Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

  Davy chuckled. “Each man casts a die. The one with the lowest roll will drain his quaich to the dregs in one swallow—then he will perform a task set by the man with the highest roll. Since it’s the luck of the dice, ye can’t say it isn’t fair. Fate—and fortitude—will decide the victor, and that victor will be the last man still able to perform his assigned task and still stand afterward.”

  “Very well,” John said.

  The other lairds quickly called for their cups.

  “Go and fetch the whisky, and get my quaich,” Donal said to Aileen. His eldest daughter hurried out of the hall. Gillian regarded John with concern, but he smiled at her, let her read courage and determination in his gaze.

  When Aileen returned with her father’s quaich, four kitchen lads followed her, each carrying a pitcher filled with whisky. They set them in the center of one of the tables, and John and the lairds took their places. Donal sat at the head.

  The MacLeod regarded the two-handled wooden bowl reverently, turning it in his hands for a moment before he looked at John.

  “This is the quaich of the MacLeods. It was made from a tree that stood on the field of Bannockburn, where the first Fearsome MacLeod fought beside King Robert, and the English were defeated. The MacLeod was knighted by the Bruce for his service and granted this glen. I am a fair man, and all the men taking part in the contest for my daughter’s hand must be treated as equals. So I am offering this cup to you, an Englishman, one of the race of the defeated of Bannockburn. Does that insult ye?”

  John felt every eye in the hall upon him. “Nay, laird, but it’s an honor I’d rather save for a welcome than a farewell—perhaps on the day of Gillian’s wedding.”

  Donal’s lips pursed. “Are ye so sure ye’ll win her?”

  John held Donal’s eyes. There were times when the arrogance of being nobly born and bred came in handy still. “I am.”

  Davy snorted, and Cormag grumbled a low oath.

  John picked up a plain clay cup. “This will do for me.”

  “As ye will,” Donal said. He looked at his daughters. “Ye know I don’t approve of a man being drunk in my hall before women. You’ll all retire now and leave this challenge to the men.”

  Donal’s daughters glanced at each other and didn’t budge. “But, Papa, this is Gillian’s future. She must be allowed to stay, and if she’s going to stay, then we should remain by her side,” Aileen said.

  Donal pursed his lips. “Men have unruly tongues when they’re in their cups. What will no doubt be said and done in this hall tonight is not for the tender ears of lassies.”

  Meggie raised her chin. “We’ve lived and traveled and eaten with clansmen all our lives, Papa.”

  “And Gillian spent time with a band of wicked outlaws,” Isobel added. “I can’t imagine they guarded their tongues whilst she was besting them.”

  Gillian blushed, though she said nothing.

  Meggie squared her shoulders. “We’re not afraid, Papa.”

  Donal frowned at them. “Then you’ll sit in the far corner by the fire and concentrate on your needlework.”

  “Aye, Papa,” Aileen said and led her sisters across the room.

  John watched as Donal’s steward filled each laird’s quaich and John’s plain cup with whisky and stepped back.

  Donal handed each man a die. “Roll.”

  Cormag Robertson had the high roll. Davy MacKenzie had the lowest.

  Cormag grinned. “Drink, Davy, then give us a song.”

  Davy drained his quaich and stood to sing a ditty about a Highlander leaving his lovers—all four of them—to go into battle, swaybacked, bandy-legged, and exhausted from going from one lass’s bed to the next. He satisfies them all, and leaves for battle with his sword well-polished and still standing ready for war. “And that’s another Highland tradition laddie,” he said to John. “Songs about a laird’s manly prowess—as bawdy and crude as possible—give their clan confidence in him.” He reached down and cupped the bulge beneath his kilt for a moment. “I have a very happy clan.” Donal frowned and glanced at his daughters, but John noted that they kept their heads dutifully down over their stitches.

  “My own favorite ditty is Bod brighmhor ata ag Donncha—‘Duncan has a Potent Prick’,” Padraig said. “It’s about the Campbell of Glenorchy.”

  Davy giggled, his eyes already bright with drink. “Roll again,” he commanded.

  This time, Davy won and Cormag lost. After drinking, Cormag was asked to stand on one foot on a bench with his eyes closed while another song was sung. As the bawdy words about Duncan’s proud prick died away, Cormag neatly dismounted with a belch that rattled the windows.

