Heat flared up the back of Iain’s neck and a lead weight of resentment settled in his gut at Traci’s assessment of him.
He laughed, of course, because it was the expected response. A response honed by the wishes of his mother to keep her and everyone else happy and entertained.
Aye, he was a flirt. Traci wasn’t the first to level that charge. But her words, said so lightly and matter-of-factly, cut through sharper and more deadly to his self-assurance for having come from her. He jerked his head to the side and gripped the reins tighter. Why? Why had he expected to be seen more clearly by her? Because they’d handfasted? Shared a night of passion together?
It was what he did best. He was good at it. He did enjoy flirtation.
As a youth, he’d fallen in love with one fair lass after another. Each one he believed in his heart to be the lass for him. How could a mere lad resist a softly curved cheek? The glow of silky hair in the sun? Their sweet breath and their sweet smell?
Flirtation was how he got them to talk to him, pay attention to him, like him. But it ended up being all they’d seen.
And—the inevitability settled in with his resentment—it was all she saw now. What did he lack?
He deployed his smile. “Of course, my wife. But I easily conquered you, did I not?” He inwardly winced as the words dropped between them, and pain flashed through her eyes, quickly masked. He’d only meant to continue their banter, to show she’d not scored a direct blow.
He reached across that space and covered her clenched fist with his much larger hand. It might not soothe her, but touching her again for the first time since they’d been separated certainly soothed something in him. “But the victory was just as sweet. Mistake that not.”
She tossed her braid over her shoulder, her dark red hair the color of well-aged claret. His fingers twitched on her hand, and he pulled away before he could impulsively reach up and undo that braid. See how her luscious hair looked—free and unbound—in the light of day, the sun playing with its colors.
She fixed him with a saucy stare, and his loins tightened uncomfortably under his plaid and sporran.
“How do you know it was you conquering me and not the other way around?”
Yes. Good question. And a potent reminder. Again, he’d let himself fall under her sway. ’Twas daring for her to express such a notion out loud, but then, she was a daring lass. He took in her form, sitting rather ill-at-ease on her pony. Definitely not a horsewoman. He berated himself. She is a spy. But the notion was a slippery one to hold onto as he contemplated her prickly, teasing, delectable person.
She duped you. Remember that, you dearg amadan.
He nodded. “You have me there, my wife.”
He edged his mount away. If she thought him a flirt, fine. His clan had assigned him that role, and he’d play it. His clan didn’t need to bear the brunt of his latest cock-up. They wanted her kept out of the way—distracted.
But by all the fickle fae creatures in the land, it chafed that she viewed him exactly as did everyone else.
His lips tightened, and he glanced ahead. Curse his fool heart. Or should he say, inept heart?
But, aye, he’d play the flirt.
For his clan.
The bright sun overhead warmed Traci’s skin and finally dispelled the morning chill. She followed behind Iain, and they crested a stony ridge. She gasped, and Glenfiddich stopped and reared her head up and down.
Iain pulled in his reins, his pony dancing beneath him, tail high, blocking her path. “Ah. Here we are, my wife. Welcome to Dungarbh.”
Below stretched the bluest lake she’d ever seen, the sky reflected in perfect detail on its surface. Loch Garry, Iain had said. They’d approached from the south side and now faced northwest, the lake spanning east to west. The nearest shore stuck out a bit, with a stone causeway extending to a cluster of stone buildings and docks. A small distance away, three islands clustered together in the center of the lake. From those rocky islands rose a fully intact castle. Banners snapped in the breeze along the battlements, and small fishing boats dotted the otherwise blank and smooth surface of the lake.
Tiny hairs rose all along her skin. Goose bumps followed. God. This was Scotland. An ephemeral something tugged at her heart, her soul, and for a moment she could kind-of-sort-of grasp why her sister and her family made such a big friggin’ deal about their Scottish heritage.
