Highland Hunger

by Hannah Howell

  Instead of the normal floor-length gown she had been wearing, she had dressed in a boy’s chemise and tunic that only reached her knees, exposing her hosed legs. She had chosen the outfit with only ease of mobility in mind, and yet the desire of Dorian’s gaze was unmistakable. It scorched through her, igniting sensations and latent passions she thought had died years ago. Then, just as suddenly, Dorian’s smoldering eyes went blank as he released his stare, as if he, too, had felt the searing heat.

  He arched a single dark brow and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “I assume by your choice of clothes that you aim to end your lessons with the bow and begin them with the sword.”

  Moirae cocked her head slightly in acknowledgment. She had intentionally worn gowns since her training had started. A kirtle did not interfere with aiming and releasing an arrow and she knew they were flattering on her. Despite her wish that she were completely indifferent to his promise to seduce her, deep down Moirae wanted Dorian to at least try. But tonight was the first time he had shown any interest in her. And the fact that she was dressed as a boy—well, rankled.

  At first, she had believed his indifference to be a ruse in order to compel her to make the overtures he had so candidly promised. Not a common ploy, but one she recognized. As a result, she had done the opposite, purposefully not doing or saying a single thing to make him think she thought of him beyond that of a mentor. But she had. More than that, she had been keen to discover just what other methods he would employ to get her to succumb to his charm. But Dorian failed to try even one. She had concluded that either he had lied in an attempt to rattle her nerves or that after being around her, simply had changed his mind. For if he truly had meant to seduce her, by now he should have tried something.

  While Moirae had little experience taking advantage of someone flirting with her, she easily recognized it when it happened . . . and Dorian had definitely not been flirting the past few weeks. He acted more like an older brother . . . or cousin . . . or a friend of a cousin that had been warned not to say or do anything untoward. She was considering ways to test his resolve and see if he was as truly disinterested as he seemed when word arrived that the attacks had resumed last night. That changed everything. Old priorities ranked once again of the highest importance.

  “I would like you to start training me on the sword. Tonight,” Moirae said pointedly, half hoping he would argue, for she was ready to challenge any objection.

  “Turn around,” Dorian instructed.

  Moirae furrowed her brow, but after a few seconds, she did as directed. Through the open study door, she could see across the hall. Not more than five minutes ago, the double doors had been closed as they had always been. Now open, she could see partially inside. More than likely, it had been originally designed to be a receiving room, but based on the variety of weapons in view, the somewhat narrow space had been converted to an interior training area.

  Dorian had already decided to begin teaching her the sword.

  “Why the grimace?” Dorian asked, still sitting. “Does this not comply with your request?”

  Moirae bit her bottom lip in an attempt to hide her emotions. She hadn’t planned to request anything. She had been ready—maybe even eager—to demand he begin training her on the sword. But what really riled her was his aggravating ability to anticipate her intentions, almost as if he were a mind reader.

  Dorian rose to his feet and walked over to the two unusual swords. He lifted the first one out of its frame and unsheathed it from its scabbard, studying its beauty. Moirae waited for him to remove the second sword, but he left it alone and breezed by her into the hall, pausing only after he reached the training room door. “If you are ready, let’s begin. There is much you have to learn.”

  Moirae twisted her lips and nodded, a secret smile forming inside her. Dorian believed himself to be in control and that he could dictate the conditions of her lessons as he had the bow. However, his arrogance revealed something very interesting. Moirae wasn’t the only one who wanted her to have the lessons; he did as well.

  Why, Moirae could not fathom, but it did not matter. That knowledge gave her leverage—albeit very small—but enough for her to get back what she desired most in the world. The role of the Guardian.

  Moirae watched as Dorian spun the long thin katana in his palm. Her stomach fluttered, and she drew an unsteady breath, inhaling his scent of self-satisfaction. His rich black hair hung loose, barely touching his shoulder. She clenched her hands together tightly, resisting the impulse to reach out and feel the silky tresses run through her fingers.

