by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick
Though he was older than her father by a score of years, Coll Munro was still formidable enough to intimidate. But Cait was well used to mighty warriors. She knew that a smile from one of Laird MacLeod’s lovely daughters never failed to soften even the toughest of her father’s soldiers.
So she smiled.
Coll’s fierce expression softened just a little.
“I wish to see the laird,” she said again, sweetly, and smiled again.
Coll blushed, and shifted his feet. “Ach,” he said stubbornly, and looked away.
“I’m hungry and very thirsty.”
“I daresay ye are—Ye’ve missed supper, and so have I. With all the carrying on downstairs, they’ve likely forgotten the pair of us.”
“Then perhaps you can escort me to the kitchens? I promise not to leave your sight.”
He considered for a moment, then frowned. “No.”
She ignored that. “My name is Cait, by the way.”
He sniffed and looked away. “Makes no difference to me, if you’re a Sutherland.”
She drew herself up. “Nay, I’m a MacLeod. My father is the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair. Have you heard of him?”
Coll’s eye shot back to her. “Aye, of course. Who hasn’t?”
“And no doubt you’ve heard he has twelve daughters?”
“Aye, I’ve heard that, too. And no son.”
“That’s right, so he raised his lasses to be as fearsome as he is.” She smiled again, a more pointed smile this time. Coll’s blush deepened, and the certainty in his gaze diminished further still. “Surely your laird doesn’t mean to starve either of us. What harm is there if you take me to the kitchens so we both can eat? And afterwards, perhaps you can tell the laird I really must speak with him.”
He frowned at that. “One does not tell Alex Munro what to do, mistress, but I’ll take ye to the kitchens because I’m hungry myself, and no doubt Janet’s busy.”
She waited, her eyes wide, her smile bright, and he sighed.
“I’ll ask the laird if he has time to see ye.”
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, and he blushed again.
She smiled at his broad back and let him lead the way.
* * *
Dinner—and the presentations of the potential brides—seemed to go on forever. Alex forced himself to smile and nod for Flora’s sake, and for the sake of hospitality, but he longed to flee the hall. He had things to see to, work to do . . .
“Your pardon, laird, but the lass—the prisoner—she wishes to speak with ye, and I told her I’d ask.” Coll Munro said, leaning close to Alex’s ear. Alex glanced at him, and the old warrior shrugged. “Your pardon, but she’s a very persuasive lass.”
Alex followed Coll’s gaze toward the doorway that led to the kitchens. Cait MacLeod stood in the shadows, waiting, her eyes on him. He felt a jolt of awareness pass through him, as if lightning had struck him. Then she smiled, and Alex felt his belly tense. “Ye see, laird? Persuasive,” Coll muttered.
She stood waiting for his response. She was wearing a fine gown, and her russet hair had been tamed and braided. Even with bruises she was a lovely woman. Her eyes were soft and luminous, her expression hopeful and expectant. She didn’t look dangerous. Alex felt a buzzing in his chest, and his heart kicked.
“Oh my,” Flora said, catching sight of Cait MacLeod. “Is that our prisoner?”
“Aye,” Alex said, and found his voice an octave lower than usual. He cleared his throat. “Coll says she insists on speaking to me.”
“Ye should see what she wants,” Flora whispered. She glanced around the room, and Alex saw that others had also had noticed the lass standing in the shadows. Conversation thinned. The brides stared at the beauty with tight-lipped speculation, and the men with them gaped. The Munros frowned, wanting to hate her but wondering about her as well. Flora nudged him. “Ye’d best go and speak to her in private, Alex. “Auld Bryn’s about to recite the legend for our guests. You’ll not be missed for a wee while, and ye can come back in time for the dancing.”
He welcomed the escape. “Coll, take Mistress Cait to the solar,” Alex said.
“Nay, the solar is full of the handmaidens and servants of our guests,” Flora said.
“Then show her back to the kitchen, and I’ll speak to her there,” Alex said.
“Och, don’t ye think perhaps it might be best to discuss her situation without prying eyes and wagging tongues? We wouldn’t want our guests to think there was anything amiss,” Flora said.
