by Alyssa Cole
“MacAllister is one of the Highland lairds James parlayed with.” The queen couldn’t keep the curiosity out of her voice as she continued. “You conversed with him during the visit to seek accord with the clans all those months ago, did you not?”
“Just the once,” Agnes managed. Just once, but it had left an indelible mark on her. She’d thought herself foolish—months of pining away for some Highland chief determined to thwart James’s plans for unification—but as MacAllister bowed deeply and strode off of the field, she understood that her instinct had been correct: the Wild Knight had come for her.
Maybe once had been enough.
Agnes hadn’t wanted to go to the meeting of the Highland chieftains six months before.
She’d known why the king wanted her to accompany him: she was a favorite of the royal couple for a reason, able to discuss both politics and pleasurable pursuits with ease, to soothe ruffled feathers and make sure that the right people spoke to each other in order to further James’s goals for Scotland. There was also an unacknowledged, more rankling, reason for her presence: she was an eccentricity that drew people’s interest and helped break the ice, like a pet tiger or a dancing bear. In spite of that, Agnes wanted nothing more than to be of use to her adopted country; however, she had been frightened of the arduous journey to MacAllister’s keep.
She didn’t scare easily, but the rules were different in the far-flung Highlands, mostly in that there weren’t any. She was curiosity enough in Edinburgh—in the untamed reaches of Scotland she would be a spectacle, the object of constant attention, and not all of it simple wonder. As the king’s entourage had ridden through the encampment that surrounded MacAllister’s keep, the crowds comprised of the several clans that had come to hear what the king was about, Agnes had felt the malice rolling off the people. Their defiance, their resistance to Edinburgh rule, was not something that could be changed with a smile and the carefully worded parries she used at court, but she had been determined to try.
The trip had been a failure, to put it kindly. James had spoken with various chieftains, and several of them seemed to tolerate him well enough, but the people of the Highlands didn’t wish to find themselves under a king’s thumb again. Agnes had done her job, trying to make headway with those chieftains who deigned to acknowledge her, but she had been acutely aware of one man the entire night. The MacAllister.
He was impossible not to notice. He was larger than most of his cohort, but not lumbering or unrefined. There was an exquisite caste to his body that reminded her of the statues chiseled by the Italian artists James had invited to Edinburgh. His impressive musculature couldn’t be hidden beneath the tartan he wore, a plaid of green and yellow. Dark hair hung down his back, a few braids along the sides keeping the thick mass from falling into his eyes, which were an impossible shade of green that gave her a flash of the verdant climes of her youth. Agnes knew that of all the men in attendance, he was the one she should be trying to sway—he had the ear of several feuding chieftains who wouldn’t deal with each other or with the king—but a different kind of fear had seized her from the moment she’d been introduced to him.
His gaze had followed her intently after their brief encounter, burning into her even as he carried on lively conversations with his political allies. She was accustomed to being stared at, but not in such a way, and certainly not to the reaction MacAllister elicited in her. She’d spent half the night tight with need and hoping for just one dance with him, just one touch of his large hand to the small of her back as they moved synchronously. At the same time, some dueling inner force had screamed that this man was dangerous, that she must avoid him, duty to her king be damned.
She hadn’t exchanged more than a greeting with the man, but Agnes hadn’t spoken any native tongue when she arrived on Scotland’s shores, and she knew what it was to communicate without words. The MacAllister’s gaze spoke of possession, of desire. He wanted her, but what frightened her more was the fact that she couldn’t be sure her gaze wasn’t a mirror of his own. So she had run.
She’d felt like a fool strategically evading him, keeping hulking Highlanders and groups of minstrels and their instruments between them. When the night was drawing to a close and she had successfully kept him at bay, she’d felt a strange mixture of pride and regret. She was sagged against a stone wall in the corner of the great hall, exhausted, when she felt his presence next to her. He leaned against the wall, effectively blocking out the rest of the attendees with the breadth of his back.
