Never Kiss a Highlander

by Michele Sinclair

  “Aye. Regrettably, I just received word that I must immediately head north. One of Robert’s men has paid me another visit with an urgent request to return home. Unfortunately, this time I cannot refuse.”

  That got Conor’s attention and he studied the large Highlander before him. When Hamish had joined the McTiernays, he had been young, barely twenty, and eager to prove himself. He had been shedding one life and seeking the promise of a new one. Conor had offered him that chance. Now, after twelve years, Hamish was like another brother, even though no one would ever mistake him for a McTiernay.

  Conor and his brothers all had dark hair and either gray or blue eyes. Hamish’s features were far different. The thick, loose waves of his auburn hair hung to almost the middle of his back and his high cheekbones caused his face to look harsh and unrelenting in battle, but when relaxed and smiling, enormous dimples softened his features. Dark lashes highlighted the unusual shade of forest green of his eyes, which had the ability to grow dark and cold like the pit of night or brighten and shine with laughter. Though tall, Hamish lacked Conor’s significant height, but his girth outsized the McTiernay laird and all his brothers. And when it came to battle, Conor had a slight advantage of speed; however, Hamish was made of granite. He knew how to wield a weapon with deadly accuracy and enormous power.

  His skill with bladed weapons—whether it be claymore, dirk, or halberd—was one of the reasons Conor had asked Hamish to be part of his elite guard not long after he had joined them. Finn, the McTiernay commander, had initially been cautious, as Hamish refused to assume the name McTiernay, but Conor never had any doubt. The man was not just loyal, he was also incredibly smart. Which was why Conor suspected Hamish knew exactly why he was sitting in the middle of a bunch of fabrics.

  Tossing the flimsy fabric aside and revealing his state of undress, Conor leaned forward and rested his elbows on his bare knees. “So your brother Robert has contacted you again. How many times does this make it? Three . . . four?”

  “Five,” Hamish corrected. “If you include when he told me about our father’s death.”

  Hamish had hoped that refusing to return for their father’s funeral would be a strong enough hint for even Robert to understand. The past had been written and nothing was going to change that. But his younger brother had refused to recognize the unstated message and within a year had sent a second entreaty for Hamish to return home. That time Hamish did not reply. A couple of years later, the herald who relayed the third request was under orders to stay until Hamish gave an answer, to which Hamish obliged—he already had a home and was glad Robert had one as well. Again two years passed before his brother decided to try again. That time he had been foolish enough to send three of his best men in an attempt to bring Hamish home using force. All three returned wounded with injuries painful enough to make it clear to Robert that if he tried such a tactic again, his soldiers would most likely rebel. His brother could send a dozen men, but such ploys would not work.

  Conor twitched his lips and inhaled. “He wants you to come at this time of year? It will be a bitter journey. You could always wait for him to send a sixth plea for your company.”

  Hamish quirked a brow. His brother did not seek his company, but absolution. “Unfortunately, that is not an option and I’ve come to realize it would only delay the inevitable. Robert refuses to let go of the past and will not let me be free of it either until we speak.”

  Sitting back up, Conor shrugged. “You say Robert is your opposite in personality. And though I have never met your younger brother, I know of one characteristic you share—stubbornness.”

  Hamish grinned. “I’d take offense if it were not coming from a man who practices that very trait daily and is married to a woman who reinvented what it means to be obstinate.” Hamish heard the soft click of someone’s jaw snapping shut behind the barrels. Before Laurel could say anything, Hamish quickly said, “I will be returning as soon as the situation and weather permit.”

  Conor looked pointedly at Hamish. “What if Robert asks you to stay? To be his commander? You and I both know that you would be a good one and have earned the opportunity to assume such responsibility.”

  “I have little doubt that is exactly what my brother wants,” Hamish huffed, having been told by the herald the situation he was to address. “But Robert will soon learn that being his commander is not something I desire,” he added coldly, once again wishing he could just refuse Robert for the fifth time and continue with his life. The only positive thing about his brother’s latest request was its timing. After two weeks of holiday feasts and seeing the McTiernays so happy with their wives, Hamish needed a temporary change of scenery.

