To Love a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “Ach, well! That changes everything.” Munro slapped the table, stirring his parchments. “You should journey to Duncreag Castle and make yourself known to him.” He spoke lightly, as if such a feat were easy. “He’d rejoice to see you. He’s an auld done man these days, could use a lift of heart.”

  “I’m no’ here to speak of him.” Sorley leaned across the table again, bracing himself on his arm. His plan to accompany Grim Mackintosh north and seek long overdue vengeance on his father was something best kept out of this discussion. He was here for matters of much greater importance. So he drew a deep breath and used his most earnest tone. “I’d warn you no’ to allow Sir John Sinclair to ride with you to Knocking Tower, or to e’er let him visit you there. He is dangerous and no’ to be trusted.”

  “Sir John?” Munro looked skeptical. “He has knowledge of the MacBeth healers. Spent time with them in their own domain, he did, the wildest corners of the Hebrides. He’s offered to share their wisdom with me, herb lore and healing methods he observed during his stay with them.” He glanced at the precious tome before him, the much-famed Lilium Medicinae, and then looked again at Sorley. “Such insight, straight from Scotland’s most renowned healers, would be invaluable. Perhaps even more so than this book.”

  Sorley bit back a snort, not wanting to offend him. “If Sir John even dipped a toe in the great Sea of the Hebrides, the stars and the moon will fall from the sky. If he’s ever met a MacBeth healer, all the heather in Scotland will pull up roots and run south to England.

  “He is only telling you such tales to win your trust, to gain access to your hall.” Sorley didn’t warn him of the fiend’s reason: to claim Mirabelle’s hand. If he did, he’d have to disclose Sinclair’s dark and bent nature, and doing so would surely cost the laird weeks, if not months and years, of sleepless nights, worrying for his daughter’s safety.

  A matter he meant to address.

  It was enough for MacLaren to bar his door to Sir John.

  Already, the older man looked discomfited. Blinking, he peered at Sorley, the candlelight revealing how watery his aged eyes were.

  “Knocking is a fair place.” Munro’s brow pleated. “But I dinnae see why Sir John—”

  “Would lie to you?” Sorley could name many reasons. But his mind raced for ones odious and believable enough without bringing Mirabelle into it. “He has great debts, difficulties deeper than even the King’s knowledge.” That much was true. “I’ve heard he’s plotting to entertain you with false accounts of his supposed stay with the MacBeths and that while he has your attention, his men will gather in your grazing lands, stealing away your cattle and taking them to the great markets in Crieff and Falkirk. By the time you’d note their absence, the beasts would be sold.” Sorley spun the tale as he went, not feeling guilty, for he knew Sinclair had committed even worse crimes. “No one would suspect him, because at the time of the cattle thievery, he was standing before your hearth fire, regaling you with his stories of the Macbeth healers.”

  “Bluidy hell—who would’ve thought it!” Munro looked scandalized. “To think I believed the fork-tongued, flat-footed scoundrel.”

  “You are not alone,” Sorley sympathized. “Many at court favor the man, even King Robert. So you mustn’t say aught of what I’ve told you.”

  “How do you ken suchlike?” Munro cocked a brow, a thread of doubt creeping back into his voice.

  Sorley shrugged and glanced aside, letting the growing silence weight the air, lending credence to what he didn’t say aloud.

  “Perhaps the same way I gained entry to this room even though two of the King’s guards stand outside.” Sorley used a meaningful tone, the closest he’d go to revealing his true position at court. “Some men aye see and hear more than others, my lord. Men who aren’t noticed, as unseen as a bird in a tree or a dog scrounging in the floor rushes beneath a hall’s high table.”

  “So you’re a spy, then.” Munro’s gaze was sharp.

  Sorley almost laughed, liking the man. “I am Sorley the Hawk, no more, no less.”

  “Humph.” Munro didn’t look appeased.

  “Who or what I am doesnae matter. Only that you decline Sir John’s petitions to ride north with you. And”—Sorley gave him a fierce look—“keep your gates closed to him if he should journey to Knocking on his own.”