“I hope you found everything to your liking, Lady Agnes,” he said in a voice that had not lost its thick burr but showed signs of English education. The torchlight danced in his eyes, making him look very much like one of the scullery cats when they cornered their prey. “We’re not used to accommodating the likes of the king and his court at my humble keep.”
“I’ve found both the banquet and the accommodations most excellent, Laird MacAllister,” she said. She felt completely cowed by his presence, and she hoped it didn’t show. “However, I must correct you. I am not a lady, merely a humble emissary of King James’s court.”
He raised his brows at her words, and then his warm gaze raked over her from head to toe. He may as well have physically run his hands over her for the way Agnes’s body reacted. Her blood pulsed and images of the most delicious and inappropriate kind flashed in her mind: MacAllister’s mouth on hers, his hands on her breasts, his muscular arms wrapped around her—it was unseemly, her reaction, but she could no more control it than a horse ere it was broken.
His brows lifted in amusement. “As a connoisseur, I’ll have to disagree. You are definitively a lady,” he said. His voice went low with appreciation. “A very beautiful one.”
Agnes hadn’t known how to react. Her usually quick wit deserted her in the face of MacAllister’s straightforwardness. She was used to many things, but not compliments, and she knew not how to receive one. What was it this man wanted? She’d encountered many who desired a taste of the taboo, but there was something else in MacAllister’s gaze, something warm and entirely overfamiliar.
“I’m not here because James finds me beautiful.” She hoped her voice didn’t reveal how much he unsettled her. She had come to do business, not to be wooed. “I’m here because I speak truly of how beneficial it would be for the clans of the Highlands and the Isles to align with the king.”
“Align with or follow blindly?” MacAllister challenged, although there was no venom in his words.
“You act as if there’s much difference when the English threat looms over us all,” Agnes retorted.
“Is the English bogeyman reason enough for my people to relinquish their pride and their autonomy? I’m sure they’ll take kindly to the suggestion that they give up willingly what our ancestors have fought over for generations.”
“It doesn’t have to be so cut and dry,” Agnes said calmly, hoping she would get through to him. “If your people were willing to negotiate, to give some sign that they would work with the king—”
“I’ve been well appraised of your strengths, wee ambassador—truly, I was surprised when you seemed to avoid me at all cost instead of trying to win me to your cause—but now I see why James brought you,” Gareth said. His gaze was warm as he looked down at her, and the hint of a smile raised one corner of his mouth. “You’re the carrot he dangles before the stubborn mule to lead it down the path he desires. Perhaps he’s smarter than I imagined.”
Agnes pushed off of the wall and straightened her back, surprised at his boldness and that he’d looked into her. She was used to being the one who had the upper hand in a discussion, of knowing a person’s past and present peccadilloes. But MacAllister had proven to be a challenge; all she knew about him was that he was nigh on intractable, with the strength to back it up, and that he was in want of a wife to get heirs upon.
She’d tilted her head and gave him her most diplomatic smile. “I believe carrots are of a distinctly different hue, Laird MacAllister
, although you’re not completely mistaken in your analogy: you are most assuredly an ass. If you’re done comparing me to root vegetables, I shall take my leave.”
He’d smiled in that disarming way that seemed incongruous for a man of his size. “I hope our difference of opinion doesn’t mean you’ll begrudge me a dance,” he’d said. “Or has a life at court made you too frightened of the savage Highlanders to grant me a turn?”
Agnes felt her cheeks warm with some undefined emotion. MacAllister vexed her, but it wasn’t anger that his teasing stoked. “You must be forgetting yourself, laird,” she replied. “We are in your lands, and here it I who is considered the savage.”
He laughed, a hearty sound that drew attention in their direction. Mirth transformed his face from brooding to almost irresistible. Almost.
“It is considered quite rude to laugh so baldly at a woman, laird,” Agnes said, close to losing the composure that served her well in the face of even the most boorish of courtiers. “I know things are quite different here, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t inform you of your vulgarity.”
His expression sobered and he gazed at her for a long moment before bowing solemnly before her. “My apologies.”