  His attire was like that of every other evening, minus the cloak. He wore a simple leine, open at the throat, revealing the wide chiseled planes of his chest. His dark belted plaid belonged to no Scottish clan she knew of, but yet the wool tartan still looked appropriate on his figure, emphasizing the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. He may not have been born a Highlander, but he looked like one. Unfortunately, a very goodlooking one.

  “Walk toward me,” Dorian ordered.

  Moirae’s green eyes narrowed in reflexive defiance, but she didn’t argue. She took a regular step with her left foot and then a quick one with her right, minimizing the weight and the time the leg had to support her. It wasn’t exactly a shuffle, but being in men’s clothing, her fettered walk could not be disguised. Over the years, she had learned to keep her body erect, skillfully using her gown to misdirect attention and hide her awkward movements.

  “Your leg—” Dorian began.

  “It was crushed when I was seventeen by a falling beam.”

  Dorian sent her an exasperated look and finished his original question. “Your leg, does it hurt when you move?”

  “No,” Moirae answered truthfully.

  “Then why don’t you put weight on it and walk normally?” Dorian knelt down and began to knead the muscles in her right leg.

  Moirae swallowed and tried to fight the tears of humiliation that were forming. His touch was not erotic, but indifferent, as he fingered the fragmented bones. By the time she had been found and freed from the broken beam that had fallen on her, her leg had already begun to mend, but not correctly. How could she explain that the thigh bones one takes for granted now felt wrong, and that each time she took a step, her body screamed not in pain, but with warning that her leg would not hold.

  Dorian stood and his smoky gray eyes drove into her. “The bones are misaligned, but they are connected and should provide ample support. So, our first lesson will be how to walk.”

  Moirae’s jaw slackened in dismay. “You do not understand—”

  “Some think strength and the ability to block an attack is the secret to sword fighting, but victory lies with proper physical balance—which starts with your feet. One must be fluid and graceful—”

  “I will never be either.”

  “Then you shall not learn how to fight, by me or by anyone.”

  “Then I shall teach myself,” Moirae declared, thrusting her chin into the air.

  Dorian, sensing Moirae was not issuing a threat but a promise, sighed with frustration. The woman was going to put herself in danger, and unless she could defend herself, she would soon be dead. And why he cared, he could not comprehend. “It is by choice, not fate, that you limp. Your leg has the strength; it is your will that is weak.”

  Moirae fumed. After weeks of training, withstanding fatigue, soreness, and the agony of repeated abuse to her hands, he had the audacity to claim her to be weak? “I believe you know me to be otherwise,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Aye, at least until a few minutes ago, when I learned that you would rather hobble than walk. For you could walk, if you chose to.”

  Moirae inhaled, her fury still swirled within, but the man actually believed what he said. Could he be correct? “Prove it,” she said, knowing he could not.

  Dorian waved his arm. “Walk across the room.”

  Moirae did as commanded, but before she could tak
e a step with her right foot, Dorian kneeled in front her and twisted her ankle so that the foot jutted out at a disturbing angle, and not forward. He put it down and motioned for her to put her weight on it and take another step. She looked down and the sight of one foot properly facing the direction she was headed and the other like it had been broken off and poorly reattached was revolting. Instinctively, she turned her right foot back forward. Her hip, now out of alignment, forced Moirae to hop and as quickly as possible shift her weight back to her left foot.

  Dorian twisted her ankle again to the unsightly angle. “This time do it my way.”

  “I cannot walk in two directions at the same time!” she almost yelled, showing him her meaning by repeatedly bending her right foot from heel to toe. Each step she took would alter her body’s direction.

  Dorian quirked a brow, seeing her point. “Then don’t. Instead of walking from your heel, roll your balance from one side of your foot to the other so that it is in the direction you want to go.”

