When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  His lips curved into a smile. “Bells?”

  She clasped his hand in hers, looked toward the wee island. “She will ask you what you wish.” She looked up at him, her heart pounding in her throat, her body buzzing. “What do you wish, Malcolm Ban MacDonald?”

  He brought his hand to her cheek, caressed her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “For now, just this,” he said, his voice husky, and lowered his mouth to hers.

  The kiss seared her, and when his tongue touched hers, she melted against him, slid her arms around his neck, tangled her fingers in his soft curls, and stood on her toes to have more of him. He tasted of whisky, smelled like wind, peat, and the sea, all the scents that made up Dunbronach. His hands slid up the side of her waist to the undersides of her breasts, a breathless, delicious caress. Her senses whirled, and her tongue sparred with his.

  Will he betray you like the others?

  She broke the kiss, stepped back. Where had that thought come from? Was it a memory?

  He put a hand under her elbow to steady her, breathing hard.

  “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Why?” she said.

  “Because I can’t afford to mix magic with good sense, not where you’re concerned. You might belong to someone else, be married or betrothed.”

  She tried to remember a face, a figure, the sensation of kissing another man, of loving and being loved, but there was only Malcolm. Her lips still burned with his kiss. She put a hand against her mouth. There was danger in wanting this, as well as pleasure. Could she trust this man if others . . . She felt frustration quench her desire, unable to remember anything more than that vague feeling of betrayal, the fear of it. Was she married? A wedding, a party . . .

  “I don’t—” she murmured. “I can’t remember!”

  “Perhaps you should rest,” he said, his hand tightening on her elbow. “Forgive me,” he said again, his tone hollow, too grave for the sin of a single kiss freely given.

  She shook her head to clear it, to bring herself back to this moment, this place, and this man. She had nothing to fear from him. She could place her trust in him and be certain . . . “I think you’re a fine laird, Malcolm,” she said, changing the subject. “And on Beltane when you swim to the island—”

  He groaned, stopping her. He let go of her arm and moved away to glare out at the sea again as if it were his mortal enemy.

  “Oh, it’s a fine plan,” he said sarcastically. “There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I cannot swim.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  He was pacing the rug in his chamber again as Ronat watched him.

  “I can teach you to swim,” she said.

  He sent her a flat look. “Is this one more skill you mysteriously recall, like knowing how to kill a man with a knife?”

  “Perhaps I’ve forgotten who I am, but not what I am. Or perhaps I am a selkie, like Glenna says.”

  “That’s not funny.” She was so certain. Even without her memories, she was confident, kind, and clever, comfortable with who she was and what she was. He envied her that and admired her for it. He looked at the way the firelight shone on her hair and lit the soft lines of her face, and felt desire rise again. He shouldn’t have kissed her. A taste of her made it all the harder to resist taking more. He’d escorted her here, to his own chamber, intending to see her inside and go and sleep in the solar—another chair, another uncomfortable night. But she’d drawn him inside, insisting that they must talk. The last thing he wanted to do was talk, so he paced, his hands clasped behind his back, staying away from temptation, concentrating on the matter at hand. Swimming.

  If she knew how much he hated water . . .

  He’d almost drowned in that bay. “Thank you for the offer, but I doubt it could be accomplished in time for me to swim all the way to that island.”

  He’d been fishing with Cormag. He leaned too far over the side and fell into the sea. He went under. He remembered the sudden bone-numbing shill of the water. He saw lights flash, heard roaring in his ears, and felt water fill his nose and throat, burn his lungs. To this day he could remember the green, salty taste in his mouth. Even now, the smell of the sea at low tide brought the memory back again, made him queasy. There were too many old demons to overcome before he could learn to swim.

  “Perhaps I could take a boat,” he said, but even sailing above the water made him almost as sick. He felt it now and realized he was swaying back and forth, as if he were out on the sea. He stood still, closed his eyes until the feeling passed.

  “That’s not what the legend says,” she said.

  Anger rose again. The legend. It was no more real than fables of dragons and fairies, yet his clan believed every word of it. Glenna spent her days searching the shore for a selkie skin that didn’t exist, sure magic and deception would keep Ronat here at Dunbronach, make her love him.

