To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  As you so often turn quiet when you look at me and think I do not see. Your eyes then say things I’d hear from your tongue.

  If my heart is listening correctly.

  But never you mind, for I already know that it is dangerous to care for you. I do not wish to give my heart—or my body—to a man who would shred my soul as easily as a good wind rips apart the soft white heads of bog cotton.

  “It is a poor hall that isn’t filled with manly ruckus,” she said, speaking another truth—one that she didn’t mind putting voice to with her tongue.

  “You are a remarkable woman, Lady Gillian.” He knocked his ale horn against hers, his dark eyes warming.

  His lips even curved, his smile making his rugged face disturbingly appealing.

  Sadly, the effect was ruined by his use of her formal title.

  She wanted him to call her by name.

  A mad wish if ever there was one—but for all that she knew how unwise it was to desire him, she couldn’t stop her pulse from leaping when he looked so deeply into her eyes as he was doing now. Worse, if she cared to admit it, her heart raced just seeing him stride across a room.

  She admired his swagger.

  She appreciated his confidence and liked how he treated his men. He was clearly a good leader and fair, qualities any chieftain’s daughter knew to respect and count highly. The compassion he showed her beloved pet revealed a different side of him. One that was, perhaps, even more dangerous because it proved he had a heart.

  Not all men did, she knew that, too.

  Certainly not for the neediest souls, such as the old and feeble, be they two-or four-legged.

  Gillian took another sip of mead, now certain she was poised for doom.

  She should not think about his good qualities. She shouldn’t remember his kisses or think about how his hands had felt on her when he held her to him. She did her best to forget the hard ridge of his manhood and how it then pressed against her, bespeaking his virility. The red-blooded lustiness that surely had more to do with his just being a man than any desire he might feel for her personally.

  He would have rescued any woman trapped by rocks and the tide. That he’d stormed down the cliff path and worked so frantically to free her, then taking such fine care of her as she recovered…

  He was keeper here so long as he remained on Laddie’s Isle, honor-bound for the weal of all.

  It didn’t mean he cared for her as a woman.

  Still…

  She couldn’t deny that everything about him appealed to her. Even here at his table, in full view of all, every time his arm or leg chanced to bump against hers, tingly warmth raced along her skin. Her pulse even quickened, a shiver of excitement inside her. Yet he made no secret that he had no interest in her—leastways beyond keeping her at his side so that she couldn’t ruin his work.

  As if she would do aught to endanger the Scottish realm!

  She loved her country.

  And she wished he’d come to see and accept that in the weeks they’d been together. Striding about the high promontory much of this day and through till gloaming. Spending the evenings in his hall and, since her fall, sharing their nights in her little room, with poor old Skog witness to how little he desired her.

  His initial, seemingly eager kisses had been a ploy.

  However heated and thrilling they’d been for her, he hadn’t felt the same raging passion that she had, much as she’d resisted feeling anything at all.

  She had, and still did.

  The fates have mercy on her.

  He’d only hoped to convince her father and family that he was indeed her newly returned betrothed. Donell MacDonnell come home to Laddie’s Isle, ready to claim her, and happy to do so, in the fullest sense possible.

  It’d all been false.

  As untrue as the bloodied “virtue cloth” he’d presented to her father with such aplomb.

  Gillian frowned, carefully replacing her mead horn in its curved metal holder. She wished she hadn’t let him carry Skog abovestairs so early. If her dog were with her now, curled at her feet under the table, as was his wont, she’d have an excuse to slip from the hall. She could say she had to settle Skog for the night, and he’d have no choice but to let her go.

  Even if he carried Skog to her room, courtesy would demand he leave her be if she said she wished to rest.

  Alone.

  But he’d seen to Skog as soon as they’d returned from the bluffs.

  And that, too, kindled an appreciative warmth inside her that could easily ignite into something more.

  She rubbed her brow, annoyingly aware that the tingly flutters she felt in certain womanly regions were a powerful indication that such heat needn’t be sparked at all. His strong, hard-muscled thigh rested against hers beneath the table and that simple contact proved her vulnerability, the heady attraction he was to her.

  Her blood ran hot, and he’d fired it.

  That meant it remained to her to douse the flames.

  “I should like to go to my room now.” She turned to him, amazed she could speak so calmly. “It was a long day and I am tired.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” He pushed back from the table, stepping away to let her rise. “I shall see you abovestairs.”

  “You needn’t.” She nodded her good nights to his men, brushed down her skirts as she made to leave the dais. “It is only a short way.”

  “That may be,” he argued, falling in beside her, taking her arm, “but you are nae longer sleeping in that room, my lady. I have moved you, and Skog, to the topmost chamber. You will—”

  “But—”

  He didn’t give her a chance to object. Turning toward her, he leaned close, bringing his mouth perilously close to hers. “You will be more comfortable there,” he said, his breath warming her skin. “And I shall have a greater view upon the sea. You ken now why that’s important.” He straightened, but not before he touched his knuckles to her face, smoothed them lightly down her cheek, across her lips. “The laird’s chamber will suit us well, you shall see.”

