To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Roag closed his ears to the old chief’s droning.

  He knew the words, and their portent.

  He wouldn’t be held to a bride not his own; a wife bound to a man he wasn’t.

  What a shame the anger of the old gods worried him more than the disdain of a monk or priest. But their ire couldn’t be helped. He wouldn’t fash himself over something so unavoidable.

  In his place, King Robert would have done the same.

  Without question, his King would also lift the maid’s skirts, sampling all she had to offer him. Roag felt a coil twisting deep inside, a cold, iron band turning slowly, squeezing the very life and breath from him.

  He wasn’t a marrying man.

  “Donell, I accept you as my handfasted husband,” his bride spoke the ceremony’s final words, “from this day onward, so long as our union pleases us.”

  Roag fumed. Little would suit him less.

  “I take you as well, my lady.” He didn’t dare glance at his men. “I make you the same vows,” he added, sure he would have killed Donell MacDonnell slowly and with his bare hands if the craven wasn’t already stone cold dead.

  “So they are one!” Mungo untied the tartan binding with a flourish, slinging it around Roag’s shoulders. “Hail the happy twain!”

  “Hail Lord Donell and Lady Gillian!” Every man present shouted the chorus. Some thumped fists on tables, while others stamped their feet. “Long life and many bairns to them! May the gods e’er hold them in their hands!”

  Roag tipped back his head and stared up at the ceiling, the age-blackened rafters and the wisps of curling blue smoke drifting everywhere. He was not a “lord.” And he damned sure didn’t care to be any woman’s husband, handfasted in the ancient pagan ways or bound by the stricter laws of church and state. More than that, he didn’t care for the last part of the ceremony.

  The kiss he was obliged to give his bride.

  Never had a woman looked at him so fiercely, especially when he was about to kiss her. And damn him to hell, but he didn’t like it at all.

  He wasn’t an ogre.

  Many women had sought his kisses… and more. This one tempted him in a worse way than any lass before her. Already, his blood heated, his loins tightening. Her sparking eyes intrigued him. A challenge he couldn’t resist.

  At the moment, he found her so appealing, he didn’t care that she was trouble.

  “A kiss, a kiss!” Men kept up the cry, clapping their hands. “Have done, lad! Kiss her!”

  Conn alone moved away, striding from the hall, closing its half-warped, iron-shod door behind him. Not a man to be indoors for long, he surely sought the briskness of the sea wind. Or would have on any other night, Roag knew. As things stood, Conn was showing his displeasure, well aware that Roag wouldn’t refuse his bride a kiss.

  How could he?

  “A kiss, a kiss!” The shouts grew louder, several of MacGuire’s men wending their way through the throng, handing out well-filled cups of ale and brimming mead horns. Plain, unadorned drinking horns, not intended to maneuver men into Roag’s pitiful quandary.

  Somewhere a musician grabbed his pipes and gave a few long, high-pitched skirls before launching into a rousing tune, blowing gustily as he strutted about the hall. Near the fire, Skog sat up and started to howl, the ancient beast keeping time with the blaring pipes.

  Lady Gillian ignored the ruckus, her face closed.

  But her eyes glittered in the torchlight, her gaze showing her fury.

  Roag stepped closer, leaning in to place his lips to her ear. “I could demand to see you naked, my lady. It’s an old custom, and my good right before this goes any further.” He kept his voice low, deliberately wicked. “When I kiss you, you’d best make me think you’re enjoying it or I’ll peel that gown off you here and now, taking my time to look you over, to see if I want you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” She seethed, nipping his fingers when he brushed his knuckles along her jaw.

  “Dinnae push me too far, lass.” Roag made no attempt at gallantry. “There isn’t much I won’t do, especially when provoked by a woman clearly in need of a man’s attentions.”

  “You bastard,” she hissed, her eyes blazing.

  “Perhaps I am.” He gave her a frank look, entirely too pleased by her spirit.

  He wasn’t about to undress her. Seeing her bare-bottomed and in all her lush, smooth-skinned glory would set him like granite. He’d want her in ways not good for him. And he wasn’t that kind of a fool.