“Then take her to my chamber,” he said through gritted teeth to Coll as Airril led Auld Bryn to his place by the fire and placed the harp in the seanchaidh’s hands. Alex waited until the long story of the pea was well underway. When Auld Bryn had begun the second verse, and all eyes were on the Munro bard, Alex slipped out the side door and made his way to his chamber.
She was there, waiting for him, standing in the middle of his room between the desk and the bed, her hands clasped. Coll was sitting on a stool, watching her. He rose as Alex entered. “Here she is, Laird. I’ll wait outside.”
Alex crossed the room, strode past her to his desk and leaned on it, watching her silently.
She came toward him slowly, her head high, those incredible eyes fixed on him. He couldn’t decide if there was more green, or copper, or gold in the soft depths of them. He felt his breath catch in his gut. She was pretty—very pretty—but there was something else about her, something strong yet vulnerable, capable yet fragile. She’d known precisely what she was doing when she charmed Coll. He wondered if she had any flaws, any dark sins on her soul. Sins like Baird Sutherland.
“There are things I need,” she began, and Alex braced himself for her demands—a tirade of threats, no doubt, or begging. Perhaps she’d try to charm him the way she charmed Coll, or try to seduce him into giving her what she wanted. He glanced at his bed, pictured her there, with him, and tore his eyes away. Nay, she’d not find him such an easy mark. He crossed his arms over his chest.
She stood a half-dozen feet in front of him with her hands clasped at her waist, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.
“Like what?”
She raised her chin, her cheeks flushing slightly. “A quill and paper, and a comb. Mistress Flora kindly lent me hers, but I—”
She surprised him. “Such simple demands.” He interrupted her. “I expected more, things I would be unwilling or unable to grant you. Why do you want the writing materials?”
“I wish to send word to my father that I’m here at Culmore. He’ll worry, you see, and—”
“To your father? Not to Baird?”
Her blush deepened, and she lowered her eyes. “No.”
“Why not? Lover’s quarrel?”
She looked up again, her gaze sharp. “Something like that.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You could write to my father instead, if you fear treachery, though I mean no harm to you or yours. His first name is Donal, and he’ll—”
“Ye want me to address the Fearsome MacLeod as Donal?”
She blinked at him. “It is his name. You must tell him I’m lost again, but safe . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “I am safe, aren’t I?”
Lost again? Now what did that mean? Instead he asked, “Have ye any proof of your kinship to the MacLeods?”
She tilted her head. “I know the MacLeod battle cry, and I can tell you the names of all eleven of my sisters.”
“Anyone might know that.”
Her brow crumpled. “Please let me write to my father. He’ll worry if he discovers I’m not at Rosecairn.”
“It could take weeks for a letter to travel all the way to Glen Iolair.”
She shut her eyes, “I know. That’s why I wish to send it now.”
He saw her agitation, noted tears in the corners of her eyes, though she did her best to blink them away. What harm could a letter do? If nothing else ’twould end his curiosity about her by proving who she was. “I will writ
e to the MacLeod. If what ye say is true, then he can come and claim ye. I’d like to meet him, in fact.”
Instead of the mortification of being caught in a lie that he expected, she smiled, looked relieved. She took a step closer. “Thank you.”
“Now what about Baird? What shall I write to him?” he asked softly.
* * *
Cait felt her spine stiffen as she looked at Alex Munro. He couldn’t write to Baird, must not tell him she was here . . .
But Alex stood before her, every inch the proud, wary laird, with his arms crossed over his chest. Dark curls edged the collar of the lace-trimmed shirt he’d worn at dinner as he presided over his hall and his guests. A fine silver brooch held the red Munro plaid over his shoulder. He was so tall, so strong, and she read the gleam of intellect in his gray eyes, saw capability in his strong, long-fingered hands.
“What about Baird?” he asked again. “Surely he’ll be wanting ye back.”
Cait understood that Alex wanted revenge for all the suffering and destruction the Sutherlands had caused, and he saw her as the way to get it, but he was wrong.
