Ronat let her gaze roam over Malcolm as he stared out the window. She admired his broad shoulders, his lean hips, the length of his legs clad in deerskin boots. Her heart had melted at the sight of him in a plaid. Nay, more than melted. It had caught fire. She’d been afraid when she looked at the giant standing on the shore, but Malcolm had taken her arm, his expression calm and confident. Lairdly.
She’d read the same emotions in the eyes of the rest of the clan as well when he appeared—surprise and admiration. Well, not exactly the same—the sight of the laird of Dunbronach so finely arrayed in kilt and bonnet made her body tingle and her heart thump against her ribs.
If his clan had feared he wouldn’t be a good laird, he’d proven them wrong, just by changing his clothes. He’d faced Maccus like a man born to lead, and he’d protected her without bloodshed or violence. It had been a clever ploy. He was quick, considerate, and smart. He treated his folk well, put their needs ahead of his own. Couldn’t they see that? He worried about things like broken steps, and he kept trying in the face of so much doubt and opposition. Even if it was a falsehood, his intentions had been noble and true. He’d kept her safe, made her feel safe. Her fingers curled into the linen of her skirt against the sudden rush of heat that suffused her body. For a moment, she wished she truly were his wife. She intended to play her part to the hilt. She smiled sweetly at him as she tucked the knife back into her belt and went to her chamber to rest before it was time to dress for dinner.
“I want more whisky!” Maccus roared at Beitris.
She hovered out of reach, fearing his wrath. She was more afraid of making him drunk. She recalled the last time he was here and the damage he’d done.
One of the Dunscaith men caught her sleeve. “Please, mistress. Give him as much ale and whisky as he wants.”
She glared at the young warrior. “I will not. He’s a dangerous man when he’s drunk. I’ll not be helping him to cause harm to me and mine.”
He shook his head. “Nay, mistress—he’s not a problem when he’s dead drunk. He sleeps it off. He’s only a problem when he’s denied what he wants. We’ll handle him if he gets out of line. That’s why we’re here.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Does Maccus know that?”
He shook his head and took the pitcher out of her hand. She watched as he went and refilled Maccus’s cup and left the pitcher beside him.
By the time Malcolm arrived, Maccus’s eyes were shining, and he was smiling broadly. His men filled his cup as quickly as he emptied it. They kept their eyes on their leader, sat in a ring around him, and Beitris understood they were protecting the folk of Dunbronach as much as Maccus. They rose politely at the laird’s entry into the hall—Maccus didn’t. He just raised his cup and giggled.
Beitris felt pride bloom in her breast at the sight of Malcolm Ban. She stared at him like a green lass and smiled. He was wearing a plaid, and wearing it properly too, with Archie’s fine badger sporran and a jeweled brooch at his shoulder. He still wore his lace neck cloth and his fine green velvet coat, and he looked young, virile, and braw—impossibly, utterly handsome. He stood tall and proud, a proper MacDonald. Even Fergus stared with open-mouthed surprise and admiration he couldn’t quite hide.
“Where’s yer wee wife?” Maccus slurred.
“Resting,” Malcolm said lightly. He turned to the men in Maccus’s tail, MacDonalds all—Iain, Adam, Rob, and Hugh, the piper.
“Haven’t ye got a piper of yer own?” Maccus asked. “D’you not like the pipes, cousin? Perhaps ye’re not used to them, being a Lowlander. What do they play there, the harp?” Out of the corner of her eye, Beitris saw Dougal bristle, and held her breath.
But Malcolm smiled and took his seat beside his cousin, in his father’s chair. “I like the pipes just fine, but our piper died of the Sickness, and his son has only begun to learn. He’s quite gifted, like his father before him, and only needs a teacher to show him the direction.” He glanced at Hugh MacDonald. “Perhaps your piper could help the lad while he’s here?”
Hugh nodded. Beitris exhaled with relief and refilled Maccus’s cup.
“Play!” Maccus ordered Hugh, and he struck up a tune. “Your hall is empty, cousin. Where is everyone?” Maccus said, looking at the empty seats at the table.
“We lost fifty-four of our folk to the Sickness over the winter, including our laird and a good number of men, women, and children,” William said sharply.