  “A kiss, a kiss!” The men were roaring now, some leaping onto benches for a better view.

  Lady Gillian stood rigid, her hands fisting at her sides.

  Roag glanced at the men, the warriors crowding the hall. He saw a sea of big, bearded men in leather, mail, and tartan. They all cheered, and in the haze of drifting smoke, it was hard to tell his friends from MacGuires. He did know they’d keep up the din until he kissed the lass. Then they’d quaff ale, wine, and mead, eventually slumping across the tables or sliding onto the cold, stone floor.

  He’d spend the night in his bride’s quarters.

  Not bedding her, much as the notion aroused him. But to make sure she didn’t stir mischief.

  He didn’t trust her.

  Worse, she was sharp-witted. And that left him no choice but to protect his mission the only way he knew how. There were certain things no woman could resist, and he’d mastered them all. Kissing was one of his greatest talents. When he tore his mouth from Lady Gillian’s, she might still despise him, but she’d tingle to the core and she’d crave more.

  Roag started to smile, the prospect making him think of even more wickedly delicious ways he’d love to excite her. For all the women he’d bedded, he’d never had the pleasure of initiating a virgin in the delights of carnal passion. Awakening Gillian MacGuire’s lust was an almost irresistible temptation. He could tell she was born to be passionate, wildly uninhibited once she’d tasted a skilled man’s loving. He wouldn’t mind touching her as he kissed her, using his hands to show her how quickly a lusty woman thrilled to questing fingers, knowing explorations of sensitive places.

  He could make her writhe, gasp in wonder…

  If only she were someone else.

  Regrettably, she wasn’t.

  And neither was he. So he did what duty demanded and pulled her to him, claiming her lips with a hunger that was all too real. He kissed her long, deep, and with enough tonguing to sear her with such heated intimacy she’d forget every reason to doubt him. She went pliant in his arms, her hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, her fingers clutching his plaid.

  She swayed against him, her breasts pressed to his chest. “You shouldn’t…”

  “I cannae help myself.” He spoke true, and then deepened the kiss in a fierce openmouthed onslaught. Raw need, and something about her, made him ravenous. He couldn’t pull away if he wanted.

  She did, looking at him with furious eyes, her cheeks flaming. “Everyone is staring.”

  “So they are.” He tightened his arms around her, not ready to release her. “I’m mad for the taste of you,” he said, his voice deep and rough. He caught her nape, lowered his head to kiss her anew. “Your father has given you to me. Nae man here wouldn’t claim such a prize.”

  “Many are my brothers. I don’t care for them watching.”

  “Think you they do no’ kiss, and more? Men will be men, whoe’er they are.”

  “But—”

  “Nae.” Roag brushed his thumb over her lips, their soft, moist ripeness doing terrible things to the part of him he should ignore. He inhaled deeply, knowing he should pull away, unable to do so.

  He didn’t care about staring, long-nosed brothers. He wasn’t bothered by the whoops, foot-stomping, and table-slapping of his own men.

  Let them gawk if they wished.

  Besides, it’d been too long since he’d kissed a woman so thoroughly. The one in his arms served a need, no more. She slaked his lust, making him hard, giving hi
m pleasure he couldn’t deny. Especially in the name of Scotland.

  If he wasn’t enjoying himself so much, he’d set her from him and throw back his head to laugh.

  He’d just added liar to his many sins.

  His roaring need to possess her had naught to do with his dearth of bed partners in recent times. Truth was that he’d aired so many skirts, sating himself on an endless succession of tavern wenches and other willing, lust-driven females, that he’d grown weary of the deed. Yet his loins had twitched just spotting Lady Gillian on this bluidy isle’s rocky shore, her hair all tangled and windblown, her eyes blazing green daggers at him.

  She could ensnare him so easily.

  So he did what he must, leaning in to press his forehead to hers as he nipped her cheek, flicked his tongue across her petal-smooth skin.

  “I would savor every inch of you, sweetness.” He made the threat above her ear, swirling his tongue there. “I’ll devour you whole, not stopping until I’ve tasted the darkest, sleekest part of you.”

