He looked at the wee scissors in surprise. He put his hands on her arms, moved her gently away from the door. He frowned as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing muscled forearms. He was still clutching her knife in his fist, and he tightened his grip. “Stay here.”
“Be careful,” she whispered.
“Close the door behind me,” he said, and went out into the dark. She waited for shouts, the crack of fists connecting with bone, and grunts of pain, but the hallway remained eerily silent. She opened the door and stuck her head out. There was no sign of Maccus or Malcolm. Her heart climbed into her throat. What if Maccus had surprised his cousin in the dark, overpowered him, cut his throat?
She spun, found the rapier that Malcolm had worn with his plaid, and rushed back out into the hall. She collided with a solid wall of flesh.
She cried out, would have bounced off, but strong hands caught her. She fought, trying to free herself so she could wield the sword. He pulled her against his chest and pinned her arms to her sides. She kicked her captor in the shins and heard a suppressed grunt of pain.
“Ronat, for pity’s sake, be still!”
Malcolm. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would burst. She saw the faint gleam of his golden hair in the darkness, felt the heat of his body against hers. Malcolm, not Maccus. She was so relieved she dropped the sword with a clatter and threw her arms around him, pressed her head to his chest. His heart pounded under her cheek. He enfolded her in his embrace.
“Did I hurt you? I thought you were Macc—” she began, then looked around him. The hall was empty and quiet. “What did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do anything. He’s in your bed, passed out.”
She swallowed. “My bed? But I left him in the hall.”
“He must have gone into your room after you stabbed him. I’m afraid unless he moves himself, he’s there until morning. He’s too heavy to shift.”
She glanced at the door to Cormag’s room, now Maccus’s chamber. “I can’t sleep in there! What if he wakes and goes back to his own bed?”
“No, you can’t,” he said. He cupped his hand around her elbow and led her back into his room. “You’ll sleep here.” She dug in her heels.
“I—I’m just a pretend bride!”
He let her go as if she’d stung him. “I didn’t mean—” He stopped. “I meant you’ll sleep in my bed. Alone. I’ll sleep in the solar.
“That won’t do either,” she whispered. “What if he wakes up, wonders where I’ve gone, comes to look for me?”
He sighed. “Then I’ll sleep outside in the hall and guard the door.”
“Wouldn’t Maccus think that was odd, a husband sleeping outside his own chamber?”
“Pretend husband,” he murmured. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her brow as he sighed. “I’ll sleep in the chair, then. I’m getting rather used to it.”
He closed the door, locked it, sealing them in his bedchamber together. He turned to look at her. She was clad in nothing but a nightgown, with the hem torn halfway to her knee. She felt her cheeks heat at his scrutiny.
“I’m sorry. It was your mother’s nightgown. I suppose it’s ruined,” she said.
She saw his throat bob. “She left her wedding clothes behind when she left.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I daresay that gown has spent the night in this room before. In this very bed.”
A bride, clad in lace, perched in a bed strewn with rose petals and lavender, clutching the blanket to her breast in a room full of jostling, joking men as the women soothed her, whispered advice . . . Ronat swallowed at the unbidden memory. Was she remembering her own wedding? She could not recall the groom’s face, or what came next. She frowned, put her hand to her forehead, trying to remember . . .
Malcolm came closer, brushed his hand over her flaming cheek. “I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to. Get into bed. I’ll put out the candles.” He turned away and blew out the candles, one after the other. She dove under the covers—there was no satin here, just hand-spun linen and thick woolen blankets. The scent of his skin surrounded her.
The last candle went out, and she heard the chair creak as he settled into it. The wind rattled the shutters.
She was out of bed in an instant. She took a blanket off the bed, found the chair in the scant light of the banked fire. “Here—” she said, and covered him. Her hands brushed his face as she tucked him in, and paused there. She explored the stubble of his cheeks, the hard, warm muscles of his jaw. He let her explore, then brought his hands up to cover hers. He turned his head and kissed her palm. It sent cascades of heat tumbling through her body. Her mouth watered, and she leaned closer, her eyes on his mouth. She felt his breath on her lips, a soft exhale of breath. Her lips met his, brushed softly, tentatively. He kissed her back. Then his fingers tightened on hers, and he pulled away.