“Did all the women die?” Maccus asked, horrified.
“We haven’t much livestock either,” Dougal said.
Maccus’s hand flew to his dirk, and he knocked over his cup. Golden ale washed across the table. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Fergus rose at once and put his hand on Maccus’s arm. “A simple fact, Maccus. Our cows are dead or stolen. I’m sure no one meant any insult.” He glared at Dougal, who glared right back.
Adam reached over to refill Maccus’s cup, and Maccus turned his attention back to that. He drained the cup and looked at Malcolm. “But if there’s no women, who makes the food? Who washes the clothes and cards the wool? Who do you fu—”
“Good evening,” a soft voice said in the doorway. The music slithered to a stop. It was hard to tell if the pipes themselves sighed or the piper did. The room was so silent you could hear the faint creak of the wind outside, sighing around the ancient stones of Dunbronach.
Malcolm was as awestruck as every other man by the vision that floated into the room. Chairs scraped on the stone floor as every man present shot to his feet. Malcolm felt his breath catch in his throat.
Ronat wore one of his mother’s gowns, likely part of a lavish trousseau Elizabeth had brought to the Highlands when she wed Archie and never had the occasion to wear. The dress might be twenty years out of date in Edinburgh, but it was new here at Dunbronach. Especially on Ronat. Malcolm’s knees turned to jelly as she came toward him, and his heart swam in a dizzy circle in his breast. The only sound was the rustle of petticoats and the soft clack of the heels of her slippers. The overdress was shimmering pink silk, adorned with darker pink ribbons. Her sleeves hung like bells, gathered at her elbows. The bodice was low cut, edged with lace, and pushed her breasts deliciously upward. Her hair was caught up with ribbons, high on her head, showing off her slim neck, the stunning beauty of her face. Her eyes were on his as she moved across the room, glittering like silver in the candlelight. For Malcolm, the rest of the room disappeared, and there was only the two of them in all the world. He crossed the room to meet her, took her hand, and laid it on his sleeve. She smiled up at him, and his heart thumped. He led her to the seat beside his own, as if she were truly his wife, as if they’d done this many times.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her expression both intimate and mischievous, sharing the secret of their deception. He forced himself to let her go and step back. He took his own seat and looked around the room. Every man was slack-jawed, all but drooling . . . except Maccus, who drooled in earnest, his eyes glazed.
Malcolm raised his cup. “To our guests,” he toasted. “And to my wife.”
Beitris felt her heart swell for the second time that night at the sight of Ronat and the laird. The lass looked at him as if the sun rose and set in his eyes, and he looked at her like she was the only woman on earth. Beitris felt a tear sting her eye. Ronat had been at Dunbronach for a hand’s span of days, yet it was hard to remember what Dunbronach had been like without her.
Beitris slid a look at Maccus. The giant was bewitched. He was seated on the opposite side of Malcolm, and he leaned across his cousin to gaze at Ronat—or rather to stare straight down her bodice. He didn’t make any attempt to hide his leer. Ronat was blushing under his scrutiny, and the Dunbronach men tensed with indignation at Maccus’s boldness. Maccus’s men were red cheeked, frowning at their leader, their manners obviously better than his. They cast sharp looks among themselves, refilled his cup, but said nothing. It wasn’t their place. More alarmingly, Beitris saw two hot spots
of color on Malcolm’s face, noted the tension in his jaw as he watched his cousin. She saw his hand close on his eating knife. Ronat reached out one fingertip to stroke his knuckles in an absent, wifely gesture until he relaxed. Beitris grinned. Clever girl—and her smile never faltered. She was as brave as a lion as she faced their unpleasant guest.
“How was your journey?” she asked Maccus politely, trying to make conversation.
“My journey . . .” Maccus slurred, still staring at Ronat’s breasts with hot, unfocused eyes.
Ronat blushed and lowered her gaze, but Malcolm was glaring at his cousin, his green eyes glittering dangerously, the muscles of his jaw tight. His knuckles were white under Ronat’s fingers.
“The weather was fine and fair, Lady MacDonald,” Iain MacDonald said. “Perfect for sailing.” Ronat nodded, but her smile trembled a little.
