To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  He glanced at her, his eyes glinting darkly in the torchlight. “I said I wouldnae ravish you, no’ that I dinnae desire you.”

  Gillian chose not to answer him.

  Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel as if her skin caught fire, a slow-burning warmth that spread all through her.

  He smiled a little, as if he knew.

  Then he strolled across the room, joining her at the bed. “This is your treasure?”

  She nodded. “It is mine, aye.”

  He picked up a coin and held it to the torchlight, turning it this way and that before tossing it back onto the pile. His second choice was a heavy, intricately twisted silver-and-gold arm ring, a prize that had surely once belonged to a great Viking warlord.

  “I’ve ne’er seen so much plunder.” He returned the armlet to the pile, his gaze roaming over the silver pieces. “Where did you find such goods?”

  She smiled. “I didn’t. My great-great-grandfather discovered a hoard of Viking treasure buried in a riverbank. The riches were well preserved in a large lead-lined chest. He was very young at the time, but even then a far-thinker.

  “He told nae one of the find except his father and clan elders, men wise enough to safeguard the treasure to be used for the weal of Sway, and our people.” She trailed her fingers over the pile of silver, slid a glance at Roag. “Although he was just a lad, my great-great-grandfather requested one boon of the elders. Clan legend is that he’d seen his favorite sister wed a not-so-fortunate man and then witnessed the hard times they endured, the husband too stubborn to ask for help from either family.

  “And so”—she looked at him, her smile brightening—“in return for finding such a prize, he asked that, so long as the treasure lasted, each daughter of our chiefly line be given a portion against ill times.”

  “And this is yours?” He glanced at the treasure.

  “It is.”

  Confidence swelled in her breast. Pride and the surety that she’d won.

  “Sorry, lass—”

  She held up her hand. “Say no more—yet.” She didn’t like the set of his mouth, the hardness in his eyes. “You don’t understand, see? These riches can be yours. I am offering them to you. A simple exchange—”

  “I dinnae want your treasure.” He folded his arms. “I willnae be bribed, my lady.”

  “That wasn’t my intent,” she argued, gripping his arm before he could turn away.

  He looked at her. “What was?”

  “A trade.” She released his arm, annoyed by the spark of contact. “You render me a certain service and the hoard goods shall be your payment.”

  “For what?”

  “Passage to Glasgow.” She met his gaze, her voice steady. “I want you to take me there, then escort me to the home of my mother’s uncle.”

  He arched a brow. “That is all?”

  “It is enough.” She pushed back her hair. “You do not need or want me here. I have no desire to remain. My great-uncle is a shoemaker, high in the King’s favor. He will have a place for me at his hearth. We would both be well served.”

  She held his gaze, willing her words to make it true. “I would have a new home.”

  “You already do, my lady.” He flicked a glance about the small room. “My sorrow if it doesnae please you.”

  “There is more.” She wasn’t finished. “On thon bed are great riches. Enough coin to fund your adventures for all your days.”

  “Perhaps I am weary of adventure.”

  “So you won’t take me to Glasgow?” Gillian could hardly hear her own voice for the rushing sound in her ears, the blood beginning to drum at her temples.

  “Nae.” He shook his head and light from the wall torch fell across his face, illuminating the hard set of his jaw, his stony expression. The other half of him was in shadow, the darkness making him look cold, even dangerous.

  She was sure that he was.

  But she was determined to be strong, unafraid. Cowering before adversity had never been her nature. She owed it to the generations of brave women before her not to give in to despair. Hebridean females were not hollow reeds, bending in the wind.

  They stood tall, always.

  And so would she.

  “I made you a good offer,” she said, pleased by the steadiness of her voice. She glanced at the hoard goods, then back to him. “You are not interested?”

  “So I said, aye.” He picked up her leather pouch, began filling it with her treasure.

  “I see.” She drew a tight breath, struggled hard to keep from pressing a hand to her brow.