No lie—bagpipes seemed to echo off the mountains surrounding them like a craggy rim of a bowl, the spirits of ancestors seemed to swirl around her, caressing her, welcoming her, and the wild and free air seemed to beckon to some long-forgotten, long-neglected part of her soul. She could almost hear, feel, taste it—a tantalizing siren song luring her, making her heart, her whole being, swell with emotion.
Holy crap. She shook herself. Ridiculous.
Had she switched bodies with Fiona?
It was her sister who loved Scotland, not her. It was her family who loved Scotland, not her.
She tightened her lips. All the times she’d been made to practice some dance or craft or song for the Highland Games crowded her memories. Memories that stretched back the entire length of her childhood. God, by the time she skedaddled off to college, she thought she’d scream if she witnessed one more guy strutting around in red-chapped, knobby knees and a kilt. College had been freedom. Freedom to explore her own interests, which her family had never taken seriously and so had never let her explore.
Because each friggin’ October they went to the Highland Games in Stone Mountain, Georgia, and each friggin’ October she had to parade around with the rest of their family, pretending at all this Scottish heritage crap. Her family had come over so long ago—before the American Revolution for God’s sake—so how exactly were they Scottish again?
They weren’t. They were American.
But you couldn’t tell that to her parents. Oh no. And she’d tried. And tried.
They were obsessed with the “family” symbolized in their clan, but what was the point of that, if they neglected to embrace their immediate family?
She narrowed her eyes and swept across the scenery once more. Ugh. Stupid scenery. Stupid imaginary bagpipes. Just hearing the instrument’s skirling reminded her thank-you-very-much of the biggest example in her life of how she didn’t fit in with her family, or anywhere really.
A pony beside her snuffled, and a kilt-draped, muscly dude nudged past and picked his way down the ridge. Others followed, passing on either side of her and Iain, their saddles creaking, their voices muffled.
Iain raised a brow and nodded toward the path. She’d swear to God his eyes were twinkling.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she muttered.
She kicked Glenfiddich, who obediently angled down the path. She leaned back to keep her balance and soaked in the scenery jolting before her from her pony’s gait.
Damn it, it was beautiful.
But she’d resist its lure.
Soon they reached the shore and trotted across a stone causeway about a hundred feet long. It ended at a small island surrounded by a wooden palisade. Behind it, in the distance, the castle loomed larger and larger until it filled the horizon. Several children erupted from the open gate at the end of the causeway and pounded across, a pack of dogs swirling and yipping around their ankles. The excited kids launched themselves at some of the men surrounding her. Shouts of joy filled the air.
And then, because-of-course, some dude popped up on the palisade and played the friggin’ bagpipes.
Could they be any more Scottish?
She laughed at herself. Well, they were Scottish. What had she expected?
She shielded her eyes to get a better look at the piper, and her gaze snagged instead on the man standing alone several feet from the musician. His arms were crossed, and it was hard to tell from this distance, but she’d swear he was glowering. Glowering straight at— No. Not her. She followed his trajectory: Iain. Who was oblivious to the intense focus, laughing and ruffling the h
eads of several children.
Chapter Six
Ken ye wha supped Bessy’s haggies?
Ken ye wha dinner’d on our Bessy’s haggies?
“Bessy’s Haggies,” Jacobite Reliques
Iain rode through the open gate and kept an eye on Traci, who took in the courtyard and the stone castle farther out in the loch. He’d always been rather proud of their complex. The small island where they stood sheltered their livestock when needed and contained large stables. Along the northern shore skirted the wooden docks and the homes of the families that managed the ferry and stables. Enemies would have to cross the narrow causeway, and then they were still met with several hundred feet of loch before they reached the main complex of stone buildings accessible only by ferry or boat.
But how did she view it? Were the thatch-roofed buildings and wooden palisades primitive to her? Campbells boasted finer establishments, he was certain.
Her perusal was keener than usual, as if she cataloged defensive placements and numbers of men on watch, and his uneasiness grew. Such intense interest certainly lent credence to his clan’s worries that she was a spy of the mighty Earl of Argyll, head of the Campbell clan.