Agnes thought he would bid her adieu and allow her to take her leave, but when he stood to his full height his warm hands gripped hers and pulled her close. She thought he would kiss her then, and her body responded to the possibility with anticipation instead of anger. Instead, after holding her for much longer than appropriate, he pulled her into the first steps of a reel. It took her a moment to overcome her surprise and pick up the rhythm of the minstrel’s song, but once she caught it, she and Gareth moved together perfectly.
“It seems I require further instruction on the finer points of courtly interaction. You seem willing to teach me, but I find that learning is much easier when the body is engaged as well. What say you?”
His hand on her back was warm and so large that she forgot he had forced her into this dance. The heat of it was like a brand, matched by the warmth that flared in his eyes. She was distracted from any possible vexation by thoughts of what his hand would feel like on other parts of her body, how it would feel grazing her bare skin.
She had been right in keeping her distance.
“I say that a woman’s leave is required before the dance begins, Laird MacAllister,” Agnes said. She tried to be stern, but her lips refused to comply, pulling up into a smile against her wishes.
“Ah. I thought that the common method of refusal was stepping on my toe and spinning off like a top during the turn,” he said. When she laughed, he smiled victoriously. There was something unnerving in his gaze, and in the way he held her as they danced. The cool, reserved places within her heated at the grip of his hand on hers, and at the way his fingers pressed into her hips instead of the light touch that was socially acceptable.
“I offer my apologies again. I laughed at the ridiculousness of our situation, not at you, Lady Agnes,” he said as he moved with her, leading her effortlessly. “I’m called a savage because my people want to maintain their way of life. You’re called a savage for something as ridiculous as your hue. Isn’t it galling?”
His bluntness took their conversation well beyond the bounds of propriety. Even if she agreed with him, she didn’t want to discuss such unpleasantness, not when she was in the arms of a man whose company she actually enjoyed. Agnes didn’t share how often she felt like an outsider at court with anyone, and she wouldn’t with MacAllister, even if he might be the one man who’d understand.
She laughed her false courtly laugh, the sharp, high one she used to convey that she was quite unruffled. She’d had ample opportunity to make use of it over the years. “Well, I can hardly change my situation, Laird, but surely you can reconsider parlaying with His Highness? Think of the benefits for your clansmen.”
MacAllister had sighed as stepped away and guided her into a spin before pulling her close again. This dance was supposed to be chaste, but his body was a column of firm heat all along the front of her. Each accidental brush of his chest against her bosom, or his thigh against her skirts, sent a riot of sensation through her. He leaned down, his voice a rough caress of her ear that shot to her belly in a quiver of pleasure. “Do you ever permit yourself to speak of anything beyond politics? If I wanted to be bored to death with pleas for submission, I’d be dancing with one of the codgers who’ve been haranguing me for months.”
“Sir Upton cuts a fine figure on the dance floor,” Agnes said, nodding in the direction of the defense advisor whose face was so covered in wrinkles that it seemed his eyes, nose, and mouth had been lost in them. “You’ve chosen your partner incorrectly, if dancing was your main objective.”
He’d laughed, a low and potent sound that Agnes felt in her stomach and surrounding regions. “Lady Agnes, if I told you my true objective, you wouldn’t be here in my arms right now.”
He hadn’t had to go further than that. The way he looked at her, as if he knew her and was just discovering her at the same time, made his desires perfectly clear.
Agnes cleared her throat. "If you do not wish to speak of giving your allegiance to the king, perhaps you’d prefer we discuss the latest court gossip?” she’d asked tartly. “I wouldn’t have guessed that a brave Highland chieftain would prefer discussing dress patterns and which poultice works best for a seeping wound.”
“I admit I’m not very familiar with the mindset of the court and their views on certain topics,” he’d said, his response lacking any hint that he knew she was mocking him. “Perhaps you can answer this question: what would the court make of two savages who fell in love?”
Agnes stiffened in his arms, and she felt a sharp, sudden pang in her chest. His earlier transgressions had been brash, but tolerable; this cut too deeply for Agnes to overlook. Could he know how they whispered behind her back? Could he sense how lonely she truly was?