  “Mind my lasses, Robertson,” Donal said primly. Cormag turned to sweep the lasses a deep bow and toppled. His clansmen hurried to pick him up. They propped him back on the bench, and he grinned. “Roll again.”

  This time Davy won and John lost.

  Davy’s eyes shone and he chuckled maliciously. “Sword dance. No touching the swords. If ye do, ye lose.”

  “We’ve already done that, Davy. Ye lost,” Padraig said.

  “He could do it barefoot,” Davy suggested. Donal and Padraig and even Cormag winced at that.

  “Pick another challenge, Davy,” Donal said.

  Davy considered. “The pipes. Play us a tune on the pipes.” He banged his fist on the table. “Let’s see a Sassenach do that.”

  John frowned. He looked at the MacLeod piper, who regarded him balefully and hugged his pipes like a lass for a moment.

  “Come on, Alex, lad. Hand them over. No harm will come to them,” Donal said, and the piper came forward.

  “Ye’ll not hurt my pipes,” he ordered John.

  John looked at the chanter, which was much like his own flute, and removed it from the bag.

  He held it in his hands and looked across the room at Gillian. Her hands were still in her lap as she watched him. He played the song about the shepherd and the fairy lass.

  The sound was not quite as sweet as it was from his flute, but the notes rose and filled the hall. Soon, everyone was listening. He saw Gillian smile softly as she remembered the last time he’d played this melody, for her, at the farmhouse. She’d sung the words then, and he wondered if she’d rise now, lend her voice to the tune, but she remained among her sisters, silent, her eyes locked on his. He remembered the way it felt to kiss her, to lay her down and love her, how passionate, brave, and determined she was. And shy. Even now she was pink as a rose. He saw her through a haze of love, and the heat of the whisky added to the burn in his heart, the desire to have her by his side now and forever. Wherever life took them, it would be perfect with her, and he’d do whatever he had to do to make her happy, keep her safe, let her know every single day how much he loved her.

  As the last notes died away at the end of the song, he caught Padraig Grant wiping away a tear, while Cormag sighed.

  John handed the chanter back to the piper, who nodded his approval.

  “Does that truly count?” Davy demanded, looking at the MacLeod. “He didn’t play the pipes, now did he? Not really.”

  Donal glared at the MacKenzie. “If he’s the last one standing at the end of this, it won’t matter.” He glanced at John. “He did fine as far as I’m concerned.” He put the die in front of John. “Roll.”

  This time Cormag lost and Davy won. Davy giggled triumphantly. “Ye’ll carry the biggest man here across the room,” he said.

  Cormag folded his arms over his chest. “That’s ye, Davy.” He rose to his feet and began to roll up his sleeves. “Strip off your weapons, MacKenzie, and take off your plaid.”

  Davy frowned. “No, thank ye—make it the second biggest man, then.”

  But Donal shook his head. “The challenge has been set. Up with ye, MacKenzie.”

  Padraig giggled, glassy-eyed, and grinned at Cormag. “He could be stark naked and ye couldn’t do it.”

  Cormag grabbed Davy around the waist and heaved, but the big man didn�
�t budge. He bent and put his shoulder against Davy’s belly and heaved him up. Davy wheezed in surprise, and his long shirt rode up his broad white backside. Cormag grunted, red-faced, bent nearly double as he staggered forward. After half a dozen steps his knees buckled. He toppled, and Davy’s big body landed on top of him. Even when Davy rolled off of him, Cormag didn’t move. Donal rose and bent over him. “He’s alive.” Cormag let out a snore, and Donal grimaced. “He’ll have a sore head tomorrow.”

  “You’re out,” Davy said unnecessarily to the unconscious Cormag as he struggled to get up, his legs kicking the air until he found his balance.

  Donal frowned at him. “Cover your backside before my daughters and put your plaid back on.”

  “Too late!” Padraig crowed. “Now we all know you’re not the biggest man in the room after all, Davy. Ye’re no Duncan.”

  Davy launched himself at the Grant laird and knocked him to the floor. When their clansmen separated them, Padraig left the room to throw up, and Davy rose unsteadily to his feet and peered at John. “Roll again.”

