He couldn’t believe his luck.
“Perhaps you’ll come and warm yourself by the fire?” he suggested, dropping his tone to a seductive growl.
But before Meggie could reply, Charlie MacKay descended on her, bowing and kissing her hand, grinning like a fool and babbling, and she was smiling at Charlie—the smile she should have given him. Magnus felt jealousy rise. He’d forgotten his other guests entirely, and he frowned at Charlie’s interruption.
MacAulay waited until Meggie looked at him. “MacAulay of Abercorry,” he said by way of introduction. Magnus watched Meggie’s eyes take in MacAulay’s lean height, from his deerskin boots to his light brown curls. And MacAulay’s gray eyes traveled over her, too, damn him, showing the first real spark interest in anything since his arrival. Meggie blushed, ever so slightly, and bit her lower lip. The fact that they spoke not another word made their meeting somehow more intimate than Charlie’s babbled flattery had been.
She moved to take off her arisaid, and Charlie moved to assist her. Under her plaid she wore a blue gown, made of fine wool. Her lush figure took Magnus’s breath away. She’d filled out, reached the full promise she’d held at eighteen. Magnus stared at her breasts, full and high, and his jaw dropped. He’d oust the servant girl from his bed this very night and make room for Meggie . . .
But she didn’t spare him another glance. She crossed to her grandmother and helped the clansman take the old woman’s cloak and furs, peeling Maighread MacLennan until she was naught but a wee brown nut of a woman.
“Ale or whisky?” Magnus asked Meggie.
“Water, if you please,” she said tartly. Water? It dawned on him that perhaps she was a wee bit unhappy with him, even after all these years, for rising from her bed—her father’s hayloft—to marry Euna. Still, water? Not for the fiery Meggie MacLeod he remembered.
“A bath,” he murmured, imagining Meggie with that kind of water, as naked as the last time he’d seen her. She sent him a glare of warning. Now what did she have to be angry about, really? She wasn’t the first lass to succumb to his charming smile, his handsome face, and she wouldn’t be the last. Could he help the fact that he was so appealing to women? He grinned and winked, but she looked away.
“Have ye had a long trip today, Mistress MacLeod?” Charlie asked.
“We’ve come from Seannbrae. We’re on our way to Glen Iolair for the Yule,” Meggie replied. She glanced at her grandmother with a sideways sweep of her eyes. “We—I—thought the weather might hold a few more days.”
“Glad it didn’t,” Charlie quipped, standing so close to Meggie he was staring straight down her bodice. She looked at him sharply, and MacKay had the grace to blush and raise his eyes. “I mean for our sakes of course, mistress—we three lairds—since the storm has worked in our favor and brought us the pleasure of your company.” He deftly changed the subject. “Tell me, how is your fearsome father? I haven’t seen him for a number of years.”
“My father is well,” she said.
“And I understand one of your sisters recently married a cousin of mine,” Charlie said. “Laird Alexander Munro of Culmore?”
Meggie nodded. “Aye, Cait and Alex wed at midsummer.”
“Cait is expecting a child,” Maighread MacLennan chirped, looking pointedly at Meggie.
“And are ye married, Meggie?” Magnus asked.
She ignored him, looked at MacAulay instead. “Laird MacAulay—I believe I’ve heard my father speak of the laird of Abercorry as an old friend.”
“That would likely be my Uncle Eanraig. He died two years ago—or perhaps my Uncle Angus, who died last spring. I have been laird only since then.”
“I see,” Meggie murmured, her eyes on MacAulay still. Magnus wanted to stick a dirk in the man’s guts. He hadn’t realized the man was handsome until Meggie pointed it out with a sweeping glance and a soft blush.
Maighread chuckled. “So that’s all of us caught up on who’s dead and buried, inherited and married. What shall we speak of next?”
“Dinner,” Charlie said with a grin, appreciating the old woman’s wit. “MacAulay brought a brace of partridges with him when he arrived a few hours ago. Someone’s cooking them I expect. Hopefully not Catriona.”
Magnus glanced at his steward, who was hovering in the doorway, waiting to be noticed. “I haven’t located Mistress Catriona, Laird, but I’ve made chambers ready, and there’s time for your guests to refresh themselves before the meal.”