  Moirae tightened her grip on her crossed arms as memories crashed into her so vibrant it was like they happened just moments ago. “Did you think I never tried this?” she questioned, remembering people’s laughter. A pretty woman who hobbled was pitied, but no woman was pretty enough to escape scorn when she fell down, which is what happened each time Moirae had attempted to walk the way Dorian was instructing. To prove her point, she took a step on the side of her foot and it promptly slid out from underneath her. Moirae threw out her hands to soften the fall, but there was no need. Dorian had caught her and immediately stood her upright once again.

  “Stop being afraid,” he grumbled and reached down to adjust her ankle once more.

  Moirae was tempted to strangle him. “How you construe fear from what—” She stopped in midsentence as Dorian began marching in an exaggerated slow fashion around the room. “You won’t make me feel better by appearing more ridiculous than I.”

  “When a person walks, they shift their weight completely to the foot that is on the ground,” he said, ignoring her comments and surly attitude, demonstrating in slow motion what he meant.

  Moirae had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing. It was hard to reconcile this tall, lumbering version of him with the one who was always poised and in control. Then Dorian suddenly changed his gait so that it imitated hers. He rotated his foot out and took a step forward, but he didn’t commit to the effort and kept the majority of his weight on his left foot. It was exactly what just happened when she had tried the same thing. He was trying to move forward with his left foot and since the right was not positioned for him to shift his weight, Dorian stumbled, something Moirae doubted she would ever see again. Then he repeated the maneuver, this time fully committing to his right leg, and while it did look awkward and far from elegant, he kept his balance.

  He stopped and stared at her, defying her to challenge his point. Squaring her jaw, Moirae stepped forward with her right leg as if she fully entrusted it to support her . . . and it did. Without thought, she tried it again and again. Each time she was able to maintain her balance and move substantially quicker, looking no doubt extremely odd, but far less clumsy. It would take practice, but given enough time and a gown to hide the odd way her leg was turned, people might actually think her graceful. A term she thought would never be applied to her.

  Standing tall and wearing his arrogant smirk once again, Dorian said, “For your second lesson, you shall learn how to dance.”

  Moirae came to an abrupt halt and stared at him, unable to prevent her jaw from slackening until her mouth was completely wide open in shock.

  Dorian watched from the battlements as Moirae rode into the bailey at a full gallop, slowing just before she reached the stables. In one effortless move, she slipped off her mount and then escorted the animal inside. Less than a minute later she reappeared, and directly underneath the light of a scone, she removed her hooded mantle, hooking it over her arm. Immediately he felt his throat tighten.

  Instead of the hose and short kirtle that revealed her shapely legs and played havoc with his desires, she had donned a dark blue corset. The fitted fur-lined winter gown laced in front and hid much of the floor-length kirtle beneath, but it did not hide the elegant train, or the long fitted sleeves that reached her knuckles. But what held him spellbound was her hair. For the first time, her tawny locks were not captured in a snood or hidden within braids, but long and flowing. His blood roared in his ears as it raced like liquid fire through his body. God, why had he ever agreed to this?

  Just before Dorian moved to go down the stairway and meet her in the study, Moirae turned and looked up so that her gaze was fixed upon him. He was standing in the shadows and out of sight, but nevertheless, she knew he was there. Once again, he was reminded that there was much more to Moirae Deincourt than appeared.

  The woman had uncommon reflexes, made only faster since she had learned to properly compensate for her bad leg. Her lithe, feminine frame belied her true strength, for the broadsword he gave her to practice with should have been almost too heavy for her to lift, let alone wield like she did. But it was not just Moirae’s physical abilities that mystified him, but her mind.

  She had picked up the basics of swordplay within the first week, and often times he found himself having to resort to more and more complex attack sequences that should have had her flustered and frustrated. Instead, she would summarily decipher them and then attempt to execute them herself. Soon, there would be nothing left he could teach her beyond that of practice so that combat became a natural response and not a conscious one. He had completed one of the two things he had sought to do. Moirae would now most likely live if attacked, something that would undoubtedly happen if she returned to her role as the Guardian.

