No Other Highlander

by Adrienne Basso

  Joan braced her hands on his wide shoulders, hoping to hide her reaction. But Malcolm must have known, for he seized the opportunity to hold her even closer, molding her softness against his thick, muscled chest.

  The feelings of desire she believed she lacked reared and Joan surprised herself by admitting how much she liked it when he touched her. Kissed her. Folded her in his embrace and held her against his broad chest.

  He had come to their bed very late these past two nights, long after she had fallen asleep, and taken his leave before she awoke. Joan had told herself she was pleased at his lack of sexual attention, for it put far less of a strain on their marriage.

  He had made no romantic overtures since she had surprised him in his bath. By design? Mayhap he had lost interest in her? Or was that all part of his plan of seduction?

  Biting the inside of her cheek, Joan pushed away those thoughts. They had come here to discuss Lileas, not their relationship. Given what she had to say, ’twas very possible that Malcolm would hardly be inclined to kiss her when she was finished.

  Joan kept her eyes focused on the horizon, yet she felt Malcolm’s gaze move over her. What does he see when he looks at me so intently? A reminder of a foolish impulse that he now regrets?

  Joan expelled a slow breath. She wouldn’t blame him. She was hardly the wife he desired. But damn it, she was the wife he had.

  “If I am to be Lileas’s mother, then ye must allow me to take charge of her,” Joan declared, getting straight to the heart of the matter. “Ye must never interfere and especially never thwart my decisions once they have been made.”

  “What if I dinnae agree with ye?”

  “We can discuss it, but in this instance my word must be the final one.”

  Malcolm tilted his head, his expression baffled. “She’s my daughter.”

  “She is our daughter, just as Callum is our son,” Joan insisted.

  “I cannae bear to see her tears,” Malcolm confessed. “They never fail to tug at my heart.”

  “They are often false, a ruse to get her own way.”

  “Guile at her tender age?” Malcolm shook his head adamantly. “Nay, ’tis impossible.”

  “Ye just refuse to see it because it makes ye look the fool.”

  Malcolm grew very still. “What did ye say?”

  “I said that Lileas is making a fool out of ye and I will not allow her to do the same with me!” Joan struggled to modulate her tone, but her emotions were rising.

  The transformation that came over Malcolm was swift and fearful. His lips contorted into a growl as he stared at her with open hostility. Joan shivered, feeling small beside him.

  “I am not a fool fer loving my daughter! I wish only fer her to have a carefree, happy childhood.”

  Joan crossed to stand in front of him. “She must be taught to respect authority and to listen to her elders.”

  “She does!” Agitated, Malcolm began to pace. “Mostly.”

  “She does not. Ever!”

  Malcolm’s nostrils flared. “That’s a lie.”

  “Ye’re shouting,” Joan accused.

  “So are ye!”

  “I’m trying to get ye to listen to me,” Joan cried out desperately.

  Malcolm swore under his breath. “It’s not working. All it is doing is raising my ire. Rapidly.”

  He balled his fingers into a fist and she could see the anger coiling in his muscles, the unmistakable expression of rage on his face. She stared at him, breathing heavily, afraid to speak, afraid to move. The silence stretched between them, neither willing to give in, to lose the battle.

  Joan braced herself, preparing to lunge if he raised his fist, though it was her heart that pained her most. It felt like a great weight was pressing down on her.

  She knew full well that fury this strong could blind any man to reason. Even one who had vowed never to strike his wife. ’Twas a stab of disillusionment and foolishness to believe that Malcolm could in truth be different from other men.

  With lightning speed, Malcolm hooked Joan’s arm and swung her around. His features were twisted in anger, a snarl curling his lips, yet astonishingly she still thought him handsome. Daft. Ye’ve gone daft.

  Joan screamed as he swept her into his arms. He kissed her hard, almost brutally. Her senses were overrun with emotions—surprise, fury, and most disturbingly, a flush of passion and desire. She didn’t push him away as she ought, too stunned to react.