“She’s a hot piece,” Maccus said, leaning so far across Malcolm that he nearly had his nose buried in Ronat’s cleavage. The lass blushed to the roots of her hair, and Malcolm pulled his hand free of hers and reached for the hilt of the rapier belted to his hip. The Dunscaith men were instantly on alert, ready for trouble. Even William and Dougal clutched their eating knives in their fists. The air grew as thick as soured milk. Beitris felt her heart thumping in her chest.
She whisked a thick woolen shawl off the hook by the door and raced for Ronat. “Why, it’s cold tonight, and you’ve been ill, my lady—perhaps a shawl would warm you.” She wrapped the plaid around Ronat, covering every inch of her exposed flesh. Malcolm took off the brooch that pinned his own plaid and fastened the garment securely at her throat. The cairngorm gleamed like the devil’s own eye, a badge of possession even Maccus could not fail to recognize.
“More ale, Maccus?” Beitris offered pleasantly.
Maccus took the cup and drained it before she’d even finished pouring. “How did you come to meet a Cameron, cousin?”
“In Edinburgh,” Malcolm said. “We met in Edinburgh, at a ball. Her father came to seek legal advice from my uncle about a land claim.”
“You said she’s been ill,” Maccus said. “Is it the Sickness?”
“I fell and hit my head,” Ronat said, her soft voice like music. “I was abed for several days.”
Maccus grinned. “If I had been here, I would have ensured you did not lack for company.”
Ronat flushed pink, but her eyes flashed. She slid her gaze to Malcolm. Her smile was bright. “I can assure you I did have company—very fine company indeed.” It was Malcolm’s turn to blush. He grinned at Ronat like a fool, but a fool in love. Beitris felt her toes curl. She cast a look at her husband, but like every other man in the room, Dougal was staring at Ronat.
Beitris served the food, assisted by Glenna, since the other lasses had refused to come anywhere near the hall while Maccus was in it.
“How long will they be staying?” Glenna asked her, watching the men devour steaming bowls of venison stew as if they’d not seen food in a week.
Beitris wondered that herself. There was only a little flour left and hardly any vegetables or fruit until things started to grow in the hills.
With five extra men to feed, they were flirting with disaster. Of course, as guests, Maccus and his men could remain as long as they liked and eat their kin out of house and home if they pleased.
“Everyone’s afraid, and now he’ll starve us. I hate Maccus. I hope he leaves soon,” Glenna said, but Beitris sighed. She had no idea why Maccus had come now, after so many years away, but judging by the besotted look on his face as he stared at Ronat, she feared he might never leave at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was a dangerous game, this pretending. Malcolm couldn’t look away from Ronat. She charmed everyone at his table with a kind word and a smile. Maccus simply stared, his eyes narrowed with jealousy. No one had ever been jealous of Malcolm before. She’d convinced everyone—even him for a happy moment—that she was indeed his wife.
Maccus consumed pitcher after pitcher of ale and whisky in equal measure, his glazed eyes never leaving Ronat. At long last, he fell forward on the table, unconscious. His men picked him up, one on each massive limb.
“He’ll sleep until noon tomorrow,” Iain said. “Where are his quarters?”
“In Cormag’s room. Lochie will show ye,” Dougal said, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief as Maccus was carried out of the hall.
Ronat could almost believe she was truly Malcolm’s wife, his lady. It was all for show, of course, but it made her feel warm and light-headed.
When Maccus’s shaggy head finally fell onto the table with a dull thud and his men picked him up and politely bid their hosts good night, Malcolm took her arm and escorted her up to the lady’s chamber.
At the door he smiled at her. “Thank you,” he said. He glanced at the closed door of Cormag’s chamber where Maccus snored loudly. He turned to look at her, scanning her face, her hair, his expression soft.
She unpinned the brooch at her throat and pressed it into his hand. “It was an interesting evening,” she said, looking up at him. The shawl fell open, and his gaze fell to the low bodice of her gown, and he swallowed. She wondered for a breathless moment if he was going to kiss her. Her own mouth watered, anticipating it. Instead he bowed and stepped back.
“It’s late. Go inside and lock the door,” he said. She fumbled for the latch behind her, a trifle disappointed, and he stood in the hall and waited until she was inside.
