He was all of those things, she couldn’t deny that. It didn’t help matters much. If only he was stooped and ugly and pockmarked. It would make her plans that much easier if she didn’t feel all odd and fluttery around him.
Fluttery. Sweet Maggie, what a fool she sounded. She’d not have her head turned by mere muscles and braw looks. Attractiveness meant little to her and she had not spent years learning to be a fighter only to have her one chance at revenge stolen from her because of a pair of warm, dark eyes and a dimpled chin.
“Leana?” Maggie prompted. “Do ye no’ find him handsome?”
“I...do I suppose,” she admitted.
“Ye’d make a fine pair.”
The next gust of wind whipped up snow from the ramparts and sent it in their direction, creating a miniature snow flurry about them.
“Good Lord, ‘tis cold!” Maggie declared.
Leana sighed. “Ye return inside and warm yerself. I intend to continue my walk around the walls.”
Maggie eyed her for a few moments, likely debating whether it was worth arguing, then her shoulders dropped. “As ye will. I’m going to sit by the fire and take a dram of mead.”
Leana smiled. “Ye do that.”
She watched Maggie amble down the steps until out of sight. Regret dug into her gut like a thorn burrowing under her skin. Maggie was the closest thing she had to a friend. It had been too hard to grow close to anyone while pretending to be Leana and she had lost all her childhood friends to the fire.
She longed to confide in Maggie, tell her all her deepest darkest secrets—even the truth behind why she’d agreed to come here and let there be talk of a betrothal between the Macleans and the Sinclairs. Mayhap it would unburden some of the guilt swirling around inside like the snowstorm whipping about her feet. She’d expected the Sinclairs to live up to their keep and their reputation.
Dark, dangerous, brutal.
But instead, they were warm, full of laughter and welcoming.
She curled her lip. It was easy to be warm and welcoming when they hadn’t suffered as her clan had. It had taken years to recover from losing so many of them and too many had been lost to skirmishes after as they fought to preserve what they had when everyone thought them weak.
She could not be weak. She would not be weak. Revenge was going to be hers, no matter how pleasant the laird and his family appeared.
No matter how much it made her hurt to think of taking away Tavish’s father.
Movement caught her eye and her stomach sank down to her boots. Of course he would be here. She twisted away from Tavish, moving swiftly along the ramparts. She heard his crunching footsteps approach and came to a halt. There was no escaping him.
Turning, she peered up at him, bundling her cold hands together under her cloak. Perhaps if she could not escape him, she could send him away.
“Yer maid said ye were here,” he said. “‘Tis a wee bit cold for a walk do ye no’ think?”
“I dinnae care about the cold.”
His assessing gaze travelled up and down her body. She tensed her muscles in an attempt to remain still.
“Yer shivering.”
“I am not,” she rejoined.
His lips quirked. “Ye most certainly are.” He swept a hand across his face, drawing her attention to the sizeable width of them.
Leana recalled how they’d clasped her waist, making her feel anything other than the strong, courageous woman who was going to repay the Macleans for what they did. She’d never felt wee and delicate like that in her adult life, despite her stature. Sometimes, she suspected the fire had hardened her, as though it had melted her into a new person and then put her outside to harden.
Tavish made her feel small and strangely soft inside.
She didn’t like it, and she wouldn’t let herself like it. Not one bit.
✽✽✽
TAVISH NOTED THE stubborn rise of her chin and the little spark in her eyes that he was beginning to enjoy. He had yet to decide what the devil he was going to do about Leana—or Nessa as she was really known.
It was no secret there had been bad blood between their clans ever since they’d accused his clan of starting the fire but mayhap she’d come here, as Leana, to ensure the rift was over. In a strange way, it made sense. His father wouldn’t want him marrying a mere kitchen lass and Mac Sinclair was no fool—he’d know that having his daughter still alive would give the clan some protection.
But he had to be certain his assumptions were correct and if the damned lass wouldn’t speak to him, he’d have no way of knowing. So he’d been forced to chase her down.