She looked around the room at the books and papers, at the maps and plans for cotts and fortifications that lay on his desk. Alex Munro was smarter than Baird Sutherland, and a kinder, better laird. But she’d seen the lack of Munro warriors, the men who were too old or too young. Baird’s men weren’t all Sutherlands—a good many of them were paid to fight for him. They were rough, dangerous men from France and England. If it came to a battle over her, the Munros would lose.
She could not bear it if she was the excuse for a battle, and Baird would make her so. Nay, announcing to Baird that she was being held hostage here would only give the Sutherlands an excuse to cause more trouble, to rape, pillage, and kill, to take Culmore. She pictured Alex Munro dead under Baird’s sword and winced at the terrible image. Nay, she couldn’t let it happen.
And if Baird came to rescue her from the Munros he’d have Donal MacLeod’s full support, unless she could tell her father the truth in time. She wondered if Alex meant to ask Papa for ransom. She’d best warn him that her father would never tolerate that. The MacLeods of Glen Iolair were called Fearsome for good reason, and Papa was a hard man when crossed. He’d raze Culmore to the ground to get his daughter back.
“What should I tell Baird?” Alex asked again.
“Nothing.”
Alex stepped closer, so close she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. “Nothing?” he said, his tone softly mocking. “You think he won’t want you back?”
She held his gaze. “He will, but not for the reason you think.”
“And what do I think, Cait MacLeod? That you are bonny and Baird is likely missing you in his bed? That you’re his leman?”
She felt a flare of rage. “I am betrothed to him. I am not his whore.” She did not tell Alex that she intended to break the betrothal, that she’d known even before she came to Culmore that she could not marry Baird.
To her surprise, he laughed. “Oh, how luck has smiled on me. Baird Sutherland’s betrothed is here, in my possession. Think of the possibilities I have now—for ransom, for revenge.” He reached out and cupped her chin in his hand. She glared at him, but held still to show him she was not afraid.
“I meant it when I said I’d fight any man who tried to-to . . .” She could not say the word.
His gaze fell on her mouth. “Och, it wouldn’t be rape.” He ran the pad of his thumb across her lower lip, sending tingles though her. She could smell the scent of soap, leather, and ink, and the smoky tang of whisky on his breath. “It would be seduction.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, a gentle brush of his lips, and she gasped in surprise. His mouth was soft, and his fingers curled under her chin. She could have pulled away, but she didn’t. She let her eyes drift shut and kissed him back, and he tipped her head further and pressed his tongue along the seam of her lips.
In all her life, no one had ever kissed Cait like this, slow, silken, and sensual. Seduction indeed . . . Her few admirers had been too afraid of the Fearsome MacLeod to debauch one of his virgin daughters. Their kisses had been chaste ones, quick and uninspiring. But this—this was the way a man kissed a woman he desired, a lover’s kiss. She let him part her lips, enter to stroke his tongue against hers. She tasted the whisky on his tongue, felt the heat of his breath on her cheek. She felt the intimacy of Alex Munro’s kiss, the slow, deep, passionate pleasure of it, spreading outward from their joined lips to every inch of her body, simmering in her blood, and she understood him perfectly. Oh yes, he could seduce her, and she’d let him . . .
There was a knock on the door, and he pulled back. For an instant he stared into her eyes, then took a moment to focus on her face. He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped away from her. “Come,” he said, his voice husky.
Coll opened the door and admitted Flora. Alex’s aunt looked at them both, but Alex stood by the desk with his arms crossed over his chest, and Cait was where Alex had left her in the center of the room, still dazed by the kiss.
“I came because you’ve been gone too long,” Flora said. She scanned Cait’s face with concern, and Cait wondered if she was looking for new bruises, if she feared her nephew was torturing her for information. But Cait knew instinctively he would never harm her or any lass. “The lasses want to dance with ye, Alex,” Flora said. “Their clansmen expect it.”
“I’m coming. Our—guest—had some requests. She wants a comb of her own, and I’m to write a letter to Glen Iolair.”
Flora glanced at Cait. “Oh? Not to the Sutherlands?”
