Claimed by the Clan Chief

by Lily Harlem

  Stop it, you fool. You can’t look at him. Don’t even think of him.

  Ever.

  Chapter Two

  Trevor McTavish watched the pretty young maid rush from the room as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. For some reason she’d seemed spooked by his attention. He’d just come to her rescue so why would that be?

  Broc was a drunken idiot. A horny one too. Not that he was any kind of stallion, and soon he’d be a gelding if he kept up his immoral ways. McTavish would see to that. He needed strong, brave fighters for the cause, men who weren’t afraid of battle and blood, but that didn’t mean morals had to go out of the window. Tomorrow he’d have a talk with all the men. Grateful as he was to have their support and following, he didn’t need rapists amongst them. Young maidens deserved protection and respect, and it was a man’s job to do that.

  He returned his attention to his host and sat back down.

  “Terrible business, all of that,” the laird said.

  “Aye, my apologies, won’t happen again.”

  “I’m sure it won’t. You keep your men in good order.”

  “I’d prefer it if they could do that for themselves, at least when it comes to carnal needs. ‘Tis not hard to restrain when you’re a man brought up right.”

  “Aye, I agree.” Kendal threw Broc a glare.

  “Would you like me to remove him?” McTavish asked.

  “Na, leave him be,” the other man, Kendal’s friend Reid, spoke. “He’s settled again, and I don’t ken he’ll try anything else now he’s felt the tip of your sword against his neck.”

  “No, he won’t.” McTavish thought of the colourful punishments the maid had come up with. What was her name? Isla, that was it. Pretty. It suited her. With long raven-black hair, grey eyes surrounded by long thick lashes, and pouty lips the colour of a summer rosebud, it wasn’t surprising she drew attention. He’d seen uglier princesses in his time.

  “The ale,” the laird said, nodding at McTavish’s undrunk mug. “What do you think?”

  “Aye, let’s see.” He took a sip and the malty liquid flowed like honey down his throat. “Good, aye, really good.”

  “Brewed right here in this castle.” The laird was clearly proud of it and McTavish took another gulp before digging into a meat pie.

  The conversation moved to the cause and McTavish’s recent run-in with an English soldier. The incident had resulted in a bloody swordfight that had left McTavish with a small wound on his shoulder and the Englishman with a large wound around his neck. The laird and his guests were keen to hear all the gory details and express their admiration of McTavish’s skills as a warrior.

  He was happy to talk about the incident, though what he really wanted was to get the laird alone to discuss the Duke of Cambridgeshire and his apparent offering of support to the rebellion. It was hard to ken whether to trust him or not; his allegiance appeared flimsy at best, a collaborator with the king at worst. But if it was genuine, McTavish couldn’t afford to waste such a powerful new ally.

  When the meal was cleared and sweet treats—pastries filled with jam, sponges dripping with cream, sugared fruit—arrived on the table, McTavish excused himself.

  The din of jovial conversation mellowed as he wandered down the long hallway, his soft boots quiet on the flagstone floor. A fire was waning in the grate and the candles on the mantel dying. Shadows flickered over the grey walls and several portraits seemed to follow his movements with their painted eyes. Noises came from the kitchen; the clatter of pans and female voices.

  He peered inside, hoping to find Isla.

  She wasn’t there.

  No one saw him looking, which was usual. McTavish might be big but he was used to being invisible. Having a price on his head had taught him that trick.

  He moved back into the shadows and ran his hand through his hair. His belly was full, and he was enjoying wearing clean clothes on a freshly bathed body. The last two weeks had been long and arduous as they’d ridden from the western coast; he was looking forward to a proper bed for the night, rather than a barn floor, or the earth. Thank goodness Laird Stewart McDonald was such a generous host as well as a man who believed in the same things he did.

  But he wouldn’t take to his bedchamber until he set his gaze upon Isla’s sweet face again and made sure she was truly unharmed. He hadn’t liked her frightened expression as she’d fled the banqueting hall. There was no need for her to be afraid of his men, not now he’d set down the rules. Anyone who broke them would have him to deal with, and it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  He walked deeper into the house, over the hard floor to where the air became cooler. The scent of the night reached his nose and he spotted a small arched door propped half open. Walking toward it, the glow of a not quite full moon spread its delicate light over the threshold.

  It was then he heard it. A soft voice talking in hushed tones.

  He peeked out of the doorway and into the courtyard. A figure was stooped low, small shoulders bent and hair falling forward. It was Isla and she was pouring cream into a bowl and whispering sweet endearments. Two black cats were waiting eagerly for their treat and appeared mesmerized by her.

  Something in him melted. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was seeing someone so unguarded, or her delicateness, maybe just the act of caring for small creatures when there was so much else to be done and she must be very tired.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She whipped her head around, and stood. The cats backed away, but only for a second then they dipped their heads to the bowl again.

  As she straightened she pressed her hand to her chest. “You scared me.” She looked down at her feet.

  “I apologize, I just wanted me some air.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s hot enough to boil a ham in there.”

