The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  Laire supposed Bibiana’s servants thought it odd she didn’t drink ale or wine or whisky. They probably thought she didn’t wish her father happy, but she never drank anything but plain water. Not since her brother’s death. She did wish Papa happy . . . She looked around the hall at her delighted clan and saw the last of Bibiana’s servants standing in the shadows just as she was, outside the party, watching.

  Bibiana had brought three servants. Terza was as old and lined as the hills, but her black eyes were as sharp as a bodkin. The French manservant, Rafael, was handsome, quick of wit, and as charming as summer wine. It was his job to anticipate anything that Bibiana might want, and provide it before she even had to ask.

  But this man was most intriguing. He was simply called the hunter, the sealgair, and by no other name. Laire looked at him from under her lashes. He neither ate nor drank, and he hadn’t dressed for the wedding, but wore the same black leather he’d worn since his arrival at Glen Iolair. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak, it was with the gruff brogue of a Highlander.

  He was dangerously dark, long, and lean. His sword hung low on his hip, and there was a dirk in his belt and another in his boot. Even in the midst of such revelry and merriment, he looked like a hungry wolf—a predator coiled to strike. She swallowed and ran her hand along the side of her skirt. She couldn’t seem to look away. Was he dangerous?

  He turned, and she felt the moment when his eyes met hers like a touch. A jolt of surprise shot through her. His eyes stopped her breath, arrested her, made her lips part in breathless surprise. They were as hard and gray as polished metal. He was a bonny man, she noted, the realization striking her like a whip and making him all the more disconcerting. Her belly tensed, and her breath left her body. Slowly, those clear gray eyes gaze moved over her, taking in her violet silk gown and the locket at her throat. Awareness of him heightened every one of her senses. She could feel the softness of the silk against her skin, smell the damp stones of the wall beside her, hear her heart beating. It skipped a beat as his eyes stopped on her lips. She watched his mouth tighten slightly, saw his throat work. She flicked her tongue over her lips, suddenly thirsty.

  She forced herself to smile, to offer him a brief and polite welcome to Glen Iolair, but he didn’t smile back. He looked away to scan the crowd, and she felt as if a candle had been snuffed out, leaving her in the dark. She kept her eyes on him, waited for him to look back at her again, but he did not.

  He was watching Meggie, who was very merry, and Isobel, who was tipsy and giggling, and sensible, steady, matronly Aileen, who glowed under the effects of the potent wine. The sealgair looked away again, frowning.

  Laire felt an angry blush rise from her breasts to her hairline. What right did this man, this servant, have to judge the MacLeods? It was their laird’s wedding, a joyous event indeed. There was nothing wrong with a glass of wine or two. Or more.

  She looked at him again, willed his eyes back to hers, and raised her chin. He glanced at her again, a mere brush of his eyes before they moved on. She sent him a sharp look to remind him that she and her sisters were the daughters of the Fearsome MacLeod, while he was just—she paused. No. He was more than a servant, that was clear. Something about the way he stood, the proud set of his head or the easy lines of his body, told her that. But what was he otherwise?

  He was alone, and he was a guest—of sorts. She turned to take a glass from Terza’s tray, not for herself, but for him. Her hands shook a little, anticipating what she would say and how it would feel to stand beside him.

  But when she looked up again, the shadows were empty. Bibiana’s sealgair was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Iain Lindsay pushed back the black hood that covered his head and looked around the forest that surrounded Glen Iolair. He breathed in the rich, pine-scented air of Scotland and let himself relax for a moment. He’d missed Scotland, even though he’d hardened his heart against ever coming back to his homeland. It had been nearly seven years. He’d missed the rocks and the hills, the purple of the heather, and the unsurpassed blue of the sky more than he’d known until this moment. The air held the tang of the sea, the freshness of the mountains, and the sweetness of the peat-rich earth. It was a perfume that was unique to the Highlands of Scotland.

  He frowned. Nay, it wasn’t his home. Not anymore. He had no country, no plaid, no clan, no home, and no name. He was the sealgair, defined by his hunting skills and nothing more.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed them, the brilliant yellow of the last autumn leaves so bright they were almost painful to behold. Or perhaps it was the long-forsaken emotion the sight of them stirred in him.