  So rattled were her senses, she didn’t realize he had walked to the edge of the loch until she felt a slight breeze. He extended his arms and then dropped her. There was no time to scream. Joan felt herself falling and then with a great splash she hit the water.

  Her arms flayed wildly as the shock of cold water seeped into her bones. Her feet tangled in the folds of her gown as she kicked frantically, desperate to keep her head above water. She had never been a strong swimmer and the fear of being swept beneath the surface was very real.

  “Ye bastard! Ye think to drown me!” Joan shrieked, slapping her hand against the surface of the water.

  “I seek to cool yer temper,” he answered calmly. “And my own.”

  Malcolm quickly shed his clothing and then to Joan’s utter astonishment, jumped into the loch. He entered the water a few feet beyond her, turned, and started swimming the other way.

  “Malcolm, please,” she gurgled, as she felt herself sinking beneath the surface. Her arms felt leaden with the struggle to keep herself afloat and she further panicked when she realized how far she had drifted from the shore.

  He ceased swimming and began floating on his back. “Stand up, Joan,” he shouted. “The water isn’t above yer head.”

  Feeling foolish, Joan harnessed her panic and calmed her movements. Straightening her legs, she sighed with relief when her booted feet touched the solid bottom of the loch.

  She wheezed in a breath and coughed out a mouthful of brackish water. Malcolm’s eyes were pinned on her as he continued to float lazily on his back.

  Och, how she wished he was near enough so she could dunk his head beneath the surface and watch him sputter for breath!

  Summoning her bruised dignity, Joan began dragging herself to the shore. Her water-soaked gown pulled at her, making it difficult to move. Joan floundered with each step, struggling to keep her balance so she would not fall back into the loch.

  She had nearly reached the bank when Malcolm came up behind her. He swept her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She resisted for a moment, then her arms reached up and encircled his neck. With a quiet sigh, Joan pressed her cheek against his wet flesh, tucking her head beneath his chin.

  Once they reached the shore, he set her carefully on her feet, making sure she was steady before pulling away. Joan pushed a sodden mass of heavy hair off her face and stared at him with fresh eyes. His expression was earnest, his manner conciliatory.

  His anger had been mastered by the cold temperature of the water and the physical exercise of his swim, making him far more approachable. Except that he was naked, his hard body and lean muscles on clear display. She swallowed.

  “Ye’d best get out of those wet garments before ye catch a chill,” he advised. “I’ll build a fire to warm us and dry yer clothes.”

  Malcolm pulled on his braies, shrugged into his shirt, then handed her his tunic. Joan’s fingers were clumsy as she struggled to untie the wet laces on the bodice of her gown. Turning her back, she removed her chemise and donned Malcolm’s tunic.

  It carried his scent, a heady mix of sandalwood and musk. Ignoring the tingle it gave her, Joan rubbed her arms, drawing a fortifying breath. She heard the crackle of burning logs. Stepping into the circle of firelight, she perched herself daintily on a log.

  “A perfectly good pair of boots ruined,” she complained, pulling off her waterlogged footgear and woolen hose.

  “I would have given ye fair warning before I dropped ye, but I knew ye’d start to struggle and that might have led to an injury,” he
said.

  “Fer ye or me?”

  “Me most likely,” he answered, amusement in his voice.

  Yet Joan knew that she was the one who could have been hurt. At least he cared enough to prevent it.

  “Why did ye kiss me?” she asked, extending her fingers toward the flames.

  He grinned. “Because I couldn’t resist. Yer color rises when yer angry, yer eyes sparkle like flame. ’Tis irresistible.”

  Malcolm produced a flask of whiskey from his pocket, took a long swig, then handed it to her. She imitated his action, taking nearly as large a gulp, managing not to grimace at the harsh taste. The liquid warmed its way through her body, easing the chill.

  Malcolm watched her with hooded eyes while she tipped the flask and downed a second sip. “It will help improve my mood,” she said, then ruined her regal bearing by hiccupping. Twice.

  “Hmm, ’tis good to know that ye’ll be a mellow drunk and not a belligerent one.”

