Tempting the Highlander

by Michele Sinclair

  “Crevan. Oh, please, Crevan. Please.” Raelynd writhed against his hand, clinging to him, pleading for more. She thought she would go mad. Then she felt the delicious twisting sensation build swiftly inside her. With a soft, choked exclamation, she surrendered to the glittering storm that swept over her.

  As she parted her lips to cry out, Crevan clamped his mouth tightly down over hers, swallowing the soft sounds. He groaned, forgetting his own need, lost in the innocent beauty of her response, feeling as if this inevitable moment had been written in the stars and nothing could have prevented it.

  Crevan took several deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure. Raelynd’s breasts were still pressed against him, and he could feel the rapid pulse in her neck pounding against his shoulder. He had never experienced ecstasy by just giving someone else pleasure. There was only one explanation and he was a fool to have denied the truth until now.

  He was in love with Raelynd Schellden.

  If it had not had happened to him, he would not have believed it possible, but in the period of a few days, his feelings for Raelynd had grown beyond interest, admiration, and friendship. It was far from intentional, and in many ways unwanted. Somehow, though, he would have to fall out of love with her. For Raelynd Schellden was not his to have, nor would she ever be. Consequently, he needed to stay away from her because next time he was not sure he could stop himself from claiming her as his. As much as he wanted Raelynd, forcing her to be with him would be worse.

  Women, especially feisty spirited ones like Raelynd, never had and never would seek him as a partner in life. And despite Raelynd’s genuine response, that fact had not changed.

  Crevan felt a finger slide down his cheek in a soft caress. He looked into her velvety green eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Raelynd smiled. “Why? I don’t remember complaining. And don’t tell me that you were not enjoying yourself.”

  Crevan grasped her stroking fingers in his hand. “I did, but it cannot happen again.”

  The seriousness of his tone captured Raelynd’s full attention and she sat up, yanking her chemise back onto her shoulders. “You mean until we are married.”

  Picking her up, he stood and then placed her back in the chair. Raking his hands through his hair, he said, “I’m not going to marry you.”

  The cold, sober words were like buckets of ice water raining down upon her head. “Because of Craig?” she asked, her voice faint, knowing the answer.

  “No . . . I mean yes, you belong to him. But that’s not the only reason.” He turned to look her directly in the eye. “Raelynd, I am the first man you have ever kissed. You are experiencing things until now you had no idea existed.”

  Hurt pride caused Raelynd to respond. “I had an idea.”

  “Love, I may have been fooling myself, but you weren’t deceiving me. You wanted to learn what it was to feel like a woman. The reason you wanted me to be the one to teach you is because of all the men you know, you probably thought I to be your biggest challenge. I only wish that I lived up to that image.” Crevan let go a sigh and walked over to the door. Before swinging it open, he turned and said, “You have the potential to be a great wife, Raelynd. You deserve someone better than me and someday you will realize I’m right.”

  Raelynd watched as Crevan disappeared through the door, shutting it behind him. Oh stubborn man, I may have been fooling myself, but I promise you, you cannot deceive me, she said out loud to herself, paraphrasing his words.

  His comment about her belonging to Craig was ridiculous. She and his brother barely exchanged a dozen words even when they sat right in front of each other. She would have to keep her distance from Craig just to keep people from realizing just how much she wasn’t his. She was Crevan’s and he was hers, and if he was honest with himself, he would agree. One did not need to be old and have multiple experiences with passion to know the difference between liking someone, seeing them as a challenge, and being in love....

  The thought stilled Raelynd. She did know the difference and though at one time Crevan was a challenge, then someone she liked, he had grown far beyond that in the past few days. She loved him. Passionately, wildly, and it was not a crush that would eventually die due to absence. Though she could not prove it, she knew Crevan felt the same. So why didn’t he want to marry her?

  You have the potential to make a great wife, he had said. Potential. Raelynd mulled over the word and all the conversations they’d had during the past few months. What she needed to do was make him proud of her. Then, she would be irresistible.

  Chapter 12

  Cyric reached over and grabbed the once full pitcher of ale and poured the last of its contents into his mug. He grimaced for a moment and then smiled as he realized there was plenty more all around him. He downed the drink and reminded himself of how brilliant he was to come to the buttery. It was the perfect place to hide away from everyone and everything. Servants came back here only during mealtimes and the butler just ignored him when he added a couple of fresh drums to the already large stack of barrels sitting against both sides of the narrow room.

  The benchlike table he was sitting on wobbled as he leaned over to refill his drink from one of the buckets, hanging off a nearby barrel spigot. He plunged his mug into the golden heaven and pulled it out with pride, deciding such a method was much easier than trying to pour himself more. This way less went onto the table and the floor and more went into him.

  Cyric let go a loud belch and smiled. “Good one,” he said, complimenting himself.

  “Who’s in there?”

  The soft, musical voice startled him and he nearly fell off the narrow table. “Rowena,” he mumbled, praying his speech only sounded slurred in his head.

  He had thought about her often the past couple of days for she had been the only person who had been kind to him. Everywhere he went his eyes searched for her, hoping to get a glimpse and if possible find a way to talk with her again. Now here she was. And just like everything else here at Caireoch, now that he got his chance, he was going to mess things up.