  He had no right to such feelings. He was naught but a servant now, and his job was to kill the birds Bibiana craved and play her bodyguard when she required that—which wasn’t often. Bibiana was a woman of independent wealth, wit, and charm. She was no man’s victim. Some called her a witch, some a seductress. She took what she wanted, swiftly and without mercy.

  He turned his face up to the sun filtering through the trees. The air was crisp and cold. It was early November, and he knew there wouldn’t be many more days like this one. Winter would soon close in on the Highlands, and deep snow would lock the land in an icy grip. Cailleach, the winter hag, would reign. But that witch had not met Bibiana . . .

  It wouldn’t snow today. Yellow leaves floated down around him like forgiveness. But redemption was impossible. His heart was as black as the clothing he wore, black as the dried blood on his sword and the barbed tips of his arrows.

  By spring, his sworn service to Bibiana would be done. She would try to beguile him to stay, promise him his heart’s desire if he remained with her. He wondered now if that was why she’d come to Scotland—to remind him of who he’d been, what he’d been, and what he was now.

  Ach, but this land was still part of his battered soul, for all his refusal to say it aloud. Still, he wouldn’t stay. When his contracted time was done, he’d go and disappear forever. But no matter where he went or how far he ran, the memories, the sins, the terrible burden of guilt, would stay with him.

  His ears pricked at the soft snap of a twig, the rustle of a branch being moved aside carefully. Not carefully enough. Someone was following him.

  It was the boy, no doubt—the half-grown son of a MacLeod clansman who had begged to come hunting with him that morning. He’d offered to saddle the horse, carry the weapons and snares, and bear home what the sealgair killed. He’d made a fist, crooked his arm, and showed Iain the strength of his wee muscles.

  But Iain hunted alone, the way he did everything else.

  For the moment, he ignored his stalker. He turned at the coo of a wood dove, high in a tree. In one sleek motion he drew his bow, nocked it, aimed, and shot the creature. It fell from the tree without a sound.

  He crunched through the leaves to where it lay, its red blood staining the soft gray feathers and the golden leaves. He frowned. He’d hit it through the heart and killed it instantly. It was a mistake. Bibiana liked the heart whole and undamaged, and the creature’s suffering made the meat spicier, sweeter. He pulled his arrow free and put the limp body into the pouch at his hip anyway. He looked around for more birds, but the woods had gone silent.

  He blamed the boy and his clumsy attempt to follow him. A hunter must be silent, stealthy, a shadow. If he were willing to teach the boy the way he’d been taught, he’d tell him that, show him . . . but he wasn’t here for that. He was Bibiana’s servant, her thrall, and he had work to do.

  He fixed a ferocious scowl on his face and turned to the place he knew the boy was hiding, just a dozen yards behind him, crouched low behind a bush. He heard the intake of the lad’s breath, knew his heart was beating fast. Good. He should be afraid.

  Iain began to stride toward the undergrowth. He caught the glint of an eye, the curve of a cheek. He heard a soft gasp, the sound of movement, and the boy lifted his head to look at Iain fully, his eyes widening in surprise. But the eyes
were violet, vivid against the yellow leaves, and surrounded by long dark lashes. He stopped in his tracks.

  It wasn’t the boy—it was the lass. One of Donal MacLeod’s daughters, the one who’d watched him at the wedding feast, the beauty with the lush lips and slender curves. He’d broken his own rule and looked at her, stared, unwilling to look away as his body shook with craving for her, with sorrow for her fate and disgust for himself. It had been a mistake, that moment of connection. He’d always made it a point not to see Bibiana’s victims, not to meet their eyes. But this lass had surprised him, and once he’d met her gentle gaze and set eyes on her half-parted lips and her slim, perfect figure, he hadn’t been able to look away. She had pale, translucent skin, and she’d blushed under his scrutiny. It was like watching the sun rise over the mountains in winter. It had felt like a blow to the gut, and his belly curled with the kind of male interest he’d thought long dead. She’d stolen his breath, just standing there. And her eyes—like amethysts, or the wee violets that filled the woods at Craigmyle in spring. For a long moment—too long—he hadn’t been able to look away from the MacLeod’s daughter. He tried to recall how long it had been since he looked into any woman’s eyes, felt desire stir. A mistake indeed. Lust had been replaced with regret at the thought of what Bibiana would do to the lass, what she’d suffer.