  She couldn’t remember her head ever pounding so fiercely. “You would keep me here against my will?”

  “Call it what you wish.” He turned to her, held out the bag of silver. “By your own sire’s deed, you are the handfasted bride of Donell MacDonnell. This was his home, where you now belong. Excepting my own warriors, the men below believe I am MacDonnell. I’ve told you what will happen if you claim otherwise.”

  “And if I do?”

  He angled his head, considering her. “The morrow would see a Viking ship burial. Your father’s galley put to flame, his and your brothers’ bodies burning inside it.”

  Gillian’s eyes rounded. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He stepped up to her, pressed the treasure pouch into her hands. “You’d be wise no’ to find out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  So you would keep me here forever?”

  Lady Gillian’s words made Roag’s entire body tighten, and not in a good way. Guilt and annoyance swept him, and he felt a muscle jump in his jaw. So easily, he could smash his fist into the little room’s wall. Instead, he watched through narrowed eyes as she shoved her treasure pouch beneath the bed and then straightened, her eyes ablaze, high color on her cheeks.

  It mattered not.

  There was only one answer he could give her.

  “You will remain on the island for as long as is necessary, aye.” The words spoken, he went to the window, his future now seeming as impenetrable as the night’s cold swirling mist. How had he landed in such a disaster? And what did he intend to do about the sparks between them?

  Nothing, he knew.

  A grievance that annoyed him more than it should.

  Worst of all, he suspected he would have to cause her more pain than he’d already done.

  “Who is your mother’s uncle?” He braced his hands on the cold, wet stone of the window ledge, hoping her answer would not be the one he suspected. “The shoemaker in Glasgow?”

  “Thomas MacCulloch.” She spoke the name he’d dreaded. “Many years ago, he had the good fortune to repair the late King Robert II’s ruined boots after he’d damaged them in a fall near Glasgow Cathedral. In gratitude, the King sent him trade. His endorsement made my mother’s uncle a rich man. He—”

  “He is dead, my lady.” Roag turned from the window, hating that he had to tell her. “Your uncle’s skill as a shoemaker was well known in Stirling. Many nobles visited his shop whene’er they journeyed to Glasgow. So his passing is known to me, Stirling man that I am. Thomas MacCulloch and his poor lady wife succumbed to a fever some years ago.

  “If they had children, I’m no’ aware.” Roag forced himself to tell her true. “Their home and the wee shop now belong to another man. A tailor, last I heard. If MacCulloch was your only family in Glasgow, there would’ve been nae reason for you to go there.”

  “I didn’t know.” Her brow furrowed.

  “So I gathered.” Roag tried not to scowl. He already felt more like an arse than ever before in his life. Having to dash her last hope of refuge made him feel even worse.

  What he’d like to do was gather her in his arms and comfort her, protecting her from whatever it was that had her wishing to go elsewhere than her home.

  It was none of his concern why she didn’t want to return to Castle Sway.

  For sure, he wasn’t the man to soothe her cares.

  He required her silence,
no more.

  “I am sorry, lass,” he said, gripping her hands before he realized what he was doing.

  She didn’t flinch, seeming not even to notice—a truth that indicated only, he felt, their powerful attraction. His overwhelming urge to not just band his arms tightly around her, but hold her hard against him and kiss her long and deep, plundering her lips until the last trace of anguish was gone from her face.

  “So am I.” She drew a long breath, pulled her hands from his. “By all telling, he was a good man, his wife a kind-hearted soul.” She paced a few steps and then knelt beside her dog, stroking his rough-coated back. “I shall have to think of somewhere else for Skog and me to go. There is surely—”

  “You are no’ leaving Laddie’s Isle.” Roag’s tone was gruff, deliberately so.

  When his work here was done, he’d find a good home for her—if she still didn’t desire to return to Sway.

  It was all he could do for her.

  “Dinnae trouble yourself making plans, sweet.” He took a bit of cheese from the table, leaned down to let her ancient pet take the treat from his hand—a gesture he regretted at once, because she needed to think he was entirely heartless.