“Ye should come inside where ‘tis warm.”
“I’m admiring the view.”
He peered over the ramparts with a smirk. Clouds lingered over the sea, hiding the horizon in a murky, smoke-like mist. In the summer, the seas turned a dark green, but at the moment, they were a steely, bottomless gray.
“I dinnae think there’s much to see.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Perhaps I enjoy views of the sea. Ye dinnae know me, Maclean.”
“I know ye, Sinclair.” He shifted closer, forcing her to crane her neck. “I know yer not who ye say ye are. I know ye used to have a wooden sword and tried to fight all the lads. I know ye had a fierce punch even for a little girl.”
Her eyes flickered, as though a shadow had passed over them. He tried to keep the triumphant grin from his face. He’d touched truth there.
“I never punched anyone,” she said tightly.
“Nay, Leana never punched anyone.”
“I am Leana.”
“Ye know there’s always that birthmark ye can show me...”
Her lips thinned. “Ye try yer luck too hard, Tavish. I hope no other lass falls for such nonsense.”
He lifted his shoulders. “A few do.”
“Well, ye can return to them.”
“I thought ye were here to discuss a betrothal but now yer sending me back to another lassie’s bed?”
She stiffened. “I was. I am.” Her throat worked. “But that doesnae mean ye can sway me into bed before negotiations have begun.”
“I’ll have my father talk to yer man straight away then. Would that please ye? Then ye can show me that mark sooner rather than later.”
Her cheeks reddened and he didn’t think she could blame the cold for it. He was no stranger to women and he knew precisely why she’d grown rosy cheeked—she was picturing them in bed together.
Tavish couldn’t claim he wasn’t doing the same. The feel of her slender waist beneath his palms had lingered with him and he kept catching the scent of soap emanating from her—a simple, fresh smell that made him want to bury his nose in locks that he discovered were tinged red under the candlelight.
“Well, would it please ye?” he pressed.
“A-aye that would please me.”
“Yer cold.” He tugged off his cloak and slung it swiftly around her shoulders, over the top of her own far-too-thin cloak. She tried to move away but not swiftly enough.
Leana scowled at him. “I told ye I’m well enough and now ye’ll be cold.”
“So ye care if I’m cold or no’? Mayhap we’ll make a match after all.”
“Why do ye care if we make a match?”
“The same reason yer clan wants it, I’d assume—to put an end to the rift.”
“And ye’d be able to take claim of leadership of the Sinclair clan,” she pointed out. “I’d image ye wouldnae mind that either.”
“If we had a son, he’d be Sinclair and Maclean blood. I image yer father wouldn’t mind that,” he countered.
She blinked a few times. “Yer making many assumptions.”
“Aye, just as ye are.”
“Ye Macleans are all the same,” she scoffed. “Ye’d love for the Sinclairs to bow to the Macleans.”
“So why exactly are ye here if ye have no desire for a union between our clans?”
She drew in a sharp breath and then held his gaz
e, giving him a cool stare. “Because of the Campbells, of course. They are the power in the area after all. Better we unite than be wiped out by them.”
“Aye, of course,” he murmured. He wasn’t certain he could believe her yet, especially when she was still determined to lie about her identity. As attractive as he found her, he’d have to be cautious. A bitter wind wound around them. “Ye should come inside,” he said.
“Nay, I am quite content out here.”
“Come inside,” he insisted.
She turned on her heel and moved leisurely along the ramparts, forcing him to follow.
“Leana,” he tried.
She ignored him.
“Nessa.”
Whirling on him, her eyes fiery. “I am no’ Nessa. She died in the fire. The fire that took my mother, my uncles, my friend. Nessa died that night and no one ever saw her again.”
Tavish lifted his hands in surrender. He was beginning to think that might be true. Whoever this was, it wasn’t Leana but she wasn’t the wild child he’d known before the fire either. He leaned forward. “Ye could always talk to me about it, ye know.”