  “Shall I dampen the fires?” She stooped and set the jug next to the bowl then stood and gathered her skirts as if preparing to rush away.

  “Och, nay, lass, stay where you are. That won’t be necessary. My men are enjoying the warmth, and the food and ale.” He paused and stared at the crown of her head, wondering why she wouldn’t look up at him. “I’m sorry for what happened earlier, with my man Broc.”

  “It doesn’t need speaking of again.”

  “If that’s what you wish.” He stepped closer. “But I want you to ken that you have nothing to fear from my men.”

  “I understand.”

  “Don’t you believe me?” He rested his hand on her small shoulder.

  She gasped and stepped back, finally she looked up at him, but only for a second then she turned her head to the right.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What have I done?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I came to your rescue, did I not?”

  “Aye. And I’m grateful.” She rested her hand over her eyes. “Really I am.”

  “So why can’t you look at me?” He glanced down at himself. Was he not decently covered? Was he grotesque?

  “I can.” She turned her back on him.

  “It’s plain you can’t.” He was bewildered. “Does my face offend you? Am I the ugliest man in that room… the ugliest Highlander you’ve ever seen?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So turn and look at me.” He was getting irritated now. Not understanding something did that to him.

  She made no move to turn.

  “Isla.” He stepped close, so his chest was almost touching her shoulders. He could sense her body heat, and admired the way the moonlight kissed her hair making it shimmer like the deepest loch.

  “I can’t look at you,” she whispered.

  “Why not?” He breathed in her scent; it was soapy and fresh and held a hint of the sweet treats that had come from the kitchen.

  “You must ken already,” she said.

  “If I did I wouldn’t be so confused by you, lass.”

  She remained quiet.

  “I’d advise you to tell me what is going on,
otherwise I might have to go and tell the laird one of his staff is not obliging my wishes, and he told me I’d want for nothing as his guest.” He lowered his voice. “Or I may have to tip you over my knee and spank the information from you.”

  “No, please, don’t do that.” She spun around. Her eyes were closed. “Neither of those things.”

  “Isla.” He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand. Her skin was so soft against his rough flesh. “Is it because I have a price on my head? Or that I’m a Jacobite?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “So… open… your… eyes.”

  Finally she did, her long lashes fluttering as she set her attention on his lips.

  “My eyes,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers. He had a sudden urge to kiss her, to find out what her pretty mouth would feel like against his. But she was skittish, like a young deer alone in the woods, and he was sure one wrong move and she’d take off. He’d likely never see her again.

  “Your eyes,” she said, biting on her bottom lip.

  Damn, his cock was stirring now. “Aye.”

  “But… you have one green and one blue.”

  “Aye, since I was a bairn.” Was that the problem? His mismatched eyes?

  “Don’t you ken what that means?”

  “What it means? Nay, lass, was just how God made me. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

  She swallowed and shook her head.

  “What does it mean to you?” he asked gently, though he couldn’t deny he was frustrated by the strangeness of it all. “Tell me.”

  She pulled in a breath. “It means you were touched by a witch. That you can see into souls.”

  “What?” He couldn’t help a chuckle. “Touched by a witch? Now my ma had a way with herbs and always a tincture to fix us bairns up with but she was no witch.”

  “Not your ma, someone else.” There was a small tremble in her voice.

  He frowned. “And is it the witch you’re scared of? Because I’m not scared of witches, not for one moment.”

  “You’re not?” She glanced up at him, but quickly looked back down again.

  “Nay, I’ve come across one in my life and she was always there for me. From that experience I learned I’ve nothing to fear.” He paused. “Are you scared of witches?”

  She shook her head.

  “So what’s the problem?” For the love of God, he wanted this woman to speak to him. He needed to ken what was going on. She was an enigma, something about her set her apart from other women of the Highlands. Sure she was pretty, smart too from what he’d seen… but there was something else.

  “People with one green and one blue eye can…”

  “Go on.” He’d tried to speak gently, but standing in the quiet of the courtyard her voice was so delicate compared to his deep one. He hoped that didn’t scare her.

  “They can see into souls. See what a person is really thinking, what they want and need.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You think I can see into souls?”

  “You’re the leader of clans, you’re fighting for king and country. There must be a reason you have that position. An advantage you have over others.”

  “Aye, there is, I’m loyal to Scotland, and I’m a Highland warrior who just happens to have a thinking mind to go with my brawn. But I assure you I have no soul-seeing abilities.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nay, I don’t ken where you got that idea from.”

  “It’s an old tale.”

  “And it’s wrong.” Gently he tipped her chin, raising her face to his. “Now look at me, look at my eyes, nothing will change. I promise. It’s like looking at anyone else.”

  He could tell she was nervous. Her shoulders were tense and her breaths coming quick. But she did raise her face and set her dark gaze on his.

  His heart sped up; she was more than pretty, she was beautiful. And in the depths of her eyes he saw a strong, independent woman with a sharp wit and fierce streak.

  “What do you see?” she whispered as she gazed upward.

  “A lass I’d like to kiss.”

  “Kiss?” Her mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise.