Meggie shot to her feet. “We don’t wish to be any trouble,” she told the steward. “I’ll be glad to share a bed with my grandmother.”
“Och, but we’ve plenty of beds—” Magnus insisted, but Meggie’s glance turned to acid.
“I would not inconvenience you for all the world, Laird MacVane. My grandmother might need something in the night. I would prefer to be with her.”
He came closer, leaned over her, breathed her in. “Nervous, Meggie?” he whispered, giving her elbow a squeeze. “Afraid ye—we—won’t be able to resist?”
Most women would giggle and submit to him, but Meggie narrowed her eyes like a cat warning away a dog. “If you’ll recall, all my father’s daughters carry dirks. And even if I didn’t—surely I have no reason to fear anything at all under your roof.”
He grinned, let his gaze slide over her delectable figure. “Fear? Not from me. As laird, I can promise ye nothing but pleasure under my roof. No straw this time, no hay, just warm, soft furs . . .” he purred, but she turned away without batting a lash and smiled at the steward. Even he blushed at Meggie’s beauty.
“If ye’ll follow me?” he said. A MacLennan lifted Maighread into his arms again, and Meggie followed. A MacVane clansmen led his MacLeod and MacLennan counterparts away to the men’s quarters.
Magnus watched Meggie leave the room, fighting the urge to follow her. But there was plenty of time for that.
He rocked on the balls of his feet, clasped his hands behind his back and chuckled as the door closed behind her. Meggie MacLeod was here, in his castle, after all these years. And she hadn’t forgotten their last meeting. The hectic color in her cheeks and the way her pulse pounded at her throat were proof of that. It would be an easy conquest this time, a simple thing, like tumbling into soft hay with her warm, willing body under his own. And if she wanted to play games, make him wait? He’d still win.
He always won.
Chapter Two
Meggie MacLeod was the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen.
Hugh MacAulay had heard that the laird of Glen Iolair had a number of beautiful daughters, but he hadn’t bothered even imagining how beautiful until now.
He’d seen the hunger in Magnus’s eyes when she appeared, and for an instant, even MacKay had been stunned into silence. Hugh had been stunned himself—stunned to the point of forgetting his manners, all his caution and good sense turning to desire for one raw instant of unbridled lust. He’d stared at her like a green lad who doesn’t know any better. But then, for an instant, she’d stared back at him.
But he was here to propose marriage to Catriona MacVane, as had been decided by the elders of his clan. He didn’t even know his potential bride. But then, neither did the elders. They knew of her rich tocher, and the benefits of having her brother as an ally. Clan MacAulay needed the money she came with, and they didn’t trust Hugh to make a sensible choice on his own.
Ah, but they didn’t have to bed a stranger, or get heirs upon her, or call her wife.
But the decision was hardly surprising. The last three lairds of Abercorry had been lackwits. His grandfather, the mighty Ranald MacAulay, had left his clan poor, and his first heir had picked deadly fights with the neighbors while in his cups. When Eanraig MacAulay fell from his horse and died—with a pistol ball lodged in the back of his head—his brother had become laird. But Angus had a penchant for drink and married women, and when he seduced the wife of a chief at a clan gathering, the chief himself had dispatched Angus by cutting off his offending parts w
ith a sword, and then removing his head. And that left just two choices for laird of Abercorry, heirs who carried the last proud drops of Ranald’s blood in their veins—Hugh, or Angus’s only son, a motherless wee lad of just six. By a narrow margin, they’d chosen Hugh.
Hugh had never thought he’d be laird. He hadn’t been raised to it, and he wasn’t sure he could lead his clan. At least not the way things were now. The elders weren’t sure either. They’d made Hugh laird on sufferance, a toom tabard, an empty coat, there to do as they decided. He’d wed as they dictated and manage his lands, people, and supplies precisely as they ordered. And they had decided he’d marry Catriona MacVane.
High could have refused all of it, of course—the lairdship, the wedding, and the heartless imposition on his freedom of choice—but a six-year-old old lad, small and shy for his age, would have stood no chance at all against the stubborn, opinionated old men who ruled Abercorry. And he’d have had no opportunity for a childhood. Hugh couldn’t stand by and watch a child bullied by seven men who ate and drank well, slept in fine, soft beds, and blamed others for their own bad advice to past lairds.