“It’s late, lass. Go to sleep.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Malcolm clung to one wee thread of good sense. He could not start something that might end badly. He wanted Ronat, but he found the strength to leave her to sleep alone in his bed while he remained awake on the other side of the room in yet another chair. He forced himself to keep one eye on the door, one ear listening for any sounds of Maccus stirring. He kept his sword beside him.
The only sounds came from Ronat, caught in the grip of restless dreams, either about Maccus or the accident that had nearly drowned her.
He stayed in the chair, well away from the bed and the woman in it, but her soft sighs were desperate, heart wrenching. He pushed aside the blanket and crossed the room. She was fast asleep, sprawled on her back, her dark hair splayed over his pillows. The ribbons that tied the neckline of her nightgown had come loose in her sleep, parting the fine fabric to reveal the upper slopes of her breasts. His arousal was instant. He shut his eyes and swore under his breath, but the image of Ronat in his bed was burned into his brain. He clenched his teeth and turned away, went back to his chair and closed his eyes, but it was no use. He imagined waking her with a long, slow kiss before untying the damned ribbons the rest of the way . . .
He picked up his sword and left the room. He sat on the cold stone floor outside his chamber in the dark, with his back against the hard wall, keeping watch away from temptation.
At dawn, he strode down the hall to check on Maccus. His cousin was still asleep in Ronat’s bed, snoring. Bitter fury filled Malcolm’s mouth at the sight of the giant nestled in Ronat’s soft, lace-edged sheets. Malcolm wanted to kill him for even thinking of touching her. He had to force himself to back away from this bed too, telling himself his cousin was a guest, and that was one Highland code that he understood, since it was as inviolable as law, as important as honor.
He also promised himself that as soon as he found out why Maccus had come, he’d do his damndest to find a way to make him leave. Why the devil had he come? Dougal said it had been nearly fourteen years since his last visit. Maccus and Cormag had been friends, but there’d been a disagreement between them, and Archie had sent Maccus away and banned his return when the pair had beaten each other too bloody to stand.
Maccus’s visit now hardly seemed a polite and friendly call from a kinsman bringing greetings from the chief of their clan.
Malcolm shut the door on his sleeping cousin—slammed it, actually, and hoped the noise hammered Maccus’s drunken brain like a club.
He strode down the hall, needing fresh air, but he stopped outside his own door. Perhaps he should go inside and wake Ronat, warn her Maccus was still in her chamber. He paused with his hand on the latch, pictured her curled in his bed, fast asleep. The loose, trailing ends of those damned ribbons beckoned him, even through the closed door. And if he opened it, the morning sun would be illuminating her face, glinting off her sleep-tousled hair and the rosy flesh under her half-open gown . . . He shut his eyes, stood where he was.
He couldn’t go in, didn’t dare—it was yet another point of honor, even harder and more inviola
ble than his determined prick. He would not give in to temptation. He was better than that.
Then another thought struck him, and he swore again. She had nothing to wear but the torn nightdress. He turned on his heel and went back to the lady’s chamber. Maccus slept on as he went through the carefully stored gowns that had belonged to his mother. He chose the primmest one he could find—gray blue like her eyes, high necked, made of plain wool. He grabbed stockings too, and her boots, and carried the whole lot back to his room. He laid it over the back of the chair for her and backed out, trying not to look at the woman sleeping in his bed.
She sighed in her sleep, a low, sweet, erotic purr that shot straight to his groin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ronat woke to the sound of the sea. She felt the linen sheets under her palm, looked around the unfamiliar room before she remembered where she was, and why. She turned to look at the chair where Malcolm had made his bed, but he was gone. Instead, Glenna sat there, kicking her bare feet.
“Madainn mhath,” the child said. “Good morning. The laird told me to come and watch over ye until ye woke, but there’s no need. Maccus isn’t here.”
Ronat sat up. “Has he left Dunbronach?”
