by Willa Blair
He remained still, watching her through slitted eyes as his chest rose and fell with his breath. He’d allowed her touch, though it was improper. She knew he could have removed her hand and thrown her bodily from his chamber with no effort at all. That he should have. The muscle jumping in his jaw gave the only indication her touch still affected him.
She swallowed and licked her lips. “Ye are the man I need, Donal.”
He didn’t flinch, but his eyes narrowed again.
“Do ye, now? Has yer Sight shown ye this?” Quick as a viper, he uncrossed his arms and grabbed hers, lifting her onto her toes. His lips waited a whisper away from her mouth, taunting her. “Are ye certain that’s all ye need me for, Ellie? Is that why ye came to my chamber?”
Startled, she shoved against his chest. She had as much success as pushing against a fire-warmed granite wall. He didn’t resist, didn’t shake her, merely stood, as if waiting for her to decide what she would do. As if he held all his power leashed, under tight control. His breath on her lips fanned the flames in Ellie’s face. Her heart thudded as his chest muscles flexed beneath her fingers.
“Nay. Aye.” She pushed again with one fist, torn between making him release her and making him listen. “Nay!”
He let go of her suddenly. Ellie nearly fell as she lost the support of his grip. He steadied her, then released her again and moved toward the door.
“I’m sorry, lass. I shouldna done that.” He spread his fingers, then clenched them into a fist. “Yer touch...ye make me forget my place.”
Ellie shook with the effort it took to keep from crying out. His place? Nay! Couldn’t he see she was more than a laird? A woman? Why did he think he must also be a laird to be suitable for her? All she had to do was look at the scars on his arms, shoulders, and chest. They were badges of honor, valor, and survival. Exactly the lessons her lads needed to learn. Did the bloody treaty mean so much to him that he would refuse her even now? What a fool she was to forget that damned Lathan treaty, even for a moment. Donal graced her keep only because of it.
She lowered her head, but that brought his lower half into view and made her blush hotter, thinking of what waited beneath his trews. She had little experience enticing a man. A few weeks with her husband were poor preparation if she meant to wage a battle for this man, but battle she must. If she failed to convince him to see her as a woman, then she must appeal to his sense of duty, though that would be a poor reflection of what she’d seen in her dream. The man had been reaching for her. The expression on his face, though dimly seen, had betrayed his longing. “Dinna be sorry, Donal,” she whispered, then looked up and captured his gaze. “Truly, I’m no’ sorry. I need ye to stay.”
“Tonight? Is that what ye’re askin’? Ye canna be offering to trade yerself for my help.”
“Nay!” She choked, shocked he’d said that out loud, but now that he had, was he right? Had she implied that? Did she want that? Nay, she daren’t. She had something much more permanent in mind. Besides, if she saw Bram in her dream and not Donal, she’d be making a terrible mistake. Even though Donal drew her gaze every time they happened to be in the same room, not Bram.
His muscles bulged as he ran both hands through his hair in frustration.
“What then?”
“I willna make that kind of bargain. But I need ye to agree to stay for the time it takes to train MacKyrie men into a force that can defend this keep.”
“Years? That’s what ye need. I canna do that. And tonight has proven that I shouldna. If I were to stay here, Ellie, I dinna ken what will happen...though perhaps with yer Sight, ye do?”
Her heart skipped a beat. Why did he taunt her with her Sight? “Nothing will, Donal. I promise ye.” Liar. Given time, she would come to be sure which man she saw in her dream. That man might come to care for her, at least. She could not think of love, not yet. But a partner, a man to stand beside her and help her clan, aye.
Donal lifted one eyebrow.
She had to make him believe her if she was going to convince him to stay. But she daren’t push him farther tonight. She’d cede this battle, but she refused to give up the war. She could only give one honest answer, though it pained her at this moment more than she’d ever imagined it could. “I’ll do what’s best for the MacKyries.”
His shoulders dropped. “Somehow, I kenned ye would.” He reached behind him and opened the door for her, then moved aside. “Goodnight, Laird MacKyrie.”