  “You are mad!” She drew a sharp breath, outraged.

  “Aye, and I’ll give you pleasure you’ve ne’er dreamed.” He chose words to shock her, but damned himself voicing them.

  “A stone would have a better chance.”

  “Aye, well, now you’ve challenged me. I have nae choice but to prove you wrong.”

  She drew back, staring at him narrow-eyed.

  “Indeed, I must.” He smiled, making sure it was the one that always won female hearts.

  It was just disturbing that he felt his own beginning to pound.

  Yet how could he help himself…

  She smelled like a meadow of lavender, warmed by spring sunshine. Her skin was smooth and creamy; her lips temptingly lush, so untried and innocent.

  And he was a bastard! The sort he’d never thought he would be.

  Half wishing she was a grizzled, wart-nosed crone, he cupped the back of her head, thrusting his fingers into her hair, determined to kiss her so recklessly she’d run from his hall, leap into the sea, and swim all the way back to her Castle Sway. He wanted to unsettle her so roundly she’d never again come within a hundred sea miles of him.

  Instead, she trembled and clung to him, even returning his kisses. A sigh escaped her, and fool that he was, he kept on twirling his tongue over and around hers, savoring how their breath mingled, each in-and exhalation soft, warm, and dangerously intoxicating. Molten flames consumed him, searing him as if they were intimately entwined, skin to skin, their naked bodies joined as one.

  He imagined parting her legs and gliding into her, feeling her slick, female heat clench around him…

  It was more than he could bear.

  He growled, a deep rumble in his chest that broke the spell, the maddening way she’d made him forget reason. At last, the thunder of his blood in his ears receded as the din of the hall once again swelled around him. Grateful, he tore his mouth from hers. Breathing hard, he looked down at her, so fetching with her flushed cheeks and angry eyes. He gripped her wrists and lowered her hands from his shoulders, thrusting her from him. Not quite as gently as he should’ve done, but she’d shaken him to his bones.

  So he dragged his sleeve across his beard, then stepped back, hooking his thumbs in his sword belt as he looked round at the ranks of men.

  “That, my friends, was five summers without a woman!” It was all he could think to say.

  Brash words he was sure would’ve spilled from Donell MacDonnell’s lips.

  That they made him feel like an arse didn’t matter.

  What did were the chuckles of manly commiseration, the nods and lifted ale cups. Few men could go so many years without a woman. Hardly a one wouldn’t sympathize with a wretch so deprived. Only Roag’s companions knew his claim wasn’t true. And like him, they played their part, coming forward to clap him on the back, congratulating him on gaining such a fine and fiery bride.

  “She will make you a good wife.” Mungo beamed, his big chest swelling. “There isn’t a maid in these isles as fair, or as capable. She’ll mate well, giving you—”

  “She will sup now.” Roag stepped between the lass and her father, not about to discuss her fertility. He was more inclined to punch the old fox in the nose for putting his daughter in such a position.

  Not that it was Roag’s fault.

  He was equally wronged, perhaps more so.

  Still, the maid was beneath his roof. She needed to eat. If the gods held any pity for him, she’d overindulge and fall into a deep, long-lasting sleep. Better yet, before she wakened, her father would decide Roag was unsuited for her. That he was too bold, too wild and rough-hewn for his precious daughter, who shouldn’t be shackled to a great-bearded fighting man of iron and steel with little use or desire for a highborn, virginal wife.

  Unfortunately, Mungo’s grin was even wider now.

  His eyes glinted with the satisfaction of a man who’d just achieved the outcome he’d wanted. It was all Roag could do not to glower at him. He did turn to his bride, catching her wrist when she would’ve spun about and hastened away. Knowing he shouldn’t, he brought her hand to his lips, turning it, to press a kiss to her palm.

  Something pinched and twisted deep inside him, a small part of himself that he shouldn’t acknowledge. But he did, tightening his grip on her hand as he straightened. He stepped closer, let his face clear, giving her one brief glimpse of the man he truly was.