A brow lifted. “Confide in a Maclean? Dinnae be ridiculous.”
“So ye do have something to confide then?”
“I have nothing, Maclean, and even if I did, I wouldnae be sharing it with ye, whether we were betrothed or no’.” Leana whipped around again, marching toward the door leading down into the armory. Before he caught up, she slammed the door shut on him. He took a few steps back and rubbed a hand over his face.
In the bailey, he heard laughter and glanced down to see his father and uncle.
“Better luck next time, lad!” his father said.
“Aye, ‘tis only the fate of the clan in yer hands, Tavish,” his uncle called up to him.
Tavish grimaced and shook his head. “Aye, thank ye.”
Chapter Four
“Ye look just like yer da, ye know.”
Leana smiled tightly at the man to her right. She’d heard that comment many times over the years. Her similarity to Leana had ensured no one had discovered their deception but the comment always dug deep, twisting the knife of remembrance that she’d not only lost her mother in the fire that day—she’d also lost her identity. No one would recall that her hair was the same color as her mother’s or that they shared the same nose. All that had been erased.
“Drink up, lass,” Bram Maclean encouraged loudly. “‘Tis Yuletide and what better time to indulge than Yuletide.”
Tavish leaned in from the left of her. “He’ll no’ give up easily, I fear. Cousin Bram isnae happy unless everyone is merry.”
Leana rolled her eyes, curled her hand around the cup of ale and took a long drink, draining the cup until empty and dropping it down with a flourish. Tavish’s eyes crinkled with appreciation.
“Aye, that’s the way, lass!” Bram shouted approvingly.
Her cup didn’t remain empty long. Bram refilled it from the jug, sloshing wine over the edge and onto the wooden table. She wished she hadn’t been forced to sit at the head table, up on the raised dais where she was under everyone’s scrutiny.
And it wasn’t paranoia making her feel under watch. Every interaction she had with Tavish, she felt eyes upon them, as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see if they would make the match.
So far, she had played her role poorly. She would have to do better. Maggie said there had been talk of their interaction several days ago on the ramparts and some suggesting no such connection between the Sinclairs and the Macleans could ever be made. If it was considered she thought them to still be the enemy, her plans for revenge would be impossible.
As yet, she’d found no way to get the laird alone nor use the poison she intended for him. She could poison the ale, of course, and simply hope he took a drink, but unlike the laird, she was not willing to harm innocent men and women. If she could gain her revenge, it had to be directed at the laird and the laird alone.
Her stomach gave a twist as Tavish laughed at something his father said. She might have no desire to marry a Maclean, but he was an innocent in all this too and clearly loved his father. She clasped the cup tighter and took another long gulp of ale, closing her eyes and letting the coolness wash over her and sweep away the tangle that was her insides at present.
For so many years, she had pictured taking her revenge. Sometimes, she thought she might get her men to take up arms, other times she imagined sneaking into the laird’s bedchamber and setting a fire—true revenge for what had happened. But the reality was far different. These people didn’t behave like the monsters she’d imagined. They were warm and funny, and had shown nothing but kindness to her.
It could be an act, she reminded herself. After all, they wanted to take over the Sinclairs and ensure Maclean blood ran supreme.
But it was growing hard to keep up her courage—and her defenses.
She glanced around the room. Musicians played from the wooden gallery above, only just audible above the raucous laughter and chatter of the people in attendance at the feast. The ale flowed more freely with each passing moment. Several members of the clan were already deep in their cups, despite being nowhere near the end of the feast. Food was plentiful and delicious, the meat in front of her tender and fragrant.
These were the sort of Yuletides she recalled as a child but had been hard to replicate. They were often a painful reminder of all the lives the clan had lost, even as they tried to rebuild.
She drew in a long breath. If she let herself, she too could get swept away with the merrymaking.
“Are ye enjoying yerself?” Tavish asked, raising his voice over Bram, who began singing along in an incoherent manner to the music.