  “You know I consider you to be a brother,” said Conor.

  Hamish studied the man whom he called laird but felt so much more for. “I think the same of you, Laird.”

  “Does the situation require any men? Perhaps you should take some with you.”

  Hamish exhaled and shook his head. “It’s not a McTiernay problem. If blood is to be shed, it will belong to the MacBrieves, for it was their laird who created the situation.”

  Conor nodded in understanding, although he was not inclined to agree. If Hamish had a problem, then it was a McTiernay problem. “My brothers and I consider you family. Most of the men and women of this clan consider you to be one of them. You could be a McTiernay to others as well. You just need to accept the offer.”

  Hamish raised a brow at the veiled implication. “You do not need me to accept your name to know where my loyalty lies. However, in my father’s eyes, it would mean that I had disavowed him and my birth clan. He may be dead, but I will not dishonor him that way. I may not choose to live with the clan I was born into, but I have no wish to publically disclaim them.”

  Conor shook his head. “Then you are right not to take the name McTiernay, but not for the reason you just gave,” he said in a low voice that while soft, relayed the intensity he was feeling. “Claiming a clan should not be about your father, or even your birth. It shouldn’t be about anyone but yourself, for no one else is swearing that fealty. In this, I’m sure, your father would not just understand but also agree. But know, the day you change your mind, the offer is there.”

  Hamish swallowed as emotion threatened to overtake him. He gave Conor a quick nod, appreciative of the man he both respected and loved. “I need to be going before the weather turns foul.” After another quick nod, he turned and headed toward the door. Just as he passed the fabric-laden barrels, he added, “And before Laurel chases me out so that she can have you all to herself again.”

  “You knew I was here?” Laurel yelped.

  Hamish grabbed the door and opened it. With a shrug, he grinned at Conor and replied, “What other reason would the laird have for sitting half naked in a room full of nothing but cloth?”

  As Hamish closed the door, he heard a soft thump of something hitting the other side and Laurel shouting out, “Shave your beard!”

  * * *

  Once she heard Hamish exit the tower and was sure he was not about to step back in, Laurel ventured out of her hiding place. She had wrapped Conor’s tartan around her chest while listening to his and Hamish’s conversation. “He spoke as if he was not eager to go but sounded surprisingly willing.”

  Conor grunted and stared at the door. “I think that what happened last year with Wyenda and then Meriel affected him more than we realized.”

  “Perhaps,” Laurel said halfheartedly, sauntering over to Conor’s side.

  “You don’t think so? Rumors are that Hamish has been celibate ever since.”

  “Not surprising. You had no idea how hard it was to find anyone to overlook that beard!” Laurel faked a shiver. She and the other McTiernay wives had all tried to set Hamish up, and all the hard work to find decent, funny women who were willing to look past his ill-kept appearance had been pointless. Every attempt had failed miserably.

  Conor reached out to grab Laurel’s hand. “Whether it be
design or not—Hamish choosing even temporarily a life of abstinence is definitely evidence of a broken heart.”

  Laurel bit her bottom lip and said, “’Tis evidence of it being emotionally bruised maybe. And I’m not saying his feelings for Wyenda or even Meriel were nonexistent. Just the opposite. I know he believed himself to be earnest, I’m just not convinced he actually loved them. I’m not sure Hamish has ever really been in love since I have known him.”

  Conor pulled Laurel onto his lap. “Aye, the man does tend to seek opportunities clearly destined for heartbreak, but I think this last time those women truly wounded him.”

  “I disagree,” Laurel said as she began to play with the strings on the front of his leine. “For if either of those women had truly captured his heart, Hamish would have fought harder to keep them. In truth, I don’t believe he has fully endeavored to win the affections of a single woman.”

  Conor placed a hand over hers, stilling her fingers. “Two men fighting over a lass for her heart is a young girl’s notion of love. A real man has no desire to win a woman’s affection. He wants it to be freely given. When it is not, then what is the purpose?”

  “I concede.” Laurel sighed. “But there is something nice about knowing a man considers you worth fighting for. Makes you want to reward the victor,” she said with a wink.