“Good night, Malcolm Ban,” she murmured, and shut the door between them and shot the bolt home. She leaned on the panels and listened to his footsteps moving down the hall to his own chamber, and felt the loss of his company keenly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ronat had hardly set her head on her pillow when there was a scratching at her door. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin and stared at the portal. The scratching came again. “Are ye awake, sweeting?” Maccus’s drunken voice sang through the keyhole.
She sat up in bed, every nerve trembling as she reached under the pillow for her knife. She gripped it in her fist and kept silent. The latch rattled impatiently, but the lock held. He’d been to Dunbronach before, knew where the lady’s chamber was, expected to find her here.
“Ye need a man, lass, not that milk-and-water Lowland cousin of mine. Open the door, and I’ll show you what a real man can do. Are ye there, sweeting? I can pick a lock, ye know.” He laughed at the double meaning of his joke, and Ronat blushed, felt anger rise like a flood tide. She slipped out of bed and took a warrior’s stance in the middle of the room, her knife at the ready, and waited. The latch shook again, harder. The door shuddered. Her heart climbed into her throat, and her belly tensed. How long would mere oak panels hold against a man as big as Maccus?
She needed a bigger weapon, a sword or an axe. She looked around the room and found nothing better than a wee pair of sewing scissors. She clutched those as well.
Everything fell silent.
She crept to the door and put her ear to the panel . . . and heard nothing at all. She knelt and stared through the keyhole. Maccus was slumped against the wall opposite her door. She watched him for a long moment, but he didn’t move. He let out a long snore and she sighed. He was asleep again. She paced the floor, holding tight to her weapons, unable to sleep now.
Then Maccus woke again and began to sing a bawdy song. She peered through the keyhole again and waited until the obscene words died away to a mumble and he fell back to sleep.
She couldn’t stay here, waiting for him to sober up enough to burst into the chamber. She’d have to kill him if he did. He may be unwelcome at Dunbronach, but he was kin, their chief’s son, and she was—
Holding her breath, she slid back the bolt as quietly as she could. Even the faint whisper of the iron hasp slipping through the loop was loud in the silence. She took a deep breath, opened the door a wee crack, and peered out, her weapons at the ready.
Maccus didn’t move. She opened the door wi
der. She lifted the hem of her nightgown and stepped over his outstretched legs, and he jerked in his sleep, making her jump. Her cry of surprise was enough to wake him.
“Aha!” he cried, and his fist closed on her gown, tugged hard. The delicate linen tore with a shriek. She didn’t hesitate. She plunged the scissors into his flesh, heard him grunt in surprise. He slumped sideways. Ronat didn’t wait for him to reach for her again. She ran down the corridor to Malcolm’s chamber. She didn’t knock—she shoved the door open and rushed into the room.
Malcolm was sitting in a bathtub that was far too small for his big body. His chest was naked, and his knees stuck out of the water. He glistened in the candlelight, his skin golden, his hair bronze, his face—a mask of horror.
“Ronat!” He began to rise, then thought better of it and stayed where he was.
“I—I stabbed Maccus,” she said breathlessly. “He was trying to get into my room.”
For a moment they stared at one another, stunned.
“Close your eyes and don’t move,” Malcolm said at last. She heard water slosh as he rose from the tub and the sound of his feet on the floor as he stepped out. She opened her eyes a wee bit. He’d turned away, and she saw a pair of muscular white buttocks as he struggled to pull his breeches over wet skin. The sight triggered a flash of memory, another naked male bottom and a pitchfork. She shut her eyes tight.
“You can open your eyes now,” he said a few moments later.
His shirt clung to the muscles of his chest, and his damp hair curled over the collar. He was standing barefoot in a pool of water. He looked like he’d risen from the sea, perfect and male . . . Her mouth dried, and her eyes widened as he strode across the room toward her, his eyes on hers. He pried the knife from her hand.
“Is he dead?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I—I don’t know.” This close, she could smell his soap and the faint tang of whisky on his breath. She had to look up to meet his eyes. It made her knees weaken. “I—I don’t think so.” She held up the scissors, now smeared with blood. “He grabbed my gown. I wasn’t thinking. I stabbed him with these.”
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 12