“Aye,” she answered swiftly, not sure if it was really a lie or not. “Yer clan, um, certainly knows how to celebrate.”
He chuckled. “Aye, that they do.”
He leaned over and sliced the next morsel of meat for her, stabbing it with his knife and offering it out. She held her breath and glanced around. Thankfully most people had ceased paying attention to them a few jugs of ale ago so she let the stiffness in her shoulders ease and took the bite. Tavish watched her as she did so, his gaze never leaving hers until it dropped down to her lips as she moved back. She darted the tip of her tongue out over her bottom lip and saw his eyes darken.
God’s wounds, she should not have done that. Now he looked at her as though she were some tempting morsel too—and a large part of her wished to be devoured.
Swallowing hard, she snapped her gaze away from him and drained the rest of her ale, keeping her attention ahead of her, even while she felt his gaze upon her still. She had not come here to truly make a betrothal with Tavish but why oh why could she not remember that?
Aye, he was handsome, and he seemed to be a good man, but he knew the truth of her and could be dangerous. She needed to be alert at all times and not get drawn in by whatever attraction seemed to be simmering between them.
She was here for one reason, and one reason only, and it certainly had nothing to do with wanting Tavish Maclean.
✽✽✽
A LARGE PART of Tavish longed to grab Leana by the shoulders and shake her, to rattle free the lass he’d known. He saw her every now and then—little flashes in her eyes or slight smiles. Yet she wouldn’t break loose. Even when heat swirled between them and he knew she was having similar thoughts to him.
They’d go well together.
More than well.
Since the moment she stepped off the damned boat, he’d been having heated thoughts about her. They weren’t dissipating even with knowing the truth of her identity. He would be safe to assume so much of her rigidity was to do with this charade, but he’d wager it was deeper too. He’d yet to pass on his concerns about her to his father or uncle and he wasn’t even certain if he would. If he could only get her to confide in him, it would make things a hell of a lot easier.
Perhaps after a goodly amount of
ale and some fine food, she’d trust him enough to admit what he already knew about her.
“Ah, at last. Plum pudding!” Bram slammed his cup down on the table and dug into the food.
Tavish deposited some on Leana’s plate. “If I recall, this was yer favorite dish as a child.”
“Aye.” Her eyes widened. “That is...is it not everyone’s?”
He smirked. He’d caught her and she well knew it. It had been Nessa’s favorite, not Leana’s, who had preferred savory dishes. “Not everyone’s, nay.”
“Well, I have more of a sweet tongue with age,” she said hastily.
“Really? I have yet to witness it.”
A brow lifted and she shook her head. “Ye have to do something to deserve my sweet tongue, Maclean.”
“I’m being a gentleman, am I no’? Especially for a Highlander.”
“Ye should save yer gentlemanliness for some other lass—a lass who is interested.”
“I would have thought ye would be happy yer husband-to-be is no rough Highlander with ill manners.”
She shrugged. “Ye are no’ my husband-to-be yet, and it is a business arrangement, no more. Ye could be as ugly as a boar and with the manners of one too, it wouldnae matter.”
“So yer saying I’m no’ ugly.”
She narrowed her gaze at him, the slight flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Just not as ugly as a boar.”
“Time to dance!” Bram bellowed before Tavish could reply.
His cousin shoved his chair back with a screech and snatched Leana’s hand. She gave a yelp of surprise as he pulled her bodily to her feet and dragged her to the open space at the end of the hallway. The musicians began a lively tune at Bram’s beckoning and Leana froze, her eyes wide. She met Tavish’s gaze, shooting daggers at him when he shrugged and grinned.
“Dinnae tell me Sinclairs cannae dance,” Bram said, snatching her hand again and whirling her around.
Letting her shoulders drop, Leana snatched her skirt and moved in time with Bram. Other clan members swiftly joined them, until the floor vibrated with pounding feet.
Loving Her Highland Enemy Page 3