“I believe the prevailing opinion is that they’re not equipped to enjoy such a luxury,” she said, and then some bitter part of her continued on. “Perhaps they’re right. I’ve certainly never met a man I could love, and I don’t care if I ever do.”
The words felt horrid coming out of her mouth, but she would not be made fun of. If MacAllister wanted to play some cruel game with her, she would parry.
“You’re mistaken, lass,” he growled as he spun her in time to the music. His hands tightened, but he didn’t pull her closer. Agnes ignored the pang of frustration she felt at his distance. “As repayment for your instruction on the ways of the court, I could show you how wrong you are. If that is what you wish.”
She looked him full in the face, expecting to see cruel wit or, worse, a leer, but instead she was met with an earnest, searching look. His gaze on her had been hard and hot all night, but now his expression was open, as easily scannable as one of the illuminated manuscripts the king had gifted to her, and Agnes couldn’t quite believe what she read there.
“Or perhaps you aren’t mistaken,” he said. “Perhaps you couldn’t love a man. But I believe it would be quite easy for a man to care for you.”
“MacAllister, what are you about?” she had asked, her breath catching in her throat. She knew it wasn’t the exertion of dancing that nearly stole her words. It was her proximity to this man. Agnes finally understood why she had instinctively fled from him; he was dangerous indeed. No man had ever scared Agnes with the possibility of more, even in jest, and he had to be jesting.
“Gareth. Call me Gareth,” he said. There was an urgency in his words as he leaned close to her. His name was on her lips when all hell broke loose.
A brawl erupted between two men from different clans, and it spread like wildfire. A fist missed Agnes’s face by an inch before Gareth pulled her into his arms and pushed his way through the crowd. The men parted for him even as they fought, and he blocked any errant blows with his body before depositing her safely with the king’s entourage. He had given her one last longing look after he pl
aced her on her feet, and then he jumped into the fray with his hotheaded brethren.
That was the last she had seen of Gareth MacAllister, and that she thought she ever would see of him, until the Wild Knight revealed his identity before all of King James’s court.
Oh, for the love of God, where is he?
Hours had passed since the tourney’s end, and the MacAllister had yet to claim his kiss. Any belief that it had been simply prestige the Wild Knight sought had been discarded when she locked eyes with him after the joust had ended. There had been no mistaking the heat in his gaze, but he’d turned and left the field of battle instead of approaching the dais.
If he’d been jesting with her during their dance at his keep, he was taking it very far indeed.
At the festivities following the tournament, Agnes tried to glide easily through the crowd, as she always did, making conversation with courtiers and foreign dignitaries. There were amusements aplenty: the dark conjurers performed even more elaborate tricks, acrobats tumbled and flipped, and contortionists twisted themselves into most uncomfortable positions. But these were not the things people gossiped about. Instead, the guests spoke of the ferocious Highland chief-cum-earl, recently granted the title by James after helping to quell rebellions in the region.
Now it all came together. Agnes had heard of the arrangement in passing, but she hadn’t made the connection. She, who was supposed to be on top of the political intrigues of the court.
Agnes was attempting to understand one of the Greek mathematicians who droned on and on about a theorem he’d been trying to solve for eight years solid, when a thrumming tension pressed the crowd into silence. Every guest’s head turned toward the entrance, except for Agnes’s. She froze mid-sentence, feeling like one who hears a storm barreling toward them across the marsh but knows there is no place to seek shelter.
Agnes felt that prickling awareness again, and turned slowly to meet her champion. Dark green eyes, the color of a moss-lined loch, fixed on her from across the room, pinning her as if MacAllister held her bodily. Everything about him was massive, from his chest and back, which were hugged by an exquisitely tailored jacket, to his muscled legs, the tanned lengths of which were visible beneath his green and yellow plaid. His dark hair was pulled back into a queue, exposing his strong jaw line and high cheekbones. His mouth was no exception to his size, wide and plump and begging to be kissed. This was no toady baron. This was the man she had dreamt of for so many months. The man she had hoped for when the Wild Knight had been nothing but a suit of armor filled with her most secret fantasy. He was here, he was stalking toward her, and she had no idea what to do.