Head down, she stepped across the threshold into the night-darkened hallway. One torch guttered, well away from where she stood. She turned back to answer him, but he’d already closed his door to her. “Good night, Donal,” she whispered. “Sleep well.”
****
Donal tossed and turned for most of the night, dozing for a while, then dreaming about Ellie. The heat of her lips close to his. How soft and warm they’d have been if he’d done what his body demanded and kissed her. The firelight reflecting in her ebony hair. The silvery depths of her eyes. Awake now in the predawn glimmer, he lay abed, staring at the ceiling, thinking.
She’d exhilarated and infuriated him the first time he’d laid eyes on her, playing games with Micheil rather than introducing herself as laird right away. And last night—he’d held her more in anger than anything else. He regretted his roughness. But she thought to tease him into staying with her and saving her clan? By touching him? Licking her lips and showing him the tip of her little pink tongue? Foolish woman. He was made of stronger stuff than that.
Aye, he could do what Ellie asked of him. He could make her lads into the fighting force she needed. But his loyalty to the Lathans ran deep. He must return to the Aerie.
The auld laird had made him, a younger son of another clan, the Lathan arms master when his prowess became evident after a series of battles with encroaching clans. He had charged Donal with guarding his home in his absence. And then died at Flodden Field. Donal never forgot the trust—and the responsibility—the old man had placed with him.
Donal had redoubled his efforts to hone Toran’s fighting skills, determined to force the new Lathan laird to develop the prowess to prevail in any battle. Toran had proved his mettle against the Lowlander invader last year. That had been a fight worthy of all the years of training.
With the Lathans, Donal had already been through the kind of rebuilding the MacKyries needed. But the MacKyries had the misfortune to be closer to the Lowlands. They suffered more notice from the King and court, so had been obligated to send more men. And now Ellie MacKyrie wanted Donal to start over with her lads. He sighed. Maybe he was getting old.
Nay, that wasn’t it. Clan Lathan had become his clan, his home. He needed no other.
But a certain raven-haired temptress had other ideas. Well, let her.
Donal rolled to his feet. Time to meet with Jamie, then start the MacKyrie lads on their drills. He’d do what he could while the Lathans remained here. But he would not stay indefinitely.
He dressed quickly, then made his way to Jamie’s door. Forbes and Innis were already there. Alpin and Bram came down the hall after Donal. They perched on the furniture in Jamie’s quarters, a fine sitting room with upholstered chairs and bedroom beyond, fit for a visiting laird or ambassador. Donal took it all in, then turned his attention to Jamie, sprawled in a high-backed chair. Jamie shrugged.
“Whisky buys some fine things,” Jamie began, “but it canna replace the lives lost on a foolish King’s errand. This clan is in trouble.”
“Aye,” Donal replied as they others nodded their agreement. “They need our help more than we’ll ever need theirs.”
“That may be true, but ’tis not the spirit of the treaty we’re here to see signed. The burdens of this clan will fall to its closer neighbors.”
“What’s to stop those neighbors from claiming it all for their own?” Innis asked. “This lot canna defend themselves.”
“The treaty is meant to provide for mutual defense.” Jamie straightened. “To tie the clans together to
the benefit of all. Any clan that breaks the agreement is subject to the others.”
“The future of this clan is in those barrels we rescued,” Forbes interjected. “Trade. If they do well enough, canna they can hire defenders?”
“There are plenty of lost men who would be happy to look to a clan like this,” Alpin suggested.
“Aye, to get inside its walls and slit the throats of all the inhabitants,” Bram scoffed. “These folk lack the warriors to defend against treachery.”
Jamie spoke up then. “Donal, what do ye recommend?”