  “You needn’t join us at the feasting, lady.” He leaned in, pitching his voice for her alone. “Say you’re tired and go abovestairs. I’ll meet you there later, as we agreed, in your quarters.”

  “In hell, you mean.” She yanked free of his grasp, glaring at him before sailing away.

  Roag stared after her, not surprised when she made for her scruffy old dog, Skog. The beast still slept before the fire. And once again, he wasn’t alone. The wee ghost lad hovered beside him, glowing brighter than before as he stared at a nearby arrow slit. He held one arm outstretched, his small, luminous dirk pointing at the sea.

  Lady Gillian kept on, unaware.

  Indeed, the bogle was already fading as she reached her dog. She leaned down to waken Skog, stroking his bony shoulders before leading him from the hall and into the dimly lit stair tower.

  Roag frowned, his misery complete.

  He’d never wanted a wife. Worse, was being bound to one who belonged to another man. And he certainly wasn’t pleased about the wee ghostie. He’d heard the tales about the bogle. Legend claimed the lad pointed his dirk at the sea when trouble was coming.

  Roag almost snorted. For sure, the sprite had the rights of it, except for one minor flaw.

  The problem was no longer at sea.

  She’d already arrived and was mounting the keep’s turnpike stair. Worst of all, before the night ended, he was obliged to follow her.

  It was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He refused to acknowledge how much he was anticipating it.

  Chapter Nine

  Good lad, only a few more steps and we shall have our peace.” Gillian praised Skog as they rounded the last turn of the narrow stair and the shadowed landing finally came into view. The old dog’s slow, careful gait made the breath lodge in Gillian’s throat. It hurt to see her once robust and powerful companion so feeble. Even so, she kept her voice bright, didn’t let her sadness show. She owed that to Skog’s pride, always doing what she could to maintain his dignity.

  Hurrying ahead, she opened her door so he could enter the small room without her needing to fumble with the rusted iron latch.

  She’d struggled with the door earlier, the delay causing Skog to sink down onto his haunches to wait. With his back legs and hips so age-weakened, even the simplest movements could pain him.

  Stepping aside, she watched as he trundled past her and made for the bed of soft plaids and furs she’d prepared for him near the chamber’s only source of warmth, a tiny coal-burning brazier.

  Guilt clawed at her for exposin
g him to the rigors of the sea journey. Now he had to suffer the dubious comforts of this half-crumbled tower.

  But it couldn’t be helped.

  She didn’t trust her stepmother, Lady Lorna, to take proper care of Skog in her absence.

  Having him with her was better for them both.

  Especially now, trapped here as she was, little more than a captive, while her family sailed home to Sway without her.

  “No matter, sweet one, this, too, will pass.” She followed Skog across the room’s wooden floor, knelt to pull his favorite fur covering about him after he circled a few times and settled himself on the plaids. “We shall enjoy an evening of quiet before we’re disturbed. Then”—she smoothed a hand over Skog’s head, smiled into his cloudy eyes—“we shall be away again soon.

  “Not to Sway, but somewhere better.” She pushed to her feet, brushed down her skirts. “A grand place with many people, great houses, inns, and shops, more ships and bustle than we’ve ever seen. There’s even a magnificent cathedral. You’ll find plenty of dogs to keep you company, perhaps a few cats as well. For sure, there will be butchers offering the finest meaty bones. We’ll have a new home with my mother’s uncle. He’ll greet us gladly…”

  She let the words trail away as Skog had fallen asleep, his snores already filling the darkened room. Their small, sparsely furnished chamber smelled of old stone, rain, and the sea, and that was infinitely more appealing than the great city of Glasgow ever would be, much as she’d put on a brave face for Skog.

  She didn’t want to live in Glasgow.

  Such a place would suffocate her.

  Yet now, suspecting what she did, she also had little desire to return to Sway.

  Sadly, it was important that she didn’t.

  At least, for the now.

  Hoping she was wrong, she set a hand against her hip—she was exhausted—and took a closer look at the two large crates she’d spotted as soon as she’d opened the tiny room’s warped, rusty-handled door. Unfortunately, even as tired as she was, she’d seen rightly.