Cait looked at Alex, wondered what he’d say. He stared back, his eyes heavy lidded as they roamed over her face. She almost groaned when they came to rest on her tingling lips. “We’ll wait for a reply from the MacLeods, and that will prove whether or not she’s telling the truth—or lying.”
Cait felt her belly tense, but Flora merely nodded. “Then Coll can take her back to her—chamber.” She glanced at the gown Cait had on, then smiled. “I recognize that embroidery. Alex, do you remember when your mother stitched those thistles? She was with child again and so happy. Alas . . .”
Cait saw Alex’s eyes rove over her gown, and she felt her body tighten and tingle beneath it, but he said nothing.
“I’m sorry. I should not have presumed it would be all right to use it. There was a hole in the coverlet—” Cait began, but Flora waved the apology away. “Eilidh would have been pleased to see it put to use. Alex dropped a candle on it when he was a wee lad.”
Flora walked in a circle around Cait, looking at the dress. “It’s lovely. I can’t believe it’s the same gown I gave you this morning. Perhaps ye might help me with the repairs to the seanchas after all. Are ye still willing?”
Cait nodded. “I’d be pleased to.”
“Then we’ll start tomorrow.” Flora turned back to Alex. “And you’ll go back down to the hall and dance and flirt and be charming?” Flora asked her nephew.
“I will do my best.”
“Ye have less than five weeks,” Flora said.
Alex opened the door and beckoned to Coll. “Escort our visitor to her chamber and guard the door,” he said.
Then he strode down the corridor toward the music streaming up from the hall below without another word.
* * *
Later that night, when the dancing was done at last, Alex paced his chamber. He should not have kissed her. He hadn’t meant to. But she was bonny . . . He turned and paced the other way. “So are all the lasses in the hall,” he muttered to himself. “My brides.”
But there was something different about Cait MacLeod. “She belongs to Baird bloody Sutherland,” he growled. “His betrothed.”
Was it just the temptation of having his enemy’s woman? Nay, he wasn’t like that. “I’m not,” he said aloud, clenching his fist against his desire for her.
She’d kissed him back. Never before had a simple kiss made him feel as if flames
roared in his veins, as if he could kiss her forever and never want to stop. “Thank heaven for Flora,” he muttered.
He crossed to splash whisky into a cup. He’d rinse away the sweet taste of her, the memory of her mouth under his. He swallowed the dram in one gulp and coughed at the fire that filled his throat. Still it was not as hot as she was, as hot as the simmering desire that had taken root in his veins, still flowed through him unchecked and wild, hours later.
She’d felt good in his arms. Right. He wanted to sink into her, be part of her. If Flora hadn’t arrived . . . He glanced at his bed. “Aye,” he drawled. “Nay” he grumbled.
The kiss had affected her as well, he was sure of that—or was he? Was she so unguarded in her affections, such an innocent, or was she playing a game, using long-practiced wiles to trick him? “She’s lying . . . Probably.”
Was it his imagination or could he still smell the sweet scent of her when he’d walked back into his room long after she’d left it? “Impossible.”
He looked around the room. A stack of documents sat on his desk—lists of damages, stolen property, and expenses and materials for rebuilding the ruined cotts sat on one side, and the marriage offers for each one of his potential brides were stacked on the other.
On the floor lay several crumpled sheets of paper, his failed attempts to write to the Fearsome MacLeod. The difficulty came in describing her. Bonny, with eyes that spin a dozen colors into something new, a mouth that makes a man think of sin . . . He couldn’t very well tell a lass’s father that. A tall, slim lass with hair the color of copper—not raw, fresh copper, but with a sheen of gold, a reflection of sunset . . . That wasn’t right either. I have a lass who claims to be your daughter here at Culmore Castle. Of course, she could be the betrothed of my greatest enemy, or his lover . . .
Finally he’d settled on simplicity. He’d informed the Fearsome MacLeod—he did not address him as Donal—that Mistress Cait MacLeod was his guest at Culmore Castle, and the MacLeod could fetch her at his convenience if he wished to do so.