  “So I will, aye then.” Munro finally conceded. “Because you’re Archie’s lad. For sure, I was looking forward to hearing the MacBeths’ secrets.”

  “You’d have been fed nonsense.” Sorley was sure of it. “But I can offer you something true, and much more interesting, I vow.”

  Sorley reached beneath his plaid and withdrew a lambskin pouch, carefully untying its opening. As Munro looked on, he produced a cloth-wrapped stone root, a gift from Grim Mackintosh, and placed it on the table.

  “This is a prize worthy of study,” Sorley declared, whipping away the cloth with a flourish. “It is a fossilized tree root, now harder than stone and blessed with much strength and power, or so I was told by the man who gave it to me, a Mackintosh of Nought territory in the Glen of Many Legends.”

  He didn’t mention the stone root’s best-known use. Nor was it necessary, because Munro had slipped off his stool to lean over the stone root, his eyes a-gleam, his excitement clear.

  “A stone root, you say?” He touched the length of polished black stone, awe in his voice. “I have heard of such wonders, but ne’er seen the like. Indeed, I doubted their existence.” He straightened and looked at Sorley. “They are said to cure many ailments, even straighten the back of a soul bent by too much hardship and care. One need only place the stone root in a kettle of boiling water, then drink a cup when the stone broth has been steeped in the dark of a moonless night.

  “I will surely recall other uses after pondering on it a while.” He scratched his beard, his gaze again on the stone root. “I thank you for showing it to me.”

  “You may keep it, lord.” Sorley felt generous.

  The older man beamed at him, his happiness touching Sorley in a way he wasn’t accustomed to feeling.

  “I shall treasure it, I will.” Munro’s hands actually shook with reverence as he carefully rewrapped the stone root.

  “Aye, well.” Sorley nodded, stepping away from the table. “I’ll no’ keep you from your work any longer. I ken you’ll be heading out to the Red Lion Inn later this day, then leaving these parts soon thereafter.”

  “So you are a spy, what?” Munro gave him another sharp, assessing glance, but this time the look was leavened with good humor.

  “I am myself, lord, nothing more.” Sorley strode to the door, not liking how his throat thickened, how the old chieftain’s kindness tightened his chest. He paused on the threshold and looked back over his shoulder. “Remember my words about Sinclair. And”—he made a slight bow—“perhaps someday I will call at Knocking myself, take you with me to Nought and its famed Dreagan’s Claw promontory where there are many such stone roots. For the now, I wish you well, lord.” Sorley stepped from the scriptorium, closing the door before Munro MacLaren could respond to him.

  Not that it mattered.

  He’d seen the eagerness on the chieftain’s face. More than that, he’d caught the admiration in Munro’s watery blue eyes. His own misting unaccountably, he blinked hard and set his jaw, striding past the two guardsmen with only a gruff farewell. He’d been sure MacLaren would heed his warning about Sir John, but he hadn’t expected to win the man’s regard.

  Above all, he hadn’t thought doing so would affect him so powerfully.

  A whirl of new and not necessarily welcome emotions swirling inside him, he made his way down the sun-bright corridor, grateful when he reached the dimness of the stair tower.

  The night would bring an even greater test to his heart when he met with Mirabelle in the hall.

  He was no longer certain he could do as he’d said.

  He wanted more than a few kisses, neck nuzzles, ear nips, and nipple tweaks.
r />   He wanted all of her.

  And he strongly suspected he’d claim her, too. His restraint was gone, his good sense and every reason he shouldn’t love her flown out the window.

  The consequences be damned.

  Much later, deep in the gloaming hours, Mirabelle made her way into Stirling Castle’s great hall and took her accustomed seat at one of the honored tables on the dais. She hadn’t seen Sorley since the night before, in her bedchamber. Nor did he appear to be anywhere near now. Sitting as straight as she could, nerves allowing, she lifted a hand to touch the stag-headed MacKenzie cloak brooch she’d pinned so hopefully to her gown’s shoulder.

  Now, more than ever, the pin held tremendous importance for her.