Glenna wrinkled her nose. “Nay—he’s still fast asleep. He looks like a pig wrapped in lace in your bed. I suppose that’s why you’re here, in the laird’s bed.” The girl tilted her head and smiled with a knowing look well beyond her tender years.
Ronat felt her cheeks heat. “The laird slept in the chair,” she said, fixing Glenna with a sharp look of prim rebuke. She threw back the blankets and got out of bed.
Malcolm’s plaid lay at the foot of the bed, and she wrapped it over her nightgown against the morning chill and crossed to splash her face with cool water. Glenna stared at the torn hem of the garment.
“The laird fetched ye a gown so ye wouldn’t have to go near Maccus,” Glenna said. “It matches your eyes. D’ye think that’s why he chose it?”
The blush suffused Ronat’s whole body now. “I expect it was the first thing that came to hand,” she said as casually as she could, and pulled it on.
She was lacing Lochie’s boots when Glenna tiptoed to the door and peered out into the hallway. “I can hear Maccus snoring from here. I’d bet a pillow over his face could stop that . . .”
“He’s the laird’s guest and your chief’s son, Glenna,” Ronat admonished. It would serve him right, of course. He was the rudest man she’d ever met. He made her feel unsafe. She suspected—knew—she was not used to feeling that way. Men like Maccus made everyone afraid. She felt the insult of that keenly, as if this were truly her home and these good folk were her kin. Malcolm could not throw him out, of course—that’s how feuds began, when tempers ran high and insults, real or imagined, were dealt. Such things could go on for generations, poisoning life. No, Malcolm had manners and respected the rules of hospitality even if Maccus did not. And despite the pretense of being his wife—a tingle ran through her as she thought the word—she was only an outsider here.
But that didn’t mean she and the other lasses of Dunbronach had to stand by and bear Maccus’s insults and unwanted advances. She pursed her lips. A smart lass knew how to deal with a boor, be it with a sharp rebuke or an even sharper dirk.
Her knife was sitting on the table by the window with the bloodstained sewing scissors. She slid the weapon into the sleeve of her gown.
“D’you truly know how to use that?” Glenna asked.
“I do,” she said, sure of it. She would keep it close while Maccus was here, and if he tried to break into her room again, she’d see he got more than a wee scratch for his trouble.
Glenna nodded. “William taught me how to use a sling for hunting, but I can hit anything. Maccus would be no challenge at all. He makes a very big target. If the other lasses learn how to use a bow as well as a dirk, or a fishing spear, then they can help bring in food once Maccus is gone. He is going, isn’t he?”
“I hope so,” Ronat said, but it wasn’t up to her. The clan would decide who stayed or went.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Nay, not like that, lad. Try this.” Hugh MacDonald played a string of bright notes on his pipes, then regarded Lochie. “Try that.”
Lochie played a handful of notes, then faltered, and his pipes squawked like an injured goose.
Hugh pushed back his bonnet and took the pipes from Lochie, cradling them in his hands. “This is a fine set of pipes. Were they your da’s?”
Lochie nodded.
“And he died in the Sickness?”
The boy nodded again. “And my mother and my grandfather, too. Catriona—my sister—and I are the only ones alive still. Cat got sick, but she lived. I didn’t get sick at all.”
Hugh read the sorrow in the boy’s eyes, the guilt that he had survived and his kin had not. “Where is your sister now?”
Lochie looked away. “Up in the—” He hesitated, coloring. “She’s at her chores,” he said.
“She’s hiding from Maccus, isn’t she?” Hugh said. The widening of the boy’s eyes told him it was so.
Sharp anger stabbed Hugh. Even though he hadn’t been with Maccus the last time he visited Dunbronach, he’d heard about it. Maccus had been barely a man then, his beard still soft as down, but he’d made himself unwelcome. While other men liked a dram, Maccus went far beyond that, and he didn’t recall what he did when he was blind drunk, and since his father was the chief—well, any other man would be dead by now, killed by a jealous husband or an outraged father. But it was Hugh’s job to prevent that. And here at Dunbronach, the survivors of the Sickness were still hollow eyed and grieving. Inflicting Maccus on them now seemed a harsh punishment indeed.