  But the next roll was a tie, three for each man, and Donal beckoned his clansmen to bring a pair of stools forward. “Ye’ll both stand on them on one foot, with your arms outstretched. Last one to fall wins.”

  John felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine and blinked to clear his vision. He was wobbly from drink, but he couldn’t afford to lose a second contest. Davy stood on his stool and grinned at him. “I can do this all night, Sassenach. As I said, I’ve been drinking whisky since I was in nappies. What did ye drink in England? Water? Milk?”

  John forced a smile. “Claret. And ale. And brandy, when I got old enough to appreciate it. Rum, too.”

  He felt the stool quiver under his feet and rebalanced himself. The room shimmered before his eyes, and he held on. His precarious perch tipped onto two legs, and John hopped to right it. When it settled back to earth, John whirled his arms to regain his balance.

  Davy threw his head back to laugh, and as he did, his own stool shot out from under him. The MacKenzie’s cocky grin faded as he pitched to the ground, his kilt flying over his head to reveal his hairy arse once again. Meggie giggled until her father cast a quelling scowl at her.

  “The Sassenach wins,” Donal said. He didn’t bother to congratulate him. He looked at the clansmen frowning at him in dismay, but there was naught for it—the Sassenach had won. He couldn’t change that. “I’ll set tomorrow’s challenge now. We’ll have a hunt. Best catch wins. I’ll trust you’ll all see to it that your laird is up with the dawn and ready to go, sick with drink or no.” He frowned at John. “My men will let ye out of your cell at first light.” He glanced at Gillian. “And ye’ll be locked in your room until he returns. He hasn’t won yet.”

  * * *

  Davy MacKenzie staggered outside, his head spinning with whisky. “Bloody Sassenach,” he grumbled as he skirted the wall, moving into the shadows. “Thinks he can best me, does he? Ha! Fair Gillian deserves better than him. She deserves—” He hoisted his kilt and let out a stream of urine. “Me!” he said gleefully, swaying on his feet. “Och, a pint in, a gallon out.” Tomorrow, it would be easy enough to see that the damned Sassenach had an accident—a fall from a cliff, an arrow betwixt his eyes. Davy put his fingertip against his forehead and grinned. “He can’t say I didn’t warn him.”

  The cold, sharp point of a dirk against the back of his neck sobered him instantly.

  “Hello, Davy lad. Remember me?” someone growled in his ear. He smelled grease, smoke, and sweat.

  Davy froze. He’d discarded his weapons so Cormag could carry him. He was entirely unarmed. “Nay, I dinna know ye. Who are ye?”

  “It’s me, Rabbie Bain. Are ye surprised?” The dirk dug deeper, and Davy felt the sting as the blade bit him. But they’d hanged Rabbie Bain—his men had sworn to him they had. Surely he was dreaming, still drunk, imagining things. But the trickle of blood down his neck felt real enough. He tried to shake his head to clear it, but the knife twisted again—not deep enough to kill, just to hurt. “Ye killed my brothers and declared me an outlaw, and your men hanged my friends—but they couldn’t kill me. Now it’s your turn, Davy. I’ve come for ye.”

  Davy opened his mouth to yell for help, but Rabbie hit him across the side of the head. Davy saw stars flash, and then he saw nothing at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Gillian heard John playing his flute when Callum escorted her to the dungeon later that night. The sweet melody pierced her heart, and she hurried to him.

  John groaned when he saw her. “You shouldn’t be here. I’m drunk, sweetheart, and you’re beautiful. It’s too hard, wanting—”

  “I’m right here,” Callum objected.

  “You won,” Gillian said softly. She reached through the bars to touch her lover’s face. She wondered what Callum would do if she took the key from him, unlocked the door, and begged for an hour alone with the prisoner.

  She let John read the desire in her eyes, saw the answering need in his gray gaze. He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and she squeezed his fingers, nearly breathless even at that slight contact.

  “I wasn’t sure we’d find ye still awake,” Callum said loudly. “What with the hunt at dawn just a few short hours away.”

  Moonlight shone through the narrow window, and she remembered the sweetness of his mouth on hers. She gasped at the force of the longing that swept through her.

  John mistook the cause of her indrawn breath. “I can win, Gilly,” he said softly.

  “Of course you can,” she said.

