to call his own, and where he belonged.

  Lady Gillian had all that—leastways she had before she came to Laddie’s Isle.

  For the life of him, something deep down in his soul just knew she could be trusted.

  He didn’t much like her.

  She was far too prickly for his taste. Bold and brazen, clever and intelligent, she’d no’ be the quiet, docile wife he imagined all men secretly yearned for—aye keeping a home running smoothly, bearing children, and seeing to a man’s comforts with a smile and a nod, never arguing or questioning.

  Wise men—in his experience—visited willing and eager tavern wenches when certain itches plagued them.

  Such women caused no hiccups in a man’s life.

  Lady Gillian MacGuire would give a husband no peace.

  But he did trust her. His gut told him he could and his instinct had yet to err.

  “She willnae betray us,” he spoke the words aloud, secretly willing it so.

  No man was without mistakes and he hoped his belief in her wouldn’t turn out to be one of his own greatest gaffes.

  If so, it could cost him, and his men, their lives.

  Yet…

  “She only needs to understand why we’re here.” He was sure of it, and not just because his honor needed assuaging. “Why I came here pretending to be a dead man.”

  “So, fine.” Big Hughie began pulling on his beard. “You tell her, she’s here and would figure it all on her own, anyway. But”—his eyes narrowed on Roag—“what will you do with her when we leave? How will you silence her then?”

  “She’ll no’ say anything.” Roag was sure.

  “That’s no’ what he meant,” Conn spoke up, glancing from Big Hughie to Roag. “I’m thinking he wanted to hear where you’ll be taking her when we’re done here.”

  “Aye.” Big Hughie nodded. “Shall we sail a roundabout course, then? Dropping her off at Sway before we head on to the port o’ Glasgow and then Stirling?”

  Roag hadn’t thought that far.

  And he didn’t want to now.

  For some inexplicable reason, the problem annoyed him more than it should. So he did what Conn had done a few moments ago, and started pacing.

  And an answer came to him at once.

  “We’ll find her a husband somewhere in the Highlands,” he said, the notion feeling as right as it did wrong. “Women aye love Highland men. Perhaps Alex kens a good man somewhere in his north lands who needs a wife. Or maybe my friend Sorley will ken someone, now that he’s wed to a Highland lass and hisself living in the hills.”

  “Aye, that we could do.” Conn and Big Hughie again spoke in unison.

  Roag frowned, not caring for how his own plan sounded on their lips.

  “Worst case, we can take her to Stirling with us,” Big Hughie suggested, nodding vigorously. “There are plenty well-pursed nobles there who’d surely want her.”

  “She’ll no’ be going to Stirling.” Roag spoke more harshly than he’d intended.

  The idea of Lady Gillian on the arm of a strutting, peacock-breasted courtier husband tied his liver in knots.

  “We can aye return her to her da,” Conn voiced the last matter niggling at the back of Roag’s mind. “If he believes you’re handfasting her, he’ll accept if you claim she didnae please you.”

  Roag almost choked.

  Ye fool! If e’er I lifted her skirts and sank myself inside her, ’tis till the end of all days I’d be keeping her.

  Just kissing her has doomed me—already it grieves me to think of letting her go.


  Keeping those truths to himself, Roag rolled his shoulders, not liking how tight they felt of a sudden. “She doesnae want to return to the Isle of Sway,” he told his friends, perplexed as aye by her wish to journey to Glasgow rather than go home to a family and island she clearly loved so much.

  It was a puzzle he intended to solve.

  If she would still speak to him after learning that he’d also lied about his threats to her family.

  He despised liars.

  Something told him she did, too.

  If the fates were kind, she’d understand that sometimes love, honor, and loyalty required a slight shading of the truth—for the weal of good men and the safekeeping of kingdoms.

  If she didn’t…

  He’d have to convince her. If it came down to it, he hoped he could.

  He didn’t want to consider the alternative, and that disturbed him almost more than anything else.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gillian knew the moment Roag the Bear approached.

  She’d been on the battlements nearly all day and gloaming was nigh, darkness already beginning to cloak the tower and its cliffs. The air was colder and the seas rough, the waves edged with white foam. Yet she’d only left her vantage point once, of necessity. Throughout the day, many men had passed behind her—guardsmen set by her captor to watch the horizon. Men who’d also been ordered to keep an eye on her, she was sure.

  Either way, none of them had bothered her.

  Their footsteps had come and gone as they’d made their dutiful rounds. Just as the earlier fog had lessened and was beginning to thicken again.

  The footfalls coming toward her now weren’t Roag’s henchmen.

  They belonged to him, and no one else.

  The fine hairs lifting at her nape said so. As did the sudden quickening of her pulse, the agitated recognition that sent angry heat to bloom on her cheeks.