  She tried to give him a frosty stare, but her mouth would not cooperate. It curved into a mischievous grin. Shaking her head, Joan slid her tongue over her teeth.

  They sat in silence for a long while, the crackle of the fire and potent whiskey keeping them warm. Joan reached out, pleased to feel her gown was starting to dry. The sooner she put it back on, the better.

  “Do ye think we can manage to discuss Lileas without shouting at each other?” she ventured.

  “We can try.”

  Joan nodded, searching her mind for a simple way to make him understand. “If Lileas is my daughter, then ye must allow me to raise her. And that includes punishing her when she disobeys. She is a clever lass who has learned that she can have her way whenever she wants, as long as she pleads her case to ye.”

  He winced. “She’s just a lass. I cannae believe she is that manipulative.”

  “Which is precisely how she gets away with it,” Joan countered.

  His eyes flickered away from hers and then back. “How can ye possibly know these things?”

  Joan hesitated. “I was exactly the same when I was younger. Perhaps even more willful and spoiled.”

  Malcolm took a slow sip of whiskey. “Who spoiled ye?”

  “My parents, especially my father.”

  Malcolm digested the words in silence, but Joan could see his doubt. ’Twas understandable. Malcolm had witnessed for himself how little her father cared for her. But when she was younger, it had been a far different story.

  “My mother fell pregnant many times,” Joan explained. “There were miscarriages and stillbirths and one poor mite who lived but a few weeks. I was my parents’ only surviving child and they showered me with attention and allowed me all that I asked, anything I demanded.

  “I grew to become a selfish, cunning woman and that led to a great deal of unhappiness in my life. I would spare Lileas that fate.”

  Joan lowered her chin. The bitter truth of those words could not be denied, yet ’twas difficult to admit them to herself, let alone speak them aloud to Malcolm.

  It must be the whiskey loosening my tongue.

  A muscle ticked in Malcolm’s jaw. “I admire my daughter’s spirit. I’ll not have it taken from her.”

  “Of course. ’Tis a strength that will stand her in good stead as she matures and becomes a woman. But it must be harnessed. She must be taught that there are consequences when she disobeys and that she willnae be allowed to indulge every whim that comes into her head.”

  For a moment he appeared unaffected. Then Malcolm grumbled, his jaw working back and forth. Joan held her breath. Had she succeeded in making her point?

  “So be it,” Malcolm said grudgingly. “Ye shall tend to the raising of our children.”

  “Without interference,” Joan pressed.

  “The discord between us avails us naught. I willnae object to yer methods.” Malcolm squared his shoulders. “As long as they yield results.”

  “All will benefit from this arrangement, Lileas most of all.”

  “Hmph.”

  She had won! Joan forced herself not to react with triumphant glee. “Dinnae look so contrite, Malcolm. Ye acted out of love. There is something rather endearing about a strong, capable warrior with a kind heart.”

  “Is there?” His lazy smile nearly blinded her. “Well then, ye best show me exactly what ye mean.”

  * * *

  Joan eyed him dubiously, but Malcolm’s smile never dimmed. By the saints, no woman alive could fire his blood as quickly or hotly as his wife. His desire for her pushed his self-control to its limits, even when she was shouting at him like a fishmonger.

  She kept silent, electing not to answer his challenge, which only heightened his amusement. He stretched his frame with caution, ignoring the sharp twinge he felt in his side. The hard swim had not been the best exercise for his bruised ribs, but it had been essential for his temper.

  He felt a stab of guilt, knowing he should have made certain Joan was not afraid of water before dumping her in the loch. He knew she would be safe even if she didn’t know how to swim, but water need not be deep to prove fatal. He remembered well the tale often repeated to him when he was a lad about a clansman who had drowned after landing face first in a puddle of no more than a few inches.

  Of course, being drunk at the time could have also contributed to the man’s demise. At least Malcolm hadn’t plied his wife with fine whiskey until after she emerged from the water.

  She was in a mellow mood, thanks to the liquor, but Malcolm suspected getting her own way played a large part in putting that satisfied glint in her eye. It hadn’t been easy for him to agree to let Joan take charge of Lileas, but deep down he knew it was for the best.