Her hands, which up till now had loosely held the reins, were tense. One hand still lightly gripped the leather, but the other was fisted in her lap, and she kept opening and closing it, as if she caught herself being tense and stretched her fingers out in an attempt to relax. Over and over. Open. Close. Open.
He dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting stable lad.
If she were a spy, she wasn’t very subtle. Likely, the earl, in his arrogance, assumed Iain’s clan would not suspect a lady spy. But his clansmen weren’t soft skulls, like the English the earl usually reckoned with. Irritation swept through him—how had he been taken in by her? He had to have been truly the numbskull his uncle constantly accused him of being to have not seen the signs.
He stepped over to Traci, who remained atop her pony and surveyed the area and his clan, a slight furrow marring her lovely brow. He slapped a hand onto her luscious thigh.
Traci whipped around in her odd saddle, and her gaze dropped to his hand. Her eyes narrowed.
“May I assist you down, my wife?” he asked in English. All within earshot who understood gasped, and he grinned widely.
She jerked, and her attention skipped around the growing crowd, panic sparking in the depths of her eyes.
’Twas clear she’d stay atop her pony until King James reclaimed his throne if Iain didn’t do something to alter her position. ’Twas also clear what was required of him to that end. He sighed. What a hardship.
He grasped her by the waist, and, as if involuntarily, her hands dropped to his shoulders to steady herself. He eased her off the horse and made extra certain she slid down the entire length of his body. Slowly. Vindictively.
His family wouldn’t be shocked. Nay, they’d be shocked if he didn’t do such a bold action with a lass who was his wife.
As her shapely thighs brushed down his, and her fair bosom dragged across his chest, his senses sparked to life. The folds of her dress rode up partway, placing some artificial distance between them, but he wouldn’t complain—he had his hands around her wee waist, her breasts mashed against him, and her sweet breath coming just a bit faster against his neck, heating his blood. His gaze locked with hers. Christ, but she was lovely. Wisps of red hair had escaped her braid and fluttered across her creamy cheek.
Ach. Now, he was as hard as the Stone of Scone. Why had he thought this a good idea again?
But as he continued to stare into the depths of her brown eyes, a realization struck him. A trace of fear shimmered there, as if she were afraid to turn around and face his clan. As if she’d latched onto him, her only lifeline.
An odd feeling pinched his heart at that notion. To be someone’s sole anchor—it made him ache to wrap her within his embrace and tuck her head under his chin.
Was the lass treading in deeper waters than she’d reckoned on?
Well, he’d play his role—the foolish lover. She played off that with ease. And if she was in over her head with Argyll’s schemes, he’d be her lifeline in the deep, treacherous waters.
He gently eased away and cradled her chin, bestowing a wink to give her focus. A swallow bobbed down the white column of her throat, and the sight brought a rush of new memories. Memories which stirred his blood, aye, but also brought a conviction that she had not manipulated him into the handfasting. It had been spontaneous, sincere, strangely fragile.
His aunt and uncle pushed through the last of the crowd and stopped before them. They must have been alerted to their arrival, for they usually remained on the main island of their keep.
Iain cleared his throat, draped an arm over his wife’s shoulders, and tugged her tight against his side, disconcerted by her continuing silence and acquiescence. Though he’d known her but a short while, he knew this was not her usual state. “Everyone, this is my wife, Traci Campbell, handfasted two nights past,” he said in English. “Traci, this is my uncle, the chieftain, and his wife Marjorie.”
“You married?” his uncle asked in Gaelic, his voice laced with a hard edge. “And a Campbell, no less? Are you truly that daft then?”
The back of his neck heated and tightened, but he said lightly, “I’m not sure I knew she was a Campbell at the time.” He regarded Traci’s stunned face and winked. “But, aye.”
“Which Campbells are you connected with, dear?” his aunt asked in English, stepping closer. She smiled kindly at Traci, bless her. Even though he knew he had to be careful and keep Traci at a distance, it felt right to put her at ease.