  Rowena popped her head into the room and her eyes grew wide as she saw Cyric on the preparation table at the other end of the room. “Why are you sitting there and just what are you doing?”

  Cyric produced a large grin. “No chairs. Had to use the table.” Waving his mug at all the barrels, he added, “I think my uncle has too much of this stuff. It will go bad in a few days if he doesn’t drink it up. I’m just trying to help.”

  Rowena stepped into the room and crossed her arms, shaking her head. “This buttery stores ale for all who live and support the castle. The butler is one of the busiest men who work for the steward, making sure there is enough for all to have.”

  Cyric grimaced and his shoulders fell. “Another thing I did wrong,” he muttered.

  Rowena bit her bottom lip at the pitiful man in front of her. He was incredibly good looking, but to her, he was much more attractive in this state than when he tried to be impressive. “Move over,” she said gently, and after he complied, she hopped onto the table beside him.

  Cyric nudged her with his shoulder. “I’ve decided this room is my favorite place in Caireoch.”

  Rowena smiled in understanding. “The bakery used to be mine. It was always warm and smelled wonderful.”

  Cyric bobbed his head, his golden eyes wide. “I like bread, but it doesn’t get you drunk, like this stuff.” He paused and moved closer to her ear and whispered, “And there are people around a bakery.”

  “You don’t want to see anyone?”

  Cyric shrugged his shoulders. “They don’t like me. I keep messing things up.”

  Rowena reached over and took the almost empty mug out of his hands and put it on the other side of her. “Well, I don’t thinking drinking yourself into unconsciousness is going to help.”

  “Nothing will,” Cyric sighed, letting his head fall against the wall behind him. “I don’t even like to get drunk, I just thought it would be better than going
out there.”

  “And what is out there that is so awful?”

  “Failure. Ridicule. Humiliation. And something even worse,” he mumbled.

  Rowena tilted her head and her brown eyes looked steadily into his. “What?”

  “I don’t even want to be a laird. Never did. I want to work with the king. You know, solving clan problems, responding to attacks. Stuff that I understand.” Cyric watched as Rowena bit her bottom lip at the idea of him giving advice to the king. It bothered him. “I’m good at it. Really. I’m better than anyone at finding peaceful solutions when given a chance. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Once Uncle tells my father what happened today, I’ll never be allowed near the king, let alone become a laird.”

  Rowena studied Cyric and almost told him that indulging in self-pity was not going to help. She had been out assisting her mother in the village and had not heard of any rumors, so whatever happened could not have been that bad, but maybe it was. The man felt like all of the Schellden clan was against him and soon they would be if he kept acting pompous or dejected. Maybe he just needed a friend. “I doubt you could have done something so terrible in one day that would result in such loss.”

  Cyric reached out and fingered a loose brown curl that was framing her face. The light smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks was endearing and he wished he could kiss every one of them. “You really are pretty.”

  “Ah, the ale is talking.”

  “Aye, the ale and me. Pretty and smart and nice. I wish I was worthy of kissing you.”

  Rowena drew his hand from her hair and gave it a soft kiss. “Maybe someday you will be.”

  Cyric shook his head. “Not after today. Not if you knew.”

  Rowena released his hand and placed it in his lap. “Let me decide. Tell me what happened.”

  Cyric rolled his eyes to glance at her and seeing she was serious, said, “First, I was forced to wear my bedcovers to the laundry to recover my clothes.”

  Rowena’s hand flew to her mouth to hide her amusement at the conjured image of him walking across the courtyard wrapped in a sheet.

  Cyric rolled his eyes at her response. “Well, at least you are not laughing. It was either that or some awful gown that was left in my room.”

  “Gown? You mean a lady’s dress?” Rowena asked incredulously. Only she and her cousins wore bliauts. Most of the clanswomen wore arisaids, which were far more functional and sturdier garments in which to work.

  Cyric nodded. “I called out but no one was around and after an hour I gave up and went to find my clothes. I was told by the steward that they had been the first to be gathered and laundered. And do you know why? He said it was in deference to who I am. Ha! Like that was the reason.”

  “And what did you say?”

  Cyric glanced sideways at her and said, “I told him that I’d rather be like everyone else and dress in something dry in the morning.”

  Rowena pursed her lips in an effort not to smile. She wondered how surprised the steward had been to find Cyric wandering around in his bed sheets. No doubt the steward believed stealing Cyric’s clothes was the easiest way to keep him in his room until he was ready to deal with him. Rowena considered telling Cyric that he didn’t fail, but actually passed the most likely prearranged test, but decided against it. “Well, I can understand how that might be a little embarrassing, but the laird will understand.”

  “He didn’t with the chickens.”

  Rowena’s dark eyebrows shot up inquiringly. “Chickens?”

  “Aye,” Cyric said, and exhaled, trilling his lips as the memory took over. “After I was dressed I found my uncle, who wasn’t happy because I was late.”

  “Late to what?”