Donal tensed. Did Jamie know about Ellie’s visit last night? Nay, she’d said she hadn’t discussed with Jamie the notion of Donal staying with the MacKyries. Best to leave it that way for now. He forced himself to relax as he answered. “Bram and I will train the lads hard while we’re here. Ye other three will assist us while Jamie is talking the MacKyrie into signing the treaty.” Ellie’s request was at the forefront of his thoughts. That gave him another idea. “On our way back to the Aerie, we should make arrangements with the other clans to send some unmarried warriors, apprentice tradesmen, anyone they can spare for a year, or forever.” He quirked an eyebrow. “What this clan needs is some new men for their women, and time for the lads to grow up.”
“If that’s agreeable with the MacKyrie,” Jamie answered, nodding, “it sounds like a sensible plan. If one or two men come from each, that will greatly improve the situation here. If they marry into the clan, fine. If they only stay a while to help with the training, that will be better than naught.”
“That’s it, then, lads,” Donal said, standing. “Go find the bairns. We’ve got a lot to do to make warriors out of them.” The other four trooped out of the door ahead of him.
“Donal,” Jamie said quietly after the others had gone out into the hall. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and steeple his fingers together. “Even if the MacKyrie won’t agree to the treaty, we canna leave them undefended.”
“How long do ye propose to stay?” Donal cast about for a way to make his point. “We’re overdue back at the Aerie, Jamie. Do ye want Toran out scouring the countryside looking for us?” He risked a grin, trying to keep his argument light, though he was determined to make his point. “Aileana willna appreciate that. Ye dinna want to anger her. She would undo what she did to save yer life.”
Jamie stood and moved to the hearth. “Not all of us,” he said, not responding to Donal’s jibe. “If it comes to that, I want ye to stay with the other three, while Innis and I take the treaty back to Toran.”
Donal held his temper. Inside, he fumed. Things were stacking up against him. “Let’s hope it doesna come to that,” he challenged and closed the door.
Chapter 4
The MacKyrie great hall was nearly empty when Donal entered it on his way out to the bailey and the training ground the other Lathans were setting up. Some of the younger lads were still at their meals. Three kitchen lasses moved among the tables, cleaning them off. Bram, who should have been outside, leaned against a wall, deep in conversation with a MacKyrie lass who looked to be about his age.
Then Micheil entered the hall from the bailey. He stood blinking, silhouetted by the morning sunlight spilling through the open doorway.
The lass with Bram laughed and leaned toward him, placing a hand on his broad chest. Donal couldn’t hear his response, but he could not mistake the coaxing tenor of Bram’s deep rumble. Bram ran his fingers down her arms as she laughed again.
Hoping to forestall what he saw coming, Donal started in their direction. Micheil jerked his head toward the sound of the girl’s laughter and stalked their way, a thunderous expression on his face. He reached them first, grabbed the lass by her arm and pulled her out of Bram’s clutches, then squared off against the bigger man. “How dare ye?” he demanded. “Keep yer hands off of MacKyrie lasses or I’ll have yer head.”
Bram straightened from his laconic pose against the wall as Donal arrived. He had twice the bulk—all of it muscle—of the MacKyrie man.
“I gave ye a task,” Donal barked. “What do ye think ye’re doin’ here?”
“Jenny,” Bram began before Micheil’s snarl of outrage stopped him.
“Jenny? That’s Miss MacKyrie to the likes of ye.”
“‘The likes of ye’?” Donal interrupted, tensing.
Micheil pushed the lass out of the way. “Be about yer business and stay away from these,” he snarled before he faced Donal. “I’ll only warn ye once, so listen well. Leave our women be.”
“Yer women have need of some men about,” Bram broke in, his face going red.
Micheil lifted a fist as if ready to throw the first punch, but Donal stepped between them.
“Do ye think yer laird would appreciate a fight in her hall? Did ye learn nothin’ on the practice ground?”
Jenny MacKyrie tugged on Micheil’s arm, pulling him aside. “Micheil, come away. We were just talking. This display is unseemly.”
“I told ye to go,” Micheil retorted, jerking his arm free of her grasp. “Obey me, now.”
“I willna. Ye are no’ laird, nor ever will be. Stop this now, Micheil.”