As laird, Hugh’s wee cousin became his ward, and he intended to do everything in his power to protect the boy, teach him. When he was grown, Sandy MacAulay would become laird of Abercorry, and Hugh would be free.
But the elders had agreed to the wardship for a price, and marrying Catriona MacVane was just the first payment.
He hadn’t even met the lass yet, but given the faces Magnus and Charlie MacKay made whenever her name was mentioned, he wasn’t hopeful.
And now he wished he’d seen her before he’d met Meggie MacLeod. What woman would compare to her? He stood staring at the door long after she’d left the hall—they all stared at it—until Charlie MacKay chuckled. “Now that’s a woman. Imagine her in your bed—”
Magnus grunted. “I don’t have to imagine it. I’ve had her.”
Charlie gaped at him. “Had her? When?”
“Some years ago—nearly eight, perhaps nine, it must be. She was just eighteen, sweet and unplucked—”
“Ye plucked her? Was this before or after ye married my sister?” Charlie asked.
“Before, but not by much. Hours, as I recall,” Magnus said. “Och, she was a sweet armful even then, but now—” He grinned. “She’s all grown up and sweeter still.”
“You’re a dog, Magnus,” Charlie said, frowning.
Hugh felt his belly turn at the idea of Meggie MacLeod and Magnus.
Magnus stroked his chin. “I’m single again, and I wouldn’t mind repeating the pleasure, since she’s here.” He chuckled. “Like a plum fallen into my lap, a fine Yule surprise.”
Hugh knew it was none of his business. He was here for Catriona. What Magnus or Meggie MacLeod or anyone else did was not his concern. He should say what he came to say and go. But the proposal stuck in his throat, and a desire to punch the smirk off Magnus’s face took its place. He wanted to warn Meggie MacLeod to flee, help her do just that, but the storm wouldn’t let anyone leave tonight.
“I think I’ll go up and dress for the meal,” he said instead.
“All the better to impress her, eh, MacAulay?” Charlie said. “Think one of us can steal her from Magnus? Someone will have to keep the luscious Meggie warm tonight.”
“She’s mine. Stay away from her,” Magnus growled.
“Is she?” Charlie asked. “She didn’t look happy to see ye. Perhaps she remembers your charms with less fondness than ye remember hers.”
“Oh, she remembers—did ye see her melt when I did naught but touch her elbow?”
Charlie laughed. “If ye’d gotten any closer, your nose would have lodged between her lovely breasts, and ye’d have suffocated.”
Magnus frowned. “I’ll do more than that once her seanmhair is abed.”
“I seem to recall she reminded ye of your obligation as her host to leave her be,” Hugh said.
“And she said she carries a dirk,” Charlie added.
Magnus glared at them both. “What of it? The MacLeod teaches his daughters to fight like men if they have to. They all have dirks in their sleeves. Not that I’ve seen Meggie’s. She left it off when last we met. And she hasn’t wed—likely that means she never found a man to compare to me.”
“Or ye put her off men completely,” Charlie said.
“Once she’s warmed up and fed, I daresay she’ll be eager to renew our, um, friendship,” Magnus said.
“I’m not so sure she’d welcome ye, Magnus,” Charlie said.
“Care to wager on it?” Magnus asked. “Ye don’t know her like I do. She’s a banked fire, a flame that needs only a little encouragement, a breath, to stir it to life.” He poked his thumb into his chest. “I know what she likes.”
“Seems to me a woman like Meggie is going to like different things than a lass of eighteen. I daresay she’s changed since ye knew her. She’s probably had other, better men,” Charlie argued.
Magnus folded his arms over his chest. “Ye saw how she blushed whenever I so much as looked at her.”
“She smiled at MacAulay sweetly enough, and at me,” Charlie said.
“What’s your point? You’re here to wed Catriona, MacKay. Remember that,” Magnus said.
Hugh looked up in surprise. Charlie MacKay was here to wed Catriona? Then he’d lost, would go home empty-handed . . .
But Charlie laughed as he slumped in his chair and set his booted feet on the table. “Perhaps.” He sighed. “Aye, I think I will take your wager.”
Warning prickled along Hugh’s neck. Magnus waited, studying his brother-in-law.