He set his hand on Lochie’s thin shoulder. “You’re a good man to protect your sister. Tell her—” Hugh paused. “Tell Catriona that Maccus is dangerous only when he drinks, but if she’s afraid, she can call on me to protect her.” He’d pulled Maccus off his own sister once and barely refrained from beating him to death. For that sin, the chief had assigned him to Maccus’s tail, a bodyguard meant to protect Maccus’s life at all costs, even with his own if necessary.
Lochie nodded, glad of the advice, and Hugh nodded back. He gave the boy back his pipes. “Why don’t you show me where your folk are buried, and we’ll play a proper lament for them,” he suggested, and the boy nodded eagerly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The meadow above the waterfall had once been filled with fine, fat cows. Now, just half a dozen skinny beasts nibbled the first brave shoots of spring grass. They watched the strange sight of Dunbronach’s womenfolk practicing with knives and bows. The only man in sight was blind Diarmid, who sat in the sun and listened, since he couldn’t watch.
“How do ye know how to shoot a bow and use a dirk, Ronat?” Catriona asked. “Are there men like Maccus where you come from, men who’d steal a lass’s virtue with no honor at all?”
“I don’t know,” Ronat said. “I only know that a woman should be able to defend herself.”
Beitris sighed. “We had plenty of men, good men, to keep us safe before the Sickness.” She nocked her bow and sent an arrow flying toward the distant linen target. It hit the small square with a satisfying thunk.
“I miss my brother, my sister, and my grandda—he was the first one to sicken and die,” Peggy said. “It seemed all right since he was so old, and he’d lived his life. But my brother was a young man. He hadn’t even kissed a lass yet.”
Annie blushed. “Och, he did plenty of kissing.”
Peggy looked at her in surprise.
“The past is done and gone. We all lost folk we loved,” Diarmid said. “The MacDonalds of Dunbronach are strong folk—we’ve weathered hard times afore. We have a new laird now, and he seems a fine man. And we’ve got Ronat, our gift from the sea.”
“And the wish. What d’ye suppose Malcolm Ban will wish for, when he goes to the sea maiden’s isle?” Annie asked.
Ronat looked u
p in surprise. A wish?
“What would you wish for?” Beitris asked.
“A new dress,” Peggy said. “I buried my sister in my best gown.”
“I think he should ask the maiden for a herd of fine, fat cows for milk and meat and a flock of sheep for wool to spin with,” Catriona said.
“And men to dance with at a ceilidh, to love and marry,” Annie sighed.
“I doubt the laird is going to ask for a husband for ye, Annie MacDonald,” Peggy said. “Would ye have wed my brother if he’d lived?”
Annie blushed scarlet. “Aye, if he’d asked me.”
Beitris looked at Ronat. “I daresay ye have no idea what we’re talking about, do ye, lass? ’Tis an old legend. The laird must go to the wee island at Beltane and claim a wish from the sea maiden—”
“I’d wish for a sword of my own so I could cleave the enemies of our clan in twain with a single blow,” Glenna said, and the other women blinked at her. Glenna put her fists on her hips. “Why not? ’Tis why we’re here now, isn’t it? Are ye going to stand about gabbling like geese, or are ye going to shoot?” Glenna said.
Annie sent her a sharp look, but she raised her bow and aimed at the target. The arrow sailed past the target altogether. Glenna laughed.
“Think of Maccus when ye aim,” Catriona suggested.
Annie nocked another arrow and fired. This time it hit the target, dead center. The lasses cheered.
A sharp whistle split the air. “Och, that’s Lochie’s signal,” Catriona said. “It means Maccus is coming.”
“Get ye gone, then, lasses. Go and hide,” Diarmid said.
Annie led the way to a ravine, past rocks and scrub, until they reached the hidden entrance to a cave.
“We’ll be safe here. Maccus doesn’t know about this place,” Beitris told Ronat. She crouched and opened a bundle of bread and cheese and passed it around.
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 13