  Wondering if her secret knowledge showed, she looked about, searching the crowd. The hall blazed with the light of roaring fires and countless torches. Chaos reigned throughout the vast, smoke-hazed space, the gaiety and noise at a fever pitch. A feast was in full swing, the long tables filled and the aisles between crowded with celebrants. In one corner, a harpist played and sang, her voice sad as she mourned ill-fated lovers and praised the lonely beauty of empty, heather-swept glens. Not far from her a piper strutted proudly, his jaunty tune at odds with the woman’s heart-wrenching song.

  In the center of the hall, in a cleared space, a troupe of jugglers performed, tossing burning staves high into the air and catching them again, much to the delight of the cheering onlookers.

  The din rose and fell, made more deafening by the barks of the castle dogs. The beasts dashed everywhere, streaking beneath the tables, bounding through the aisles, ever hoping for fallen scraps and then fighting over the prize when a choice bone was found.

  Her own treasure…

  Mirabelle pressed her fingers more tightly to her stag-head brooch, her breath catching when she finally spotted Sorley in the throng. She stared, her heart swelling, awe sweeping her like a blaze.

  She knew at once that something had changed.

  If he had been bold and dashing before, now…

  He was magnificent.

  Still a good distance from her, he differed from all other men as if every candle, torch, and fire in the hall burned only to light his glory. He stood tall and broad-shouldered as always, his dark hair gleaming and the sword at his side—called Dragon-Breath, she knew—shining as if its steel had captured the light of the stars. Gold and silver rings banded his powerful upper arms and his sword-belt was slung low about his hips where it was clasped by a beautifully worked silver wolf’s head. He wore the MacKenzie tartan with a bold, roguish flair, the blue and green weave vibrant beneath the torches. He didn’t look anything like a bastard.

  He looked as if he ruled the hall.

  Apparently he also commanded her heart, because it was hammering so fiercely against her ribs, she was sure everyone present must hear its thunder.

  Then his gaze locked onto hers and he started toward her, his stride purposeful and proud.

  Mirabelle sat rigid, her blood rushing, her stare fixed on him as he neared the dais, not even needing to elbow his way through the crowd, because men and women alike leapt aside, clearing his path to her.

  All around them, the hall was in an uproar, but she scarce noticed, seeing only Sorley.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Then he was right beside her, claiming the seat a noble relinquished with haste, nearly tripping over the long drape of the table linen as he jumped up and scrambled away, freeing the bench for Sorley.

  He edged nearer at once, slinging his arm around her shoulders, his gaze intense, seeing no other. “Fair lady, your beauty shines brighter than any light in this hall.” He lifted her hand, turning it to press a kiss to her palm and then nip the soft skin of her wrist before releasing her. “Nae, I err. You put the very sun to shame.”

  Mirabelle swallowed, moistened her lips. “You speak flattering words, sir.” She forgot the carefully rehearsed lines she meant to say to him. Somehow his approach wasn’t what she’d expected. “All know you favor the ladies and—”

  He touched his fingers to her lips and shook his head. “There are no other women, lass. I see only you. Here in this hall and here”—he pressed a hand to his heart, his gaze burning into hers—“where it matters most. I speak but the truth, sweetness. Indeed”—he leaned in, nuzzled her neck, and lightly bit her earlobe—“I have ne’er in my life been more honest. No’ with anyone, no’ in all my days.”

  Mirabelle was stunned into silence.

  She couldn’t form words, for her fool throat was turning awfully hot and thick. And her wretched eyes were beginning to burn, a terrible stinging heat pricking madly at the backs of her lids.

  This was not the deal they’d made.

  Not how she’d expected him to ravish and scandalize her.

  Though folk were staring, their heads craning and whispers made behind quickly raised hands. But no one seemed shocked or appalled. The men appeared amused and even encouraging, while the women just looked envious.

  And—Mirabelle shivered—from the hall’s darkest corner, Sir John Sinclair glared at them, fury glittering in his dark, hate-filled eyes.

  “Ignore him.” Sorley hushed the words against her ear, his lips doing sinfully wicked things to the sensitive flesh along the side of her neck. “I have taken measures to protect you from him. The rest will wait until we’ve enjoyed this evening together.”