  Sure she’d cast some spell on him, fuddling his wits, he straightened and brushed his hands.

  He also ignored Skog, trying not to see the appreciation in the beast’s milky eyes. How he’d started thumping his tail on the room’s stone-flagged floor.

  “What you must do,” he said, knowing his words would make him the greatest gutter-dredge in all Scotland, “is strip naked and climb into your bed. I will do the same—for a while.”

  She jolted, pushing to her feet. “I will not!” Her voice rose, her face paling. “You said you’d not—”

  “And nor shall I.” Roag felt his own face heating, anger at himself almost scalding him. He ignored how her dog was struggling to rise, the confusion on Skog’s age-whitened face. “No’ climb into bed with you, I mean.”

  He turned aside, pulled a hand down over his beard. “I said I wouldnae ravish you, lady, and I willnae.” Howe’er much I’d like to. “I will remove my clothes, as will you. You have my assurance I’ll no’ watch as you do so, nor as you slip beneath the covers. But we will spend the night naked.”

  “I don’t see why.” She came round to stand before him, the color returning to her face. “What difference—”

  “I arranged for one of my men to bring a small party abovestairs,” he told her true. “They willnae stay long, nor even enter the room. But they will peek inside. When they do, they’ll see you in the bed. You’ll hide your breasts, but I’d ask you to bare your shoulders so there’s nae doubt to your nakedness.

  “And”—he reached to touch her hair, unable to help himself—“you’ll muss your hair, making it look tousled from—”

  “Your attentions!” Her eyes narrowed, her fury crackling between them, almost heating the air. “You want them to think you’ve taken my innocence.”

  “Lady, you are sheltered, indeed, if you’re no’ aware that your menfolk already expect that to happen. In truth, my own men wouldn’t be surprised by the sight.” He stepped closer, set his hands on her shoulders. “This night, in this wee room, the two of us joined on thon bed,” he told her, the words conjuring images he didn’t want to acknowledge.

  “Mating,” he added, hoping his frankness would shock her into believing him the brute he was trying to appear. “It is what’s done on the night of a handfast. Anything else would stir suspicion and I cannae allow that.”

  She set her hands on her hips. “So men will come abovestairs to see me in bed, thinking the worst?”

  “They will think no ill.” He cupped her chin, lifting her face. “Your family will be pleased. My men, though they know fine naught will have happened, will still envy me greatly.”

  Her eyes glittered. “I won’t do it.”

  “You will.” Roag leaned in, so near his nose almost touched hers. “Be glad there’ll benae viewing. I told your sire I was already satisfied with you, and my men wouldn’t dare call for the like, knowing what they do.”

  She shivered, visibly. “That’s a barbaric custom.”

  “Even so, it remains tradition.” He released her, stepping back before he kissed her. She riled—and roused—him that greatly. “If a newly bonded pair dinnae stand unclothed before each other, assuring themselves and all concerned of the acceptability of their attributes, much can sour in unions where an heir is required.”

  “We do not have a union.” She smoothed back her hair, brushed at her skirts.

  “Perhaps, nae.” He gave her that. “But you are bound to MacDonnell. He could demand to examine you, lady. Carefully, at length, and in any way he might choose,” he warned, aware her prickliness could cause problems lest she feared to rile him. “As a generally well-lusted man, I wouldnae mind carrying out such a viewing of you. Indeed”—he felt his damnable cock twitch—“I’d relish it.”

  “You, sir, are a beast.”

  “So some say.” He unclasped the large Celtic brooch at his shoulder, tore off his plaid, and flung it aside. Bending forward, he began pulling off his heavy mail shirt, allowing himself a wee surge of pride that he had the strength to do so without the aid of a squire. “If you dinnae wish to see just how beastly I am, you’d best make haste to undress your bonnie self and crawl into bed. I’ll be unclothed in an eye-blink and if you aren’t, I shall come and do the honors.” He straightened, carefully placed his hauberk on the floor.