Donal watched this byplay with great interest. “No’ laird, nor ever will be,” eh? Did Micheil often use his friendship with the laird this way? Could he harbor feelings for Ellie? Or simply ambition for the position marriage to her would bring him? Either way, a brawl in the MacKyrie great hall would not help the situation.
But Micheil pushed Jenny aside and swung at Bram, shouting, “We dinna need ye here.”
Bram ducked safely aside. “If that’s the best ye can do,” he taunted, “then aye, ye do need us.”
A low rumble warned Donal the argument had attracted the attention of others in the hall. This was no place for them to settle their disagreement. “Take this outside, ye fools.”
Micheil swung again. With a resigned shrug, Bram hit back. Micheil staggered but kept coming.
“Did ye no’ hear the man?” Bram told him. “If ye’re determined to have a lesson, let’s go out of the hall.”
“Lesson? Are ye daft? I’m going to teach ye a lesson for dallying with MacKyrie women.”
With a frustrated growl, Donal took Micheil by both arms and herded him toward the door. “Outside, I said.”
“Look out!” Bram’s warning came just in time.
Donal ducked as a bench went flying by and crashed to the floor, narrowly missing him and Micheil. Damn it! “If that’s the way ye want it, then ye MacKyries are in for a lesson ye’ll never forget.”
He shoved Micheil forward, then left Bram to deal with him while Donal turned to take on the rest of the hall.
What he faced stunned him. Three small lads brandished dirks. It must’ve taken all of them together to hoist the bench they’d flung. Donal cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Aye, Bram and Micheil were well into it, but with fists, knees, and elbows. Donal was relieved to see no other weapons.
Bram was slowly forcing Micheil toward the door to the bailey.
At least that was going right. Donal stepped away from them toward the lads. He raised his hands. “There’s no need for that.” He took another step. “They’re only fightin’ over a lass. Surely ye’ve seen the like before. Ye can put down the dirks. No one will be hurt”—he glanced again over his shoulder at the flying fists of the two combatants—“much.”
Jenny, the subject of the brawl, moved to the lads. “Listen to the man. Put away the dirks.”
Slowly the lads lowered their blades. Donal breathed a sigh of relief. Twice now, he’d been at risk of having to hurt these untrained lads—at the wagons and now in the hall. He didn’t like it much.
“Let’s go help Micheil,” a red-headed lad said.
Donal had a better idea. “Let’s go over there.” He would get some use out of this debacle. “If ye’ll take a seat, I’ll tell ye what they’re doing wrong.” He led the lads to a bench out of range of the wildly swinging fists.
Interested now, they settled where Donal indicated.
Jenny stood nearby, watching her two champions and wincing with each blow struck.
“Tell us,” the redhead demanded.
He looked to Donal to be the leader of the small pack, so Donal addressed him with the seriousness due a laird. “First rule of fightin’,” he began as he moved aside so the lads could see him as well as the combatants across the room. “Haud yer wheesht. They’re both spittin’ mad and gettin’ madder. Do ye see?”
“Aye.” They made a fine soprano chorus.
“Temper makes ye stupid. Makes ye take chances yer rational mind would reject. If ye ever find yerself in such a fix, remember this. Ye’ll live to fight again if ye can think.” He turned to regard the combatants for a moment. Good. Bram had Micheil to the door, about to push him outside. But Micheil ducked under his arm and back into the room. “See ye, both are tiring, but Micheil is still angered and fights madly on.” He shook his head. This brawl was going to end in the hall. “Bram is starting to calm down and analyze. He’s picking his chances to land his blows while he avoids Micheil’s. See how he dances out of the way? But Micheil keeps coming, though he’s wasting his effort.”
“Aye,” the three chorused, and the redhead continued. “Micheil is still stupid, and Bram is smart.”
“Nay lad, they’re both stupid to be fightin’, especially in the hall,” he said and shrugged an apology to Jenny. “Bram is thinking. Micheil is just reacting. He looks to do that until he falls or Bram knocks him down. Which should happen about...now.”
On Donal’s mark, Bram snapped back Micheil’s head with a carefully placed uppercut.
Micheil dropped to the floor.