  And she did, as he ushered her from the hall and up the winding turnpike stair.

  It wasn’t about a more suitable place for seduction.

  He wanted a better vantage.

  It made perfect sense, she knew. How sad that it also riled her beyond all telling.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My sorrow, lass, that the room is still cold.” Roag pushed open the laird’s chamber door—if the largely bare room could even carry such a grand name—and stepped aside so Lady Gillian could enter. “The fire has only been lit a short while ago, but its heat should warm us soon enough.”

  Indeed, he was pleased that his men had brought up the same fine-burning driftwood as in the hall’s great hearth. The sea-scented wood gave off a pleasant tang that was already beginning to haze the air, while the flames were a remarkable blue-green and almost iridescent. Such a fire was a startling oddity that fascinated him, but did not seem to enchant or excite the Spitfire of the Isles, who’d stopped just inside the door and folded her arms.

  She did not look pleased.

  She did glance about the room, her gaze taking in the bare stone floor, the four unadorned window embrasures, each tall arch-topped opening bearing shutters that would surely fall into the sea before Roag’s time here was done—if the wind didn’t first blow them away, which seemed a distinct possibility.

  Lady Gillian’s goods, the two crates from Castle Sway that held all her worldly possessions, had been placed in a corner near her bed. And someone had thoughtfully lit the wall torches and even the small brazier from her previous room.

  An oil lamp hung on a chain as well, shedding light and a bit of additional warmth. Not far away, a small iron kettle sat beside a wall, hinting that heated water could be had without the trouble of men lugging a cauldron up the tower stair. It was a thoughtful gesture and Roag wished it’d been him and not his romantic-minded helmsman, Conn, who’d had the idea to provide the warmi
ng kettle.

  The Irishman had also carried up a small stand to hold a ewer and basin for the lady’s ablutions.

  All that had been done throughout the day while Roag and Lady Gillian had been on the cliffs, and later as well, when they’d supped in the hall with his men.

  The chamber was as comfortable as Laddie’s Isle could offer.

  To Roag’s mind, it could have been worse.

  For sure, it was an improvement over the dank cell-like room she’d slept in until now.

  This chamber had other advantages as well—ones he did not want to think about, and hoped would not be necessary.

  If the wee isle should come under attack—something he hoped would never happen—this topmost chamber of the tower would provide Lady Gillian with the best possible refuge.

  It was a consideration he couldn’t ignore. Not after her harrowing experience on the rocks, and knowing as he did now how easily determined men could climb the tower wall and reach her old chamber.

  For that reason, he’d ordered several of his best fighters to sleep there—should the dragon ship they’d chased deign to return.

  The lass would be safe here.

  This chamber’s walls were thick, much sturdier than the half-crumbling room she’d used off the tower stair’s first landing. The outer stones would repel arrows, and although the window shutters were warped, these quarters were high above the isle’s most daunting cliff. Not even the most skilled climber could scale such a sheer, formidable rock face, eliminating the possibility of an attack from without.

  And although there was no secret tunnel carved into the walls to allow a swift escape, there was a fresh water supply, thanks to a rather large stone urn on the roof. A tiny stair granted access to the tower’s narrow wall-walk where the urn collected rainwater, and such a boon could prove lifesaving if ever a raid or siege required her to hide away here.

  He just hoped she’d never have to make use of the room’s amenities in such a dire way.

  The rainwater could also provide the luxury of an easily readied bath.

  Lady Gillian, highborn lass that she was, would surely appreciate such a nicety.

  So he pushed aside his darker thoughts and forced a smile. “If you aren’t warm enough, I can fetch a small basket of peat to add to the fire.”

  “I do not mind the chill.” She moved deeper into the room, the reserve in her voice proving he’d not erred in sensing her displeasure. “But I thank you for the fire. I have ever been fond of driftwood burning. My brothers always made sure there was a supply of such wood for my quarters at Sway.

  “The scent will also be soothing to Skog.” She glanced to where her dog slept soundly on a plaid before the small hearth. “He will recognize the smell and the familiarity will comfort him.”

  “The bed is the same.” Roag strode over to the pitiful cotlike bed, wishing its frame weren’t so crudely made, the mattress less lumpy. “My men and I expected nae more than to sleep wrapped in our plaids or on sea-grass pallets. This bed”—he reached to straighten the coverings—“was here when we arrived, as well you ken.

  “If there were a finer one anywhere on this isle, it would be yours.” He looked at her again, her silence unsettling him. “Nae one thought to need more luxurious trappings.”

  “That I know.” She went to one of the windows, set deep in a thick-walled embrasure, and stood looking out at the sea. “I understand why you prize this chamber,” she said, turning back to face him. “One can see to the ends of the world and beyond from up here. Such an outlook will serve you well.”

  “I would hope you will find more comfort here, too, my lady.” He drew back a heavy but faded wall hanging, the only tapestry in the tower, and proudly showed her the small, rough-planked door near the foot of the bed. “This opens to a few steps that lead to the roof,” he told her. “This tower does not have true ramparts, but there is a narrow wall-walk. In the corner of it, just above this chamber, is a large urn that gathers rainwater.