  Conor bent over and planted a long, lingering kiss on her lips. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he whispered, and began to tug at the knot of the securely wrapped tartan.

  Laurel smiled as Conor began to get frustrated. She had tied the material especially tight, hoping to make it difficult to remove. It would give her time to tease him mercilessly as he sought to regain access to her body. She leaned over and began to place soft warm kisses along his neck. “Do you think Hamish will return to us?”

  “He says he will.”

  “What if he does not? Shouldn’t you have told him the truth about his family?” she asked, snaking her hand inside the opening of his leine to stroke his chest.

  Conor stifled a groan and tried to focus on the knot. He was well aware of Laurel’s true intent with the securely tethered plaid and her persistent line of questions. She was trying to win an argument from two weeks back. That of the two of them, he was more likely to lose all ability to keep a clear mind when sexually aroused. He disagreed. Laurel enjoyed believing that she was always in control, but he knew how to awaken her body and cause her to let go of all thought and just feel. He accepted the fact that he was also susceptible to such tactics, but Conor had no doubts that he could outlast her in a game of sexual manipulation.

  He gave another yank on the knot, freeing the harnessed mass. “I did not say anything because his father asked me not to until circumstances dictated it was time. And you know those conditions have not been met.”

  Laurel leaned down and placed a prolonged kiss on his chest at the opening of his leine. As she began to move her lips upward along his neck, she murmured, “I suppose not. Family is so much more than birth. It’s also more than choice—it is commitment.”

  When she reached his jaw, Laurel hovered her lips just over his and shifted her bottom so that it moved provocatively against him. The erotic assault made him even harder. Conor steeled himself and tried to remain focused as his hands cupped her breasts and began their sensual assault.

  Laurel bit her bottom lip but could not suppress a moan as she leaned into his touch. “Do you . . . um . . . think you might have lost . . . um . . . another of your elite guard?”

  He used his thumbs to coax her nipples until they were hard and straining. “If I did, there’s a dozen men waiting to fill his spot,” Conor mumbled before kissing the tip of her chin, then slowly making his way down her neck.

  Laurel instinctively arched against him, hoping she could outlast him as the pleasure he was creating within her was excruciatingly tantalizing. “Sounds as if you don’t think Hamish will be coming back—” she said, barely getting the last word out.

  Conor’s mouth lingered in the crook where her neck met her shoulders. “Let’s just say in the past few years, when a McTiernay goes on a trip, it never goes quite the way he expects.”

  Laurel closed her eyes and smiled. “True, but that’s because you McTiernays have been lucky enough to find extraordinary women.”

  Focused on getting to his objective, Conor did not argue. “And Hamish does fall in love faster than anyone I know.”

  She felt him flick the tip of one nipple with his tongue. She sucked in a deep breath and fought for something coherent to say. “Ah . . . but no woman will have him with that beard. He looks . . . so unappealing, which I suspect is the reason why he has grown it. For protection.” Conor answered by enveloping her into his moist heat, rousing a melting sweetness within her. She strained against his mouth and moaned again. She was either going to have to find the willpower to pull away or concede defeat. Talking was becoming increasingly difficult.

  As he turned his attention to her other breast, Conor countered, “I’ve heard some women like men with beards.”

  Laurel speared her fingers into Conor’s hair and pulled his head back so that she could begin her own assault. “Perhaps,” she whispered into his ear, “but no woman likes a beard that hampers the abilities of a man’s mouth. And I like your face too much to let you cover it.” With a smile, she began to suckle on his earlobe.

  He stiffened and held her tighter. “Then, maybe I’ll just allow you to shave me, woman.”

  Laurel gave him a light bite. “Allow me?” she asked as she pulled back slightly with her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps when I do choose to give you a shave, I give you a nick or two to teach you a lesson about calling me woman.”

  Conor leaned forward causing Laurel to fall back into his arms. “I call you woman because I am the only man who will ever know just what an incredible woman you are.” He reached over and with the back of his free hand he caressed her cheek. “And you are my woman. All mine. And I love you more now than I did the day we married. You are everything to me. My sonuachar. My soul mate.” She smiled adoringly and reached up to cup his cheek, but before she could say anything, he added, “And if you don’t stop talking, I’m not going to have enough time to prove it before Maegan returns with the children ending our private afternoon together.”