  Deception. He felt a twinge of guilt.

  He could tell her now, speak the word MacLeod, see if she remembered. He took a breath and turned to face her. But she smiled at him, and her eyes were warm, her luscious lips curved sweetly, as if she was sure he could do anything—learn to swim, save his clan, fix everything—with just one wish. He felt like he could, seeing his reflection in her eyes.

  “Bugger legends,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What would you wish for?” she asked again. She rose to her feet, paced across the room toward him. “If you were standing before the sea maiden right now. What would you wish for?”

  He watched her cross the distance between them.

  You. He pressed his lips shut before he could blurt it out. He felt desire swim through his veins like a lazy fish, stirring waters best left undisturbed. He struggled to say something sensible. “It’s not as simple as that. It would require careful thought and planning—if it were real, of course.”

  He turned away from the luscious sight of her and began pacing again, forcing the scientific, lawyerly parts of his brain to look at the problem, make sense of it, find an amicable solution to all the needs—no, not needs, and not desires—the requirements of the matter at hand. “There’s a great deal that the clan requires to survive and prosper—one might wish for livestock, or seed for planting, or Maccus gone—or Archie back, even though that’s impossible.” He paced faster now. “Or coin. A few bags of silver would buy what we need.”

  But Archie had buried his coin and taken the secret to his grave. Perhaps he should wish for a map to his father’s buried treasure.

  He turned to pace back but found her blocking his path.

  “Those are the kinds of wishes you make with your head.” She jabbed her finger into his chest. “What does your heart tell you?” He frowned, but she smiled at him.

  “Don’t you see? When the laird is happy, his clan prospers. Malcolm wished for a child and a home. What do you want, Malcolm Ban, here in your heart?”

  He caught her poking finger in his hand. “Wouldn’t that be selfish? What if what I want is not what my clan would wish for?” She was his enemy. His clan would not welcome her . . .

  She bit her lip, and her lashes dropped to fan her cheeks. “Do you think the sea maiden missed Malcolm when he didn’t return? What if she’s waiting still for Malcolm’s descendant to come and fulfill his promise, for someone to love her . . .”

  “It’s just a story, Ronat. It’s not real.”

  Her eyes widened, shone. “Aren’t you curious to go and see if she’s there? You could tell her that Malcolm never forgot her, let her know that her wishes made him happy,” she said wistfully.

  “Do you believe in true love?” he asked her.

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I think I want to, but perhaps that’s the myth. Perhaps we seek what we truly want but end up settling for what we need instead.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Do you believe?”

  Malcolm considered his own question. He had been infatuated with wo
men in the past. He had held Nancy Martin in the highest esteem, admired her tidy face and figure, her ability to manage things, and her dowry. He knew now with certainty that he did not love her. But did he believe in true love, the idea that there was one perfect woman waiting for him?

  He looked down at Ronat. I believe, he thought. God, I believe.

  “No,” he said aloud. “It’s better to be practical, make a sensible choice of husband or wife. Passion shouldn’t be allowed to cloud one’s judgment on such an important matter.”

  The light in her eyes changed, went out. “Aye. True love isn’t real,” she said, and turned away. “I’m tired. May I bid you good night?”

  There was nothing to do but bow and leave the room. He paused outside the door to consider again. What would make the laird of Dunbronach happy?

  Her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  William heard the unmistakable clatter of swordplay in the bailey. He was on his feet in a trice, leaving his breakfast half-finished as he hurried out to see what was happening.

  It wasn’t trouble. Quite the opposite. He folded his arms and stood in the doorway to watch as two of Maccus’s men sparred. Now that was a sight that had been missing at Dunbronach of late. It brought a tear to William’s eye as he recalled how he used to drill the guards every day, but since the Sickness had claimed most of the young men, the practice yard had been empty.

  “Keep your blade up,” he warned one of the men—Rob MacDonald, as William recalled—but Rob moved too late, and his opponent’s blade sliced into his arm. William strode over to look at the wound. It was bleeding freely. “Did you intend to take his head off?” he asked the other man.