  Joan leaned forward, passing the flask back to him. The front of his tunic gaped open and he caught a glimpse of her firm, full breasts. They were perfection. White, unblemished flesh and pert, rosy nipples.

  He could feel the blood rushing to his groin and he felt himself swell and stiffen. The wicked temptation seemed to mock him; in any other circumstance he wouldn’t hesitate to succumb to this desire. But he wanted more than a quick release. He wanted her to return his ardor with equal fire.

  Thankfully, the easy, languid expression on her face was all the encouragement he needed to try a different approach. With a seductive smile, Malcolm reached for Joan’s stockings, pleased to discover the warm flames had dried the soft wool. He deftly rolled one, then placed her foot in his lap.

  He slid the stocking over her toes, yet made no move to pull it into place. Instead, he let his fingers glide up her naked calf. He continued caressing a path over her knee and up her thighs, feeling the goose bumps that prickled on her skin.

  Joan stared at him, aghast, yet made no move to pull away.

  “Ye have such lovely, dainty feet,” he said, pressing his lips to the top of her ankle.

  She trembled. Malcolm took a deep breath, then slipped his hand between her thighs, brushing his fingers gently over the springy curls that guarded her womanhood. Joan’s eyes widened and she jumped, yet again made no move to pull away.

  As gentle as a breeze, Malcolm’s lips continued to caress her leg, slowly, tantalizingly moving upward. His flesh pulsed, ached. ’Twas almost impossible to believe that all it took was this simple touch to flood his body with warmth and desire.

  A branch snapped behind him. Malcolm turned, yet saw no movement in the trees, no splash of color that did not belong. He stilled, tilting his head to listen better. Nothing.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Shhh.”

  Feeling uneasy without his sword beside him, Malcolm dropped Joan’s foot and moved to retrieve his weapon. Suddenly, a flock of birds screeched from the treetops, flying in all directions. Malcolm craned his neck to look. Without warning, a pain ripped through his head and a shower of stars burst in front of his eyes.

  And then there was only blackness.

  * * *

  Joan heard herself scream as Malcolm fell. She stared in astonishment at
the mud-splattered men that suddenly appeared, their heavy footsteps crashing through the woods. A dirty-smelling hand covered her mouth, abruptly ending her cry. She bucked and wriggled against her captor, her head knocking his jaw.

  The man cursed, digging his nails into her cheeks. “Cease yer struggles at once or I’ll not hesitate to slit yer pretty throat,” he growled, his foul breath wafting over her face.

  Heart pounding, Joan swallowed her fear and forced her body to go limp. Her captor twisted one of her arms behind her back, hurting her shoulder, and she winced. No doubt a bruise would soon appear.

  “Looks like we interrupted a tryst,” the taller man announced.

  “Aye, she’s barely clothed,” another agreed.

  “But McKenna is still wearing some of his garments, so they must not have finished. Seems a shame to waste such a tasty morsel,” the first man decided.

  Two of the others laughed and leered, one of them crudely grabbing his crotch while the other stripped her naked with his eyes. Joan trembled with outrage and disgust. But the fourth man silenced them all with a sharp command.

  “Unhand her. We’ve got no time to spare,” he growled. “Take her mount, hoist McKenna on his horse, and let’s begone from this place.”

  Joan could feel her anguish mingle with rising panic as she stared down at Malcolm’s unnaturally still form. His eyes were closed, his face pale. His chest rose and fell in a shallow, uneven rhythm and there was a thick trickle of blood from his brow soaking into the grass.

  The need to attend him was overpowering, tearing at her soul. Tears of frustration threatened, but Joan willfully held them back. Weeping wouldn’t help him or her. Think! I must think!

  There were four men. They were dressed as warriors, though none wore any clan colors. To a man their garments were of good quality, though well worn. Knights who had fallen upon hard times? Mercenaries for hire? ’Twas impossible to know.

  If these ruffians were simple thieves, they would have stolen the horses and anything else they thought had value and ridden away. They wanted something else. But what?