  Callum cleared his throat. “D’ye remember the wild boars up at the east end of the glen last summer, Gilly—on the slope of Benbrankie?”

  “Aye. Papa forbade us from going up that way for fear of them. He loves wild boar. He offered a reward to anyone who could—” She blinked at her clansman.

  Callum stared back at her, avoided looking at John. “I’ve heard that boar have been seen up there again. I’ve heard the den is somewhere close to that big stand of pine near the burn.”

  John frowned. “Isn’t that cheating?”

  Callum looked at him innocently. “What is? We’re just discussing family matters to pass the time. Do ye not do that in England? Better than standing here listening to the two of ye pantin’ for each other.”

  “Will you go and tell Davy and Cormag and Padraig where to find the boar?” John asked.

  Callum stroked his chin. “I suppose I could. Then it would be fair. I could also tell them that Gilly likes to slip out at night for a wee walk, come down here. Perhaps they’d like the chance to do a little wooing in the moonlight, too. That would make it all fair. Davy could have Monday evening, Cormag, Tuesday, Padraig on Wednesday, and ye—”

  “Nay,” Gillian said.

  “He’s lost one contest, possibly two,” Callum said. “Davy’s men are saying John cheated when he used the chanter and not the pipes themselves. They mean to appeal to your father, and if he decides against him . . .”

  Gillian felt her breath catch in her throat.

  “Of course, Davy is saying Cormag cheated in the Gillie Callum, had his piper play the tune too slow, and that should count against him. And Padraig says that John’s sword skills cannot be as good as they seemed, that he must have cheated somehow,” Callum went on.

  “So what exactly is the score?” Gillian asked.

  Callum shrugged. “I’ve lost track. The laird will decide who wins. It seems to me he’ll be more kindly disposed to the one who brings him his favorite meat Want me to draw ye a map of where the boar have been spotted?”

  John rubbed his forehead. “No. I’ll find it on my own.”

  Her throat closed at the terrible possibility that her father would never let him win fairly. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she dashed it away. He wiped away the next one with the pad of his thumb.

  “May the best man win, remember?” he said softly.

  “You are the best m
an, John—the only man for me.” She leaned in and whispered, “Come with me now, we’ll elope. We can be far away by morning, go to one of my sisters—or farther if we have to. Will you do it, John? For me?

  * * *

  John met Callum’s gaze. The Highlander hadn’t moved a muscle. John saw his frown, noted the tension in his big body, and knew he was waiting for John’s answer. He wondered what the clansman would do. Callum had his honor as well.

  “No,” John said. He withdrew his hand, and her hands fell away. She made a small sound of dismay. “Gilly, I will win, but fairly and honorably.”

  He saw the silver track of a tear streak down her face. “Is that all? You’ll try to win? You’ll not fight or die for me, leave with me, do anything to have me?”

  “He agreed to abide by the rules, Gilly. So did you,” Callum said.

  “Callum, may I have a moment with Gilly?” he asked.

  Callum frowned, but backed away.

  John reached through the bars for Gillian. “Against all the odds, we’re here, together, sweetheart. You were brave enough to kiss me, to fight outlaws, brave enough to choose me. The best choices are never the easy ones. I won’t stop fighting for you, lass, but I won’t steal you.” He cupped her face in his palms. “Your father will only accept me if I win fairly. He has his honor, too. He needs to see for himself that I can win you, hold you, that I’d do anything, dare anything for you, honorably. I will win, Gilly. I won’t lose you. Will you trust me?”

  “It’s not you I don’t trust,” she said.

  “Your father loves you, sweeting. He wants the best for you. Let me prove to him that’s me.”

  She scanned his face. “Aye.”

  John looked at Callum, and the Scot nodded. He came forward to take Gillian’s arm. “Come on, Gilly. We’ll go hunting, fetch a few coneys before dawn. Your man needs a few hours of sleep, and then—” He met John’s eyes. “Go east, up the sunward side of Benbrankie and follow the burn.” He clasped John’s hand. “For what it’s worth, and for Gilly’s sake, I hope ye win. He turned away and went up the stairs, leaving them alone. Gillian threw herself against the bars, into John’s arms, and he caught her mouth against his, kissed her. “Go, lass,” he said, his voice husky. She pulled back, turned to go.