  He couldn’t afford such thoughts. They were distracting and dangerous. But still his heart kicked into a run, seeing her again here in the wood. He should turn and walk away, but he didn’t. He was curious. Why did she follow him? Her sisters were no doubt still abed, well-dosed with one of Terza’s potions—perhaps the one that brought on lust-filled dreams and made them sigh and quiver in their sleep, their young, perfect bodies rousing with desire and yearning.

  Did this lass lust for him? He deepened his scowl.

  He didn’t know her name, and he didn’t want to.

  A sudden movement above the lass’s hiding place made him look up. Another bird. He raised his bow again, shot the bird off the branch a scant yard over her head. She made a soft squeak of surprise as the bird dropped to the ground in front of her. It was alive still and thrashing, its beak wide with shock, the obsidian eyes fixed on the lass as it gasped in pain.

  Iain stepped forward and snatched up the bird. He turned away from the girl and wrung its neck, breaking the rules and ending the creature’s suffering quickly. He felt a moment’s shame that she’d had to witness the bird’s death. He didn’t look to see if there was sorrow in her violet eyes, or anger, or horror, though he felt those eyes on his back like the point of a dirk.

  He felt a hot surge of fury. No doubt she was innocent, pure, used to being protected by her clan. Well, her father would protect her no more. Bibiana had pulled the teeth of the Fearsome MacLeod and he was her creature now, docile as a lapdog. Her bed and her body would be all Donal MacLeod would think about, all he’d want, until she’d done with him. She’d fuck him, drug him, and leave him broken, empty, and demented, the way she’d left so many other men.

  He turned back to the girl, intending to tell her she was a fool and frighten her until she fled from him. But she’d risen to her feet. There were golden leaves and twigs tangled in her dark braid. She stood staring at him in stunned silence, her eyes wide, her pink lips half open in surprise. She had a full, lush mouth that made him imagine kissing her, doing more than that, and his angry words died in his throat as lust rose in a hot, unexpected rush. His tongue fixed itself to the roof of his mouth, and his chest tightened. Iain felt the shock of awareness and lust go through him again.

  There was a wee drop of the bird’s blood on her cheek.

  Instead of yelling he crossed the distance between them—five strides, no more than that.

  He took off his glove and raised his hand. Her eyes held his. This close, he could see a whirlpool of colors in their violet depths—indigo, copper, and blue. She was unsure, but not afraid. As a hunter, and Bibiana’s servant, he knew the scent of fear, but the MacLeod’s daughter smelled of nothing more than heather, fresh air, and clean, soft wool. He reached out and touched her face. She was so soft, so warm, despite the chill of the day. She gasped as his thumb brushed over her cheek and swiped the blood away in a single quick stroke, and that feminine little noise shot straight through him. Awareness rose higher, became interest, grew dangerous and delicious, and turned to temptation. She cast her own spell, he thought, and where he was oblivious to other women, this one was somehow different. He felt a shiver run though his limbs. He knew he should go, move away from her, but he stood where he was, staring.

  She was as slender as a willow, and he towered over her. That made him aware of his own size, his power. He could snap her in half with just one hand—why wasn’t she afraid? She was still staring at him, silent and curious, and he felt the effect of those violet eyes all the way to his knees. He’d made a second mistake—he shouldn’t have touched her, not even that wee, abrupt swipe of his thumb. His hand still tingled. He felt the bird’s blood cooling on his skin, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from hers. He wanted to reach out again, soothe her, warn her . . . kiss her.

  He swallowed and forced himself to step back, put a stride’s distance between them. When last had a woman trusted him, looked at him as anything but a monster? This woman was far too trusting. Fool. He let his lip curl, scowled at her.

  Her face paled, but she simply stood waiting, expecting him to speak to her.