“Let’s say the first one of us who can steal a kiss from the lovely Meggie wins,” Charlie said. “Are ye game, MacAulay?”
Hugh knew he should say no, walk away, have no part in it, but his mouth watered at the thought of kissing Meggie MacLeod. “What are the stakes?”
Charlie tapped the jeweled brooch that pinned his plaid at his shoulder. “I’ll wager this—it’s an heirloom, a ruby given to the MacKays by Robert the Bruce himself. What will you wager, Magnus?”
Magnus rubbed his chin. “For a kiss? I’ll wager the sword hanging on the wall over there. It was taken from an English knight at Stirling. There’s gold and pearls in the hilt.”
Charlie nodded. “And ye, MacAulay. What will you wager?”
For a moment Hugh regarded his fellow lairds with his heart in his throat. He wanted to kiss Meggie as much as any of them, but he wouldn’t steal it, and he had nothing to wager. There were no valuable heirlooms at Abercorry, no gold. But surely there was a way to make the wager work to his advantage. Oh, not to kiss Meggie. She was out of his league. But if he lost . . .
He leaned back in his chair and bluffed. “Why don’t we increase the stakes?”
Charlie grinned. “Aye? To what?”
“First, Mistress MacLeod’s kiss must be given willingly, not stolen. And it must be a proper kiss, open mouthed and passionate. Long and slow.”
Magnus chuckled, and Charlie nodded. “Go on.”
“If it’s simply a kiss, then we have our wager—I’ll add a cask of whisky that has lain in Abercorry’s cellar for forty years, forgotten.” That was true enough. He was the only one who knew where it was, having found it as a child while hiding from his grandfather. “But if it’s more than a kiss—” he paused for dramatic effect, looked at both men. They looked eager, avid, lusty.
Magnus chuckled, a low, dirty sound. “Aye, a woman who’s willing to give a man that kind of kiss will do more, want more—seduction, a bedding.”
Hugh nearly winced, putting Meggie MacLeod in this position, but her bold confidence—and the dirk in her sleeve—suggested she could handle herself, was experienced enough to know what she wanted. He needed Charlie and Magnus focused on Meggie MacLeod . . .
“What would ye wager for a night in her bed, in her arms, in her—” Charlie asked eagerly. He rolled his eyes and shivered. “Might kill a man.”
> Magnus laughed again. “Meggie MacLeod is not just a hot piece. She’s a rich woman. Her father will dower her well, and she’s Maighread MacLennan’s heir. One day Seannbrae will be Meggie’s. She’ll make the man she weds rich and powerful.” He looked at his fellow lairds. “Shall we say the winner can claim the right to be the first to pay her father a visit, offer for her? When he hears she’s been bedded, Donal MacLeod will no doubt insist on a wedding, just in case . . .” He shrugged.
Charlie regarded his brother-in-law with admiration. “Then I won’t have to wed Catriona.”
Magnus frowned, considered that. “I suppose not—but ye won’t win.”
“My brooch still stands,” Charlie replied. “And I have a hunting falcon I’ll add.”
“I’ll wager the sword, and fifty silver coins,” Magnus said.
“For Meggie MacLeod?” Charlie said. “Not enough.”
“All right—gold coins,” Magnus said. “What about ye, MacAulay?”
Hugh swallowed as they looked at him, his heart pounding. He wanted only what he came for.
“If I lose, I’ll wed Catriona.” He looked from Magnus to Charlie. “You’ll have the lass off your hands, MacVane, and ye, MacKay, won’t have to wed a lass ye obviously have no desire for.”
Charlie’s jaw dropped. “Ye’d do that? It would be a kindness indeed, but ye haven’t met her yet. It seems unfair to me, that the winner gets Meggie MacLeod in his bed and as his wife, Magnus’s gold and sword, my brooch and bird, and your cask of fine whisky, and ye get a wee shrew for a wife.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll tell ye what, MacAulay. If I win, ye can keep the whisky. Ye’ll need it.”
“Done,” said Hugh quietly. Charlie offered his hand to Hugh, and then to Magnus, who was scowling as if something devious had just happened he hadn’t quite figured out.
Magnus headed toward the door. “I think I’ll go and see if our guest is comfortable. If she’s cold—”
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