  “Aye, would that be okay?” He smiled, just a little. At himself as much as anything. All this talk of witches and he felt thoroughly bewitched by her.

  “Why do you want to do that?” Her concentration was very much on his eyes. Now it seemed she couldn’t look enough.

  “Because it’s been a long while since I was this close to a person who fascinated me as much as you do.”

  “I… I’m just a maid, not even a senior one.”

  “Just a maid.” He moved closer still, so there was connection between the lengths of their bodies. “No, you’re more than that.”

  “Sir.” She placed her hands on his chest. “Please, I…”

  “What?”

  “You said you couldn’t see into my soul.” She glanced away.

  “I promise I only see what is before me, yet I can deduce from the way you were with Broc, with these cats, and how you move that you are a woman with many qualities and a sharp mind.”

  She looked up at him again. “Is that what you see?”

  “Aye, and now I’d like to stop seeing, speaking too for that matter, and kiss you. May I?”

  She hesitated, then. “Aye.” She slid her small hands upward, to the base of his neck.

  McTavish’s belly tightened, more blood rushed to his cock. Damn, but she was the sweetest thing. He could resist no longer and dipped his head and pressed his lips against hers.

  She tasted of sugar and butter, petals too, all laced with a spring breeze carrying the heady scent of meadow flowers.

  Her mouth parted and he gently stroked his tongue against hers. A very primal male part of him wanted to drag her closer, hoist her skirt, and sink his cock deep. But his brain told him that was not the way to handle this little deer. If he wanted her, truly wanted her, he’d have to bide his time.

  She pulled back and stepped away, bringing her fingertips to her lips as if still feeling him there.

  He’d only held her for a moment but felt weirdly bereft without her in his arms. “Isla,” he said, adjusting his sporran to make his groin more comfortable.

  “The laird might not like it. Me with you.”

  “The laird said I could have anything I want as his guest.” He glanced at the empty doorway. “And I want you.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Back to the kitchen, to help Mrs. Humphrey and Diane. I shouldn’t really be out here. The cream was leftover, see, and the cats love it so.” She stooped and retrieved the now empty saucer and jug. “I have to go.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t go.”

  She rushed past him, her hair flicking out behind her. “I have to, sir. I really do.”

  Chapter Three

  Isla spent the next hour in the kitchen helping with the enormous task of tidying. She then flopped exhausted into her small bed with the light of the waxing moon spilling onto the covers. She’d cast a curse on Broc morrow, she had no energy for it this eve.

  ‘I may have to tip you over my knee and spank the information from you.’

  McTavish’s words came back to her. For the love of the fairies, what would it be like to feel his huge hands swatting her rump? To be over his knee, bent double on a table, trapped against a wall and taking the punishment he’d deemed appropriate?

  She trembled at the thought of ever being in that position.

  “Pack it in, Isla,” she murmured. “You have another long day tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

  Sighing, she pulled the covers up tighter and nestled into the pillows.

  Fortunately it didn’t take her long to fall asleep, or for dreams of McTavish to fill her mind.

  His handsome face loomed over hers, his mismatched eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. Far from being the frightening warrior she knew he could be from the tales she’d heard, he’d b
een softly spoken and gentle with her. And that kiss! In her dream he kissed her again, with more passion and urgency. He held her tight against his body and then ran his hands down her back over her buttocks, squeezing and massaging them, learning her shape.

  Her dream grew hotter… erotic. He was naked, so was she. As he explored her body—the curves of her breasts and the insides of her thighs—she did the same to him. His muscles were hard as stone and black hair coated his chest and stomach.

  A sudden swat to her buttocks sent a flutter over her skin. There was a damp clenching in her pussy and desire mixed with the humiliation of having displeased him enough to earn a spanking.

  And then they were doing it. The deed her friends had spoken of yet Isla had never done. But it wasn’t an ordeal. With McTavish it was pleasurable. Having him inside her created blissful sensations that skittered over her entire body making her pulse in ecstasy.

  “What is happening… ohhh?” She opened her eyes to the darkness then half sat. She knew she was awake but the dream was lingering, at least physically. Her nipples were tight and tingling, and between her legs there was a dampness accompanied by internal throbbing.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d had the experience of coming, though it was the first time a dream had created it.

  “He’s the one.” Over her nightgown she cupped her breasts, trapping her nipples between her fingers and tugging. “I’ve been told, by Mother Nature, she wants me to have Trevor McTavish as my husband.”

  A smile spread on her face and she flopped back down. For so many years she’d wondered which man she was destined for, dreading it being a wife-beating drunk, or a man from other lands—for only a Scotsman would do. But now she knew, and it was one of the finest Highlanders alive. She was indeed a very lucky lass.

  She squeezed her legs together and began to plot—there was no way she’d sleep again no matter the long day ahead. This was a momentous night. A force much greater than her had spoken and now she had no choice but to act upon it.

  She glanced out of the window, which framed the moon perfectly. Tomorrow it would be a full moon and that would wholly suit her needs. But she’d have to be careful. What she needed to do to make McTavish fall in love with her was dangerous, risky if she were caught.