  “You will have the ease of bathing as and when you wish. There is a washtub in thon corner.” He indicated a darker area of the room that, at this late hour, and without its wall torch burning, stood in deep shadow. When he saw that she’d spotted the tub and the stack of folded drying linens on a nearby three-legged stool, he glanced back to her, hoping this luxury, at least, would please her. “Shall I heat the water for you now?”

  She bit her lip, looking from the bathing area to the little wooden door in the wall to the driftwood fire, and then again to him. “I would not trouble you, though…”

  Roag grinned and strode to the door in the wall. Throwing it wide, he stepped aside so that she could see at least six small wooden pails lined up on the narrow stone steps that led to the roof. “You see, fair one, all is at the ready. A bath can be prepared anon.”

  “Perhaps later, after…” She stood straighter, clasped her hands before her as if she did not want to speak the words dancing round on her tongue.

  Roag figured she’d meant to say “after he’d left her in peace.” A courtesy he surely meant to give her. But he was not yet ready to go. His own mind was yet troubled by unspoken quandaries and he’d promised himself he’d voice them. This night, before he spent another one staring into the night blackness and wondering over what was beginning to plague him more and more as each day passed.

  Determined, he went to the room’s last bit of meager luxury, a rather large oak table of much sturdier form and better quality than all other furnishings in the tower.

  Just now, the table boasted a small repast of salt herring, cheese, and oatcakes, as well as a jug of ale. Two of the room’s torches blazed on the whitewashed wall above the dining niche and the light fell across the offerings.

  “You will have dined well at Sway,” he said, hoping the humble viands would please her all the same. If I were able, I’d have set out slices of cold, spiced venison and a whole, roasted capon, along with sugared almonds and custard pasties, rich red wine to enjoy with such a feast.

  As is, my lady, I have provided what I could.

  Not about to lay bare his thoughts, he spoke the best words he knew. “You did no’ eat much in the hall this night. If you are hungry”—he indicated the victuals—“there should be enough here to keep you until the morning.”

  “I might have something,” she decided, pleasing him.

  But she didn’t leave the window alcove. Instead, she glanced down at the empty stone benches that flanked the embrasure walls, her brow knitting again. “I think it has been many years since someone sat here and appreciated the view,” she said, the sadness in her voice piercing his heart. “I doubt Donell will have dressed the window benches properly. He was not a man to value such things.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, her face pensive. “I have heard that the laird before him was a man of similar bent. It is a shame for the tower, don’t you think, that no one ever truly cared for it?”

  Roag blinked. “The tower?”

  “Aye.” She nodded, trailing her fingers along the rough stone wall near the window arch. “You know the legend of how this tower came to be. Each stone laid was put down by the men of passing ships, stopped to do honor to the wee lad who’d survived a shipwreck only to find an end alone on this isle.

  “Over time, the stones were so many that from a cairn, this tower grew.” She looked at him, keeping her hand flat against the wall. “Those of us who live in these isles, places of such wild grandeur, know that the very things that make our world so wondrous cannot be without feeling themselves.”

  Roag didn’t know what to say.

  “You do not understand.” She spoke his mind for him.

  “Can you blame me, lass?” He opted for truth.

  “Then let me ask you this…” She came over to him, angling her head to peer up into his eyes. “Have you ever walked along the shore in the quiet time between gloaming and night? If you have done, did you chance to catch the glitter of star in a tidal pool? ’
Tis a sight to see, I promise. Those who do are blessed, for we of the Hebrides believe we are then not seeing the twinkle of a distant star, but the eyes of the rock spirits looking back at us.”

  “A lovely thought, I’ll no’ deny.” You should be a poet, my lady, for your words are too fanciful to be believed.

  He took a step closer to her, drawn by the freshness of her lavender scent, and—he didn’t care to admit—an odd tug on his emotions.

  “You willnae be surprised that I have no’ spent much time thinking about rock sprites,” he said, lifting a hand to skim back her hair. “Nary a moment that I recall, nor even pondering the stars.”

  How could I when the sparkle of your eyes dims their glory? Who needs Highland magic when wonder dwells beneath your own roof?

  She smiled, her expression warming as if she’d heard his thoughts. “I do not blame you for doubting me,” she said, returning to the window and standing with her back to him, once more gazing out at the cold, dark night. “You are a town man and even more, hailing from a court where more Lowlanders walk than any people of the Highlands and the Isles.

  “Our ways are different.” She stood straighter, her shoulders squaring. “We do believe there are spirits in the wind and fey beasties in the sea. We know the winter is a crone, and that the gods dance across the heavens on the coldest nights of the year, their whirling movements lighting the sky as their colorful veils and ribbons trail behind them. And we are aware”—she raised a hand, lifting a finger—“that stones not only walk and speak, but remember, seeing and absorbing all that happens around them.”

  “So these stones are lonely?” Roag understood at last, leastways he grasped what she believed.

  He just didn’t accept such nonsense.