  “You needn’t,” she returned, disdain edging her voice.

  “I would do so gladly.”

  “A beast and a bastard, then.”

  “Aye, that, too,” Roag shot back, secretly amused by her spirit.

  Before a smile could quirk his lips, he reached to tug off his boots, his only boon to his honor being that he kept his back to her. He could hear her undressing. The soft rustling of her clothes as they slid down her body and fell to the floor set him like granite. It was a sight he would spare her. A vexatious condition he supposed would plague him all night.

  And who could blame him?

  “One other warning, sweetness,” he called, now standing full naked near the window. “When my men knock on the door, I’ll be answering it naked. If you dinnae want to—”

  “I have seen unclothed men, sirrah,” she snapped, the sound of bedding being whipped back revealing she was climbing beneath the covers. “I will not wilt if I glimpse one more.”

  I willnae wilt either! Roag almost declared, half worried he’d remain hard for days.

  No female had ever beset him so fiercely.

  He’d lost count of how many lovelies had willingly aired their skirts for him, pleasuring him gladly, even begging him to do so again. They’d all been delicious dalliances, their charms abundant and their carnal skills well honed.

  Lady Gillian was pure.

  Yet she burned with a fiery passion he knew would kindle a blaze that would brand him for life.

  If he dared to touch her, intimately.

  Nae, if he even caught a single glimpse of that oh-so-tempting part of her.

  Sure of it, and that the devil himself had sent her into his path, he waited until she settled in the bed. He risked a peek, relieved to see that she’d rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and with a pillow covering her head.

  He was safe for now.

  So he did the only thing he could think to do and strode over to the window, hoping the night’s chill, damp air would reduce the problem at his loins.

  Blessedly, that was so.

  But even after he’d stood there long enough to hear Lady Gillian’s breath slowing—a sign, he hoped, that she’d fallen into an exhausted, much-deserved slumber—his manhood didn’t completely relax. He remained twitchy, his fool piece hanging fine, but so primed the mere thought of her roused him.

  So he pushed her from his mind and looked out at the sea, sure he’d never been given a more difficult mission.

/>   Indeed, when he left here he might tell Alex Stewart he was done as a Fenris.

  He could take his savings and purchase a small plot of fertile land, become a farmer. Or perhaps he’d invest in his friend William Wyldes’s inn, the Red Lion. The sprawling inn with its well-visited public room was a favorite Fenris watering hole not far outside Stirling town. Roag also appreciated the Red Lion’s serving wenches. Comely lasses who knew how to please men and didn’t set their heads to aching or torment them so fiercely that they stood before the windows of dank and crumbling towers, willing the hard biting wind to chill the lust out of their cocks.

  But the night wind was lessening—and his unruly man-piece took advantage, swelling anew.

  And not because he’d remembered Wyldes’s lovelies.

  It was her.

  Lady Gillian MacGuire.

  Sure he was doomed, Roag stepped closer to the window, not caring if he got wet. But the rain, too, was thinning. The thick fog had moved on and only wisps of mist curled past the tower. As he’d argued with Gillian, being both a bastard and a beast, the night had begun to clear. Moonlight slanted down to make the sea gleam like beaten silver and bright stars glittered high above. From below came the slapping of waves against the rocks, the sound surprisingly soothing, a balm to his weary soul.

  It was a night so beautiful that his heart ached.

  But its glory couldn’t compare to the woman asleep on the bed behind him.

  He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath against her allure and the spell of this wee isle.

  He didn’t want to appreciate either.

  He also wondered when he’d become so prophetic. Had he truly told the lass he might be wearying of adventure? He had, and he hoped to all the gods it wasn’t so.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t shake an even worse notion.

  That he wasn’t tired of the chase, but embarking on a new gamble: one that went by the byname Spitfire of the Isles and would change his life forever.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ho, Donell!” A man’s voice filled the small room, his call waking Gillian.