  Adam MacDonald winced as he looked at the cut on his friend’s arm. “Nay, I was just getting a bit of practice. Perhaps ye should get the healer to stitch it.”

  Rob frowned. “Let it alone. I don’t need a healer.”

  “Aye, ye do. Save your bravery for the field, lad. What if the MacLeods attacked tomorrow, and ye were lying abed with fever? You’d be no use at all if that gets corrupted,” William said.

  “The MacLeods?” Adam asked.

  “Our worst enemy. Always a potential threat,” William assured him, though he’d never even seen a MacLeod up close. Still, he’d always used tales of their brutality to keep his guards sharp.

  “I’ll take ye to our healer,” William said to Rob, then turned to Adam. “You will have to spar with me for a day or two.”

  “You?” Adam said, surprised.

  William drew himself up, half a head taller than either lad. “Aye, me. I’ve been wielding a sword since before your father planted ye in yer mother’s belly.” He held out his hand to Rob. “Give me your sword. I’ve a lesson to give.”

  He took the sword and stood before Adam. “Come at me.”

  “I might hurt ye,” Adam said, hesitating.

  “Och, aye? Or maybe Diarmid will have two men to stitch back together.” With a quick swipe of his blade he cut the strap that tied the dirk to Adam’s belt. It dropped into the dirt. Adam and Rob both stared.

  Adam swung his sword without warning. William parried it easily. With a grin, he twisted his wrist and sent the younger MacDonald’s blade spinning. It landed a dozen feet away, point down in the dirt, quivering.

  “How did ye do that?” Rob asked while Adam went to retrieve the weapon.

  William started walking. “I’ll show ye tomorrow. Now, let’s go see Diarmid.”

  A high-pitched scream greeted William when he opened the door to Diarmid’s hut and entered with the two MacDonald soldiers. Peggy MacDonald shrieked at the sight of Maccus’s men, and pulled a dirk from her belt and pointed it at them, her eyes wide with fear.

  “What’s the matter?” Diarmid demanded, rising from his seat by the fire.

  “It’s Maccus’s men!”

  Diarmid picked up his stout stick and waved it before him, his blind expression fierce. “Get behind me, lass. I’ll keep ye safe.”

  William rolled his eyes. “We’re over here, man. Ye’re fighting the air. I’ve got an injured man.”

  Diarmid lowered his stick and adjusted himself to face his visitors.

  “This is Rob MacDonald. He has a sword cut on his forearm. Can ye stitch it?” William asked.

  Diarmid grinned. “Are ye daft? Of course not! But Peggy can. Sit down, lad. Peggy, use a strand of hair, so there’s less of a scar.”

  “I’m a warrior. I’ve no concern about scars,” Rob said. He let his eyes roam over Peggy’s long red hair and continue on to take in the curves of her body. “I’ve a dozen other scars,” he told her. “I’m very brave.”

  She sheathed her dirk in her belt and put a hand on his shoulder to press him down onto the stool. “Of course ye are.”

  Diarmid probed the wound gently. “Have ye any whisky?”

  Adam took a flask from his belt. “Aye—will it help?”

  “It certainly will.” The blind man took the flask and drank deeply. Without warning, he poured some over the wound. Rob yelped like a lass.

  Peggy grinned. “A brave warrior, eh? The whisky will help clean the wound. ’Tis the worst part.”

  Rob looked dubious. “Worse than having a needle pierce my flesh?”

  “I’m as gentle as a lamb. Perhaps ye should have some of that whisky inside you, for courage.”

  “I have plenty of courage. Just do it.” Rob squared his shoulders and braced himself.

  She bent her head over the wound and William saw the lad lean forward to sniff Peggy’s hair. He smiled besottedly. “It doesn’t hurt at all,” he said, his tone softer now, sweeter.

  Her eyes met his. “I told ye it wouldn’t.”

  “Diarmid’s wife was our healer, but she died during the Sickness. He’s teaching Peggy what his wife taught him. She’ll make a fine healer,” William said.

  “I can see that,” Rob murmured. “Very fine indeed.”

  She blushed and finished the stitching.