  The words gathered in his throat, fury, rage, warning. But they stuck there. What was he afraid of—tears, terror? He’d seen those aplenty. He had been the cause of them.

  “It isn’t safe in the woods. Go home,” he said instead in a low growl. His hand tightened into a fist, trying to force away the memory of the feel of her, the sweetness, but it wouldn’t go. He wanted more. He wanted to run his thumb over her lush lower lip, draw her in, find salvation . . . It was too late. He was already damned.

  She didn’t move, didn’t flee screaming into the trees, so he turned and walked away from her, striding into the wood with the dead bird still in his hand. And as he went, he could feel those violet eyes watching him, piercing his leather jack and searing his flesh.

  And all he could think was how soft her cheek felt.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ohh . . . Laire watched the sealgair walk away from her until he was swallowed by the shadows between the trees. He disappeared as if he’d never been there at all, the black of his garments becoming one with the dark places of the wood.

  Once he was gone, the birds began to sing again.

  She let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding and dragged air into her lungs. Her limbs shook. She’d thought she was alone, hadn’t even known he was there until she looked up and saw him through the foliage.

  She’d happened upon him by accident. She’d been focused on finding hazelnuts when she noticed him standing in the clearing, big and black among the golden trees. She’d been so surprised she dropped the basket she was carrying. She’d stopped and stayed where she was, just outside the patch of sunlight he occupied, and watched him, wary of the stranger—the very strange stranger. He’d thrown back his black hood. She hadn’t missed the pleasure in his eyes as he lifted his face to the sun and breathed in the perfume of the autumn woods around him. She’s taken in his every detail. His big hands and broad shoulders, the lean, powerful length of his body. He had looked up at the golden leaves and almost smiled. Waiting for that smile, expecting it, wanting it, had stopped her breath and made her heart kick. The look of pleasure had faded before it ripened, but under his gruff, dangerous, forbidding exterior, she’d glimpsed it—the sealgair was human after all. Then his handsome face had hardened. In one swift, lithe motion, he shot a bird, and she flinched as she watched him pick it up, tear his arrow free, and stuff the wee corpse into the pouch at his hip. It was a practiced, easy gesture, without a moment’s remorse for the life he’d taken. She wondered how many creatures he’d killed, and felt a shiver
rush along her spine.

  Then he’d turned and scanned the woods. She waited for his eyes to find her, and she knew they would. She kept still, anticipating and dreading the moment. Her throat closed when his eyes met hers. She read surprise in the gray depths for an instant, but then it was gone. How long did they stare at each other? Long enough for her to note that his hair was dark red, not black and his eyes were as cold as sea ice. His nose was long and large, his mouth well shaped. The bones under his tanned skin were well made, creating an intensely masculine, starkly handsome face. In those seconds, it felt as if he took up all the air, didn’t leave enough for her to breathe. It wasn’t fear she felt—it was something else entirely, something unfamiliar. It made her intensely aware of her own body, and his.

  Her heart stopped in her throat when he took aim and fired at her. She heard the whistle of the arrow spinning toward her; saw the sun glint on the white fletching and the merciless steel barb. She’d been surprised when it struck the bird above her instead of burying itself between her eyes.

  He’d turned away so she wouldn’t see him wring the dove’s neck. She recognized the kindness, the chivalry—or was it shame?

  Now that he’d gone, she put her fingertips to her cheek. His hand had been warm and gentle, his touch a mere flick of his thumb, an instant, casual, offhand gesture. More kindness. Or an apology, perhaps, for the dove.

  She shivered. He’d been bloody too—his hand, his chin, but she hadn’t thought to wipe it away, hadn’t dared to touch him. She’d been frozen there, standing beside the shadow of his body, aware of the scent of him, the creak of his leather jacket as he breathed. She saw the black center of his eyes kindle, saw his jaw tighten, and wondered if he would step closer, touch her again, kiss her. Instead he looked away, angrier still, but she felt no fear. He wouldn’t hurt her. Or perhaps he would—a quick twist of her neck, an arrow nocked and aimed for her heart . . . Her belly tensed and she felt the chill of the day drop away, leaving only heat and anticipation. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.