  Eternal love filled Laurel’s deep blue eyes and she pulled him toward her for another kiss, pausing only just before their lips met. “I guess we will have to see who is right another day.”

  Conor’s mouth closed roughly over hers, searing her lips and ending any ability to continue their conversation. He would never get enough of her. He could spend another fifty years with his English beauty and it would still not be enough.

  Chapter Two

  Northern Edge of Scotland, Just South of Farr Bay

  Hamish reached the top of the hill and gave a slight tug on the reins for the horse to stop. Swinging his leg over the animal’s back end, he kept one hand on the saddle and used the other to prevent the furs around his shoulders from falling as he dropped to his feet. The wind had increased and the temperatures would drop below freezing upon nightfall at this altitude.

  Letting go of the saddle, he lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. A twinge went up his back, a telling sign that he had been riding for several hours and that his gait had been too slow. But he had finally arrived at the northern stretch of Scotland. To his left were the Kyle of Tongue and the four rocky peaks of the granite mountain Ben Loyal. To his right lay rocky, rolling terrain interspersed with occasional snow-capped peaks and crags. Before him were the bays of Torrisdale and Farr. It was along their shores he had once called home.

  Hamish inhaled deeply. At least the sea had not changed. The blue water still pounded the jutted cliffs that stretched out into the bay. He was not close enough to hear the crashing sounds of the waves, but he was near enough to smell the seawater. He had not realized just how much he missed the ocean. Its loss was just one of many small pric
es he had paid when he had decided to leave. And now he was going to have to pay it again, for he fully intended to return to the McTiernays as soon as possible. There was nothing here that could entice him to stay, and much to keep him away from the place he now called home.

  Hamish unhooked the water bag on his saddle and took a swallow. It was still early in the afternoon, but it would not be long before the night sky was over him. This time of year, daylight hours were few. The sun only appeared for about seven hours, rising and setting long after a typical workday started and finished. And when the sun was in the sky, it was often hidden behind gray clouds during the winter months. With the ocean lapping its shores, northern Scotland was not just dark and cold; it came with an overabundance of rain, sleet, and blustery wind. One was lucky to experience sunshine three days in a row.

  The mud in the valleys and snow in the mountains required travel to be done in the daylight. Hamish had another hour, maybe two, before the sun disappeared behind the horizon, but he was in no hurry to his destination. The herald had to have arrived by now with word of his return for Hamish had ordered him and his traveling companion to go back as soon as he had made his decision. And though Hamish had left soon after he had dismissed the heralds, he had not been in a hurry and had decided to take a small detour and check on some of the more northern farmsteads on McTiernay lands. He had even considered visiting Conor’s brother Cole on his way north, as the stop would give him more time to think. But thinking would change nothing. It would only postpone the inevitable. Until he confronted his brother, Robert would not let him live in peace.

  Hamish reattached the water bag to his saddle and let go of the horse’s reins so the animal could seek out one of the many large water puddles and take its own fill. As the horse moved aside, Hamish looked out and stared at the one place he had hoped never to see again—Foinaven Castle.

  Two years younger than Hamish, Robert was not just a beloved brother, but the unquestionable genius of the MacBrieve family. Hamish and his father had often jested that of the three of them, it was Robert who was the true MacBrieve. Like his grandfather and great-grandfather, he had inherited the MacBrieve gift for fixing anything from castle fortifications to enhancing everyday devices. Hamish and his father, on the other hand, were natural leaders and fighters and never able to understand how Robert could spend countless hours staring at an object, trying to see how it worked and how it could be improved. And yet, Hamish had felt both pride and envy of his brother’s ability to quickly resolve riddles and build contraptions that worked from what seemed to be nothing but rocks and string. Unfortunately, Robert’s brilliance was limited to inanimate objects. When it came to understanding individuals and discerning their true motivations, his younger brother remained perpetually naïve. He refused to see the world as it was and instead interpreted situations and people as he wished them to be—inherently good, honest, and accommodating.