  “Now put some salve on it and wrap it in a bit of linen,” Diarmid instructed when she’d finished, and she took down a pot from the shelf near the bed and Rob never once took his eyes off her. She opened the pot and held it under Diarmid’s nose. “Aye, that’s the stuff,” he said.

  As she applied the salve and wrapped the wound, Rob grinned at her. “Thank ye, Peggy.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Ye’ll have to come back tomorrow, let Diarmid check it.”

  “Will you be here too?” he asked.

  She blushed like a rose. “Depends. Will Maccus be with ye?”

  “If he’s drunk tonight as usual, then he’ll be fast asleep till the sun is high tomorrow.”

  “Then come early, and I’ll be here,” she said.

  Rob MacDonald rose and picked up his bonnet and smiled at her again. “I think I owe Adam my thanks,” he said.

  “Me? I was the one that sliced ye,” Adam said.

  Rob nodded. “And if ye hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met Peggy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Malcolm had thinking to do. He went out onto the beach alone. He wasn’t the laird the clan needed. When he shut his eyes, he still saw the disappointment in his father’s eyes when he’d come to Edinburgh. That was the last time Malcolm had seen Archie. Yet his father had told the elders Malcolm was to be the next laird of Dunbronach, even before Cormag was dead.

  Had Archie made a mistake, delirious with fever and pain?

  Malcolm looked around. It was almost mid-April, and in the weeks he’d been here, he’d come to love this place. The sight of the hills stirred his heart. He loved the people. He even appreciated the proud lines of his crumbling ancestral home. He’d spent the morning building a pulley to raise water from the old well. He found he enjoyed working with his hands, seeing his clan smile, knowing he’d made one thing better, and the daily task of drawing water would be easier. Ronat was right—it was like making magic . . . He planned to build a cistern and make it easier still . . .

/>   He dodged a wave that charged up the sand toward his boots. He loved everything except the sea. The sea had shaped his ancestors, and now it would defeat him. The legend might as well have asked him to fly to the island.

  After he’d left Ronat, he’d spent the night pacing the solar, trying to think of a way around the problem of the wish. He’d once again considered returning to Edinburgh, going back to his uncle’s law practice, serving as his lowly assistant. He had a sharp mind, and his uncle knew it, but he had refused to promote the son of a rough, rude Highland laird to a position of responsibility. His best clients were all Campbells, and the Campbells and the MacDonalds were bitter enemies, like the MacDonalds of Dunbronach and the MacLeods of Glen Iolair. It embarrassed Andrew Craigie to introduce his nephew, who was as big and braw as his father had been, with the same red-gold curls and green eyes. A fine suit of clothes could not negate a man’s parentage in Uncle Andrew’s opinion.

  But as he looked out at the sea and the hills, Malcolm knew he was done with trying to make his uncle like him. That was why he’d wanted to marry Nancy Martin. She’d touched his ambition, his mind, but not his heart.

  Dunbronach spoke to his heart, fired his imagination. He could make a difference here. Ronat had made him see that, made him feel it when she smiled at him, and when he kissed her.

  So there lay the problem he’d been pondering all night—if he could not go back to Edinburgh, then he must make his place here, prove to Fergus and the rest of the clan that he was indeed a leader of men, a Highlander, and the laird they needed.

  And that meant learning to swim.

  So now he stood on the beach as far from the castle as he could get, out of sight of the village and even Diarmid’s hut, and stared at the water. With determination, he pulled his boots off. The sand was cold under his bare feet. Most of his clan went without shoes, but his own feet were still Lowland tender. He looked at the whiteness of his skin and a small silver scar on his right ankle.

  He marched to the edge of the water and waited for the sea to come to him. An icy wavelet licked at his toes, and he gritted his teeth, refused to retreat. The wavelet withdrew but only to fetch a larger, more menacing one. This one sloshed over his ankles, splashed his knees, and dragged the sand out from under his soles. A bully . . . Malcolm kicked the water, splashed it back, and stepped deeper. The water reached his shins. His white skin gleamed in the clear, green water, and the cold numbed his flesh. He stared at the waves. They washed in and retreated again, over and over. His belly started a slow roll, and his head began to buzz. He took a breath through his mouth and tasted the sea. The pit of his stomach dropped.