  “I dunno,” Cyric replied, shrugging his shoulders. “But I know that look he had. It’s the same one my father gives me. And it is not a good one.”

  Rowena could not decide if the ale was helping the conversation or hindering it. It was making Cyric more approachable as well as incredibly honest, but also harder to understand. “I thought you said chickens. What was the laird doing with chickens?”

  Cyric crinkled his brow. “Nothing. We were going to the training fields where he was going to introduce me to his men. We were walking across the courtyard and he was pointing to one of the towers talking about something when somehow I ran right into a bunch of crates full of chickens and ground corn. They fell over and broke and chickens went everywhere. Their food was stuck to my shirt still wet from the laundress and they started pecking at me. It hurt.”

  Unable to stop herself, Rowena started to laugh. Oh, how she wished she could have been there to enjoy the scene. Accidents were common around the castle, but rarely were they so amusing. Rowena wondered if it was truly an accident or something the laird had masterminded to judge Cyric’s reaction.

  “Go ahead, laugh.” Cyric’s voice was resigned to the idea. “My uncle just gave me another ‘look’ and told me to help clean the mess up and that I would have to meet the men another time.”

  Rowena took a deep breath and suppressed her mirth. “Both events I agree are not flattering, but they are not anything that would keep you from becoming a laird or working with the king.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Cyric agreed, bobbing his head. “So as soon as my uncle returned I went to meet him to talk about how I could help him. I know weapons. So I thought, start there.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  Cyric gave an exaggerated shake to his head and waved his finger. “Bad idea. He let me go on and on about my skills and when I was done, did he ask me to lead the soldiers? Train them, demonstrate what I can do? No. He asked me why I wanted to be a laird.”

  He stopped and Rowena sensed his disquiet. The answer must not have been a good one. “And you said . . .”

  “The truth. That I wanted people to respect me. If I was laird everyone would have to listen and give value to my ideas. I am guessing that was not what I should have said.”

  Rowena rolled her eyes at the obviousness of his last comment. She glanced at him, but he was studying his interlaced fingers, unaware of her critical reaction. She was distantly related to the laird and his daughters through her great grandmother, the sister of Laird Schellden’s grandfather. As such, she had been treated like family, though her mother made sure she understood the limitations of their connection. Being near the same age as Lyndee and Meriel, she had grown up playing with them and was very aware of the effects from their father’s overindulgence. She also knew they were good and wonderful people deep down. Rowena guessed that Cyric was not nearly as arrogant or self-centered as he seemed. He was just a victim of similar coddling.

  “Of course I realized immediately that I gave the wrong answer,” Cyric continued. “But when my uncle next asked just how I planned on proving to him that I could be a good laird to the clan, my mind went blank. I certainly couldn’t tell him that I didn’t think I had to prove anything. I thought all I had to do was pick one of his daughters and marry them.”

  Rowena pulled physically back at the idea. She knew that arranged marriages were common and that the king supported them if it strengthened clans and alliances, but the concept had not been practiced in the Schellden clan for several generations.

  Cyric grimaced and raked his fingers through his black hair. “I don’t like the idea any more than you, but I thought that was what I was to do. Anyway, believe me, I am fully aware that ‘blood alone’ is not going to get me anywhere up here, especially a lairdship. So, my uncle asks again, how do I plan on becoming laird. This time I have an answer.”

  “Which was . . .”

  “That with my knowledge and skills I could lead the army and that alone would earn me the right.”

  Rowena produced a low whistle. “That is one way,” she murmured.

  “Aye, exactly what my uncle said,” Cyric replied, his voice vacant. He did not even want to tell Rowena what happened next. His uncle had pummeled him with questions. H
ow many soldiers does a clan need full time? When do they get to farm? What was the cost of having an army, fitting them with weapons and feeding them as they trained? How does one support such men with housing and what do you do if they become married and have children? Could he, as laird, be responsible for taking care of the well-being of multiple soldiers’ families who would need clothing, shelter, and food? If so, how? If not, then where would his soldiers come from when attacked and how did he expect to protect the clan?

  Cyric had no other option but to admit that he did not know the answer to any of those questions. And then came the moment that made him relook at his whole future.

  Rae Schellden had risen to his feet and stared him in the eye. “You are surprisingly arrogant for someone who knows so little about being a Highlander, let alone a Highland chieftain. I wonder what King Robert would say if he knew how little you comprehend about the workings of a clan and its armies. But I can tell you how my neighbors would react when they learned such weakness reigned at the head of the Schellden clan. My people would exist no more.”

  Cyric had swallowed in disbelief. “I cannot believe our close allies would raise weapons, especially if the king had—”

  “Not our allies, mine,” Schellden corrected. “And understand this, you are no longer in the Lowlands where the English have infected your customs and ways. I and I alone make the rules and decisions for this clan—no one else. I am loyal to King Robert and out of my respect for him I will give you until my daughters’ wedding to prove yourself as a potential heir.”

  Cyric let his head fall back against the wall once more as his uncle’s words repeated themselves over and over again. Cyric’s headache returned and he went to search for his mug. Seeing it on the other side of Rowena, he hunched over and rubbed his temples.