  “I wasn’t aware you saw it that way.” Mirabelle regretted the words as soon as they left her tongue, but Sir John’s stare unsettled her. Sorley’s convincingly real attentiveness scattered her wits. “I thought you were eager to have done with our performance.”

  “You think I’m acting?” He pulled back, looked at her levelly.

  Mirabelle forced a smile, more sure than ever that the wind had turned. She knew instinctively that it wouldn’t ever swing round and blow the other way again. What she said next would seal her fate.

  So she lifted her chin, meeting his bold gaze. “If you aren’t, then admit who you now know you are. My father told me of your visit to him this morning. We are close, despite his preoccupation with herbs and healing.” She took a breath, steeling her backbone. “Your father is Archibald MacNab, chieftain of Duncreag, and your late lady mother, God rest her soul, was a Kintail woman, belonging to the great Duncan MacKenzie’s clan. He was known as the Black Stag of Kintail, hence your affection for this brooch.”

  She touched the pin, taking strength from its cool bronze, fastened so close to her heart.

  “All that you know?” He lifted a brow, smiled at her.

  He didn’t look a whit surprised or uncomfortable.

  “So you admit it?” She didn’t blink, though his smile was causing the sweetest warmth to swirl low inside her, deep in her belly, low by her thighs.

  “I’ll tell you anything you wish to know, lady.” He lifted his hands in surrender, turning them palm out.

  “I’d hear the truth.” Mirabelle felt a flush coloring her cheeks.

  Folk were still staring at them, some even chuckling now, a few nudging elbows and leaning in, angling their ears to catch every word.

  “Honest words might frighten you, my lady.” Something in his tone warned that was so.

  “I am a Highland lass, don’t forget.” Mirabelle sat up straighter, her heart racing again. “We do not scare easily. Indeed, some say not at all.”

  Sorley’s smile deepened and he swept his arm around her again, this time pulling her onto his lap. “Then brace yourself, lassie, because the names of my parents are no’ the most important truths here. That honor stands between the two of us only.” Something flared in his eyes, an uncompromising intensity that made her pulse leap. “It has to do with our plan and why we’re sitting here just now.”

  “We had an agreement.” Mirabelle shifted on his lap, keenly aware of a certain hot ridge of hardness nudging the bottom of her thighs, burning her even through the layers of her skirts.

  “Aye, we did.�
� He took her face between his hands then, kissing her long and deep. When he pulled back, breaking the kiss, his eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, and he was breathing hard. “I still have a plan, sweetness. And I hope I’ll gain your agreement.”

  Mirabelle just looked at him, sure she hadn’t heard rightly.

  But she must’ve, because all along the table, and even elsewhere on the dais, people were grinning, looking on with rapt interest.

  Mirabelle ignored them, but she did frown. “Our plan doesn’t seem to have the effect I’d desired.”

  To her surprise, Sorley grabbed her to him again and kissed her even more hungrily than before. It was a wild and heated open-mouthed kiss, full of breath, tongue, and desire. He thrust his fingers into her hair as he ravished her lips, holding her firmly to him, giving her no choice but to return the kiss with equal fervor.

  She did so gladly, feeling bereft when he finally tore his mouth from hers. She hadn’t wanted their kiss to end, and the delicious tingles rippling through her left no doubt that she wanted more.

  Sure he could tell, she met his gaze, thrilled and excited, but also worried that her heart and not her good sense was guiding her.

  “That was indeed better.” It was all she could think to say. “A most convincing display, certainly.”

  “Indeed.” He leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose. “Though my purpose has changed, or have you no’ heard anything I’ve said this e’en?”

  Mirabelle blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Then I shall make it clearer.” He cupped her face, slanting his mouth over hers again, his tongue thrusting sure and possessively.

  She melted beneath the onslaught, gripping his shoulders to keep from sliding off his lap. Then he pulled back, breaking the kiss as swiftly as he’d seized her. But he kept hold of her face, looked deep into her eyes. Clearly stirred, his chest rose and fell, heavily. His gaze wasn’t just piercing, but blazing with something that made everything else around them fade to nothingness, as if they were alone in the hall, perhaps in all the world.