Traci cleared her throat. “The Campbells of…Stone Mountain.”
Everyone who spoke English exchanged glances, their faces puzzled. His uncle cocked his head and scowled. He crossed his arms. “I’ve never heard of that branch. And your accent is odd. Do you not speak Gaelic?”
She straightened slightly against his side. “No. Ah, my sister and I were raised by my mother’s family down in…Cornwall. We only just arrived in Scotland.”
“And hitched yourself for a year and a day to the lad with the most roving eye in all of Scotland.” His uncle shook his head, his eyes pitying. “Good luck to ye, lass.”
Traci stiffened beside Iain, and he was certain he had tensed as well, though he was practiced at not showing how their opinions bothered him. His family had never understood him. Though perhaps he’d not tried too hard to help them.
Let them think what they will. If he was to play the fool with her, if this was the only task they could trust him with, he’d do it, and do it well. He’d not let his mistake harm his clan. Again. Pain lanced through him, taking him by surprise. Long ago, he’d come to terms with his father’s death—and his role in it. And long ago, he’d learned that he was not someone to entrust with his clan’s safety. So why did that knowledge feel now like a fresh wound?
“Ye must be half-starved, Iain,” his aunt said, her grin wide. “We didn’t expect you for another day, but we can have the cook get something prepared for the lot of ye ’ere long.”
He turned to the path that led to the docks and the ferry. “Aye, that would be most welcome.”
“We can’t share a room.” Traci put her hands on her hips at the entrance of a room at the end of one massive wing located on the third island.
Iain brushed by, dousing her with his stupid manly scent, and eyed her as he passed. “We can, and we will. We’re married now. ’Twould look odd otherwise.”
He strode across the room, his gait loose-legged and confident, and knelt before the fireplace as if that settled matters. He stacked blocks of peat and lit a fire.
The pungent, earthy smell of peat filled the room, and she stepped farther inside. “You can’t be serious. And I’m not convinced we’re married. We didn’t have a priest.”
He stood and brushed off his hands, his heated gaze raking her body. “You know about handfasting, do you not? No
witnesses required. No officiant. As long as the couple agrees to commit, they are bound for a year and a day. At that time, if it doesn’t work out, we may part ways.”
Wow. It sounded so…pagan. Who’d have thought?
Still.
“Listen.” She fought the urge to cross her arms. “Now that we’re alone, we need to get a few things straight. First, I’m not going to be around that long. I have to find my sister and return to our…home. Second. This thing between us?” She waved her hand in the space between them. “It’s not happening. The sex was great”—what I can remember—“but it was a one-time thing. It would be best, for you and for me, if we keep that in mind. So…no sex.”
His eyes widened, and his brows lifted at her bluntness, but she’d learned long ago that bluntness was best where emotions were at stake. While rude, it was clear. She didn’t want to hurt him, or herself. He’d thank her later.
Besides. She knew his type. Being attached to one woman was not his style. Normally, his type was perfect for her needs—that night at the inn being a neon-blinking example. But with the stakes so high, it was time she was responsible for once. If she indulged, she’d get emotionally entangled. It had happened before. Hence, her rule. What fool let that happen with someone like him? She was only here because they’d promised to help find Fiona.
As was her habit when she felt herself slipping where guys were concerned, she fiddled with the ruby ring she’d purchased at an antique store shortly after the second of two back-to-back wake-up calls she’d received her senior year in college. The intricate filigree was seductive in its swirls, around three dark red rubies. She bought it to remind herself that trouble for her heart came in flirtatious packages.
“No sex?” He crossed his arms, and damn him if he didn’t purposely flex his biceps under his shirt. “Well…if ye think ye can resist, who am I to argue?”
She tossed her bag onto the floor and shook her head. Yep, she had him pegged. “I can resist all right. Don’t you worry, buster. So. Why don’t we take turns with the bed?”
Must Love Kilts Page 5