  Releasing him from her stare, Moirae turned and glided across the bailey with regal certainty, her gown masking the unusual gait. Moirae’s beauty was now complete. She exuded all the qualities men coveted. She was delicate but strong, enjoyed a vivacious spirit that was tempered with self-control, and possessed a mixture of youthful features and shrewd green eyes that sparkled with a lifetime’s experience. Moirae Deincourt was a mystery beckoning him, and he no longer had the will to prolong his agony.

  Tonight he would end the anticipation. He would claim her and then prepare to leave Scotland. Ionas be damned. He had been here nearly two months, and for the past handful of weeks he had been focused on Moirae, not his nephew’s plots against some old woman. And in truth, it no longer mattered. Tomorrow, he would seek distance between him and Kilnhurst and he would not return until after Moirae’s death and her bones had become dust in the ground.

  Dorian pivoted and hurried toward his study, wondering how he was going to refuse when Moirae begged him not to leave her.

  Chapter Six

  Dorian stepped behind his desk just in time before Moirae sashayed into the study. “You’re late,” he said, with feigned boredom.

  Moirae tilted her head and a secretive smile softened her lips. “I know and I apologize. My cousin believes in enjoying his role as laird with numerous celebrations. I think he believes it engenders those of his clan to like him when, in truth, they have no more affinity for him than I.”

  “Then why do you stay with him?”

  Moirae shrugged her shoulders. “Like everyone else, I take advantage of his hospitality. The only price I must pay is to make an appearance at his parties. I avoided the past two festivities, but he refuses to excuse me from another. So I shall be late every Saturday night forthwith,” she finished with a sigh, tossing her cloak over one of the chairs.

  Dorian studied Moirae. Her expression and demeanor had changed. Focused determination had been replaced with gaiety and a touch of whimsy. “Have you been drinking?” he asked as the possible reason just occurred to him.

  She nodded and bestowed upon him a radiant smile. “I have. And dancing. For the first time I actually joined that pompous group. You should have seen the shocked, jealous loo
ks of the gossips. I doubt I will be asked to sit with them again.”

  “I see. I’m surprised you made it here at all,” Dorian muttered under his breath, as unfamiliar and possessive emotions swirled within his veins.

  “Me, too! I thought I would never be released to leave. I was dancing so much that my snood fell off. But don’t worry, I brought it so my hair won’t interfere with practice,” she said, dangling the jeweled net that was in her palm.

  Dorian stared at the waves of her chestnut locks daring his fingertips to touch its silky strands. Later, he promised himself. “I’m less worried about your hair than your dress.”

  Moirae’s eyes opened wide and then sparkled with laughter. A fission of anger ripped through Dorian. Until now, he had never seen her this lighthearted. He had always known she would be irresistible with a buoyant spirit, but he had planned to be the reason behind the sheer happiness beaming from her face.

  “I’ll just take this off.” She giggled and started unbuttoning the dark blue corset to reveal the off-the-shoulder parti-colored kirtle beneath.

  The dress was made of two patterns of brocade. One half was of sky blue patterned with small fleur-de-lis and the other was of rich navy velvet. The sleeves were long and tight fitting, each matching their half of the dress. The expensive, modern ensemble was breathtaking on her and further proof that she was not a mere cousin to a laird from a small, unimportant clan.

  To fight in a dress was foolish, but Dorian needed the activity to calm the desire raging through him. Otherwise it would not be a seduction but an uninspired taking of the flesh he would be performing. “Maybe it is well you wore a gown,” he stated coolly. “You might not always be suitably dressed when you meet your foe.”

  Moirae’s eyes sprang open with surprise, but she did not argue and followed him across the hall to the training room. She unsheathed the broadsword from its scabbard and turned toward him, her soft and jovial features now hard and resolute.